The arrival of the coronavirus brought not only illness and death but also fear and panic. In such an environment of uncertainty, people have naturally stocked up on necessities, not knowing when things will return to normal.

Retail shelves have been cleared out, and even online suppliers like Amazon and Walmart are out of stock for some items. Independent sellers on these ecommerce platforms have had to fill the gap. With the huge increase in demand, they have found that their inventory has skyrocketed in value.

Many in need of these items (e.g. toilet paper, hand sanitizer and masks) balk and the new prices. They feel they are being taken advantage of in a time of need and call for intervention by the government to lower prices. The government has heeded that call, labeling the independent sellers as “price gougers” and threatening sanctions if they don’t lower their prices. Amazon has suspended seller accounts and law enforcement at all levels have threatened to prosecute. Prices have dropped as a result and at first glance this seems like a victory for fair play. But, we will have to dig deeper to understand the unseen consequences of this intervention.

We must look at the economics of the situation, how supply and demand result in a price and how that price acts as a signal that goes out to everyone, informing them of underlying conditions in the economy and helping coordinate their actions.

It all started with a rise in demand. Given a fixed supply (e.g., the limited stock on shelves and in warehouses), an increase in demand inevitably leads to higher prices. Most people are familiar with this phenomenon, such as paying more for airline tickets during holidays or surge pricing for rides.

Higher prices discourage less critical uses of scarce resources. For example, you might not pay $1,000 for a plane ticket to visit your aunt if you can get one for $100 the following week, but someone else might pay that price to visit a dying relative. They value that plane seat more than you.

*** During the crisis, demand surged and their shelves emptied even though

However, retail outlets have not raised prices. They have kept them low, so the low-value uses of things like toilet paper, masks and hand sanitizer has continued. Often, this “use” just takes the form of hoarding. At every day low prices, it makes sense to buy hundreds of rolls and bottles. You know you will use them eventually, so why not stock up? And, with all those extra supplies in the closet and basement, you don’t need to change your behavior much. You don’t have to ration your use.

At the low prices, these scarece resources got bought up faster and faster until there was simply none left. The reality of the situation became painfully clear to those who didn’t panic and got to the store late: You have no toilet paper and you’re not going to any time soon.

However, if prices had been allowed to rise, a number of effects would have taken place that would have coordinated the behavior of everyone so that valuable resources would not have been wasted or hoarded, and everyone could have had access to what they needed.

On the demand side, if prices had been allowed to rise, people would have begun to self-ration. You might leave those extra plies on the roll next time if you know they will cost ten times as much to replace. Or, you might choose to clean up a spill with a rag rather than disposable tissue. Most importantly, you won’t hoard as much. That 50th bottle of hand sanitizer might just not be worth it at the new, high price. You’ll leave it on the shelf for someone else who may have none.

On the supply side, higher prices would have incentivized people to offer up more of their stockpiles for sale. If you have a pallet full of toilet paper in your basement and all of the sudden they are worth $15 per roll, you might just list a few online. But, if it is illegal to do so, you probably won’t.

Imagine you run a business installing insulation and have a few thousand resperator masks on hand for your employees. During a pandemic, it is much more important that people breathe filtered air than insulation get installed, and that fact is reflected in higher prices. You will sell your extra mansts at the higher price rather than store them for future insulation jobs, and the scarce resource will be put to its most important use.

Producers of hand sanitizer would go into overdrive if prices were allowed to rise. They would pay their employees overtime, hire new ones, and pay a premium for their supplies, making sure their raw materials don’t go to less important uses.

These kinds of coordinated actions all across the economy would be impossible without real prices to guide them. How do you know if it makes sense to spend an extra $10k bringing a thousand masks to market unless you know you can get more than $10 per mask? If the price is kept artificially low, you simply can’t do it. The money just isn’t there.

These are the immediate effects of a price change, but incredibly, price changes also coordinate people’s actions across space and time.

Across space, there are different supply and demand conditions in different places, and thus prices are not uniform. We know some places are real “hot spots” for the virus, while others are mostly unaffected. High demand in the hot spots leads to higher prices there, which attracts more of the resource to those areas. Boxes and boxes of essential items would pour in where they are needed most from where they are needed least, but only if prices were allowed to adjust freely.

This would be accomplished by individuals and businesses buying low in the unaffected areas, selling high in the hot spots and subtracting their labor and transportation costs from the difference. Producers of new supply would know exactly where it is most needed and ship to the high-demand, high-price areas first. The effect of these actions is to increase prices in the low demand areas and reduce them in the high demand areas. People in the low demand areas will start to sef-ration more, reflecting the reality of their neighbors, and people in the hotspots will get some relief.

However, by artificially suppressing prices in the hot spot, people there will simply buy up the available supply and run out, and it will be cost prohibitive to bring in new supply from low-demand areas.

Prices coordinate economic actions across time as well. Just as entrepreneurs and businesses can profit by transporting scarce necessities from low-demand to high-demand areas, they can also profit by buying in low-demand times and storing their merchandise for when it si needed most.

Just as allowing prices to freely adjust in one area relative to another will send all the right signals for the optimal use of a scarce resource, allowing prices to freely adjust over time will do the same.

When an entrepreneur buys up resources during low-demand times in anticipation of a crisis, she restricts supply ahead of the crisis, which leads to a price increase. She effectively bids up the price. The change in price affects consumers and producers in all the ways mentioned above. Consumers self-ration more, and producers bring more of the resource to market.

Our entrepreneur has done a truly incredible thing. She has predicted the future, and by so doing has caused every individual in the economy to prepare for a shortage they don’t even know is coming! And, by discouraging consumption and encouraging production ahead of time, she blunts the impact the crisis will have. There will be more of the resource to go around when it is needed most.

On top of this, our entrepreneur still has her stockpile she saved back when everyone else was blithely using it up. She can now further mitigate the damage of the crisis by selling her stock during the worst of it, when people are most desperate for relief. She will know when this is because the price will tell her, but only if it is allowed to adjust freely. When the price is at its highest is when people need the resource the most, and those willing to pay will not waste it or hoard it. They will put it to its highest valued use.

The economy is like a big bus we are all riding in, going down down a road with many twists and turns. Just as it is difficult to see into the future, it is difficult to see out the bus windows at the road ahead.

On the dashboard, we don’t have a spedometer or fuel guage. Instead we have all the prices for everything in the economy. Prices are what tell us the condition of the bus and the road. They tell us everything. Without them, we are blind.

