In That Number

keem’s Story

I’m a really chill person. I don’t do mischief.

I’m from the West Bank, Algiers to be specific, and I grew up with my mom. I have two stepsisters (one grown and one in sixth grade) and my baby brother was just born on August 1. When I was 17 years old, though, I was in jail for five months.

When I found out I was going to jail I brushed it off, I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t think I was going to sit there that long. And on top of that when I went to jail I had a gunshot wound. So I wouldn’t say I was fearful, but I had the mindset of like “Nobody not about to play on me” because I’m in a wheelchair and everything. I just felt like it was important to have a mentality that nobody’s going to mess with you. But at the same time, you still have it in your heart that you’re going to miss your family. I wasn’t too worried about me, you know. It was just about the people I was going to miss and people I wanted to see who weren’t going to be there. I was counting on them.

It sank in after a couple of months. I was like, “they keep sending me back.” And my lawyer, I feel like he was bullshitting me, like not really trying to help me. I wasn’t really sure, but it felt like he was more into other cases. But one of the highlights toward the end is that I realized he was really trying to help me. Cause he got to know me. He got to know that I wasn’t really a troublemaker because even at the time I went to jail I wasn’t really making trouble. I was trying to avoid stuff and he heard that I was doing good in school.

It took at least half the time I was in jail to even get on my feet because of my gunshot wound. I had to stretch my legs. I had to do a lot of stuff to get better, physical therapy and stuff like that, but in jail I didn’t have that. They never helped me walk. I just had a wheelchair. Now I deal with nerve damage in my foot, but other than that, my whole leg, I don’t really feel pain. I can’t play sports no more ‘cause I still have the bullet in my leg, though, because it’s better to keep it in then to take it out.

I made friends, but, at the same time, that’s not really a place to make friends ‘cause if you make friends, you’re going to get into wrong or negative stuff. Like there’s no playing buddies. They don’t got none of that stuff. It’s strictly top dog. So what I also did was make music. When I’m stressed, I rap. I like the beats. I like the rhythm. I like the harmony. I like everything about music. If I wasn’t rapping, then I probably wouldn’t be doing anything. I feel like music saves me. I made a lot of music when I was in jail. So, like, the music that I put out now will be some of the music I wrote while I was in jail. You know, beating on the table. That gives me a lot of memories. They’re not all good, though. It was really traumatizing. It comes back to me a lot.

I feel like people cared about me more when I got out of jail and not when I was in jail. But at the same time, a lot of people that I didn’t think was going to reach out to me when I was in jail, they reached out to me. I had a lot of people that would text me and ask me how I am doing. And they answered the phone. I had a manager at the time for my music and he was controlling my Instagram. My manager had access to me all the time, calling me on the phone almost every day. And that wasn’t even my blood. Like I was calling him every day and he would answer the phone. He would put people on three-way, some that was my family and some people that wasn't.

The one person I really wanted to hear from when I was in jail was my momma. I thought she would have been answering her phone. But later on, as I got out of jail, I found out she just didn’t want to hear about me in that environment. She was protecting herself and her mental state. I did talk to her at least one time, though. I remember like a deputy getting on the phone and calling her from another line like he was calling from a different phone so she didn’t really know that that was the number because she kept blocking it. She still didn’t want to talk to me, but I was able to speak to her.

If I found out my friend was going to jail tomorrow, the advice I would give him is to never back down. Never show nobody that you’re scared. Stay focused when you’re in school - if they have school in that jail. And just focus on what you’re going to do when you get out.

That said, I never want to hear about a friend of mine going to jail. I went in when I was a seventeen-year-old, a juvenile. I feel like a juvenile shouldn’t really go through that experience. I feel like it’s neglectful and they talk to you like a child - especially when you go to adult prison. We need to get these young people back to their families. I feel like it’s too much time wasted in a cell and it’s traumatizing to young people. I really feel like we was the babies of the jail but I don’t really think they cared about us. It wasn’t until the Welcoming Project that I feel like anybody cared.

I feel like, if it wasn’t for The Welcoming Project, I probably would think different. I started to notice the change when it just kept me occupied. It just kept me from doing dumb stuff. I talk to my mentors at the Welcoming Project when I’m stressed. I have a female mentor and a male tribe leader that I talk to. They help me out a lot. Especially in financial trouble. Anything I need help with, the Welcoming Project helps me. That’s my go-to. I talk to my mom a lot right now, too. I talk to her about opportunities, especially from the Welcoming Project. It makes her proud when she hears that type of stuff. I like when I talk to my mom, it’s all progress and I like talking about my progress. You know I have a little baby brother, so I just try to let her know that I am doing the right thing for him, you know. I never thought that I was going to get a brother. I just feel like Orleans Parish Prison is not a place for me to be now that he’s born. To be honest, before he was in this world, it wasn’t a place for me.