Dominica Raggs and I spent both seventh and eighth grade in the same class. For two whole years she sat directly behind me. There was a mere three feet between us, yet we were worlds apart. Finding out this quiet, hazel-eyed girl was the only other person from my graduating class to attend the same high school as me was mildly shocking.
Freshman year was, honestly, more interesting than difficult. I didn’t think much of it the day Ms. Anderson canceled fourth period swim class due to a maintenance problem with the school’s pool. She left a notice on the door informing us to report to Coach Torian’s gym class immediately.
The change in scenery was ideal for me. I’d been wanting to ball in the school’s gym all semester and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. I chilled in the bleachers with some of my dawggs, assured I was running next.
As the game neared its end, I got up, anxious to play. It was then that I noticed a commotion at the side of the bleachers. From where I stood, all I could see was Walter Jones throwing what appeared to be hair to some dude I couldn’t really see. Then I realized a girl was running between Walter and his partner in crime, trying in vain to get the hair they were keeping from her.
I don’t recall what exactly drew me to this tasteless spectacle. What I do remember vividly is the moment I was close enough to see the tear stricken face of Dominica being laughed at as she begged Walter and his friend to give her wig back. Seeing the pain in her eyes and the absence of hair on her head, I suddenly realized that all the days she’d been absent in elementary school were probably because she was hiding how truly sick she was.
I felt a piece of my soul begin to decay as I stood there, and I knew if I continued standing there I’d never be whole again. A compulsion overtook me, and I found myself standing over Walter after I educated him on the seriousness of the situation. Walter’s accomplice dropped the wig and ran before we could discuss his participation.
I picked up the disheveled hair and tried to straighten it as I gave it back to Dominica. When she looked into my eyes, still crying, I knew I would never regret standing up for her.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office being suspended for fighting. Eleven days into my two week suspension I learned from a friend that Dominica died. She’d had leukemia.
When I attended the funeral, Dominica’s mom came over to personally thank me for my actions. Someone must have told her who I was. Then she asked me to speak a few words on Dominica’s behalf. I didn’t have it in my heart to say no, and the words I spoke that day came from a place in my soul I didn’t even know I had. In the three years I had known Dominica I learned absolutely nothing about her, but in the moment I stood up for her, our souls touched. I’ll never forget her.
ABOUT THE WRITER. The author writes under the pen name Resolute, and although he doesn’t write often, the work he has shared here has been nostalgic and genuine, though both have been pieces about loss. Both have also been little windows into his past, and he has a very charming way of opening them.
Any comments left on this page will be forwarded to the author.
My journey to become worthy is intertwined with penance, And with my penance understood, questions yet haunt me. Can a life wasted with decadence And egotism find absolution? Or is this simply an illusion I need to embrace For the strength to endure? Loved ones trivialized and marginalized Along my destructive path, A family left with hearts forever scarred by pain. My heart longs for love and forgiveness. Tragedy resurrected me a better man, But at a monumental cost to so many, Those that tried to love me. My journey is to become worthy of that love, Of such a price paid, And my journey is infinite.
I’ve met survivors in here, a small measure of people, resolute in their journey to a better life, a better way of living and to just be better people; a group not only on a quest to atone for their actions but to repair relationships broken during their time as broken men. They work hard to help others do the same. These survivors have become a light in this dark place, hope of a better way for some that may never have another chance to change. So, even in this place, there is a way to live. I choose to be better and surround myself with like-minded people, people who have changed their path and their very lives. You can do the same – seek out these people, these survivors. They will help you find your path to a better life. I am one of them now, and I know now that there is a life beyond prison.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Kenneth is new to WITS. This submission as well as his role as a mentor and peer support specialist are a reflection of his commitment to helping others find their own journey to forgiveness and peace through recovery and self-awareness. That is exactly what I see in his writing – self-reflection, a search for light, and finding a measure of it in reaching out to others in their pain.
Kenneth can be contacted at: Kenneth Edwards #383909 MacDougall Correctional Institution 1516 Old Gilliard Road Ridgeville, SC 29472
Last night I called my wife, something I do every night, and we went through our extensive prayer list together. Five minutes after we hung up, I was alarmed to see a message left from her on the prison tablet asking me to ‘call home again’…
I braced myself for the phone call.
“Please sit down, Keith.” Her next words pierced right through me as she read the Instagram post announcing the loss of David Inocencio, founder of The Beat Within. My heart tightened and the tears began to form. Our last telephone conversation had been just weeks prior. I had not spoken with David much this year, unaware he had been battling cancer, and hearing his voice was always uplifting. He described to me where he was when we spoke that day, sitting on his patio, his soulmate Lisa was cooking him breakfast, and the sunshine was especially beautiful that day. I never imagined it would be the last time we would talk, yet I look back now at that conversation and see it for what it may have been.
