Prison Narratives: ‘Broken’ by Seriehel Belton

VOX Press‘ book, Prison Narratives, features personal stories written by prisoners at Parchman Farm. Serihel Belton’s second story, ‘Broken,’ is featured in this article. The book can be bought here.

Seriehel Belton was born in Hazlehurst, Mississippi on December 27, 1978. He grew up in extreme poverty in the rural countryside of south Mississippi. He dropped out of school in the 6th grade. He is currently serving a thirty year sentence for cocaine distribution.

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BROKEN

As the years steadily changed, the desire to live beyond poverty remained branded in my heart and mind. By any means, I was open for almost anything that would bring us out of poverty. I was only waiting for the moment and the opportunity to present itself. I had no idea of what that opportunity might be, but at that point in time in my life, it didn’t really matter to me what it was. I was like a skinner in the lowest depths of the fiery hell thirsting for a drink of water. The level of our poverty was taking its toll on my mom. It began to show in her actions and appearance, robbing her little by little of her sanity.

When we do things that deserved punishment, our punishment would be so severe and unfair to the point that all I could think was that either our mother was going crazy or had simply got to the point that she hated her own children. Some of those methods of punishment changed my life forever, hardening my heart and leaving me wondering to myself, “Lord why are you letting this happen to us?”

Sometimes my mother would come home from work and wouldn’t speak to us. We hardly ever knew what to think of her mood swings, but always we knew they weren’t ever good at all, for her and for us. We were at the point of being afraid of our mother. Sometimes, being children, we forgot to do some of our chores, like taking out the trash, or washing the dishes, or picking up branches and sticks out of the yard. Our mother would wait until we were asleep at night, and then come in and wake us up by lashing us with an electrical extension cord, striking us with it wherever she could, our face, our backs, our arms and legs, etc. That left humiliating and embarrassing welts and marks on our young bodies, because the cord was doubled up in her hand to shorten it for efficiency. It would leave long, heavy and deep marks wherever it stuck us. After this harsh and random beating by the cord, she’d make us get out of all our clothes so she could whip us one by one.

When she was finished with that she ordered us outside to stand naked in the winter-cold air of our back yard. Often there would be drizzling rain with light snow on the ground. She’d yell at us, “You better not leave that spot or knock on the door!” We’d stay outside naked in the blistering cold rain for an hour or more. I’d be so cold that I couldn’t hardly move. I’d try to say something to my brothers, but I was so cold that I could hardly speak. We’d try to hug each other, so we wouldn’t be so cold, but nothing seemed to warm us up. We had a small dog that would always come running up to us; which made us grateful because we’d take turns holding that fluffy and warm little dog to help us warm up even a bit. It seemed to us like we stood there for eternity. We would talk to God and ask Him to please let us be able to go back inside, because we didn’t want to freeze to death. Sometimes our mother would come to the door, and if
we weren’t standing in the same spot that she told us to, she’d close the door and make us stay naked in the cold ever longer.

When we were finally allowed to come back inside, we’d be so cold that we could barely walk to the door to get back inside. We had to help each other make steps to the house. We’d be so glad to get back to our shack. Once inside, it seemed to be impossible to warm up, but despite that, our mom would still make us do our chores. I knew our mom loved us, but that didn’t help me understand why she would treat us this way. After we finished the chores we’d forgotten to do, we went straight to bed to be ready for school in the morning.