"Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird...
Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird...
Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird."

That's the sound of the cadence echoing throughout the open-berth prison dormitories at the beginning of each and every month, and at the start of the New Year. All that can be heard above the cadence is the stomping of hundreds of feet and hands clapping in unison; sticks clanking against the metal bunks; and the island girls laughing and winding to the rhythm of the beat late into the night.

It's pronounced "wine-ding", as opposed to "wind-ing". As in, "...dem island girls, they be wine-ding. So sexy dem women are."

I've had my share of winding lessons from my friend, "Jamaica Foxx", while we were doing our time together in state prison where we first met. There is a slow and exaggerated roll of the hips, a slinky movement of the arms brushing lazily against the thighs, fingers snapping, and subtle head movements from side to side in synch with the beat of the makeshift drums. It's a very sexy and controlled dance that the island girls use to seduce their men.

I so totally didn't get the movements down, even after months of diligent practice both in and out of the shower where no one else could see me make a fool of myself.

"Hey dere, little mami, yous got to move dem hips like yous be givin' it to ya mon. Like dis 'ere. Yous got to make 'im want dat. Come-n-get dat here. Ya 'ere?"

"But, Foxxy, I ain't got a man, remember?"

"Oh, yes, little mami. Wis all got a mon. Yous just ain't looking for 'im in dee right di-rection. Now wind it don dere like dis 'ere."

Exasperated, I'd give her a slight roll of the eyes, and I'd try again. And every month, it was the same torture of trying to teach this Type A to dance like a sexy island woman. It never did work, mon. Not dis 'ere.

The ritual was the same at every prison, county jail, and transfer facility that I have passed through on my way to federal prison. The only thing that changes along the way is the cultural backdrop.

In the Southeast, the island girls from Trinidad, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, and Jamaica steal the show with their all-night dancing to Reggaeton, Calypso, and Salsa. We spent many a first-of-the-month dancing, singing, laughing and talking about all the men we have loved in our lives. Sometimes, out of sheer boredom or desperation (or a little of both), we would even rate the male guards and discuss which ones were marriage material, and which ones we might just drunk-dial on a slow night. For the latter, it would have to be an extremely slow night with absolutely no other feasible options in sight.

In the Midwest, there are the country-girl grammas dropping it down low like they used to decades ago before hip-hop was ever invented. I had never before imagined an elderly person knowing who Two-Chainz, Nelly and Ludacris are, let alone what it means to "drop it low". Oh but they do know- and they like to hit the floor with it. Sometimes they quite can't make it back up without assistance, and sometimes they might even drop their dentures, but they keep on dancing because they can, and because they are having fun once again like when they were young.

And, finally, in the Southwest, the Latin beauties of the narco underworld ring in the new months with their sexy dances and the beauty of their spirit. Their joy and laughter would sometimes make me temporarily forget that we were in prison.

All in all, the journey to where I am today, and whom I have become because of it, has been filled with more good than bad. I treasure the memories of it all, along with the experience that no amount of education can give, or that money can buy. But as each new month settles in, I join in the routine of counting down the days, months, and years left until I, too, get to go home.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird - hurry dem days along.