Category Archives: Prison Conditions

Fingerprint The Weapon Part Two – The Hole

It seems like I was born in solitary!  I was built for it.  Life in most gangs is hard.  It’s a life of bloodshed, bravery, loyalty, honor – the age-old attributes that turn boys to men.   Like most warrior clans, tribes, or nations – be it the Zulu’s, the Scots, the Spartans, Assyrians or Roman Legions – heart, courage and the ability to crush your enemy was looked upon with approval, respect and admiration.

Looking back through the mirror of time, I now recognize it for what it is – madness, chaos, genocide.   But, back then, I knew nothing but gang life.

When I first arrived in the prison chow hall, I could see clear division.  In my section there were countless men, some light complected, others dark, a few overweight, others slim, many tall, many not so tall –all in blue, all in our own section, all gang brothers.

Rival, and other groups sat in their sections if they were strong enough, respected enough to have one, while older, wiser street generals and religious leaders watched everyone.

Prison is about respect. Either you have it, or you don’t. Without it, you’re in the food chain, literally.  Even in this concrete world, in this jungle of lost souls, the forsaken and forgotten, there’s a food chain, a pecking order.  At the top sits those wise old lions, the leaders that control the flow of their groups and sections of the yard.

In the middle sit the Souljahs (Soldiers) that are up-and-coming. At the bottom of the pyramid – underneath it – sit the pariahs, those convicted of crimes against women (rape), children (pedophiles, molesters), or the elderly.  This segment resides with the rats (the informants), usually with a foot on their neck.

To advance through the ranks, to gain respect or even fear, you earn it one of two ways – through violence or intelligence.  To me, a 17-year-old in state prison where weakness could and would get you raped or killed, there was no option but to shed blood, ask questions later, no mercy – because this is a world that’s merciless.

The fights, the violence, the riots and gladiator wars, on top of the shrewd ability to make and generate money, led to being promoted to O.G. at the age of 19.  It was an acknowledgment of my dedication and loyalty to the gang, years of being a hard hitter for the team. To reach this level of leadership at 19 was unheard of, comparable to being a Captain in the Marines, or maybe a Major in the Army.

Over that same timeframe, I spent a lot of time in solitary – three months here, six there, a year for this, a year for that.  But never under the conditions that I’m under now, nor as long.

By the time I was known and respected I began studying – reading, economics, history, politics, business.

I originally entered prison with a ten year sentence.  By the time I completed 10 years, I had five more years on weapons and narcotics charges.  That first decade it was, ‘Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, Don’t Stop’, the classic motto. I lived like a gang legend – get money, stay high and be the most dangerous.

Around seven years in, 2004, I was at the maximum security Missouri Death Row – Potosi.  Prison was changing.  It was no longer as violent, as dangerous.  As a leader, I began steering my homeboys towards things that mattered, avoiding feuds and unnecessary wars when we could. The time had come to educate ourselves, get money, focus on building instead of destroying.

The prison administration took notice, but didn’t intervene, at least not directly. Over time, many gang members began to change, evolving from destructive to constructive and productive.  With the right leadership anything could be accomplished.  I lead by example, and by 2009, I was on my way to seeing the parole board for the first time. I was 27 with 11 ½ years in.

Then – on my 28th birthday -I was escorted by prison guards to Solitary – The Hole.  A weapon had been ‘found’ under my mattress. I had no clue who it belonged to, but it wasn’t mine.  By the prison code of silence, even if I knew I couldn’t speak on it.

I’ve had numerous weapon violations over the years, but I had not been involved in any violation for years. I was focused on making parole, studying and bettering myself to prepare for society.  Although I was in solitary, I wasn’t too concerned initially because I believed guards set me up to take me off the yard, yet the dots weren’t connecting. I requested to be subjected to a Voice Stress Analysis (Lie Detector Test) with the two guards involved in finding the weapon.

My request was denied.  I challenged the weapons charge through the internal prison system because nothing linked me to the weapon.  Months passed, and due to numerous errors in the original written infraction, it was ordered rewritten and reheard.  The original CDV (Conduct Violation Report) was to be dismissed, the officer who found the weapon was to rewrite the CDV/infraction and it needed to be reheard by the committee.

The DOC never rewrote the weapons charge. I transferred prisons and was released from solitary. A few months later I saw the Board after 12 years – Parole Denied!  Imagine my surprise a year later, when I got indicted for the weapons charge (a prison razor).

By that time, I was heavily involved with teaching and educating prisoners.   I hadn’t been on the battlefield in years, although anything can happen in this concrete world.

In court appearance after court appearance, the only evidence presented was a weapon found under my mattress in a cell that I shared with another prisoner.  No witnesses, no supporting evidence, and the state refused to fingerprint the weapon – as I’ve requested for years – just fingerprint the weapon…

The court’s only answer to this request was and is a resounding, maddening, “No!”

By 2010 I was in the fight of my life – the fight for my life.

By 2011 we were set for trial.  The state offered me eight more years.  Knowing I was innocent, I turned them down.  I wasn’t accepting a day. My unyielding stance was – fingerprint the weapon, and it’ll prove my innocence.

The state’s answer remained, “No.”  They offered eight again and told me if I went to trial and lost, they would bury me with a life sentence.

It scared me to death, but with 14 years already in prison, I knew anything could happen in those eight years.  In life, nothing is promised, especially not tomorrow. I couldn’t see accepting eight additional years for something I didn’t do. Now, I’m very aware that everyone in prison is ‘innocent’, but I’ve never disputed my guilt on any charge, and I’ve had a few.  On this charge, I had to fight for my freedom, I wanted to walk out of prison and accomplish things and never return.  Eight more years wouldn’t get me there.