Good times are a smooth road. Consumer prices and interest rates are low, investment returns are steady. We hit the gas and go fast. But, the road is not always straight and smooth. Sometimes there are sharp turns and rough patches. Successful entrepreneurs are the ones who can see what is coming better than everyone else. They are our navigators.

When they buy up scarce resources ahead of a crisis, they are hitting the brakes and slowing us down. When they divert resources from one area to another, they are steering us onto a smoother path. By their actions in the market, they adjust the prices on our dashboard to reflect the conditions of the road ahead, so we can prepare for, navigate and get through the inevitable difficulties we will face.

Interfereing with the dashboard by imposing price floors or price caps doesn’t change the conditions of the road (the number of toilet paper rolls in existence hasn’t changed). All it does is distort our perception of those conditions. We think the road is still smooth — our heavy foot stomping the gas — as we crash onto a rocky dirt road at 80 miles per hour (empty shelves at the store for weeks on end).

Supply, demand and prices are laws of nature. All of this is just how things work. It isn’t right or wrong in a moral sense. Price caps lead to waste, shortages and hoarding as surely as water flows downhill. The opposite — allowing prices to adjust freely — leads to conservation of scarce resources and their being put to their highest valued use. And yes, it leads to profits for the entrepreneurs who were able to correctly predict future conditions, and losses for those who weren’t.

Is it fair that they should collect these profits? On the one hand, anyone could have stocked up on toilet paper, hand sanitizer and face masks at any time before the crisis, so we all had a fair chance to get the supplies cheaply. On the other hand, it just feels wrong that some should profit so much at a time when there is so much need.

Our instinct in the moment is to see the entrepreneur as a villain, greedy “price gouger”. But we don’t see the long chain of economic consequences the led to the situation we feel is unfair.

If it weren’t for anti-price-gouging laws, the major retailers would have raised their prices long before the crisis became accute. When they saw demand outstrip suply, they would have raised prices, not by 100 fold, but gradually and long before anyone knew how serious things would have become. Late comers would have had to pay more, but at least there would be something left on the shelf.

As an entrepreneur, why take risks trying to anticipate the future if you can’t reap the reward when you are right? Instead of letting instead of letting entrepreneurs — our navigators — guide us, we are punishing and villifying them, trying to force prices to reflect a reality that simply doesn’t exist.

In a crisis, more than any other time, prices must be allowed to fluctuate. To do otherwise is to blind ourselves at a time when danger and uncertainty abound. It is economic suicide.

In a crisis, there is great need, and the way to meet that need is not by pretending it’s not there, by forcing prices to reflect a world where there isn’t need. They way to meet the need is the same it has always been, through charity.

If the people in government want to help, the best way for the to do so is to be charitable and reduce their taxes and fees as much as possible, ideally to zero in a time of crisis. Amazon, for example, could instantly reduce the price of all crisis related necessities by 20% if they waived their fee. This would allow for more uses by more people of these scarce supplies as hoarders release their stockpiles on to the market, knowing they can get 20% more for their stock. Governments could reduce or eliminate their tax burden on high-demand, crisis-related items and all the factors that go into their production, with the same effect: a reduction in prices and expansion of supply. All of us, including the successful entrepreneurs and the wealthy for whom high prices are not a great burden, could donate to relief efforts.

These ideas are not new or untested. This is core micro economics. It has been taught for hundreds of years in universities the world over. The fact that every crisis that comes along stirs up ire against entrepreneurs indicates not that the economics is wrong, but that we have a strong visceral reation against what we perceieve to be unfairness. This is as it should be. Unfairness is wrong and the anger it stirs in us should compel us to right the wrong. Our anger itself isn’t wrong, it’s just misplaced.

Entrepreneurs didn’t cause the prices to rise. Our reaction to a virus did that. We saw a serious threat and an uncertain future and followed our natural impulse to hoard. Because prices at major retail suppliers didn’t rise, that impulse ran rampant and we sleared the shelves until there was nothing left. We ran the bus right off the road and them blamed the entrepreneurs for showing us the reality of our situation, for shaking us out of the fantasy of low prices.

All of this is not to say that entrepreneurs are high-minded public servants. They are just doing their job. Staking your money on an uncertain future is a risky business. There are big risks and big rewards. Most entrepreneurs just scrape by or lose their capital in failed ventures.

However, the ones that get it right must be allowed to keep their profits, or else no one will try and we’ll all be driving blind. We need our navigators. It doesn’t even matter if they know all the positive effects they are having on the rest of us and the economy as a whole. So long as they are buying low and selling high — so long as they are doing their job — they will be guiding the rest of us through the good times and the bad, down the open road and throught the rough spots.

At the edge of my awareness, I thought I heard my name. I was hunched over the metal desk sandwiched between the bright orange lockers in my prison cell. My pencil stopped its scratching as I strained my ears.

A knock on my cell door and Thomas poked his head in.

“CO’s callin’ for ya,” he said. “They’re callin’ you to watch.” He sped off. Thomas was the head orderly in the block, never without energy for cleaning or running errands for the guards. He defended his position well.

It was not my day to watch. I was not even the alternate. I put down my pencil and stepped out onto the top tier.

The cell block was a cavern of steel and concrete. The usuals were parked in front of the TVs, and a chess match with a small audience was going at one of the tables, but otherwise it was quiet for this time of night.

Bonum, our regular guard, was looking up at me from the bottom floor.

“Let me throw on my greens,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”

I buttoned up my all-green uniform, grabbed my ID, hid a paperback in my folder, and went downstairs.

“This isn’t my night,” I said to Bonum as he unlocked the front door of the block.

He smiled. “When they call, you go,” he said. “You know how it is.”

The sun was just settling as I stepped out of the block and onto the concrete walk leading to the main corridor. It put a pale pink glow along the underbelly of the overcast clouds. The rec yard was packed with prisoners from the many cell blocks surrounding it. That’s where everyone had gone, off to get the latest gossip or do some piece of business, to gamble, to fight, to struggle through their little lives on this little square of desert surrounded by high walls, high-voltage fences and gun towers.

I heard a voice:

‘Hey man, come here. You goin’ to watch?”

I did not want to stop, but when you live in a cage with a thousand other men, being rude can catch up to you eventually. I turned to see another prisoner up against the other side of the rec-yard fence.

“What’s up?”

“I got a kite for Digby,” he said. “He should still be back there.”

“Sorry, we’re not supposed to pass stuff,” I said, hoping it would end there.

“Ain’t nothin’ man, just somethin’ to help him pass the time, you feel me?”

