By Kim Hilsenbeck

More than 100 prisoners in white or tan uniforms sat alongside family and friends in early December as they eagerly awaited hearing their names called. They were in a Transitioning Ceremony at the Kyle Correction Center. 

The center is a designated Substance Abuse Facility by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ). Residents spend about six months there before being released. About 170 of the more than 500 residents are in what’s called SAFP, or Substance Abuse Felony Punishment.

On this day, the 120 or so residents in the room were of varying backgrounds — white, black, Latino, Asian. They were short, tall, heavyset, slender. Many had tattoos on their necks, arms and faces.

When the emcee called their names, the men hooped and hollered as they walked, strutted and swaggered to shake the hands of the center’s administrators and counselors.

The emcee said, “Give a round, they made it, yo!” 

The entire audience got on its feet and applauded.

Kevin Adams, now 41, was at the ceremony. He grew up near Tyler. Up until 2005, he had no jail record, no previous run-ins with the law. He’d never been arrested or spent time in prison. Adams graduated from high school then attended Tyler Junior College where he played basketball. 

His articulate speech, positive demeanor and confident posture supported the notion that he was not raised on the streets.

Adams is black.

His story about going to prison unfolded like a bad nightmare.

Adams said he grew up in a structured environment but made some bad decisions along the way, including hanging out with friends in college who smoked pot. 

At 23, he and his now ex-wife, who was 19 then, had a child. They had two more children together. Adams said he was working two jobs, coaching his children’s sports teams and providing a good life for his family.

His own father passed away when Adams was 25.

“I was trying to do the right thing in my marriage,” he said. “I was a hands-on dad.”

But his wife thought he was working too much.

“We grew apart,” Adams said. “Communication wasn’t there.”

Later, he revealed she was unfaithful with one of his friends.

What followed was a seemingly vicious cycle of trouble with his ex-wife, issues paying child support and then being charged with possession of a controlled substance.

Though employed in the physical therapy field, he had trouble paying child support. When he was unable to pay the full amount, Adams said his ex-wife would have him thrown in jail. Ironic, he thought, considering he would not be able to pay child support from prison, either. He eventually got his certification in cosmetology.

But the kicker came in 2008 when he was charged with possession of a prohibited substance in a correctional facility.

Adams said he was pulled over for a traffic violation. The officer didn’t pat him down even though Adams told him he had marijuana on his person. Once they got to the jail, officers patted him down and found the marijuana.

“It was less than one ounce, which is about $10 worth of pot,” he said.

But since he was inside the jail, the charge was elevated to a third-degree felony. Had the arresting officer patted him down during the arrest, it would have been a misdemeanor.

The higher charge came with a 10-year prison sentence.

“For less than an ounce of pot,” Adams said. “The Texas justice system is not on a level playing field.”

That was 2008. Adams has since spent many months in prison. This is his second stint in SAFP. The first time, he said he went through the motions but didn’t apply the lessons to his life. He ended up back in prison for failure to pay child support.

During two different periods of incarceration, Adams’ grandmother and an uncle both passed away; he missed both funerals.

What’s different this time?

“It’s all about making choices and having consequences,” he said. “I’m here because I have a responsibility as a man, a parent and a member of society.”

He claims that life of using pot is over.

“Marijuana is dead,” he said.

Unlike many other ex-prisoners, when Adams leaves the center he will return to a supportive family and a job. The same salon owner where he was working in 2008 agreed to rehire him. 

Adams knows he is lucky.

“Most guys get out and have to take a survivor job,” he said.

That means a minimum wage position. Many end up back in prison.

Adams will also try to reconcile his relationship with his children, now 16, 14 and 12.

And if they ever want to smoke pot, what will he say?

“I will talk to them about consequences,” he said.

With any luck, they will see how things went for him and make better choices.

Adams said he never wants to see the inside of a prison again. Instead, he wants to open a sports center that will help keep youth out of trouble.