By trial, the individual who originally made and possessed the weapon testified on my behalf, stating it was his weapon. The court wasn’t trying to hear it.  The jury yawned, and the Prosecutor made me out to be the big bad wolf before coercing the witness to say the weapon was mine.  I wish you could hear the audio interview.

Life… Thirty years… Life.  I was dazed.  My family was stunned. For the first time – at trial – even before sentencing, I broke down and cried. Yes, me, the hard-core gang member.  Imagine that.  A high-ranking Crip leader in tears for the first time in my incarceration. I cried.

That was the summer of 2011. Through it all, the court refused to fingerprint the weapon.

I knew I only had one shot at freedom.  I had to focus on my appeal, I needed to study the law books and generate some major money.  My desire for my freedom was almost overwhelming. My new motto became, ‘Not Guilty!’

The entire prison expected a gang war to erupt at worst.  In the least they expected me to snap.  Life – for a 5-inch razor.  The FBI wouldn’t have sentence me to life for having an M-16, nor for bank robbery. But life for a homemade prison weapon…

I wanted to split heads, yet I had to be disciplined.  My focus sharpened, my resolve hardened. I told my comrades not to bring any B.S. around me. I stayed in the law library, attempting to remain optimistic. I reorganized my comrades, my focus on freedom and legal money – ‘Not Guilty!’

Eight months later I was sent to the hole for dropping dirty urine.  I was good for the infraction.  You better believe it.  I smoked and worked out to remain sane. I refused to let the state of Missouri kill me.

That day was April 30, 2012.  Never have I walked out of isolation since.  Not Guilty.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Aziliah Africa is a gifted writer and has authored several urban novels he plans to publish.  He continues to shine in the darkest of places and is still in ‘The Hole’.  Aziliah can be contacted at:
Aziliah Y. Africa #351045
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542

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Arriving on Death Row
Class of ’99: Day 1, Continued…

My thought – ‘My life is over’.  No more clothes, parties, women, vacations.  No more freedom and all that joyously came with it. As we drove, I noticed beer trucks zoom past.  Commuters drove by without a care as to why the ornery white van was even on the same highway as their colorful vehicle.

As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh.  Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.

The van’s radio was tuned to a country station, playing songs like Smoke Rings In The Dark and You Don’t Impress Me Much.  The singer had a hook that stuck in my mind – ‘Who do you think you are?  Brad Pitt?’  It was a braggadocious melody that I actually liked, even though I didn’t have a clue who Brad Pitt was.

At our first stop I was handed over to TDCJ prison officials. One of the officers looked like Boss Hog from the Dukes of Hazard, just taller.  He gave the deputies a solid handshake before exchanging a few words and gestures in a code that only they could understand. “Na, look here. Can you read, boy?” The prison guard asked me in a gauche southern plantation owner’s drawl that made me sick in the ears. At this point I was so emotionally drained that I felt faint. I was broken, and I didn’t even realize it. I answered him by nodding my head ‘yes’. “A’ight.  Na, we’se gonna take you inside and get you processed in our system. It’s only gonna be two ways it’ll happen. One. You act like a man, and we treat you like one. Or, two. Act like a ass, and we’ll f!@# you like one. Is we clear?”

Again, I nodded my head ‘yes’.

They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there.  Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.

I followed behind them, and when we entered the huge crimson brick building one of the guards yelled an introduction that was louder than a bullhorn, getting the attention of the other sixty or so inmates and officers. “Dead man walking! Get y’all faces against the wall!”

Prison policy demands that all non-death row inmates are supposed to face the wall in a frisk position, not looking at any death row inmate as one passes by.  Why? I have no clue – makes no sense to me. As I passed by some inmates stole glances at me. Some had sympathetic eyes. Others were only frustrated that my arrival had delayed them momentarily from getting to where they wanted to be.

I was placed in a bullpen that smelled of bleach. The floor shined from being freshly buffed. Again, I was ordered to strip nude, hand over the county’s orange uniform that I had worn, and given an off-white jumpsuit with ‘DR’ painted on it.  Then I was quickly ushered to an awaiting barber’s chair where the baby afro I was beginning to admire was cut into an uneven buzz cut.  “Standard prison haircut. Sorry,” the inmate barber explained.

Once that was over I was brought before the classification officer. He looked like a thin, 60-year-old liberal and impressed me as educated and reasonable. He smiled at me, which was a welcome sight, and directed me to sit down.  After taking a seat I learned that looks are quite deceiving. As it turned out, the man was the most disrespectful officer I met that day.

“You know, in my day your kind would’ve never gotten so much generous attention. We simply would’ve brought you out yonder, found a good ole tree to hang ya from. Just one less…” he was saying just before he cut himself off, not finishing his racist insult. He was about to say the almighty peccant N-word that has divided whites and blacks from the moment it was conceived for the sole purpose of pejorative dehumanization – but he didn’t. He didn’t have to. It was already understood who and what he was.

He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.

“No. I’m from Louisiana.” And even though I had no previous religion, I told him I was a Christian – because that’s what my mom said would set me free. I would later find out that in 1999, Texas sent 48 men and women to death row. That was the most ever sentenced in a single year, which many defense lawyers would say indicates DA’s abused their power and overcharged the poor and minorities just to stay true to their tough on crime stance.