I backed away, shaking my head. “Maybe the next one. I’m not losing my job over it.”

He turned away disgruntled, but he could not fault me for it. This was not even my day to watch, I thought. I should not have to deal with this.

The main corridor was empty and quiet all the way down to the big door leading into medical. I stood waiting by the door until the bored-looking corridor officer came out of the captain’s office. He saw the folder in my hand and, without a word, unlocked the door and let me in.

The suicide watch area was open, so I walked straight in. As soon as he saw me, the other watcher smiled like he had just found a stamp on the ground. He was ready to be done with his shift. He scribbled his last entry in the log book, and handed it to me.

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

“Just sleeping right now. He needs his meds. The corridor officer, what’s his name, said he’d tell medical, but that was a couple of hours ago.”

“Alright, I’ll ask again when they do rounds.”

I looked through the big glass window on the front of the cell at the man inside. He was on his back, covered head to toe in a thin blanket. His bed was a concrete block built into the center of the cell. Set into the sides were strategically placed bars where straps could be looped through. The rest of the cell was bare except for the remains of a dinner tray in the corner and a too-bright fluorescent light mounted to the ceiling. Next to the walls outside the cell, there were medical jugs with spring-loaded lids half filled with yellow fluid. The whole place smelled slightly of urine.

I settled into my chair, angled so I could see my guy if I turned my head, which was important. This was my job, to watch. I knew Digby, the man under the blanket. We were in the same cell block before I moved, but I had not seen him in a while, maybe a year. We were never close. He was the kind of guy I avoided. He was into all the things I was not: violence, drugs, drama.

They say familiarity breeds contempt, but I have found the opposite to be true. Despite our many differences, I had a slight fondness for Digby, simply because I had seen him daily and lived around him for a couple of years. You can’t hide who you are for that long, so I knew what I was dealing with, to a degree. Part of me wondered why he had been put on suicide watch. But, I would only be here for my four-hour shift, which he might sleep through. The guy I relieved had watched him during his shift. Same for the guy before him. Digby was under 24-hour surveillance. If he tried to kill himself, not that it would be easy to do, he would be stopped. His clothes had been taken. The only fabric in his locked cell was a tear-proof smock and the blanket he was under, made from the same stuff. Even if he could make a rope, there was nothing to hang from. More dangerous was something foreign smuggled in, like whatever it was I refused to accept through the rec yard fence. It could have been enough drugs to overdose on, or a little razor blade for Digby to open his veins with.

There was nothing in the bare cell for Digby to do to pass the time. Hour after hour, day after day, just him and his thoughts and whoever was watching him. The other watchers joked that, if you were not suicidal when you got put on watch, you would definitely become so. I flipped through the log book. Digby had been on suicide watch for eight days.

I flipped back to the front and scribbled my first entry: “Digby laying down, motionless,” and initialed it.

I was not supposed to bring anything back there that could distract me, but all the watchers did it. I guess the idea was that I was supposed to keep my eyes glued to him every moment for four hours. I pulled my book out of my folder and picked up reading where I had left off earlier. The room was dead silent, just the hum of the vent and the ticking of the round, analogue clock above Digby’s cell door.

An hour passed before a guard came by.

“He alive?”

“Yep.” I mentioned that he needed his meds.

Then another hour.

I looked over at Digby and noticed that he had rolled over on his side. It went in the log book. Every few moments, I would feel restless. I accepted this fact, and a measure of peace emerged.

Another hour and I was approaching the end of my shift. We could not work more than four hours at a time by policy, though relief was often late.

Then, Digby pulled the tear-proof blanket down and sat up. His hair was eight days of stubble and his skin was pallid. He squinted at the overhead fluorescent, pinching the tattoos he had blasted over every square inch of his face and head.

I had grown used to it, or numb to it, but the first time I saw a man locked in a cell, I recoiled. Several emotions had hit me at once: desire to help him, to get him out of his predicament, fear of the awesome power of the system that kept him there, resignation that I could do nothing in that moment, then justification: he must deserve to be there, though I had no idea who he was.

But when I saw Digby, and he saw me, I just saw my knucklehead neighbor from my old cell block. He came over to the window and leaned his forehead against it, flattening the Juggalo girl tattooed there.

“It’s freezing in here,” he said.

I could feel the cold air flowing through the crack under the door. All Digby had to wear was his smock. No socks or shoes on the bare concrete floor. No shirt or underwear.

“They don’t make it comfortable, do they?” I said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been in the Hole six months!” He seemed shocked I didn’t know.

“Oh yeah. That thing with Johnny, right?”

“Yeah.”

I could see the wind leave his sails at my mention of his last cellie in general population. I did not know the details, but he and Digby had fought on the last long lockdown.

“Are they going to let you out?” I asked.

“I dunno. They won’t tell me anything. I might get shipped.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes drifted off. “None of it matters.”

I was not sure what to say. I was not sure I even wanted to talk to him, but I went on with open-ended questions.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true! If they ship me to a new yard, I’ll just screw up there too. I can’t take this anymore.” He let his head fall against the glass with a soft bang.

Smashing his head against the glass was about the only way Digby could self-harm in that cell. It was a tactic some guys used to be heard. I would have to immediately use the emergency line and let the guards know. If a psychologist was around they might come talk to him, or he could be strapped to the concrete block he slept on.

But Digby was not trying to hurt himself.

“What’s bothering you, Digby?”

“Six months, bro. It’s torture back there in the Hole. I can’t sleep with all the noise. They treat me like garbage. My toilet wasn’t flushing right for weeks. They wouldn’t give me a spoon. I had to eat that nasty food with my hands. Then they put me in with this dirtbag cellie. You know Orc?”

I did not.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “I told them I didn’t want to go in with him. It was getting bad, you know. I didn’t want to hurt someone again. I didn’t want to hurt him like Johnny, so…I had swiped a razor and opened my wrist in front of the lieutenant.” He held up his bandaged wrist.

We sat in silence for a minute while I took in his words.

“Did you do it just to get out of there, so you could come back here and have a break, a quiet cell to yourself?” This was actually more common than real attempts.

“I dunno. I just don’t know if I can keep doing this. I don’t want to go back. I don’t see the point in any of it.”

“How much time you got left?” I asked.

“Four years.”

“That’s not bad. How old are you?”

“I’m 22.”

In that moment, something in my heart gave way. Digby had nearly taken Johnny’s life. Now he was flirting with taking his own. Something in the way he said it, I knew he was not faking for attention or to get a break from the Hole. He really felt he was at the end of his rope. I was in my late 30s. What I wouldn’t give to be 22 again. I could live my life over. I could choose a different path, one that didn’t lead me to a maximum-security prison. I turned to him.

