Corrections in Ink: A Memoir

by Keri Blakinger

On the road to Taconic, all I heard was tears. We left early on the morning of January 4, and I was shackled to a seventeen-year-old named Diamond, who sobbed most of the way. She didn’t want to go to a new prison or do work release, either—her whimpering cries sounded just like I felt. She was a light-skinned Black girl from Harlem, and she looked so young, I couldn’t quite process it. It was naive of me, but until that moment, I never would have believed that kids too young to vote or buy cigarettes could go to prison, let alone that New York sent them there routinely. I only found out years later that the Empire State was one of the last two that automatically prosecuted sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds as adults. When she calmed down enough to talk, Diamond told me she was here because she’d stolen some cell phones and credit cards, then fucked up her probation. Somehow, someone had decided adult prison was the best answer, as if showing a young Black girl how easily the system could throw her away would miraculously make her better.