As soon as the interrogation was over, I was loaded into another van. This one had no window. And the guards were two redneck hillbillies that drove like NASCAR drivers down the non-scenic back roads with their music blasting to an R&B/Rap station. I just knew we were destined to get into a wreck. We sped over humps and nearly ran over a three-legged dog as we made our way around sharp curves, knocking me to the floor several times. It took about an hour before we pulled up to the back entrance of the Ellis One prison. Like so many before me, I knew nothing of the process or what to expect once I exited the van. I didn’t know anything about appeals. All I thought about at that moment was that I was about to face the executioner.

I was quickly escorted through the general population showering area, where a hundred obsequious nude inmates stood in line to take a quick shower. I recall thinking that the margin of error of one inmate rubbing up against the backside of another was extremely tight. I told myself, ‘If this is how death row inmates shower, I’ll be one smelly dude.’

I kept my face straight ahead, not allowing my curiosity to invade their privacy. The walk was quick and then that damn announcement rang out again as we entered the main hallway, “Dead man walking! Hit the wall, you maggots!”  The officer barking the order tightly gripped his steel club stick, eager to beat back any inmate that wasn’t in compliance. Again, the inmates faced the wall, noses touching brick, hands and legs spread. I felt bad that so much attention was being placed on me, causing these incarcerated men more humiliation. As soon as we passed, they continued doing what they were doing as if I’d never walked by.

We reached the housing area where death row inmates were held, and my body alerted me that it had been an entire day and a half since I’d eaten anything.  I was famished. I was brought to J-21’s wing and there on the floor by the entrance was a blue food tray with what appeared to be a perfectly uneaten piece of baked chicken. My mouth began to salivate in ways that were unnatural to me because I’d never experienced that kind of hunger before. I wanted that chicken so badly I didn’t care about the self-imposed dignity I’d conjured up about being a Mamou.  Mamous don’t cry, we don’t beg, we don’t embarrass ourselves in public, we are to act regal even if we aren’t. Well, hunger pains are a callous dictator too, and I would have dropped to my knees and lapped that meat up with my mouth like a dog had they told me I could. I informed the guards I was extremely hungry. They smiled, checked the time on their watches and told me that chow would be served shortly.

It would be two hours before ‘chow time’ came. In the meantime I was brought to a cell that reminded me of an ecosystem of grime, filth, germs, critters, graffiti and loneliness. There was a banal smell that hung in the air.

At around 4:30 they brought us ‘chow’, which consisted of what they called tuna-pea-casserole. I’d never heard of anything like it. I tasted it, taking in a huge chunk, gagged and immediately threw up. Prison food smells and tastes different in a way that alarms your body as it enters.  Natural defenses go up and try to eject the invasion.  It takes months to get acclimated to the taste of half cooked foods, that are at times spoiled or not food at all.

All the TVs were on, and the rest of the guys were glued to the cartoon show on Fox called Beast Wars. I thought that was too immature for me, so I sat on my bunk. I was hungry, frustrated and angry. I threw my crying face into my hands with my mouth trembling, silently whispering a prayer to this God my mother prayed to, languidly mouthing, “I can’t do this sh**!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas and currently working on his next novel.  He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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The Hole

I am confined to a space designed to erase the last traces of humanity that remain after the war over my sanity.

The dark walls stare at me – reeking of the past torture inflicted upon the minds of men before me, men who fought not to succumb to the dangers of losing self.

It’s cold in this steel and concrete jungle, and I’m not talking about the temperature.  I’m speaking of the temperament of those overseeing my existence.  The ones who label my proud display of black manhood as resistance to the systematic annihilation of the divine nature of I-SELF-LORD-AND-MASTER.

I refuse to let you master me.  This torture that you disguise as punishment and use as a tool to break the spirits of men – some who fall victim by wrapping a sheet around their neck in the hopes that it will help – WILL ONLY MAKE ME STRONGER!!!

Strong, like the smell of urine seeping out of the pores of the metal toilet a foot away from my head, which rests on a cold slab of bricks that I count daily to utilize that which keeps me relevant.

In the middle of the night when I lay motionless, trying to ignore the rumbling of the hunger pains eating away at my flesh, every breath feels like a slow death.  Some say it’s hell on earth.

Each passing day eats away at my soul.  I keep thinking – I can’t wait until I get out of the hole.  The war rages on, yet I remain strong – finding salvation in my refusal to let them break me.  Mind over matter…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers.  He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin is no longer in ‘the hole’ and can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

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Training Day

Prologue

It’s been 24 years since the day I was assaulted. The physical scars are gone, with the exception of the missing teeth. I bounce back pretty handily.  TDCJ won’t fix my smile though.  It’s not in their budget. The only dental care here is an occasional temporary filling or extraction.  To their credit, Texas has taken steps to limit and protect inmates from assault and extortion, but in my case – it’s a little too late.

I’m no longer at the unit where it all happened.  Now, I’m in a minimum security, medical unit.  If there are gang members here – they are ex-members.  Most are so old, they wouldn’t qualify to belong in a gang anyway.

Once again – TDCJ’s mission statement is to protect society, to protect officers and inmates and reintegrate offenders back into society. I think a smile would help someone’s self-esteem and job opportunities, however I’m in the minority on this issue. My dad would say, “It’s an eye for an eye – a tooth for a tooth.”  I just know it…

 Training day

When I stepped off the bus at the Robertson Unit in Abilene, Texas, in August of 1994, I was 33 years old.  I had no idea what was in store for me – I call it training day.