David, a man that came into my life as a stranger nearly ten years ago, became more than just a mentor to me during a time of soul searching and longing to be more than what I had been much of my life; he became like a brother to me, someone I admired for all he was in the community and the world around him. I wrote a letter to The Beat Within ten years ago after reading an issue, not expecting much in return. I merely wanted to give them a “shout out” for the outstanding work they do throughout California. David replied to my letter with personal recognition and praise for the work that I had shared with him regarding my own struggles and successes while incarcerated. I was touched by the fact that this man took the time to read my story, give me feedback and encouragement, and more importantly, see me as a human being who had experienced a tough life, rather than just someone who had lived life committing crimes and making poor choices.
I began sharing more of my story with David all those years ago, dedicating time and effort into providing artwork to TBW, and before long I became a recognized feature amongst the teens who would flip through the pages. David would tell me how they would ask about me when he would visit the juvenile facilities, wanting to know when I was going to do another drawing. It made me feel like what I was doing was bigger than just the time and effort of me putting my talents on paper.
“Keith,” he said, “your artwork inspires these kids to sit down and see possibilities they never considered before.”
I never saw the significance in what my art was doing until he said those words. I wanted to give others something from my heart, yet I was missing the bigger picture all along. David, my brother and friend, taught me how to see the bigger picture. I spent years of my life incarcerated in the local juvenile hall, and eventually the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen. I could relate to the teens that would write their stories, hopes and dreams in the pages of TBW publications. These young people, in every sense, were just like me and needed to be heard. David, with no hesitation whatsoever, gave them a voice.
“Thank you for everything that you have done all of these years, Keith,” he said that last morning we talked. “I love you my brother, and I am so happy that I got to hear your voice.”
Perhaps he knew something I didn’t know that day and wanted me to always know how much he loved and appreciated me. Despite all of our initial conversations, that one conversation felt more heartfelt and sentimentally sound than any other. David always talked of me coming home one day, attending TBW workshops with him and Lisa, and I promised him we would have a nice barbecue with his family and mine once I earned the freedom that I’ve been fighting so hard for.
“David,” I told him that morning, “you, too, have been a great part of my journey, and I love you and appreciate all the confidence you have in me.”
There is never enough time to say goodbye, and even had I known it would be our last conversation, I would have never said goodbye to a man that will forever be present in my life, despite his passing. I grew to love this man with the better parts of me that he helped bring out over the years.
Earlier this year I was referred back to the courts for ‘resentencing consideration’ based on my accomplishments and positive changes to my life; David wrote a letter of support to the judge who will be making the final decision on my case(s) on any given date. I do not know what the outcome will be; however, I do know that even in his final days he displayed yet another act of compassion for me, and I will forever be grateful. I will walk out of these gates one day soon, I believe this wholeheartedly; and in spirit, the man that gave me a voice all of those years ago, as he has thousands of others in his lifetime, will be watching over me as I embrace my freedom for the first time in over three decades. Until then, I will continue to be the man David taught me to be through his own life’s legacy.
My brother, my friend, I love you and will miss you…
For anyone who reads this – sometimes we don’t see the importance of others who are placed into our lives until they are no longer here. Please take a moment to reach out to those you love dearly, let them know their presence in your life is more valuable than words can express… – Keith
ABOUT THE WRITER. Keith is fairly new to WITS, but it didn’t take me long to realize, after working with him on a couple projects, that I simply can’t keep up with him. He is a change maker.
If his interaction with David Inocencio had something to do with creating that spark, David’s life will echo far beyond even his own reach in all those he touched who will carry on his spirit.
Keith Erickson is a writer, an artist, and a trail blazer, organizing and leading positive endeavors and initiatives. Keith has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith stays busy working during the day and facilitating programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future. To hear more of Keith’s story in his words, listen to his Prison POD podcast.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
I was always told beauty is only skin deep. It’s what’s inside a person that truly counts, so I’ve never been one to be critical of a person’s outward appearance. However, I also heard it preached that God don’t like ugly. And throughout my twenty odd years in the Department of Corrections, I must admit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly things. Perhaps some of the ugliest at the infamous Pasquotank Prison – more affectionately known as ‘Pass-a-shank’, just to give you an idea.
During my extended stay there, I recall there was one particular female officer, let’s just say, she had a peculiar way with the inmate population. Ms. CO wasn’t the most attractive woman, but she was a woman, and that’s worth a good five points on the scale in an all men’s facility. She kept her hair and nails done, and if you saw her from the back, you’d forget any of her shortcomings. And, like I said, I’m not one to be all judgemental, and I try to treat all God’s children the same. But, like I also said, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and Ms. CO must’ve been a little foul on the inside, because she sure spoke foul in abundance.
