The fashion-challenged or the opinionated cynic might ask, "Why does it even matter what a prisoner wears?" I'll tell you that it doesn't, unless there is a story connected to their choices.
In New York state prisons, clothes and footwear regulations are mandated by the state, and only certain colors are permitted. There’s a process to becoming an “inmate,” and part of that process involves stripping freewill from what we wear.
People's identity in prison is always at risk of being erased, especially if that identity is rooted in Blackness. So picking out a favorite pair of kicks feeds a deeper psychology: freshness, newness, a sense of individuality, value, and dignity. As Baldwin once spoke about it in different words, but for a similar purpose: "I am not your Negro!"
Sneakers are a way to hold on to a material possession that reminds us of being seen in our neighborhood. They remind us that prison is where we are, not who we are.
That’s why I won’t forget when Kyle showed up to the library in the Now-and-Later-green color pair of high-top Chuck Taylor Converse. No other person in the prison had that color.
I was a clerk at the library at the time. Over three months, I got to know Kyle’s reading selection well. He didn't select books like the other guys — he was not interested in Zane’s fictional sex novels, James Patterson or Alex Cross crime novels, or Donald Goines’ blaxploitation novels of the 1960s and 70s.
Kyle, at age 19, read Black intellectuals, the classics, and philosophers, especially Machiavelli and Nietzsche. He had a smile that brightened up the yard, even on a sunny day. He didn't exactly walk, but bounced off the black asphalt as he made his way, always early, into the library.
“Two books and two weeks” had been the general rule for each library patron. The Senior Librarian strictly enforced it to be able to provide as many patrons as possible with access to reading materials.
I valued the librarian's rule, but I also admired the fact that the books Kyle read were anything but ordinary. I allowed him more leeway, since his thirst to read was unquenchable. No matter how long the line was, I had his stack of four books ready. He always read and returned them in a week.
He didn't have much, as far as material possessions. He wore state clothing everywhere he went, but he kept himself clean and appeared dignified.
So, it was a shock one day to see Kyle come bopping into the library, minutes before closing, rocking a new pair of those Chuck Taylor Converse. I made comments on his fresh kicks. He thanked me as he always had, I pushed his books through the slot in the plexiglass service window, and he was off. At the time, I felt it was refreshing to see a young Black man make the best of the time he served.
A few days passed, and I didn’t see him at the library. I didn’t think too much of it and manually renewed his books, as a courtesy. I won’t forget his picks: Machiavelli's The Prince, Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo, and Daniel Halévy's The Life of Friedrich Nietzsche. Each book could easily take a few months to read.
Part of the clerk's librarian duties was to read the draft list to see how many books had “grown legs” and disappeared from the facility. That list also offered information like who was sent to the box (also known as the hole, special housing unit, S.H.U, and many other names for the same sort of punitive space). The list also gave notification of the deceased.
Kyle’s name was listed—but it felt like a lie. I notified the civilian librarian, part duty and part confession. I had allotted him two more books than allowed and given him extra time to read them, manually renewing his order. I realized the same day I renewed the books was the same day he was listed as deceased.
Suicide is not rare inside prison, a place that warehouses people with acute mental health issues, struggling through socioeconomic struggles, substance abuse, and traumas that are further intensified by the prison environment. In 2019, New York state prisons recorded 18 suicides, the highest rate since 2000 and 88% higher than the national prison average.
Kyle's mother had recently passed away, and his girlfriend had left him because she couldn't see putting her life on hold while he served out his time. There were about five years left on his sentence.
I did not know Kyle on a deep, personal level. I did, however, connect with him on other levels: we are both men of color who loved to expand our minds with the classics. His dying in captivity is a fear most prisoners (including myself) have had to confront at some point in their bid.
In society, there are many traditions, ceremonies, and customs used to memorialize someone's passing, but not so much in prison. I wanted to memorialize Kyle by purchasing a pair of sneakers, just like the pair he last wore, which had brought him a little happiness in the last stretch of his life.
I saved up two months of my prison wages and added some of the money sent in from my family. I bought a pair of green Chuck Taylor Converse. Upon opening the box, I felt the spirit of Kyle. Putting them on my feet, I could carry Kyle, and so many others like him, closer towards that finish line called freedom.
I know why I wear green sneakers. I wear green sneakers as a way to pay homage to Kyle Shore, the nineteen-year-old who committed suicide while incarcerated at Auburn Correctional Facility in 2012. He read books, he was dignified, and he had a smile that brightened up the yard, even on a sunny day. He didn't exactly walk but bounced off the black asphalt, and he wore the Now-and-Later-green color pair of high-top Chuck Taylor Converse.