At 33 I was 160 pounds, 5’9” tall, in fairly good shape – and dumb as a brick when it came to prison.  My first warning should’ve been the look of concern on the faces of those I met at intake when I told them where I was going. But I figured anywhere I was going was going to blow chunks anyway. I just lost my family, my job, my life. How bad could it get?  Note… Never say it can’t get any worse – believe me, it can.

The second I stepped off the bus, I could hear the anger, the frustration, the sheer terror. They were shouting from the rec yard, “Hey, give me those fucking tennis shoes! You won’t need them when I get through with you, bitch.  Yeah, I’m talking to you, bitch! I’m going to fuck you tonight.  Fresh meat!”

I made my way to classification and things calmed down. The building Captain, Oscar Strains, made me a 53 (I’ve never been lower than that), assigned me to live in 3 building, and put me in the kitchen.

And so it began.  My cellie – an older black gentleman – told me that I’d have to, “Catch a square soon.”  I asked him what that meant. He told me I’d have to fight or ride (pay protection) in order to keep from being hurt. Okay, I’m not Sugar Ray Leonard, but I can hold my own, so I filed this information away.  And over the next few days, they came at me – like salesman.  “Say, if you want, you can make store and I’ll keep your stuff for you in my house.  That way you won’t get robbed.”  That was pretty much the party line – pay or play.  And I began to feel like a rotisserie chicken in a neighborhood of starving people…

I didn’t pay. I only had so much money to start with, and I wasn’t about to give it to those folks.  So, I made store – about $20.  I bought basic stuff, pretty much what I buy now. Stamps, envelopes, toothpaste, soap, a toothbrush, a few food items, Diet Coke and a lock to lock it away in my locker.

I went to work, was gone eight hours and came back.  My lock was busted off my locker.  My stuff, even my toothbrush, was gone.

I told the building Sgt., and he laughed, “Go back and fight.”  He was Polish, white, and a tough guy.  So I went back to the commissary, bought $20 worth of more stuff, and went home and locked it away.  Then I fell asleep.

I woke up with three inmates in my cell, one small – about an inch shorter than me, one medium, and one extra large.  I kicked the little one in the balls, I hit the middle sized one with a lock, but big bear – he kicked my ass.  He broke three teeth out and loosened about five others.  I bruise easy anyway, so I looked like a California raisin when he was done with me. I wasn’t cut, but I knew I had a concussion. I got myself a towel, got it wet and cleaned up.  I had to heal.

The next morning I made my way to the unit infirmary, and they didn’t even react to my appearance.  It was like, “Oh, I see you’ve made friends.”

When I got back to my building, that Sgt. – the Polish gentleman – he said, “Well, I see you’ve been fighting. I ought to write you up, but I doubt you’ll last long enough to get the case. Get out of my sight.”

Charming.

When I went to work that day, a sweet Lt. saw me and about had a cow. “Green, what the fuck happened to you?”

I told her it was a skateboard accident, and she told me to come with her.

Remember the Building Captain, Oscar Strains?  Well, I didn’t know this at the time, but he’s a bit of a legend.  Lt. took me to him, and Capt. Cole was there – he threw up when he saw me.  They took pictures and Captain Strains told me, “Son, this is my fault. Come with me.”

I followed him back to 3 building, and we walked into 3A.  He turned off all the TVs and told everyone to gather around. The inmates, including the three involved in my makeover, gathered in a semicircle.

Captain Strains is a big guy. Imposing. Came up through the system.  He said, “Everybody, listen up. You see this white boy? If anyone wants to know who he’s riding with, he’s riding with me.  And if any one of you sorry motherfuckers so much as touch a single hair on his head, from this day forward – I’ll roll this whole building to 8 building, and that’s where ya’ll stay.  Am I clear?”

One of the inmates in the back started to protest and Captain Strains said, “We’ll start with you – pack your shit.”  He then put his hand on my back and said, “I’m sorry, son. You won’t have any more trouble. I’m moving you to 3C – they’re civilized there. They even eat with spoons.”

I ran to my cell and packed what was left and followed him to 3C.

I didn’t have any more trouble while I was there.  I was assigned to a job outside – sweeping sidewalks, mopping, and painting lines. That’s the job I had until I was moved in March, 1995.  That was 23 years ago.  I still have the missing teeth to remind me, but I’m alive.  I survived to tell the story.

I’m not sure if it’s still the same in Robertson Unit – but that brief visit – it made me stronger.  It made me not want to be like those guys that came into my cell. I’m not like them. I never was, and I never will be.  I survived to tell the story, but I’m sure there are plenty that weren’t so lucky.  I pray for them.  I can’t leave them behind. That’s why I write. To remain silent is to approve.  I don’t.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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700 Days

Calendars are my enemy, sheets of paper that have the audacity to not only record but embellish the fact that I am losing time.  I can regain space, never time – ever!

My vision is diminishing.  Only days away from 29, and I suffer from glaucoma. Overhead fluorescent lights that stay on 22 hours a day shan’t bear the blame, no. The men and women who manufactured these isolation units in the conservative state of Missouri are to blame. I can’t blame the ‘tool’, only the wielder – the BUILDER of my very own personal torture chamber. Aren’t they sweet… I’m all alone to rot in peace.

I have other ocular issues too. The optometrist has diagnosed me with photophobia, meaning my eyes are extremely sensitive to bright light. He told my keepers to allow me to ‘purchase’ my own sunglasses – Nope!  Nor can I get tinted or transition lenses. Is this not deliberate indifference to my medical issue, hmmm…

My left ear has a ringing in it. My right just seems to ignore the madness.  A good thing, you say? Ehh, no, I’m just going deaf.   I’ma attest, my body is deteriorating s-l-o-w-l-y.  My sanity is leaving faster.

