The Bigger Prison - It's about a Green Card

- Theorode Rosevelt -

Living in the United States without a Creen Card is a real prison.
Article by: Woodring Saint Preux

No matter how bad it is at home, no matter how expensive life is, it's a hard thing to live with.

I wrote this poem back in 1997... before today, I never really shared it with anyone outside of my family... and If I did, I never really explained it.

I wrote it because I was living in the United States without a green card.

After 16 long years I finaly got to smell the Haitian Air once again. Because I left there since I was 14 years old, I can't begin to tell you how important the little things were when I saw them again.

The hardest part to swallow was the fact that most of the people who were dear to me passed away before I could see them.

Today, I dedicate this poem in their memory...

• Gran' Adrienne, my only grandmother
• Gess (Gesner Paul), The best cook in all of Hinche, Haiti
• Marainne Lolotte, my father's sister who never stopped giving until the day she died.

I committed no crime, yet, I'm a prisoner
I was never convicted, yet, I'm in jail
Real prisoners get to see their family members
Though trough thick glass, It must feel good

I'm stuck in here with mom, dad, and a brother
I haven't seen my the rest in years
They cannot come to visit me
The warden will not let me out

Life sometimes has invisible bars
Much stronger than the real ones
The tool needed to escape, paper thin
It is not easy to find, hard to believe

Immorality is the key, the quick way out
I can't do that, I'm too proud of myself
I may get to a point were I'll have to drop it
Live with the shame, live free

Sometimes, I cry myself to sleep
Someone dear to me has died
I can't even go the funeral
I'm a prisoner in life's penitentiary

The yard is quite big, I can move around
There are many advantages for all inmates
I can't go home, that's my biggest concern
A man has to do what a man has to do

The parole board has me on a waiting list
The list is as long as never
I hope to be free someday
Free to go wherever I please, home

Grandma promised to live until she sees me again
She is very sick and I afraid to call her
Why must life be so cruel to some
I didn't even choose to be a prisoner

I live in a constant lie
So deep that I forget the truth
What's the truth anyway
If it sounds good to you, it is true

© 1997 Woodring Saint Preux

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