“You’re young, Digby. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and that’s a good thing. You’ll get through this, man. It’s temporary. If you take your life though, there’s no coming back from that.”

He started tearing up a little.

“You gotta be strong. They could keep you in that Hole for another six months, or longer, but guess what? On the other side of it, it’ll just be a bad memory, nothing more. You’ll make it.”

He was looking intently into my eyes. That look, that desperate need he had to hear what I was saying, it gave me words I did not know I had.

“I know it hurts right now. I know you’re in pain. You gotta be tough. Do it for future Digby. You know future Digby? He is counting on you to get through this. There will be good times again if you can get through this valley.”

He was openly crying now.

“You’re right,” he chocked. He wanted to believe it, he needed to, but he was wavering inside.

I started over and went through my message to him again, using different words, coming at him from different angles.

“I’ve got a life sentence, no parole. I’m never getting out. I would give anything to be in your shoes right now. Do a little time in the Hole, keep my head down, and in a few years…freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom. Don’t rob yourself of that, Digby. If I can keep going, so can you.”

Slowly, his confidence returned. He could see past the darkness all around him. He saw himself as a man who could endure it and be better on the other side for having been through it.

“You see, man? You got this.”

“I got this. Yeah, I got this.”

I put my knuckles to the glass and he dapped me from the other side.

A few minutes later, my relief came. It was odd for a third person, who had not been there for our conversation, to arrive so soon. What we had just been through was not part of the world he had just come from, where prisoners wear masks to hide the pain, to hide what they fear is their weakness.

I met Digby’s eyes one last time before I left. I could see everything in them: fear, regret, longing, courage, hope.

The compound was all stillness as I walked back to my cell block. I felt like I had experienced something significant with Digby that night. Most of the time, most people’s walls are so high, so thick and so well guarded that it is hard to do more than scratch the surface. It is hard to connect with the authentic self of another. That night, I connected with Digby as I never could have when he was chasing all the wrong things in our old block.

I never saw Digby again. He stayed in the Hole a while longer. He endured it, and was eventually shipped to another prison.

In nearly a decade in prison, I have met many men who are near the end of their sentences and preparing to go home. More often than not (to my surprise), they are afraid. Having spent years or decades in an institution, most have lost the bulk of their support network and resources they once had. Often, the people left are the same bad influences that helped get them to prison in the first place.

Going free after all that time away from society is a bit like time travel. They are entering a future they aren’t prepared for and don’t understand.

Of course, it’s exciting too. There are so many new opportunities and experiences compared to life in prison, but newly freed people need all the help they can get. Thankfully, there are some great organizations out there that have been working hard to help former prisoners onto a successful path. Four that we are supporting through Art4Giving are Prison Entrepreneurship Program (PEP), Ex-Cons for Community and Social Change (ECCSC), Operation New Hope, and Getting Out & Staying Out (GOSO).

If you have have the means, I encourage you to support them too. Former prisoners are our new neighbors. Let’s show them a warm welcome home.

Much more is being said about Bitcoin these days than when I was put in prison. On October 1, 2022, I started my tenth year locked in this cage. Right now, as I put pen to page, the afternoon sun beams through the bars of my window and the murmur of the other prisoners snakes under my cell door.

Over the years, I have heard people say all kinds of things about Bitcoin. I have heard that “Bitcoin is dead” and that “Bitcoin is the future.” I have heard that “Bitcoin is bad for the environment” and that “Bitcoin will set us free.” But I have noticed that Bitcoin doesn’t seem to care what we say about it. Not the exchange, of course — that’s driven by the whims of people like all financial markets. I am talking about Bitcoin itself.

Bitcoin doesn’t have ears. What we say doesn’t change it. Barring a society-level catastrophe, Bitcoin will keep adding a block every ten minutes, forever. That’s the whole point. Through all the ups and downs since Bitcoin’s birth more than 13 years ago, despite the hype, despite the naysayers, despite everything, Bitcoin has never faltered.

I can’t say the same for myself, but then again, I am merely human. A couple of years after Bitcoin got started, I made the biggest mistake of my life: I made Silk Road (an anonymous online market). Of course, at the time, I didn’t know it was a mistake. I thought it was a great idea. I thought I was putting Bitcoin to good use and giving people privacy and freedom. When illegal drugs were listed, I thought that was OK too, because I believed drugs should be legalized. Nevermind that they were outlawed and I was risking everything I held dear.

A couple of years later, I was thrown in prison for drug trafficking and given two life sentences without parole, plus 40 years. I was falsely portrayed in the media as a violent drug kingpin. The story of Silk Road was reduced to a cops and robbers cliché. I more than faltered, I hit rock bottom. I have been here ever since.

Bitcoin never faltered. Through the rise and fall of Silk Road, through the relentless years of my incarceration, through competition and catastrophe, Bitcoin keeps going, one block at a time, like clockwork.

As Bitcoin has marched on, I have struggled to rejoin the world outside of my cage. Year after year, my family, friends, supporters and I have been working toward my freedom, so I can have a second chance at life. But I am tired. I am burned out, I want this nightmare to end, and I don’t know if it ever will, no matter how hard we work at it.

Before I came to prison, I knew nothing of hard drugs. Since then, I have been locked in 8- by-10-foot cells with lifelong addicts for months on end. I have heard their stories and seen what has become of them. I have faced the fact that, by making Silk Road, I played a role in damaging many lives. I don’t even think about drug war politics anymore. I just know I could never promote drug use again, whether legal or illegal. How could I, if I would never touch them myself? How could I, if I would be horrified to learn that someone I loved became addicted? All I would think of is the men I have come to know whose lives have been ruined.

I have been through many phases during my imprisonment: hopelessness, fear, guilt, acceptance, boredom, feverish desperation, and all the while Bitcoin keeps going. Today, I take inspiration from Bitcoin. I will keep going, day by day, just taking the next step over and over. I will keep adding the next block. Either I will regain my freedom or, at the end of my life, I can look back and say, “At least I tried.”

This essay was originally written for Bitcoin Magazine to mark Ross’s prison anniversary on Oct 1, 2022.

During the last extended lockdown, I got bored and made up a little turn-based pen-and-paper game called ORB. In it, you are the head of an interstellar corporation. You explore worlds; gather resources; manufacture materials, components and systems; and build farms, factories and space ships. It’s super geeky but also a lot of fun. There are fully functional commodity, currency and even stock markets.