I, myself, never had any run-ins with Ms. CO, and we were no less than cordial when interacting. However, I did know she was a pit viper, always ready to strike. After witnessing one of her venomous attacks, I did my best to steer clear. She didn’t need much provoking, and she certainly wasn’t holding anything back.
I remember once, our TV had been inadvertently turned off by the control booth officer and some brave soul took it upon himself to ask Ms. CO about it.
“Hey, Ms. CO… tell ‘em to turn the TV back on,” the guy casually said.
Now, all Ms. CO had to do was simply radio the officer in the booth and correct the mishap, but nothing was ever simple with Ms. CO.
“Fuck that TV, I’m on my way home!” she snapped, spinning on her heels.
“Dumb bitch,” someone mumbled.
Instantly, Ms. CO spun back around. Her eyes narrowed into slits, as she honed in on her target. With unadulterated vitriol, she spewed her venomous rage, “Dumb bitch? No, you the dumb bitch, locked up in here on yo’ knees at night. I’m going home. Like I said, fuck that TV!”
The cell block went deathly silent. You could practically hear the shattering of her victim’s face, as it hit the floor. There was momentary shock, before the spread of hushed murmurs and snickering.
These weren’t the types of words you spoke to a man, especially not a man in prison. Adding insult to injury, the words not only came from an officer, but a female officer, an absolute challenge to his manhood and integrity. I prayed for the man’s restraint, and praised him for it. I’m not even certain Ms. CO had the right culprit.
This was but one of her many vicious verbal assaults, and some were a lot more vulgar and degrading. It was a common occurrence. Ms. CO was known to pepper at least two or three people with her spicy speech every time she stepped in the building. Another such incident occurred while we were in the canteen line. A young brother came out of the block be-bopping, talking loud, saluting all the homies; just being young. However, he hadn’t yet met Ms. CO, wasn’t even aware she’d set her sights on him.
Once he did take notice of her icy stare, the young man froze in his tracks. First, giving himself a lookover, he turned to Ms. CO and asked, “What?”
Ms. CO’s neck and eyes rolled slowly, like an uncoiling serpent.
“What?” she hissed, taken aback by the perceived insolence. “Boy, you know the rules!” she added with a snap.
“First of all, I ain’t no boy, and…”
Before he could finish, Ms. CO lit into him. “Boy, you whatever I say you is. Now, go back to the block. No canteen for you…” Ms. CO said with a dismissive wave before adding, “And if another mutha’ fucka’ come out here with their shirt untucked, I’m shutting this shit down, and won’t nobody be getting canteen!”
The young man took a very quick and aggressive step toward Ms. CO, but an “O.G.” stepped in front of him.
“Chill, cuz… Just go on back; I got you.”
Ms. CO eyed the intervening man and slightly snarled. Then, to the young man, “Bye! Go!” emphasized by bulging eyes.
The young man looked from Ms. CO to his, or maybe her, savior and shook his head in frustration. The O.G. gave him a knowing and appreciative nod.
Once the scene had died down and the line resumed, the O.G. finally spoke.
“Ms. CO,” he thoughtfully began.
She appeared to be listening, but also looked very uninterested.
“You know… you got to mind how you speak to people.”
“I ain’t got to do sh…” she attempted, but the O.G. silenced her with the subtle raise of his hand.
“You right. You ain’t got to do shit, but it would be in all our best interests if you considered how you talk to people. You just can’t go around lighting any and everybody up… Some niggaz’ ain’t going home and ain’t got shit to lose.”
Ms. CO looked to be halfheartedly listening, but before she could interject, he added, “If that ain’t enough… just remember, God don’t like ugly.”
With that, the man turned to leave, without going to canteen.
I don’t know if Ms. CO took heed to anything the good brother said, but things did seem to quiet down, at least for a little while. That is, until they paired Ms. CO with another young lady, who also bore an equally burdensome chip on her shoulder. The young sister felt she had something to prove to all ‘the bros’ on the yard.
Once united, this deranged duo clicked tight and unleashed a wicked wrath. There were shakedowns, lockdowns, and plenty verbal beatdowns. They hated the strong and stomped out the weak. You did good if you were able to stay clear and stay quiet, as myself and a few others managed, becoming the proverbial fly on the wall. It was from that very vantage point I witnessed the most gruesome attack I’d ever seen.
One day, while I was on the phone, I noticed a ruckus stirring in the next block. I couldn’t quite see what was going on, but I was accustomed to steering clear. It wasn’t until later I would find out Ms. CO’s cohort was being viciously beaten in an area known as ‘no man’s land’, far from help and obscure from view.
Though I couldn’t see what was happening while I was on the phone, I could see a friend of mine also talking on the phone. He calmly carried on his conversation, watching the melee from the angle he had as if it were another dull ballgame. From the outside looking in, you would have never imagined the drama unfolding before his eyes; nor the drama to which his life had just succumbed. After recently finishing a ten year stretch, he was back in less than a year. This time, sadly, leaving behind not only his family, but exchanging his newly gained freedom for a fresh thirty-seven year sentence. Another ruined recidivist.
