Here are the wild myths I believed about white people

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fairly easy
The Greyhound bus was quiet. The day was dreary. And I was madly uncomfortable. "What time is it?" I asked a guy sitting across the aisle.This article originally appeared at Salon."It's 2 p.m.," he said. After nearly four years, I had finally been released from Mississippi State Prison at Parchman. ...
The Greyhound bus was quiet. The day was dreary. And I was madly uncomfortable. "What time is it?" I asked a guy sitting across the aisle.

This article originally appeared at Salon.

"It's 2 p.m.," he said. After nearly four years, I had finally been released from Mississippi State Prison at Parchman. The Greyhound bounced over bumps, wrapped its body around slick curves, and slid past flatlands of the Mississippi Delta. I wondered how many times Oprah Winfrey and Morgan Freeman had traveled these roads before rising to stardom. When I wasn't daydreaming, I was holding back tears and rolling over the uncertainty of my physical freedom.

"Thanks, bro."

It's two o'clock. Right now, I would be on the rec yard jogging, I thought to myself. I didn't wish to be back in prison. But meeting freedom wasn't as gleeful a reunion as I expected it to be. I did my bid alone. Today, I'm still wrestling with the hardening of my emotions. It's one of the many cons that come with serving prison time. I didn't understand the seriousness of my penitentiary experience. I felt it, but I didn't have the language to match my barren feelings.

I had a little over $100. No place to live. No clothes. Jumping back into the dope game wasn't an option. But I didn't have a vehicle to go search for a job. No vehicle in a city with no public transportation could be problematic. I was embarrassed. Mentally unstable. And lonely. Being free was overwhelming. For the past three and half years I envisioned myself enrolling into college, becoming a writer and a historian. In prison one can be anything he wants to be. But the sting of reality isn't nearly as fun as the dream. My n***a, you don't have a car, clothes, money, or a place to live. How the f**k are you going to go to college? I asked myself.

Still dressed in my Mississippi Department of Corrections-issued navy blue khaki pants, faux Chuck Taylor kicks, white button-up shirt, and a small laundry bag filled with my belongings from Parchman,…
Darryl Robertson, Salon
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