While we were locked down, I let my cellmate and a guy one cell over alpha-test it. I would send a line to the neighbor and fish his turn back and forth under the cell doors in an envelope. Once we came off the lockdown, word got out and now dozens of other prisoners in my block want to play! I don’t have the time to process all those turns, so I am setting up a guy who is handy with a calculator and can follow the algorithm. Another is doing the art and design, and yet another is handling the copies for each turn. My fiancée is even lending a hand by sending formatted versions of the different pages and a hex grid for the galaxy map.

Everyone is excited for the beta test to begin.

English version here.

Algo especial sucedió en el primer año más o menos después de que Satoshi nos dio Bitcoin, algo que nadie esperaba y que muchos pensaban que era imposible. Trata de imaginarte a Bitcoin en ese tiempo, antes de que hubiera un precio de intercambio, antes de que alguien supiera realmente que, si cualquier cosa, sucedería con ello. Bitcoin no comenzó como dinero. Se convirtió en dinero, pero lo hizo de una manera en la que ningun otro tipo de dinero lo había hecho antes. Pero aun despues de todas las cosas que Bitcoin ha hecho posibles, y todas las maneras en las que está cambiando nuestro mundo, no apreciamos por completo o podemos entender lo que pasó en esos primeros días, cuando solo era un juguete para los geeks.

Toda moneda previa a Bitcoin — en la larga historia de la civilización humana — fue valorada por razones distintas a su uso como dinero. El ganado en África, las estampillas de correo en la prisión, las conchas de mar y los metales preciosos han todos sido usados como dinero y siguen el mismo patrón. La única excepción es el dinero por decreto — algo declarado ser dinero por una autoridad — pero aun las monedas decretadas por naciones en el pasado eran respaldadas por algo con valor previo, como el oro.

Bitcoin cambió todo eso. Bitcoin no tenía valor previo, y nadie fue forzado a utilizarlo, y aun así de alguna manera se convirtió en un medio de cambio. Las personas que no entienden y que les importa muy poco el Bitcoin pueden sin embargo aceptarlo como pago porque ellos saben que puede ser utilizado para pagar por algo más o ser cambiado por dinero convencional.

Hay personas que mencionan seguido las pizzas que fueron compradas por diez mil Bitcoin y, en retrospectiva, se burlan del tipo que se comió lo que se convertiría en un lonche multi-millonario. Pero estoy más interesado en el tipo que dio dos pizzas perfectamente buenas por solo Bitcoins. ¿Que fue lo que el vio en esos bits y bytes, esa firma digital en algo que personas estaban llamando “blockchain” o la cadena de bloque? Lo que sea que haya sido lo que motivó al vendedor de pizza pudo también haber sido lo que llamó a los primeros mineros, los cuales no podían liquidar pero felizmente acumulaban. Pudo haber también inspirado a los que simplemente dieron Bitcoins regalados en miles. Fuera lo que fuera, era algo nuevo.

La economía clásica dice que un intercambio no sucederá a menos que las dos partes valoren lo que están recibiendo más de lo que ellos están dando a cambio. ¿Entonces de donde vino el valor? Bitcoin nunca debió de haberse levantado del suelo, pero lo hizo. Aun un nuevo producto tiene algun tipo de valor, y los que lo adoptan temprano están tomando un riesgo de no recuperar su dinero invertido, pero continuan esperando ganar en el intercambio futuro.

Los primeros en adoptar al Bitcoin no tenían manera de saber lo que sabemos ahora. Todo lo que tenían era un sueño, una convicción y el suficiente entusiasmo infeccioso para convertir un artefacto digital en un fenómeno de múltiples de miles de millones del cual apenas estamos comenzando a ver sus efectos.

Yo les diré lo que pienso que pasó, pero la verdad nadie la sabe. Es como magia que Bitcoin fuera de la nada, y sin previo valor o decreto autoritativo, a convertirse en dinero. Pero Bitcoin no apareció en un vacío. Era una solución a un problema con el que los criptógrafos habían batallado por muchos años: como crear dinero digital sin una autoridad central que no se pudiera falsificar y que pudiera ser confiado.

Este problema persistió por tanto tiempo que algunos le dejaron la solución a otros y en su lugar soñaron en como sería nuestro futuro si una moneda digital descentralizada de alguna manera surgiera. Ellos soñaron en un futuro donde el poder económico del mundo es accesible para todos, donde el valor puede ser transferido a cualquier parte al presionar una tecla. Ellos soñaron en prosperidad y libertad, dependiente solo en las matemáticas de la fuerte encripción. Bitcoin entonces nació en tierra fértil y fue reconocido por aquellos que la habían estado esperando.

Ese fue un momento histórico, mucho más importante que la pizza o las crecientes facturas eléctricas por la minería. La promesa de libertad y el encanto del destino energizó a la comunidad inicial. Bitcoin fue conscientemente y a la ves espontaneamente recibido como dinero cuando nadie estaba observando, y nuestro mundo nunca sera el mismo.

Traducción por Arturo Ochoa

Original English version:

Bitcoin Equals Freedom

It has been a few months since we auctioned off my art at Art Basel. The sale has definitely changed things. Options that were beyond our reach before are now possible. We can look more broadly at making the whole system just, rather than focusing just on me. That is as it should be. There is a lot of work to do.

And we are moving forward with the idea of helping kids travel to visit their moms and dads in prison. There are charities who have already been doing this or similar projects, and we will reach out to them. There is a lot more to it than just buying a plane ticket and hotel room, so hopefully we will find some people with experience and with their hearts in the right place.

All of this has brought a new spark to my life. I have direction and purpose and I feel like I can make a difference again. The more money we raise, the more good we can do, so I have been busy creating my next art collection. We are auctioning it off at Bitcoin 2022 in April. The people there have stepped up to help us and everything seems to be coming together. I have put my heart, soul and mind into this collection, and I am really looking forward to its unveiling.

Suddenly everything changes. Not only was the NFT auction a huge success, but now there is a FreeRoss DAO. I quickly found out things have grown beyond my capacity to control or even influence. I simply do not have the communication bandwidth. By the time my letters reach home, the situation has changed. Sometimes the letters just disappear (like the original version of this very message).

I am okay with all of this. It’s a lesson in letting go, and besides…I found what I was looking for: meaning and purpose. To begin with, I have discovered there are many people who want to own my art. Art has always been a hobby for me, something I do for the satisfaction and joy of expressing myself. Now it seems I am a professional! That others enjoy my art as much as I do — perhaps more so — gives me a great feeling of worth, something my daily environment has been eroding in me and those around me for many years.