It was about then, Ms. CO made her way into the block. D.O.C. so valued their loyal and faithful minions that these two female officers were the only officers on duty, expected to monitor and control ninety-six grown men. The admin-instructor had pumped their head full of, “I think I can!”
Flying to the rescue, Ms. CO whipped out her retractable baton, the metal stick locking in place. Barking commands, she parted the sea of rowdy bystanders, headed to aid her fallen co-worker. I’ll spare you the gory details, but Ms. CO never made it beyond the wall phone. I watched as that friend who’d been on the phone calmly cradled the receiver and just as calmly grabbed Ms. CO by the wrist. Snatching the baton from her hand, he commenced with a brutal beating. In the end, the baton was broken as well as one of his hands. I’m not sure what happened, but the jovial jokester I once knew was no more. This enraged man was exorcizing every demon that tormented him, both within and without.
The cavalry’s clumsy arrival was far too late. The damage was done and the needed repair immeasurable. Ms. CO and her partner were carted out and never seen again. The two men who carried out the savage sacrifice also met an impending fate. My heart goes out to them all, the sisters who were pawns in a grander scheme; the brothers who fell victim to yet another of the system’s treacherous traps. I will never condone violence against anyone, neither am I a fan of the merciless abuse of authority.
Days later, while watching the evening news, there was a report on the attack. Allegedly, Ms. CO sustained a fractured orbital socket, a broken jaw, twenty staples and numerous stitches. Shaking my head, I said a silent prayer and thought, ‘God don’t like ugly.’
ABOUT THE WRITER. I have a lot of favorite writers, and Carter is one of them. He has a natural talent and relatable style. And, honestly, there is so much to think about in this essay, it is hard subject matter to tackle, and I think he did it very well. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, but those opportunities are close to none where he is currently at and in his current situation. But that doesn’t stop him, he is still driven and motivated to take positive steps, and I’m so grateful that he shares his writing here. Carter is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.
Pleasant Valley State Prison – Coalinga California
I am a resident of Pleasant Valley State Prison, and we are hosting an event at the institution. We are in dire need of guest speakers who are willing to volunteer their time and attend and share their personal insight and experience in the following areas:
Violence Awareness. Someone personally impacted by violence or works with those who have suffered violence.
Domestic Violence. Someone personally impacted by domestic violence or works with those who have suffered domestic violence.
Victims Impact. Someone who has lost a loved one at the hands of either gun violence or domestic violence, who is now advocating for and promoting nonviolence.
Suicide Awareness. Someone who can share personal experience concerning, knowledge of or insight into suicide.
We hope to host this event in September, however, the process of getting guests cleared to enter the prison is something that we need to address as soon as possible. If you are in the California area or know of anyone in this location, please reach out and help us make this happen. The men at Pleasant Valley State Prison D-Facility have been on a mission to bring more awareness, healing, and intervention/prevention to these very real issues… WE NEED YOU!
TO RESPOND TO KEITH, you can message WITS through the comments or the CONTACT US page, any messages will be forwarded to him. If you would like him to call you to discuss, please send me your phone number, as well as a good time for him to reach you and what time zone you are in.
You can also directly reach Keith at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
A cell within a prison, a closet within an asylum. The Can, The Bing, The Box. Separation from a society that is locked away from a society. For some it’s hell, for others – just a room.
The walls don’t respond, sometimes closing in along with claustrophobic anxiety. Emotions trapped safely away for a person’s mental stability pound on the walls of a mind, searching for a way in. Guilt can seep through, unwanted reflections, as well as thoughts of all those things never done. The hurt, pain, anger, deception and humiliation caused can be haunting, just as are thoughts of family and friends lost. The questions sometimes arise – ‘What am I even here for? What more do I have to live for?’
I would go crazy if not for my radio, a few magazines and an ink pen. I hoard at least one item off each tray so I don’t go hungry at night and develop daily physical and spiritual routines to survive. It doesn’t help that the guy on my left won’t stop banging on his toilet with a battery, or the guy on the right is busy making a concoction to melt your soul if he decides to toss it on you the first chance he gets. More than likely, an officer denied him an extra breakfast tray or wrote him up for fishing kill shots on a line from his neighbor.
The Hole is designed for mental destruction and more often than not – succeeds. But me, I found freedom in The Hole. I discovered a talent I never knew I had and learned who I am as a person and a man. I learned how to master my strengths and acknowledge my flaws. I learned knowledge of ‘self’ and how to accept all of me and what I’ve become without the negativity of anyone’s opinions. For many, The Hole can be Hell, to others, it’s just a room.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terrell Williams is new to WITS and contacted us because of his love of writing and a desire to share his thoughts with us and the world. His hope is that his writing will reach one person, touch one path, and do a measure of good. That is a common goal here.