My neck and shoulders are strained from being hunched over writing and reading without a desk or a chair to assist me. Only a metal bunk that will give you a case of swollen hemorrhoids if you got ‘em.  My upper spine and back muscles are so damn tight that I can barely turn my head – ouch – I’m stiffer than Frankenstein’s monster but twice as mean, so my captors say…

Seven hundred days.  Seven hundred days plus in an outhouse.  Seven hundred days in a lunchbox. Seven hundred days…  and many more in the same spot – HELL.

This makes religious fanatics question faith – believe it or not. The most loyal, stringent, devotee and follower will find themselves crying out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, Iama Sabachthani?  My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’  I look up, distracted from a noonday nap. The blatant declaration of disbelief is repeated – of course, I laugh. Did he not know we were already in hell, duh, everybody knows that – “Jesus take the wheel!” SMH.

Do “I” believe in a merciful God? I do(n’t).  A merciless? I do!  Can you blame a man that’s surrounded by devils who brandish the crucifix in their defense for every sick, twisted, malicious and sadistic act they commit?

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.  COMPLETE ISOLATION.  BEATING.  YELLING.  KNOCKING.  YELLING – Oh, I said that.  HARASSMENT.   CONSTANT ILLUMINATION.  SPIT AND HAIR IN MY FOOD, UMM…  IS MY NORM.  My life is a crypt.

If I don’t push this pen… I would cease to live. My being would evaporate and my thoughts no longer exist. So with this I build, build diamond encrusted pyramids, that’ll become a wonder of the world for all warm hearts to see (smile).  Maybe your emotions will somehow affect me. All I know is scowls, mean mugs and fury.

All I think is conflict, war and violence. I’m physically deteriorating, yes, but I can fix that. That’s not beyond repair.  But what they’ve done to me mentally, my sanity – I can never regain – EVER!

*700 days*

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D.  is a writer, poet, spoken  word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor.  He can be contacted at:

Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email:  Jpay.com

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Trapped

When thoughts of living the rest of my life in prison come to mind – I have to quickly expunge them.  Allowing myself to be mentally trapped will emotionally paralyze me.  I refuse to be placed in that particular mindset – to submit to this time.

I sit in a corner sometimes, though, and observe others.  I no longer want to be in the spotlight, so I watch the younger cats, who often look up to me and respect my advice.  I’ve been where they are.  Prison life is depressing, causing individuals to get caught up in the nonsense and lose focus on their condition and their freedom.  They sometimes become mentally trapped, losing their desire to return to the loved ones they’ve lost.

It’s what happens over time as they are dehumanized, demoralized and disrespected every day.  I see men given a choice between starvation – or eating something that is often compared to dog food.   Policy says six ounces of potatoes for lunch, yet the Supervisor of the kitchen forces inmates in the kitchen to serve two ounces on each tray.  That’s just one of the many daily methods used to try and trap us mentally.

Imagine being trapped in box with barely enough oxygen to sustain your body.  That is what a prison cell in Virginia feels like.  Inside your box, there is just enough air to prevent you from dying.  Living in that box can easily destroy you mentally, trapping your mind and playing tricks on your emotions, on your sense of a sound mind and even on your intelligence.

As we live this perplexed, chemically imbalanced life inside our box, misunderstood and misrepresented, we fight for peace of mind every day, many of us just struggling to be recognized as human – while trapped inside this box…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Ty Juane Pridgen lives in Virginia’s Wallens Ridge State Prison.  He was 18 years old in 1995 when he was first incarcerated – over twenty years ago.  Ty Juane can be contacted at:

Ty Juane Pridgen #1019760
Wallens Ridge State Prison
P.O. Box 759
Big Stone Gap, VA 24219

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Class of ’99: Day One

Wednesday, November 17, 1999…  I found myself encircled by three huge Harris County transport deputies, all well over six feet tall, all tipping the scale over 280, and all looking like offensive lineman for a professional football team. “Strip out your clothes, lift your nut sack, spread your butt cheeks and squat!” the lead deputy bellicose barked.

“Squat? I’m not squatting. I’m a man. I’m a Mamou!” I defiantly yelled back. I then noticed the other two deputies putting on their black gloves, the way a surgical doctor places latex gloves on his hands before dealing with a patient.

“We got a live one,” another deputy spat.

“You have five seconds to take your clothes off, lift and squat as I ordered, or we send you off to your new home with a ass whoopin’ you’ll never forget.”

Back then Harris County jailers and deputies were notorious for gang jumping inmates, so much so they were called ‘The County Klan’. I once witnessed eight officers jump one frail looking black drug addict.  The beating was so vicious his left eyeball popped out of its socket. I’d never seen anything like that before. Afterwards, one of the sergeants beamed with pride at their dastardly work before giving the unconscious and bloodied offender one more kick to the head. They had a license to beat anyone they chose within their jail’s walls and the numbers were always in their favor. The county jail was their castle, and they were royalty.

I grew mad – so mad my blood pressure rose, and I began to feel dizzy. I wanted to fight them all, to show them where I was from, being ‘Bout It’ was more important than any beating one could get or give.  In fact, it was a dogmatic honor to go out swinging – win or lose. But I wasn’t a fool. During the 3 ½ month stay in their county jail while awaiting trial, I had stressfully lost 24 pounds. I was a sick looking stick figure, and I knew it and felt it.  I was merely a doppelgänger of my old self. Taking that into consideration as the lead deputy began reaching for his nightstick, I stripped nude and squatted, bringing wry smirks to the now cherry faced deputies. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wanted to kill a man.

