“I’m Going to Write My Way Out of Prison”: A Vision From Solitary Confinement

In 1998, I was eighteen years old when I shot and killed a man. A year before my trial, I met my newborn child, who now uses they/them pronouns, through a bulletproof glass pane. Their mother sat on a stainless-steel stool, holding them in one of the jail’s visiting booths. To their mother, I projected all the hope that I could muster that I’d win my trial—not because I was innocent but because I…

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