You can contact Terrell at: Terrell Williams #1000054 307 Craft Drive Winston Salem, NC 27105
NOTE TO READERS. I count myself fortunate – blessed – to have the opportunity to hear from writers. This essay was not originally intended as a submission, but was taken from a message, Keith reaching out to WITS looking for resources for the people who live around him. This letter led to a conversation – which I then started recording, with Keith’s permission.
A Conversation With Keith Erickson.
I am an ex prison gang member. I’m proud to say I am a total contradiction of who I once was, or thought I was, and have worked hard the past twelve years to change my life completely. As a result God has blessed me with so much.
I’ve been incarcerated this term since July, 1994. I was arrested and convicted along with my biological mother at the age of twenty-two for shooting and killing my mother’s then abusive boyfriend at the urging of my mother. We were both arrested, and I was later sentenced to life… Unfortunately, I was also sentenced under the three strikes law, and in the years following, I accumulated additional three strike cases while in prison.
That was then. Today, I am ever-determined to get more tools and resources brought to this prison, and the administration has been very supportive in allowing me to do that. I run numerous programs here, including the Youth Adult Awareness Program where local high-schools bring in at-risk youth for mentoring and to hear our personal stories. This is not a scared-straight program, and we feel its success comes from actually sitting and listening to our teens rather than trying to tell them what to do and not to do.
I run other groups as well – Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Criminals & Gangs Anonymous, the Peer Mentorship Program, Parenting Classes in both English and Spanish, Domestic Violence Classes. I ran the New Life Canine Dog Program for three years before they lost the funding to continue. We raised and trained canines, Labradors and Retrievers, to be certified service dogs in the community where they would be gifted to veterans and first responders who were suffering PTSD. The experience was a blessing and taught me more about myself than any other group/program ever could. They plan on rebooting another Rescue/Shelter Dog program in October, which I will again oversee. Working with canines is an awesome experience, and I would not pass this opportunity up for anything.
This year alone we have also done fundraisers for children with autism, Valley Children’s Hospital, and a local horse program where we donated canvas paintings, painted baseball caps, and other hobby crafts to these outside nonprofits. The opportunities to do selfless things are countless, you just gotta want to do them and that’s what we do. I spent so much of my life carrying pain with me, early trauma, and that pain influenced my life in a tremendous way…
My biological parents divorced when I was three, and my mother eventually remarried my stepfather when I was five. My stepfather was an alcoholic turned heroin addict. He would beat on my mother, brother and I, and at the age of eleven he almost killed me with his bare hands. I suffered collapsed lungs, broken ribs, and a fractured skull. He was arrested and later sent to prison for what he did to me, and I was removed from the care of my mother and placed into the foster care system by CPS. I spent years running away from dozens of foster homes, group homes, boys ranches, in and out of juvenile hall, and eventually sent to the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen, housed amongst other teens and men up to the age of twenty five. Needless to say, I was exposed to the gang subculture and greater levels of violence.
At the age of eighteen I was well on my way to the Department Of Corrections and gravitated to everything I had in the youth authority as a means of survival. I was a documented gang member and housed in the SHU (Segregated Housing Unit) before I was twenty-five. The night my mother called me and pleaded with me to get rid of her boyfriend, I knew right from wrong and still made the decision to carry out her wishes. I spent so much of my life resenting my mother for putting my brother and I into harm’s way since childhood, and yet I could not say no to her the night she put the gun into my hand as I walked into his bedroom where her then boyfriend lay passed out in his bed.
So you see, I have lived a very checkered life, and I know what it means to suffer. But, I also know that the human spirit is a lot stronger than we often accredit ourselves for. “I” am a walking testimony to that…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Clearly, I have a lot more to learn about Keith Erickson. He is a writer, an artist, and a trail blazer, organizing and leading positive endeavors and initiatives. Keith has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith stays busy working during the day and facilitating programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
I’ve been incarcerated over three decades now, and I can count the number of really close friends I’ve had on one hand. It’s not that I’m unapproachable or distant, not that I’m unlikable or unfriendly even, I just have a tendency to not let too many folks in the castle, so to speak. Three of the handful of friends shared the name ‘David’.
Dave One was a friend I made in the early nineties. I’ve written about him and his exploits in essays and my book – his nickname was Mongo. His full name was David Alexander Ortiz, he was of Mexican American/Samoan descent – and what I wouldn’t give to see him again, outside of these walls. He went home in 1995/96.
The second Dave was from a little town outside Dallas, Texas, Rockwall. His name was David Sartain. He did fifteen flat on a non-violent DWI charge and when he got home, he committed suicide. He had a family who supported him, but I suppose he was so traumatized by the system and maybe he felt overwhelmed by what lies on the outside. He took his own life with a shotgun.