Once my forced faux-striptease was concluded, I was shackled around my ankles with a long chain that led to the handcuffs around my wrists. Then an iron black box was placed over the chain that tightly connected my ankle restraints to my wrist restraints, making it impossible to walk upright. Blood began to form from cuts to my ankles brought on by every snail step I took.

One of the escorting deputies noticed the blood and asked sarcastically if the cuffs were too tight. It was a dumb ass question deserving a dumb ass response because I didn’t want them to see how vulnerable I felt. I drew on a hubris mantra for strength that reminded me of my last name every time I grew weak or was on the brink of an emotional breakdown. Why my last name? Because at that moment it was all I had.  It was the only mental I.D. that kept me revisiting who I was to those that loved and cared for me.

As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done.  Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.

“What’s your last name?” my grandfather would always ask before we entered the barbershop. Once I proudly told him and he was satisfied, he would say, “Mamous don’t cry! No matter what we go through, we suck it up. Understand?”

After my haircut he would always take me to get a treat in the form of ice cream or some other snack. But for the life of me, every time that alcohol hit my scalp I wanted to flee that barber’s chair as if a swarm of killer bees were attacking. But I never did. I sat and took the pain because it was embedded in me from a young age that ‘Mamous don’t cry in front of those trying to hurt us.’  So as the blood flowed and the pain in my ankles increased, I said nothing.

I was led to the back of the van. It was nothing fancy.  It came equipped with a cage inside that took up the entire cargo space, reminding me of a dogcatcher’s transport vehicle. It had side windows for me to look out, helping to take my mind off the pain I was feeling and how I was chained up like a slave from the movie Roots. We hit the highway heading towards the prison that held Death Row inmates.  Over the next four hours, I would notice scenes through those windows I had never noticed before – and I realized how beautiful the free world seemed when one was no longer free.  To be continued…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row.  The issues with Mamou’s trial are more than troubling.  I share details about his case often, and I’m happy to talk about the details.  Many can be found on a Facebook page dedicated to his story.   He can be contacted through USPS, and also via email through JPay.  Please leave your mailing address if you contact him via JPay, as he cannot respond through JPay.:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Society’s Forgotten Ones

These walls and the many ‘little’ things that occur behind them trick some prisoners into believing they deserve this treatment.  Things like being spoken to aggressively and encounters with certain C.O.’s who give super rough pat downs that leave you feeling violated become expected.  I wish you could see their eyes – you’d see hatred there.  I imagine it’s the same look Martin Luther King or Rosa Parks must have seen – what a lot of black folks saw that had the audacity to request respect.  It’s enough to leave a lot of prisoners feeling hopeless and worn down, because it appears all the officers are ‘with the program’.

Here at Wallens Ridge State Prison, the pod I’m housed in – A-6 – would appear to be segregated by race.  The bottom tier is mostly Caucasian inmates, while the upper mostly black. This would not be a problem if the tiers were treated equally, but many of us on the top tier have submitted complaints ranging from unequal out of cell time to arbitrary and capricious top tier lockdown.  There is a constant undertone of animosity and barely concealed hostility toward the inmates on the top tier.  In my opinion, the bottom tier inmates are good guys who are just benefiting from something they have no control over, but there is an unofficial consensus that the top tier is being discriminated against.

There are some things we all experience.  Instead of having prisoners go to medical to have blood drawn for medical tests, the nurses come in around midnight or later and have us extend our arm through the cell door tray slot.  We have to squat or bend over while the nurse pokes and jabs in the dark to find a vein.  The cell door tray slots, with their peeling paint and rusty hinges, are not sterile surfaces, not to mention the uncomfortable process of squatting in a fixed position for five plus minutes with your arm extended out the cell door while a nurse ‘draws labs’.  It’s something that doesn’t have to be. Have you ever seen a dairy cow getting milked through the cage?  Just the sight of it should disturb most people. I’ve written my paperwork, to no avail.

If an inmate visits with a psychiatrist/psychologist, regular corrections officers are allowed to sit in.  That can be very intimidating for some prisoners who are trying to open up and discuss vitally important things, all while a shady officer is listening to every word.  It’s a violation of state law and DOC policy, but they do it anyway because who is going to stop them?  We have lots of mentally ill guys up here being housed unjustly.  It’s convenient for the state.

Even though this particular prison has a longstanding culture of intimidation, the crazy thing is most of the prisoners are laid back.  There is a bit of gang activity, and they use that to justify keeping the place open.  Most guys messed up on a lower security level and are remaining charge free trying to go back.  If you could see us on a typical day in any pod, there would be nothing to see, except the occasional fight.  Their livelihood depends on painting us with a broad stroke though.

Nothing is sacred here.  We still aren’t even provided water outside, and it’s only getting hotter.  Water on a hot day should not be considered a privilege.  It’s not for the attack dog – he has a big bucket of water to drink out of.  That’s what it’s all about though – it’s a system designed to slowly strip away our humanity and whatever self worth we have left.  In the name of justice we are left in the care of the unjust.  We’ve let people down and we have to find a way to forgive ourselves and become the people we were meant to be, in a world where our authority figures view us as less worthy than the dog on the yard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Phillip Daniel is a thought provoking and talented writer serving his sentence at Wallens Ridge State Prison.  He is currently working on his first novel.  Phillip can be contacted at:

Phillip Daniel #1008019
Wallens Ridge State Prison
272 Dogwood Drive
P.O. Box 759
Big Stone Gap, VA 24219

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Torture! In Missouri’s Isolation Unit – “Steel” Standing!”