My mind has been buzzing with new ideas these past few weeks. I am pouring my heart and soul into them. The materials available to me may be limited, but they are more than enough for me to express myself. Some of the themes coming to mind: growth even in darkness, a vision of the future, a glimpse of the world I live in, and more. I am working on these ideas a little every day and enjoying the process of creation.

Then, there is the money we raised. What an incredible blessing and opportunity. Now, I know whatever legal expenses arise can be taken care of and I won’t be a financial burden to my family. But more importantly, we can start helping the people who have been damaged by this prison system. As I said here, I am committed to helping kids travel to visit their moms and dads in prison. This is important. One can turn their heart off to the people locked away, but the kids who have lost their parents to mass incarceration deserve better. I can’t send their mom or dad home, but there is nothing stopping us from reuniting child and parent for a weekend. Even that small amount of contact can be transformative and healing on both sides. I have seen it with my own eyes.

These two things — making art and reuniting families — are more than enough for me to focus on. I have something more important now than just getting through the days and months, more important than “doing time.” It’s hard to express how valuable that is to me, especially in the position I am in. There were many many people who came together to make the NFT a success, and I won’t try to list them all. I don’t even know them all! Let’s just say I have a huge debt of gratitude, and I am humbled by the outpouring of support.

English version here.

El 8 de octubre del 2018 cumplí cinco años desde que fui encarcelado. Mis entornos físicos hoy son irónicamente similares a los de mi arresto inicial en el 2013. Estoy en el SHU de nuevo (Unidad Especial de Vivienda por sus siglas en inglés también conocido como el “hoyo”). Eso significa encierro permanente, separado de la población general de la prisión en una celda pequeña. Hay una ranura en la pesada puerta de metal para pasar las bandejas de comida, un pequeño inodoro de acero, una cama de concreto con aros gruesos en las cuatro esquinas (yo creo que así me amarrarán si me vuelvo loco), pintura despostillada en las paredes, y piso con nombres de pandillas y desesperadas citas Bíblicas talladas profundamente, y en todos lados, marcas gruesas contando los días pasados aquí hechas por residentes previos (algunas de las cuentas son aterradoramente largas).

La conmoción inicial al entrar a la celda — y todo lo que significaba para mi futuro inmediato — me llevó después de unos días a un pavor desesperante e impotente, y a una necesidad urgente de salir. Esta emoción tuvo que ser reprimida para evitar la locura, y con el tiempo una aceptación entumecedora tomó el control, pero era un arreglo precario. Una frustración desesperante hervía a fuego lento debajo de la superficie.

Cuando fui arrestado, al principio fui puesto en el hoyo contra mi voluntad en tres diferentes prisiones mientras que me movían de un lado a otro a través del país, desde San Francisco donde fui arrestado hasta Nueva York donde me juzgaron. La única razón que me dieron por este trato fue que yo era un criminal de “renombre.” Despues de seis semanas me dejaron salir y nunca regrese… hasta hoy. Esta vez, estoy realmente alegre de estar aquí porque la alternativa es amenazante a mi vida.

Fui forzado por otros presos a tomar una decisión: Agredir a alguien o ser agredido. Moralmente yo sabía que no podía iniciar la violencia contra otro, pero si me negaba, yo sería lastimado seriamente y enfrentaría un futuro incierto, sin saber cuanto tiempo estaría en el hoyo bajo custodia protectiva o si me mandarían a otra prisión donde encotraría el mismo destino.

Cuando la terrible situación sucedió, logré pedir custodia protectiva antes de que alguna cosa me sucediera. Fui esposado inmediatamente y escoltado a esta celda desde donde estoy escribiendo. Escogí el hoyo en vez de lastimar a otro hombre.

Cuando me tiraron en el SHU después de mi arresto, yo hice mi mejor esfuerzo, pero fueron unas seis semanas duras, llendo de una vida de libertad derecho a eso. Yo me puse a llorar cuando reciví mi primera llamada, y por una semana perdí toda noción de tiempo y fundación. Me hace sentir ansioso el solo recordarlo.

Quizás después de más de cinco años ya me he acostumbrado a servir tiempo, pero creo que es la manera en la que he servido mi tiempo la que me ha hecho mentalmente fuerte, eso ha hecho la diferencia entre como manejé el hoyo en el pasado y como lo estoy manejando hoy. Quiero compartirles esta sabiduría que me gané con sacrificio. Aquí están las cinco claves para la fuerza interna que he aprendido de mis cinco años en prisión.

Paciencia

Mi primera noche de encierro fue en una celda de detención en San Francisco: Solo concreto pintado, un inodoro y un lavamanos. Había manchas de sangre salpicada en la pared. Yo estaba esperando muy impaciente que esa noche se terminara. Yo casi que sentía que no la sobreviviría, porque nunca terminaría. Claro que terminó, pero yo nunca había sentido que el tiempo se moviera tan lento.

La prisión tiene su propio ritmo. Una vez, el conseguir dos pàginas de historial médico impresas tomó tres meses. Yo una vez tuve una llave de agua abierta día y noche por cinco semanas antes de ser reparada. Un inodoro tapado tomó dos meses y una queja a la oficina del Inspector General. En otra ocasión, yo vi una carta dirigida a mi en la esquina de la oficina de un guardia. Había estado allí por cuatro meses.

Yo he aprendido que la paciencia significa hacer lo que puedes hoy y luego soltar el control. Significa enfocarse en este momento y dejar que las cosas sucedan en su propio tiempo. La impaciencia y el aburrimiento no traen resultados más rápidos, pero sí te roban de tu felicidad aquí y ahora.

Voluntad de Luchar

Después de un día largo trabajando en un laboratorio como asistente de investigación en el 2005, mi mentor me preguntó si yo había alguna vez boxeado. Yo le dije que no, y que ni había estado en una pelea verdadera antes. Comparado a muchos, yo crecí protegido en escuelas y colonias seguras. Yo no tuve necesidad de pelear. Entonces el saco unos guantes de 14 onzas y nos dimos unos asaltos en el pasillo de afuera de nuestra oficina, sacándonos el estrés y divirtiéndonos. Desde entonces, cuando el estrés del trabajo aumentaba, sacábamos los guantes en la noche antes de irnos a casa.