The third and last Dave, but not the least, was my friend David Stewart. Dave was my heart. He was smart, understanding, empathetic, he loved life and he loved music. We’d sit for hours talking about our families, our friends, music, everything except prison. There were no talks about how ‘back in the day, it was better’. Every single conversation had meaning and substance, it all led back home.
David the Mouseketeer, as he was known in my writing, died in July of 2020 of complications due to his gallbladder. He had done eighteen years flat on a kidnapping charge. The Dave I knew couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight. He never lost his temper, never said anything hurtful or that he couldn’t take back. Dave was… Dave. And I miss him almost as much as I miss my Dad, who’s been gone for over thirty years.
If you look up the word advocate or friend in my dictionary, you’d see a group picture of my three Daves. This place isn’t full of gangsters, bad actors and socially unsophisticated people – there are some good people here who made some bad choices.
ABOUT THE WRITER. John Green has been writing for WITS from early on. He is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” In addition, John Green was a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration.
John is an insulin dependant diabetic, which has a unique set of obstacles, contributing to a loss of mobility, as well as impacting his vision, but he still finds the drive to be a part of this growing collection, for which I am very appreciative.
John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 Jester III Unit 3 Jester Road Richmond, Texas 77406
Incarcerated people should participate in government. In 2020, I co-authored a bill that will combat prison violence and promote rehabilitation by offering release to those serving life called The Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Legislators paid attention. The bill didn’t pass, but we fight on. Please, encourage all incarcerated people to explore their ideas for change. It will make a difference.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, across many genres, and the work he has done for WITS can be found here, but he has done much more. Phil is currently the Editor of The Nash News, a publication produced by residents of Nash Correctional facility, the archives of which can be found here. In addition to being an editor and writer, Phillip is also pursuing his education. If that were not enough, Phil is politically active. He is co-author of the above-mentioned Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Not only did he take the initiative to write a Bill – which I find phenomenal in itself – the bill is designed to give those who live in prison hope, a desire to better themselves, and to have a positive impact on a correctional system that is currently lacking hope and sufficient rehabilitative tools. Phil’s interview with Emancipate NC can be found here. He penned an article for Prison Journalism Project, was mentioned in the the Univerity of North Carolina’s UNC North Carolina Law Review – The Prison Resources Repurposing Act, authored The Cost of Incarceration, and also wrote the articleLong Distance Love And Its Benefits For Women. In addition, Phil was featured in NC Newsline in 2022, as well as June, 2023. Phillip Smith’s accomplishments are extensive and will continue to grow. As a matter of fact, I am absolutely certain I have not included them all here. What is clear is he is a hard-working individual, laser focused on positive endeavors. I am grateful to know him and to be able to share his work.
Mr. Smith can be contacted at: Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
It was never supposed to go as far as it did, but things get away from you sometimes – when you’ve just turned nine; when you don’t know any better. One minute you’re pranking your cousin – the next, you’re faking a traumatic brain injury to escape your mother’s infernal wrath. Just another day in the life, right?
It all started innocently enough. Aunt Kim and her daughter, my cousin Rachel, came to visit my mother and me at grandma’s house. Mom was between boyfriends, and we were staying there, once again, for ‘only a short time’. We just needed a little help while Mom saved up enough to get us a place of our own again, no more than a couple weeks, month tops.
We’d had many places of our own before, mom and me, but grandma’s house was way better than any of them. Grandma’s house was like a bear hug. Her fridge always had real food in it, like lunchmeat and cheese, and because grandma knew I liked ‘em, she kept lots of carrots. The only things mom and me always had in our fridge were a bottle of ketchup, about a half dozen grapefruits for whenever she was doing that diet again, and lined up like soldiers in formation on the rest of the shelves were as many sixteen-ounce cans of mom’s boyfriend-at-the-time’s favorite brand of beer. In the crisper, for some reason, we usually had an old head of lettuce or rubbery celery stalks rolling around, lending a slight odor of decay to waft about the kitchen and, depressingly, the entire apartment. Grandma’s house always smelled good. She put special powder on the carpet when she vacuumed, making it smell flowery and fresh whenever I’d lay on the floor watching cartoons. Our places rarely ever had carpet, and if they did, it never smelled flower-fresh, typically so dingy and stained you’d barely want to stand on it, let alone lay down.
