Criminal justice administration

12.12.2019 LIFE INSIDE

I Did My 25 Years. Now I’m Fighting Another Sentence—Deportation I barely remember my birthplace, Jamaica, and I have no family left there. Frankly, I’m terrified.

By COLIN ABSOLAM as told to AKIBA SOLOMON

I was only 11 years old when I moved from my grandparents’ home in Saint Mary Parish in Jamaica

to my mother’s one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx, New York. I don’t remember much about

where I was born, besides the country living. And yet, after serving 25 years for a murder I

committed when I was 19 and earning parole, I may be deported to a place that I haven’t as much

as seen in more than three decades.

Because my deportation is automatic due to the fact that I committed an aggravated felony, my

only hope of staying in the U.S. is if the governor of New York, Andrew Cuomo, grants me an

executive pardon. With the help of �e Defenders Clinic at the City University of New York School

of Law, I �led a formal petition in November. Now all I can do is wait at the Bu�alo Federal

Detention Facility to hear about what will happen to the rest of my life. Here’s a short version of

why, instead of returning home to my family in New York City, I’m in an ICE facility hundreds of

miles away.

When I came to the South Bronx in the ‘80s, adjusting to junior high was di�cult. I didn’t speak or

dress the way everyone else did, and I was bullied every day. I would get blamed for the �ghts I got

into and my mother—who worked as both a housekeeper and an aide in a nursing home—had to

come up to the school to get me. I also had to defend my little brother.

�e Bronx �nally began to feel like home in high school. I had learned how to �ght and made

friends with older kids. Nobody was telling me to “go back on the banana boat” anymore.

I was also involved with two women at the same time. Both were pregnant by my senior year. My

job at a fast food restaurant wasn’t enough to support children, so with a little convincing from

friends, I dropped out of school and started selling drugs. When my mother found out what I was

doing, I left home in shame. My girlfriend and I started living in a broken car that belonged to a

friend.

On June 23, 1992—two months before my �rst child was born—an older, bigger dealer ordered me

to stop selling in the same building as him. When I ignored him, he smacked me in the face. I left

the area, but later when I came back to see my girlfriend, I encountered him again. He assaulted

me and blocked my exit. �at’s when I went and got a gun a friend was holding for me and fatally

shot him. �inking I was the victim, I turned down a 7 ½-to-14-year plea deal and opted for a trial. I

spent three years on Rikers Island awaiting trial and one out on bail. Finally, at age 24, I was

convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to 25-to-life.

Now, this may sound contradictory, but considering the life I was living, my incarceration was a

blessing. In Sing Sing Correctional Facility, where I spent most of my time, I was fortunate to meet

individuals who took responsibility for their crimes and dedicated their time while incarcerated to

improve their lives and the lives of others. �ese men later told me that they saw the potential in

me for change and took a liking to me. �ey urged me to get involved in all the therapeutic and

educational programs o�ered in order to keep me from being overcome by the pitfalls of prison.

One program I participated in was the Alternatives to Violence Project. A friend of mine, an older

gentleman, signed me up for it. I developed ways to address problems without resorting to

violence. After a lot of introspection, I was able to address my regretful past and rebuild my value

system. And Alternatives to Violence set me up to get educated. At the urging of another friend, I

earned my GED. In 2017, I got a bachelor’s degree in behavioral science from Mercy College. Last

year, I earned a master’s degree in professional studies from the New York �eological Seminary.

Hoping to give back to the community I harmed, I co-founded a group at Sing Sing called the

Forgotten Voices Committee. Our mission is to rede�ne what it means for incarcerated people to

pay a debt to society. We have brought kids ages 10 to 17 into the facility, not to “scare them

straight,” but to listen to them and help them deal with violence arising in their communities. We

also formed Voices From Within, an anti-gun violence initiative that resulted in a video series of the

same name.

For many years I also ran Prisoners for AIDS Counseling and Education, a program that serves 400

clients a year. I was responsible for day-to-day operations and trained dozens of sta� and peer

educators. I also did curriculum development and coordinated with college professors to ensure

that the science was state-of-the-art.