Cuando yo fui arrestado y puesto en la cárcel, tuve que enfrentar a un oponente en una pelea verdadera por primera ves en mi vida. La fiscalía quería quitarme mi vida o como yo la vivía. Ellos querían — y siguen queriendo — ponerme en una jaula para siempre. Me encontraba en un campo de batalla ajeno y mi oponente tenía todas las ventajas. Estar encerrado en un centro de detención inicialmente fue como pelear estando debajo del agua, usando la mayoría de mi energía para sobrevivir el día-a-día y lidiar con la burocracia,

En el juicio yo entré al cuadrilátero esperando tener una oportunidad, tener una pelea justa. Pero cuando a mi abogado no le fue permitido questionar a los testigos de la fiscalía y no le fue permitido llamar a los míos, mis manos fueron atadas tras mi espalda. Y cuando a la fiscalia le fue permitido esconder a los agentes corruptos de mi jurado y presentar evidencia digital inconfiable y contaminada, fue como darles un bate de metal. Eso no fue una pelea. Fue una

masacre. Las pérdidas seguían viniendo, primero en la corte de apelaciones, y luego en la Corte Suprema.

Yo recuerdo una ves cuando yo decidí quedarme tarde en el patio de la prisión. El sol decendía, y eramos nomás unos cuantos y yo allá afuera. Caminé hacia una mesa para picnics de metal donde un hombre que llamaré Big Mike estaba sentado solo. Mike era la persona más grande que he conocido. Él pesa el doble de lo que yo peso, y sus brazos son tan gruesos como mis piernas. Él una ves me dijo que no hace ejercicio porque si lo hace se agranda mucho y asusta a las personas. Nosotros platicamos por un rato y me habló sobre los argumentos que el prepararía para su siguiente moción a la corte.

— Yo necesito continuar trabajando en mi caso todos los dias hasta que salga libre, — Yo le dije, inspirado por sus esfuerzos.

Su expresión se volvió seria. Él me miró fijamente y luego me dio una exhortación por media hora que solo terminó porque nos sacaron del patio al anochecer.

— Sí, debes hacerlo, — el dijo — . Nadie va a pelear por tu libertad como tu. Esta gente te tienen atado en un nudo y tu nunca saldrás si no batallas y luchas. Tù estas peleando por tu vida. Ellos te quitaron tú vida. Solo tu la puedes recuperar. — Él seguía hablandome al entrar al edificio habitacional — .

Mike había peleado toda su vida. Él creció en las calles de Philly. Él peleó para sobrevivir, y ahora el estaba peleando para sacarme las últimas pizcas de duda y derrota que quedaban en mi corazón. Él ganó esa noche y encendió un fuego dentro de mi que ha estado ardiendo desde entonces.

La voluntad de pelear es primal. Está dentro de todos nosotros. Así como yo, muchos de nosotros nunca la hemos necesitado y se mantiene latente. Pero no necesitas esperar hasta que estes bajo ataque y tu vida esté en peligro para aprender a pelear. Tu puedes pelear por los que amas, por lo que importa, por lo que tu eres, como si tu vida dependiera de ello. Y verdaderamente que depende de ello porque una vida que vale la pena vivir es una por la que vale la pena luchar.

El Perdón

Unos cuantos meses después de que fuera sentenciado, yo estaba acostado en mi cama despues de que la puerta de la celda había sido cerrada por esa noche. Mientras que mi mente consciente se detenía y él sueño se acercaba, los rostros de los que me encerraron de por vida burbujeaban en mi mente y capturaban mi atención:los jueces, fiscales, políticos y agentes, y ellos me veían hacia abajo con sonrisas burlonas. Un coctel de emociones acompañaba a estas imágenes, incluso enojo, frustración, impotencia, e incluso el comienzo del odio. Mi corazón latía rápido y mi mente corría hasta que repentinamente desperté completamente y me quedé acostado tratando de volverme a dormir. Después de unos cuantos ciclos de eso, me senté en la cama. Esa no era la primera vez que yo no podía detener esas emociones negativas. Yo tenía que recobrar el control.

Mientras que estaba dándome vueltas en la cama, esas personas estaban probablemente durmiendo, profundamente y cómodamente, en camas grandes y cómodas, en casas grandes y cómodas. ¿0 no? Quizás ellos también estaban sentándose en la noche atormentados por el pensamiento de todas las personas como yo que ellos han condenado. 0 quizás a ellos no les importa y racionalizan el dolor para deshecharse de él. La verdad, yo me di cuenta, era que yo no tenía idea. Y aun más, que mi ira no los estaba lastimando a ellos ni un poco. Todo eso estaba ahí conmigo en la celda. Yo no me estaba vengando de ellos al guardarles rencor, pero me estaba envenenado la mente.

Así de repugnante como se sentía al principio, yo tuve que perdonarlos. Yo cultivé apropósito pensamientos como “no fue personal, ellos ni me conocen” y “sus corazones deben de estar muy insensibles por lo que ellos hacen, yo siento lástima por ellos.” Yo me enfoqué en pensamientos de amor y bondad y me imaginé que esas emociones radiaban hacia afuera y que iban a sanar a los que me habían lastimado. Yo no se si eso tuvo un efecto en alguno de ellos, pero ciertamente pude comenzar a dormir mejor.

Al pasar el tiempo, yo me hice un despiadado contra los pensamientos de odio cuando ellos entraban a mi mente y los cambiaba inmediatamente como lo había hecho esa noche. Yo no podía permitirme disfrutarlos porque había logrado aprender esta simple verdad: el odio no lastima a los odiados, lastima a los odiosos. Han pasado años desde la última vez en la que desperdicié energía odiando a esas personas y me siento mucho mejor por haberlos perdonado.

Fe

Habiendo sido condenado a envejecer y morir en prisión con dos sentencias de vida más 40 años es como mirar hacia dentro de un abismo. Mi futuro según lo que yo pensaba desapareció, siendo remplazado por obscuridad e incertidumbre. Al enfrentar esta pesadilla, la fe se convirtió en una situación de sobrevivencia.

El diá que fui sentenciado, yo regresé al centro de detención y reciví abrazos, condolencias y una comida caliente de mis compañeros prisioneros. Cuando encontré un poco de tiempo libre esa noche, yo vi dos caminos delante de mi. Uno era una espiral hacia abajo. Yo podía ver que entre más decendía, lo más dificil que sería escalar de regreso. Al fondo, los demonios de la desesperación, el odio, y la tristeza abrumadora me esperaban para devorarme. El otro camino subía hacia arriba, pero yo no podía encontrar los escalones. No había ninguno. No había razón para tener esperanza de la que me pudiera sostener.

