This ad will not display on your printed page.
I was awakened by the hurried sounds of correction officers rushing into the cell block, with their key rings clanging together, their handheld radios blaring, and their loud voices interrogating the inmates. They were trying to determine whether one or more of us had taunted or terrorized José in a way that had caused him to commit suicide, which was a common enough occurrence at Rikers Island prison in New York City.
I hadn’t really known too much about José. In fact, I’m not even certain that was his real first name. I did know, however, that he shared my last name (Vega) and that he slept in the cell in front of mine.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how he might have taken his own life. One inmate said he had hung himself from the ceiling. Another speculated that he was able to tie his sheets to the bed while using his weight to choke himself as he lowered himself toward the floor. Either way, the deed was done and final.
As tragic as José’s death was, in some ways it launched me on the path to becoming a Christian. Oddly enough, this happened largely because of a mix-up on the part of the prison staff, who misidentified me as the prisoner named Vega who had committed suicide. The prison sent a chaplain to my family’s home to deliver the bad news. Amid the confusion that prevailed while Rikers Island was on lockdown following the incident, they didn’t learn the truth until several days later. For all they knew, I was dead.
There’s something powerfully symbolic in how I was “dead” but not yet buried. Looking back on this moment in my life, I believe God was beginning to show me that although I was physically alive, I was spiritually lifeless. And he was beginning to show me that true life would only be found in dying to self.
I was born into a humble family and raised in the gritty midtown New York City neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen. The oldest of four siblings, ...