In June, I was granted parole. If things were di�erent, I would have gone home to my family and

entered the Justice-in-Education Scholars Program at Columbia University.

Instead, I’m in the ICE detention facility near Bu�alo, which is more restrictive for me than Sing

Sing. �ere are two bunks per cell here, and we’re locked in most of the day. Even if my family

could travel more than 300 miles to get here, there are no contact visits. You talk on a phone in a

booth and struggle to hear what your loved one is saying.

Since arriving here on Oct. 24, I’ve had plenty of time for my mind to race.

Frankly, I feel terri�ed.

Yes, I spent 25 years in prison, but I’m still worried about how I will survive in Jamaica. When I got

to this facility one of the sta� members gave me a manual that explained what I should be

concerned with when returning to Jamaica. Part of it is broken down into do’s and don’ts.

�e do’s include advice like “try to be Jamaican” and “use local accents and dialect to avoid

attracting negative attention.” Given that I haven’t as much as visited Jamaica for 35 years, I don’t

see how I can do these things.

Some of the don’ts are equally frustrating—and repetitive: �ere’s “don’t sound like a foreigner;”

and “don’t go o� to strange areas;” and “don’t accept assistance from a stranger.” But to me,

everyone is a stranger in Jamaica.

My father passed away. My grandparents passed away. I don’t have any relatives left. Besides

overwhelming me, not having any family there may make it physically impossible for me to leave

the facility where I will go for processing after I get o� the plane. I’ve heard that someone with a

Jamaican address has to sign the individual out, so I could be stuck there.

I’m also worried about my physical safety. If no one takes me in, I may end up on the streets of

Kingston, which is not so nice. Organized crime pretty much runs the place. For a hint just Google

“Dudus” or Shower Posse. �at �rst day I’m out of state custody, I have no idea what I’m going to

do for a meal, and I don’t know where I’m going to sleep.

�en there’s the stigma of being a “deportee.” Being called a “deportee” in Jamaica is like being

referred to as a “felon” in the United States. �e community sees deportees as individuals who had

an opportunity to come to the U.S. and squandered it. �ey’re not accepted as law-abiding citizens

or individuals who deserve a second chance. �is damages your employment opportunities.

My family is also su�ering. My mother is elderly, and she was anticipating me coming home to take

care of her. She’s been taking care of me my entire life, and now it’s supposed to be my turn.

My daughter feels like she’s being punished a second time. First, she had to grow up with me being

in prison. Now she feels like she’s losing me again. She often cries when I call home, and

sometimes she doesn’t want to speak because it bothers her so much.

I have two grandchildren. One is an infant that I haven’t yet met due to distance, and the other is a

7-year-old who I talk to on a daily basis. She has also been crying ever since she found out that I’m

not coming home.

I fear for my son the most. He hasn’t been the same since my other son, Kino, was killed at age 17 in

his presence. While I was inside counseling other individuals and children, I wasn’t able to protect

my sons.

My sons were close, and since the murder, the one who survived has been making a lot of irrational

decisions that place him in contact with the criminal justice system. He’s facing �ve years. If I was

there physically, I would be able to help him deal with his situation. But I’m not.

My brother, nephew and sister-in-law who have supported me throughout my entire incarceration,

are upset because there is nothing they can do.

I know some people think I deserve to be sent back to Jamaica because of what I did. But during

the 25 years I was incarcerated, I took responsibility for what I did. I helped other individuals, got

educated and gave back to the community that I harmed and left behind. A lot of time and energy

has been invested in me becoming the person I am today. Deporting me to a foreign land will be

like extracting a valuable asset out of this society only to throw it away.

Colin Absolam, 46, was granted parole on June 10, 2019, after serving 25 years in New York State

prisons for second-degree murder. Facing felony deportation to Jamaica, he �led an application for

an unconditional executive pardon with Gov. Andrew Cuomo on Nov. 21. Absolam is currently being

held at Bu�alo Federal Detention Center.

An earlier version of this story incorrectly stated when the author �led his clemency petition. He �led

it on Nov. 21