Locked down all day in the Belly of the Beast, yet I’m not Jonah.  Sensory deprivation, constant bright lights left on twenty plus hours a day in an attempt to drive brothers insane.  No – this is not Abu Graib.   This is not Guantanamo Bay.  Nah, this isn’t either of those places.  This is Missouri – Home of the Free, Land of the Slave!

My name is Asiliah Yisrael Africa. I’ve been held in the isolation units for six years. The system is designed to break those that inhabit this place.  But – through it all – I’m steel standing!  Under these conditions of state sanctioned terror and torture, you must have steel in your heart, mind and spine. This is no place to display weakness. Some will question – is it torture? Allow me to turn that “?” on you.

Imagine you are handcuffed on a hot, sunny day on a prison yard.  The birds are chirping, clouds are floating overhead, and you are cuffed and led away to a solitary unit for an infraction.

Once inside the unit, you are placed in a “strip cage” – think of an old phone booth, remove the glass and replace it with steel mesh. Once you are fully stripped and searched, you are handcuffed and led to a cell where someone you’ve never seen, or maybe seen only in passing, currently lives.

Once inside the small cell with the complete stranger that you may or may not be compatible with, may or may not like, and may or may not get along with – the start of your ‘hole time’ begins.

As it stands you have no personal property – hygiene materials, clothing, stationary.  Nothing…  Hours later, when the guards bring your ‘property’ to the cell, they hand you your toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and underclothes.  You notice your reading glasses are broken, and they haven’t brought your stamps or address book…  Attempting to keep your frustration in check, you tell the guard your issue. He shrugs and leaves you and your broken glasses behind that steel door, locked down… Welcome to solitary!

After working out and giving thanks to your creator for another day in the land of the lost, sleep finally finds you, only to be disturbed when you begin coughing and gagging.  Wide awake, you hear the unit in pandemonium.

One cell away the occupants found they could not live with each other in the small 6 x 9 airless cage with no movement.  They had a physical confrontation.  Two men are engaging in an age old battle of wills – for recreation, for release, maybe for respect – who knows.  All you know is you are coughing and gagging from the mace the guards sprayed in the cage next door.

You can’t breathe nor can others who begin to bang, yell and kick on the solid steel doors, protesting as guards enter the wing with the bigger mace container – an extinguisher looking apparatus – literally!

It is an instrument that has the power to kill – and has.  It is commonly called MK – 47…  An eerie resemblance to an assault rifle of an almost identical name.  This weapon isn’t designed for use in a single cell, only for use in a large open area like a gym or cafeteria – yet, they spray the entire cell, hosing the two fighters down, then leave them and the entire wing choking, screaming, and gagging for air.

Finally, when they pull the fighters out of the cell, they serve the rest of the unit breakfast, deaf to the coughing from the mace that is still heavy in the air.

Luckily, the ‘Goon’ Squad didn’t enter.  The Good Squad is a team of 5, 6, 7, sometimes 8 men in full football padding and gear with shock shields who normally use a prisoner as the football.

Luckily, only mace was sprayed and the mace grenade wasn’t used.

Luckily, they fed us at all.

This is not considered torture, this is a normal day in the hole.  That’s not an isolation unit either, but merely a regular solitary confinement unit.  I live in an isolation unit, no cell-mate to converse with, workout or study with or even fight with if the occasion merited.

No, that wasn’t isolation – merely the hole.  In comparison to how I live, how Tracy Greer lives, in comparison to how K. Rashid Johnson lives, how Mumia lived, the Angola Brotha’s – that’s nothing.  It’s normal everyday life in the Dungeon, in the Box.  All of us would gladly experience that existence in exchange for our daily dose of torture.

Yet, we’re steel standing!  In my isolation unit I have no cellmate, have no human contact, have no movement outside the boundaries of this small cage. No recreation. It’s lockdown in this concrete cage virtually 24 hours a day. When we do get ‘recreation’, we’re taken outside, normally at around 7:30 AM, and placed in a dog kennel with no exercise equipment. Recreation means you can walk back and forth, breathe fresh air and see the sky.

Back in the cell, you have no natural light.  Your back window is shuttered.  You see nothing – nothing but your reflection in the mirror.  You are alone with no educational opportunities, so we educate ourselves.  We enter these prisons as gang members.  Crips on one end, Bloods, GD’s on the other – yet, now those same gang members that once were key players in the chaos, the madness – now seek to avert it. We become ‘socially conscious’.  We recognize who we are.  We educate ourselves and each other.  Many become political, even more embrace ‘socialism’ a ‘revolutionary science’, recognizing the system is flawed and broken.

In full isolation with no human contact, no visits, 15 minute phone calls once a month (maybe, if you’re not on the ‘hot list’ for repression, harassment).  Books become your best friends, your dearest comrades. The things a person has gone to the effort of reading and analyzing say a great deal about their character.  We educate ourselves or get crushed under the weight of oppression and repression!

I entered isolation on April 30, 2012.  Yes – six years ago! I’m currently 36 years of age.  When this steel door slammed shut, I was 30 years old.

Imagine this.  Go sit inside your bathroom, lock the door, get in your tub.  No texting, no calls, turn your phone completely off and leave the lights on.  No radio, no TV, no snacking or munching – sit there.  Let’s say – for 30 minutes. This is a tiny glimpse into the daily existence of long-term isolation. Multiply that half hour by 46, and you are almost in the world of long-term isolation – TortureTerror.  23 hour lockdown!

