Letter 20.

Dear Mr. MommasBoy,

I have written this to others before, but it’s worth sharing with you— each interaction that I have in the jail has hard-wired my brain to make connections that I constantly have to question to avoid making assumptions.  You see because of the research I do in the community and you being a 24-year-old black man with the tattoos that you have on your neck and face, I already knew that you were affiliated with a gang in South LA.  Beyond the tattoos that look of defeat in your face was a familiar one too.  Internally, I acknowledged my perceptions of you and went about my normal line of questions to address your medical needs, but more importantly tried to have a free-flowing conversation to unveil your real story because you deserve it. 

After you told me about how you recently went from smoking meth on occasion to injecting it daily, I could tell that my reaction of “aww no man, why?” caught you off guard.  I wasn’t looking for you to answer, but I continued to probe in search of one.  With your mom living in South LA, I presumptively asked “does your momma know what’s going on with you?”  In that moment, I wish you could have looked at yourself in the mirror and seen the child-like version of yourself (full of love and a little fear for the woman who birthed you) blurt, “no… but please don’t call my momma!” As you told me your story so openly, it began to make sense— your older brother who was a member of the same gang that you rep got shot and killed in front of you and that’s when things began to spiral.  Shortly after at 12 years old, you became a father with three different woman so now you have a 13-year-old and two 12-year-old daughters. Shortly after their births, you were convicted of burglary and went to prison for 6 years, and when released went back to the neighborhood that was tatted all over your face.  As a high school dropout, your means of survival was entangled in the hustle of slangin’ drugs on the streets (the same drugs that you started using).  With tears rolling down your cheek, your recital of events seemed to be the first time that you were able to trace back to the reason for your current circumstances. 

You acknowledged that you had never dealt with the trauma of your brother’s death or anything else that came after it. So as we pontificated the meaning of life (more specifically your meaning), I internalized your reflections.  I admired your ability to reflect on the tremendous role that your momma’s love, strong will and hard work played in making sure that you and your daughters survived.  Before I placed my stethoscope on your chest, I noticed a woman’s name tattooed on your right hand and I asked “that’s your momma, huh?” You nodded and I knew that I had already heard your heart. 

I understand that a drug like meth can help people escape their life’s pain, but your story reaffirmed for me the power of love.  I hope that your first 5-days of sobriety in jail and the recognition of the power of your mother’s love is enough to propel you forward in your journey without drugs. 

Wishing for love to defeat your pain,

Dr. A