Mom and me had an unspoken rule, whether at our place or grandma’s – the house would be kept quiet, which really just meant I had to be quiet at all times while inside. This rule didn’t apply to mom, who was a very loud, boisterous person herself. While watching TV in the basement, I could hear her all the way upstairs on the phone with Jo-Jo, her best friend, yapping about one thing or another, usually something boyfriend-at-the-time was doing that he shouldn’t or something those assholes at work were doing that they shouldn’t. I was cool, though, with our unspoken be-quiet rule. I enjoyed quiet activities anyway – drawing, watching cartoons, volume super low of course, building ridiculously elaborate Lego spaceships. I could go days in the house and barely say a word. One problem with the be-quiet rule, however, was that I couldn’t have friends in the house – too noisy. So we, mom and me, had a second unspoken rule. As long as there were no active tornadoes or biblical floods in the area, if I had any company whatsoever, said company and I must go outside and play.
Which is why and how Rachel and I found ourselves outside that particularly squinty-bright, sticky-hot summer day. We didn’t have many options since she hadn’t brought her bicycle, and I wasn’t about to bring my precious Legos outside where God only knows what might happen to them. They would likely get dirty or, more likely, Rachel might chew on one of them or, even more likely, start throwing them at me and lose some. I couldn’t take the risk, so instead, we went with a classic game of tag.
Now, Rachel was almost three years younger than me, and you might be tempted to think such an age gap would’ve made a difference. I’m embarrassed to admit, that was not the case. My cousin approached life with the focused seriousness found only in the very young or the very psychotic. She was an adorable, yet ferocious, little animal – a scabbed-kneed, pigtailed Tasmanian devil. She was absolutely ruthless in pursuit, and being a giggler by nature, her laughter would build with her excitement until it became maniacal – terrifying. The hysteria of her laugh was actually how I gauged when to let her catch me so her little head wouldn’t explode. I’m telling you, she could’ve gone pro.
Fortunately, I had plenty of room to run. Grandma’s backyard was a huge grassy expanse fenced in on three sides by the neighbor’s chain-links. There wasn’t much to it though – a large rose bush by the back porch, a sizable woodpile against one corner of the house, and off to the side, a clothesline with the poles offset and leaning opposite each other, giving the lines a pronounced twist. I used these as obstacles during evasive maneuvers, weaving figure-eight style between the clothesline poles, cutting close corners around the bush and woodpile – anything to get away from the holy terror on my tail. Occasionally, whenever I managed to put some decent space between us, I’d loop around and through the front yard, which was obstacle-free except for a single white elm in the center.
We’d been playing only a short time when, on one of my front yard loops, my toe caught one of the elm’s many exposed roots, and I stumbled. On silly instinct, I decided to go down in dramatic fashion, rolling and flailing about before coming to rest flat on my back in what I thought was the perfect dead man’s pose – arms out wide, one leg bent, head rolled to the side. I considered hanging my tongue out, but thought – too much. It would be fun to mess with Rachel a little bit, and I needed a breathing break anyway – two birds with one fall kind of thing. I heard the laughing stampede fast approaching and paid for her arrival when she plunged, knees first, into my ribcage. Being all too familiar with my antics, Rachel immediately began investigating my sudden and apparent death.
Leaning over me, peeling my eyes open with stubby fingers that, somehow, always smelled like dirt, “Uh, hello!” she giggled. “Time to wake up!”
I rolled my eyes back and kept my face completely relaxed, no flinching.
Next came the obligatory tickle test, but I was ready and had steeled myself against all attacks on my ribs and stomach. No movement. Solid rock.
The way the game goes, at just the right moment you explode to life with a shout that makes the other person jump. It’s funny; you both share a laugh – good times. We had played this scene many times before, Rachel and I, so in what I thought a brilliant play off expectations, I delayed my resurrection longer than usual.
She gripped my hand, shaking my rubbery arm up and down.
“I know you’re not dead, you know. Get up!” Impatience crept into her voice.
A hard push, she grabbed my head, rolling it back and forth. “Helloooooo!” This was going to be great. I remained still and, fighting laughter, waited just a moment longer.
“Geoff! Come on. This isn’t funny anymore!” Her voice broke. Hmm, what’s that about, I wondered, as she sprang up and shot inside the house.
Oh well, I thought, she’s a little spooked is all. Some people can’t take a joke. No big deal, she’d be fine once I went in and explained everything. Which I was just about to do when I heard mom call my name from inside the house – my full name – which everybody knows is bad. I should have gotten up immediately and faced my mother’s wrath. It wouldn’t have been as bad as I imagined, would it? This, looking back, was that moment when, after a thing happens, you clearly see every element involved and know exactly where and when you could have done or said something – anything – that would’ve changed everything. But, of course, I didn’t do the exact something, or anything, that would’ve changed everything. Instead, I panicked and continued laying there. Playing dead. Wishing I was.
I heard mom’s footsteps thud to the front door and stop. “Boy, what the hell you think you’re doing? Get your ass up. Right now!”
