I entered the school gymnasium. My daughter’s cheering leading club was learning cartwheels. I saw the basketball. Picked it up, and as I went to shoot said, “The last time I played basketball was in fucking jail.” I didn’t so much say as the words just came out.

I had never picked up any type of athletic ball in my life. Yet there I was, high noon, sweltering hot July, in my regulation shorts bra, on a square of blacktop surrounded by razor wire, playing basketball as if my life depended on it. Total focus, one hundred percent present. Sometimes, It’s better to get picked. Then, not picked.

In a statement, prison authorities said Navalny “felt unwell” after a walk in the prison yard and soon lost consciousness. Attempts by emergency medics to resuscitate him “failed to give positive results.”

It really does not matter if you are innocent or not. You have entered the system. The stigmata is permanent. As a Korean chemistry professor said in our court-mandated DUI class, “We are treated like an enemy of the state.” 

People don’t generally come up to me and ask me what it was like in the psych ward or jail. And if I happen to mention any of the unmentionables, It is not only frowned upon but gives cause to indicate mental instability.