It's difficult to write about physical scars. Each one has it's own story. Though oftentimes painful, my scars connect me to my past, which I cannot ignore. For me, the past is a period that resonates with joy as well as sadness. I wanted to forget certain aspects of who I was, prior to forgiving myself for the harm caused by personal decisions. But that's not the correct process. I know I must expose the injury to light in order to embrace the healing.
During Christmas, 1970, I was traveling with three other teenagers in a stolen Buick Electra 225. I was in the back passenger seat of this brand new car. It was late in the evening, and the police began following us. I don't remember if the driver panicked or if the siren initiated the hot pursuit. But in a manner of moments, we were traveling at high speeds through Cambridge streets, near Harvard University, to avoid capture.
After a few lefts and rights, the blue lights had disappeared and the noise faded. Suddenly, a taxicab pulled out of a side street and collided with the big deuce-and-a-quarter. The cab was crushed, and we bounced off a tree, eventually landing against a stone wall. I was tossed out the door while the front-seat passenger went through the windshield. Both of us were unconscious and transported to Cambridge Hospital. The driver walked, or rather ran quickly, away into the darkness.
I woke up in the hospital room, handcuffed to the bed with my left leg wrapped up in a stirrup. In the bed next to me was the kid who went through the windshield. He looked worse than me, with a swollen face and bandages around his head. I was charged with being the driver, since the police found only two people at the scene.
I almost died that night. The other teenager and the cab driver could have also lost their lives. I almost lost my left leg and there is a wide three-inch scar on my knee to remind me of that fact during bouts of denial. Other shocks to the memory are arthritis, slight pain in the kneecap area, and very little lift off on my jump shot. Such remembrances aided in my abuse of drugs and alcohol for many years. I would view the knee on a daily basis, relive the painful memory, and seek immediate relief via intoxication.
That was my pattern: I regularly tried to delete memory of bad experiences with drugs and alcohol. Of course, it didn't work; instead of going away, the nightmares were compounded. It was a vicious cycle, which continued even following the death of a young man in the Back Bay section of Boston, for which I was responsible. I have been inside Massachusetts' prisons for three and one-half decades, but it wasn't until I accepted responsibility for the scar, that I learned to move past the obstacles.
Some scars are quite visible, and there are those, no less painful, that remain hidden. Scars from serious injuries that may not be seen, but could still have devastating results if left in isolation. What about racism and an unjust judicial system? What about a broken heart due to an act of betrayal? We may encounter a dilemma of a personal nature that may stain our life span.
Then comes the decision...do you disclose and try to create healing or withhold in secrecy and suffer the consequences? It takes courage to glance inward, without fear, to face what you might find. Still, we must be accountable and confront the demons of our past. If we do, the rewards are great. With every new look, you can reclaim from history and decrease the chance of negative behavior that harms our community. We don't need to create more scars.
Published on www.edgeboston.com on 02-15-05
Arnie King has been within Massachusetts' prisons for 3 1/2 decades and currently has a favorable recommendation for commutation in Governor Romney's office. For additional information, contact him at : Bay State Center, Box 73, Norfolk, MA 02056; e-mail Throughbarbedwire@yahoo.com:
rate
email
print
link to this page