En los siguientes meses, tuve que brincar, tropezar y gatear hacia el camino que ascendía. Con toda la evidencia en contra, yo tuve que tener fe en que Dios me cuidaría a través de cualquier cosa venidera. Me di cuenta que yo no soy lo suficientemente fuerte por mi mismo para evitar caer dentro del abismo siempre presente. Quizás sea algo irracional el creer sin evidencias, el tener fe, pero también es irracional el abandonar la esperanza el amor y el gozo que la fe produce, porque te da la fortaleza para pelear y ultimadamente ganar. En una situación tan desesperada como la mía, mantener la fe viva es la diferencia entre la libertad o una lenta, muerte enjaulado.

Aceptación y Gratitud

Hay oportunidades sin fin para sufrir en prisión. Tu puedes sufrir cuando te encierran en la celda y sientes como que vas a explotar si no puedes salir, cuando tu espalda tiene espasmos por la dureza de la cama, cuando estás enfermo y te sientes aislado, cuando notas la suciedad, cuando la puerta se cierra de golpe detrás de tus seres queridos después de una visita, cuando sientes que te ahogas y que solo necesitas un último día de libertad para respirar, cuando deseas seguir durmiendo pero te tienes que poner las botas porque que tal si sucede un motín, cuando te imaginas que el cuchillo que picó al último hombre te está picando tu carne, cuando te das cuenta que no has tenido un momento de privacidad en años y que todo a tu alrededor es frio y duro, cuando alguien muere sin poderte despedir de el o ella.

Yo he tenido ocasiones innumerables para sufrir. En cada caso el dolor es inevitable. Te pega sin advertencia y lo sientes, ya sea que te guste o no. Y claro, el dolor por naturaleza no es agradable. Nuestra reacción natural es resistirlo, pelear contra él, y alejarlo o suprimirlo. La aversión al dolor es sufrimiento.

El reistir lo que es y desear algo mejor es sufrir. El dolor y el sufrimiento parecen estar inevitablemente encerrados en prisión, pero yo he aprendido que el sufrimiento no es la consecuencia inevitable del dolor.

Mientras que el dolor es inevitable en mis circunstancias, el sufrimiento es completamente opcional. El dolor, aun el dolor emocional, es solo una sensación física: el nudo en mi estómago, el dolor en mi corazón y mi cabeza. No es ni positivo ni negativo en si mismo. Solo es. El sufrimiento es nuestra respuesta negativa al dolor que lo combina y lo amplifica y lo arrastra continuamente.

Yo he llegado a creer que el antídoto para el sufrimiento, al camino hacia afuera, es la aceptación y la gratitud. La aceptación cambia el “Yo no puedo aguantar otro día más en este infierno” a “estoy donde estoy, y sí, me duele.” La gratitud va un paso mas adelante: “Por lo menos tengo agua limpia y suficiente comida. Por lo menos estoy vivo y estoy sobreviviendo. Gracias.” El sufrimiento siempre se presenta en el contexto de la insuficiencia porque tu quieres lo que no tienes. La aceptación y la gratitud voltean tu contexto a uno de abundancia porque tu te enfocas en lo que tienes y agradeces por ello. Es la diferencia entre la miseria y el gozo y está disponible para cada uno de nosotros en cada momento del día.

Entonces aquí estoy en el hoyo, contando mis muchas bendiciones y rechazando permitirme entrar en el sufrimiento. Ojalá que tu puedas beneficiarte de estas cinco claves para la fuerza interna sin tener que atravesar lo que yo he vivido. Eso sería una buena consolación, el saber que lo que me pasó a mi pueda ser de beneficio para ti. Esa es una cosa más por la que puede agradecerse.

Traducción por Arturo Ochoa

Original English version:

5 Keys to Inner Strength from 5 Years in Prison

It is finally starting to sink in that I might be here in federal prison for a while. I just started my 9th year of life without parole. Decades of incarceration stretch out in front of me. As I face that future — my eventual old age and death in this cage — I find myself looking for meaning and purpose. Why am I here? What good can I do with the time I have left and from where I am?

Coming from an artistic family, I was encouraged to draw from a young age. I drew comic book characters for many years. Then, as a teen, I adopted a surreal, psychedelic style that pushed the boundaries of my craft. In my 20s, I stopped drawing so much. I thought I did not have enough time. I know better now. If something is important, you make time for it.

I was 29 years old when I was arrested. Suddenly, sitting in prison, I had time for drawing again. I reconnected with my artistic side, producing illustrations that told the story I was going through. I was able to connect to those of you in the free world through my art. The isolation I felt was tempered by it.

Then one day, I was told “you should sell your art as an NFT. The community will love it.”

“Umm…What’s an NFT?” I asked.

One thing led to another. Ideas were chewed. Brains were stormed. An NFT was born, one that told my story through the art I produced over the years, from toddler to teen to prisoner. Then, I told a story with words and drawings of a typical day in maximum security, and my collaborators animated it from my point of view as a prisoner. That is all bundled into the NFT. It is my story as art.

But what I realized — and what gives me hope that I will find something more to live for — is that my story is not over. It does not end with “…and then he was arrested and spent the rest of his life in prison.” I am still alive. I am still here. I can still make a difference.

There are about a million prisoners in the United States, or so the statistics say. But the truth is there is more like ten million. You see, the families of prisoners feel the worst part of incarceration too: separation from the ones they love. In that sense, we are all doing time. Each of us is no more than a couple of degrees from prison. It touches our whole society.

So many times over the years, I have seen little kids enter the prison visitation room. I have seen the joy as they yell “daddy!”, running and jumping into his arms. I have seen the tears roll down their innocent faces when it’s time for the exit door to slam shut, locking daddy on the other side.

Those are the lucky ones. With dad locked away, most can’t afford the cross-country trip to see him. Birthday after birthday, they grow up without him. Soon resentment builds. Eventually, the child that grew up without dad becomes the adult who makes the same mistakes dad made and winds up behind bars. (Rinse and repeat.)

With this NFT, I see a chance to make a difference where it really counts: in the lives of kids who did not ask for any of this. There is a lot we can do with the proceeds of this auction, but one idea I am committed to is to help kids travel to visit their moms and dads in prison.

My own future may look bleak, but I can still do a little something to heal the damage I see all around me. Prison shatters families. It shatters communities. And the kids are the ones who suffer.

You can read more information about the NFT auction here, and I will write again about how we will move forward after the auction ends.