I salute all activists, all those who dare speak for the voiceless, that stand for those who are incapable of standing.  No matter – prison or society – the fight for justice, for equality, continues.  I salute all the comrades in and out. They say the thought is the cause of it all.  These words are only food for thought, a glimpse into our lives.  There are thousands of causes – find one to speak for, stand for, fight for.

Forgotten Legacy

Mental Scrolls was taught by the Griots.
I watch for words in body language,
So I see when it’s violence…

Revolutionary dialect promoted by the Esoteric Ndugus –
Forced to accept black inferiority,
Didn’t remember Weusi Nguyus…

Hotep became a vie for all who forgot the ships –
Forgotten legacies I remember
Because my veins shaped like whips.

I still hear the wind cry, the voices of my people burning –
Dis shit so many forget,
Got the comrades in their graves turning.

No more will I accept oppression – nor allow Judas the chance –
We know before the clock strikes thrice,
The betrayal in every man.

Legacy is described as something bequeathed by will –
Sacred knowledge passed on through the cups of time,
We can’t let it spill.

Lord (Rabb), bless this day for we still hold the keys to the legacy…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Aziliah Africa is a gifted writer and has authored several urban novels he hopes to soon publish.  He can be contacted at:
Aziliah Y. Africa #351045
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542

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Intake

Prison isn’t anything like its depicted in films.  It’s not glamorous.  In fact I spend more time sleeping than anything else.  The other things follow – writing and reading, followed by standing in endless lines to nowhere for food, showers, the pill window, insulin administration, commissary, everything is a line.

The line at the bank, or the Department of Motor Vehicles, or the Post Office are short and fast compared to the lines here.  On those lines you might hear “next” or “this line is closed.”

Here?  You are subject to getting yelled at, called everything but your name, and thrown out of line even though you’ve been as quiet as a church mouse.

When I got out of the van that transported me from the county jail to diagnostics, I was walked in the back door of the prison along with everyone else, and we were herded like cattle or sheep into holding tanks. From there, we were moved to another tank, stripped of our orange jail clothes and led barefoot and naked to a shower area.  Afterwards, we were given clothes, boots, and off to the barber.

At this barber you are shaved, once again much like a sheep, and given a comb (which you won’t need for a few months).  From there, you are escorted to a row (cells).  After that, it’s a new experience every day.  You are taken to medical where your needs are evaluated and you are given medication to keep you alive if deemed necessary.

You are taken to dental, where they marvel at your perfect teeth, give you a toothbrush, and then you go back to housing.

The next day its Q and A.  You talk to psychology and sociology. You’re given an IQ test, an education evaluation test and quizzed on your academic background.  Did you graduate from high school?  What grade did you complete?  Did you attend college?  What kind of employment did you have?

You’re given an MMPI – Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory – and you’re asked questions like, Are you suicidal?  Are you hearing voices?  Are you angry?  Sad?  Of course.

Prison is like being born. You enter crying, naked hungry and unsure of what will happen next.  If you survive the next 48 hours without any issues, then you have the following three weeks to get used to waking up at 3 a.m. every day and going to breakfast, lunch, and dinner at specific intervals.  It isn’t like in the movies.  You don’t have other inmates yelling, “Bitch, I’m going to have you in my cell tonight!”  or “Give me those tennis shoes, they look like they’ll fit!”  Basically, everyone there is new and on the same page socially.

At the end of intake though, that’s when you have to watch what’s going on around you.  They assign you to a unit.  Some are close by, some are 400 miles from nowhere.  I was assigned to the French Robertson Unit in Abilene, Texas.   Texas is a big state.  It wasn’t just 400 miles from nowhere, it was dead center.   It was cold and wet in the winter and uncomfortably hot and dry in the summer.  No fall, no spring.

We arrived after a ten hour bus ride.  That’s when the fun began.  That’s where dog eat dog starts. A good number of the inmates sent to French Robertson are, to sum it up in one word, predators.  The guards were there for two reasons – to keep anyone from escaping and to keep the weaker inmates from being eaten.  All the education in the world can’t help you.  You either give up or you fight.

I’m not good at giving up, but I’m not a prize fighter – I’m a surprise fighter.  If I feel threatened, my best defense is a great offense. At 5’9” and 160 pounds, I don’t intimidate anyone.  I never intended to live my life as an MMA fighter.  I was 33 years old, well educated, soft spoken, big hearted and scared to death.

Then I met Mongo.  He may not have been the sharpest crayon in the box, but he had a sharpener.  He taught me things in the following months that would keep me alive.  Hell, he kept me alive.

Like Bob used to tell me, “The only way to eliminate your enemies is to make them your friends.”  So, I mixed and matched.  The ones I couldn’t convince I wasn’t lunch, I avoided or I fed to Mongo.  The ones I trusted, I kept at arm’s length, but I used my charm to win them over.

I did okay, I think.  I’m still alive.  I have one scar above my left eyebrow where I fell because of a hypoglycemic reaction – I passed out, hit my head on the corner of the table and hit the floor nose first.  They stitched the eye, reset the nose, good as new!  I also have a ten inch scar on my left ankle above the foot, where they had to operate because of a staph infection.  Not bad for twenty-five years.

But, I want to go home now.  To erase the scars on the inside, the psychological ones.  I’ve seen all the sights, I rode all the rides.  It’s time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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