My mouth was suddenly dry, and I craved a nice, cool drink. My whole body tingled, and I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or exhilaration or both. Never before had I so blatantly defied my mother. I was scared to keep this charade going but even more scared to stop. I figured a fake death was better than a real one any day. So there I laid, unsure of what was to come, but determined to play it out.
Mom stomped over to me muttering threats, “You better not be playing, young man. This shit is funny? You’re some kind of comedian? Playing with me? We’ll see who laughs when I blister that ass!” My mom; the profane poet.
She nudged me with a flip-flopped foot and, a little softer this time, “Come on now, get up! Stop being ridiculous. You’re scaring your cousin.”
Absolutely nothing. I gave her nothing, yet knew, at any moment, she would smell fear oozing from my every pore and attack. Instead, she knelt and cupped my face, turning it toward hers. “Baby, stop this. Look at me. It’s mama.” This time, I recognized the tender voice, the one she used when I was sick or when she was explaining how boyfriend-at-the-time would be staying with us now.
Mom hollered for somebody to call an ambulance, and I heard my aunt rush inside. She grabbed my hand, raised it to her mouth and held it there. She pressed the back of her other hand to my forehead as if I were sick. She was whispering, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” Her voice sounded so… different, which confused me. Was she afraid? Was that even possible? A new kind of fear, ice-cold, shot through me as I realized that my mother was frightened, that I was causing my mother to be frightened. This whole thing was supposed to be a joke. What the hell was I doing?
I heard, faint and distant, a siren’s whine growing louder. There was no longer any doubt the tingling in my body was pure fear. I may have successfully fooled my cousin and mother with this whole ‘play-dead’ thing, but there was no way I could do the same with paramedics. They would see right through me. I didn’t know a heart could thump so hard; I thought it might break loose from my chest, escape my body, and flee far away. The siren was now coming down our street. The experts were here. It was all over but for the fear and trembling. Overwhelmed by it all, I crumbled and started to cry.
I thought tears would unmask my deception and be my instant demise. I was wrong. Mom interpreted my ‘coming to’ as the result of her comforting me, and the fresh-on-the-scene paramedics explained I was in shock, confused, and that it was, indeed, perfectly natural for me to be crying in her arms. They strapped me to a board, put the board on a gurney, loaded it all into the ambulance and off we sped to the hospital. There, friendly nurses and not-so-friendly doctors made quite a fuss, pinching and prodding me, sticking me with needles and shining lights in my eyes over and over. The doctors eventually determined I was concussed, but being so young, should fully recover. They instructed mom in hushed, serious, doctorly terms, to let them know if I had any lingering issues.
One morning about a week later, mom took me along to open the bar where she worked as a bartender. I would often hang out there for a couple of hours, playing video games or shooting pool, until grandma or Aunt Kim would get off work and pick me up. At some point, mom made me a coke. I loved the cokes at mom’s work because they came in big, heavy glasses packed with tiny ice cubes that I could eat with every sip, like a Sno-Cone. I drank-ate as many cokes at mom’s work as she would allow. When I went to get this coke, however, the bottom of the glass clipped the lip of the bar, toppled out of my hand, and shattered on the floor. I froze. There was really only one simple rule at mom’s work, this one spoken often, ‘dammit boy, pay attention to what you’re doing’, which meant, in this case, to use two hands on the glass. Those big, heavy glasses were expensive, and mom would have to pay for the one just broken. That meant I, too, would have to pay for breaking it. I expected fire and brimstone to strike. Instead her gentle voice assured me, “Oh, baby, it’s okay. The doctors said you’d have trouble with motor control. I’ll just make you another one.”
During the few days following my fall, a fierce battle raged in my mind over telling mom the truth. I struggled to work through the right and wrong of it all. I regretted how far things had gone and knew the longer I waited to come clean, the worse it would be when I finally did. But… I felt so loved that whole week. Please don’t misunderstand, as a child I never felt that mom didn’t love me, but ours was a complicated relationship where love, though assumed, was rarely demonstrated. Her love was like a foreign country I’d read about in school; I knew the place existed in a vague, abstract sense, but I had never been there and truly experienced it. That week I had, for the first time, toured the country of my mother’s heart – and I didn’t want the trip to end.
Her reaction to the dropped and broken glass clarified everything. Regret went out the window. I no longer cared what was right or wrong. I only knew in that instant and with all certainty that I would never tell my mother the truth about that time she found me on the ground, lying.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Geoff Martin is clearly a thoughtful and talented writer. All of his writing for WITS can be found here. In addition to his writing, he has worked incredibly hard and is a 2023 graduate of North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he will use to counsel and mentor his incarcerated peers. What needs to be noted about service of that nature is that, not only is he choosing to serve and support others to flourish as human beings, but he is taking that on in an environment that is currently designed to be oppressive and dehumanizing. It is a daunting challenge that he is pursuing with grace.
Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and chooses to invest his time in positive endeavors. Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Any comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.
