Class of 99: Day 52

A lot has changed since I first arrived on Texas’ nefarious death row.  I’ve met a lot of guys over the years, and many seem like decent men.  They even gave me a nickname – Louisiana.  The name was more about keeping the peace than seeking a new identity.  Texas folks, inmates and officers, have a difficult time pronouncing my last name, which was irritating me ‘cause I assumed they were doing it out of ignorance and not because they couldn’t pronounce a name they had never heard before. 

Some tried to say it like ’ma’am’ followed by ‘ooouuu’ or other variations.   Then there was one redneck officer who called me ‘Moe-Moe’.   I ignored him and wouldn’t answer.  The convict population within Texas’ death row saw this would become a future altercation, so they simply agreed to call me Louisiana since that’s the state I was from.  I settled with it.

I wasn’t the only guy with a nickname.  Everyone seemed to have one.  There was a Spanish guy named Casper (the ghost).  There was a guy named Soultrain.  There was a Youngblood and other names like, Freaky Frank, Oso Bear, Juke-box, Icy Red, Cash, B-Down, South  Park, Third Ward, Sunshine (which he quickly changed to Youngsta), and on and on the list went.  There was even a Ms. Good Pussy.  And then there was Mookie.

I was still fighting off depression at the time, though I had become a little more optimistic.  My mother had written me a powerful, religion-laced letter, and though I didn’t follow her instructions for praying to Mother Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Paul or any of the other Catholic saintly crew, I did however reread the line she wrote saying, “Talked to the lawyers today, and they told me in five years the system will correct the mistake they made and bring you back home…

Five years?  Granted, I didn’t want to hear that, at the time it seemed like a life sentence, but it did give me something to focus on.  I mean, that was still 1,725 days away, but at least I had a benchmark to look to.  That’s what I needed to keep hope alive.

I was allowed to go to group recreation which was a huge stress reliever.  Just to be able to play basketball with other guys, bodies banging against other bodies, having locker room talk about ex-lovers.  We were able to watch TV, Family Matters or ESPN, or play chess or dominoes at the tables back then.  Camaraderie.  I miss it. 

The first day I was allowed to join the others in group recreation, I was the last one to be escorted out.  I immediately went through the process of matching guys with voices I had heard from my cell.  Okay, that’s Casper.  That’s J-Dubb.  On and on it went.  Guys came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one guy that stood out.  He was standing alone, arms folded, wrapped around himself.  He was dark and handsome and stood a little over six foot tall.  ‘That’s gotta be Mookie’, I thought.  Everything I had assumed about him was wrong.  I introduced myself, and our first meeting was very brief.

Days later I read about him in the newspaper.  He had an upcoming execution date.  Impregnated with the declaration my mother once made about my future, “Chucky will be a preacher one day,” I felt as if I was a shepherd and needed to tell my flock to follow me.  I wrote Mookie a brief note, telling him to renounce his sin so he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven.  You never know what kind of response you will get when you try to force your ideologies upon another, but I felt I had a duty to save this man’s soul. 

He accepted my note, read it and told me he would get back with me later.  Since his execution date was days away, he was allowed to spend commissary money on anything he wanted.  He chose to buy everyone a pint of ice cream, which we all enjoyed and appreciated.  Then he wrote me back, four pages, on yellow stationary.   His handwriting was neat and artistic.  He told me a parable.

The story was about a father and son.  The son was asked to carry a pot full of water to a nearby town.  What the boy didn’t know was that there was a hole in the pot, and by the time he arrived at his destination, all the water was lost.  The boy was distraught, thinking he had let his father down, but his father told him not to blame himself.  The two rewalked the path, and to the son’s amazement his father pointed out the beautiful flowers that grew along the side of the road where the water had been ‘wasted’.

Mookie went on to explain the story’s meaning.  He taught me that I was in no position to judge any other, for I was not God.  He taught me that every creation has its flaws, we all make mistakes.  Some get public attention.  Some don’t.  Some people get caught.  Some don’t.  None of us are any better than the next.  Mookie humbled me.   He was executed/murdered days later. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time writer for WITS. He has also been the subject of WITS’ in depth look at how cases are sometimes mishandled.

Over the years, we have shared here how evidence was clearly kept from the defense in a death penalty case, information was manipulated and truth put on the back burner. For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware that physical evidence was collected from the victim and not only knew, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently located by an advocate. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. If you or I were to have knowledge of physical evidence and have it tested, not sharing that information with the opposing party, that would be an issue for the Courts. Why is this not an issue? You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.

Charles Mamou can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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April, 2022, Book Club Selection!

Our Book Club has been off to a great start in 2022. One of our members just made the next selection –

The books were ordered and shipped to our book club members on NC’s Death Row this morning. It usually takes us about four or five weeks to read our book before we discuss it. If you want to read along, we’d love your thoughts. Free free to reach out to me directly, or I can give you the address of one of our book club members at Central Prison to send your thoughts to.

Happy Reading!

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visit w/ an/Other

I. chambered

emerging from an ink-filled
womb – that’s how it feels:  the visitation

room is a quarter mile from death row
down steep half-dark corridors

except the last chamber-locked hallway
whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels

ablaze with light from outside.
as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic

sallyport door shrieks
and the guards and i flinch

and stumble down the hall.  blinking rapidly
i wonder,

as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes
will be able to hold yours.

II. churning

my heart feels like my eyes,
hot and bloodshot with nerves
and excitement.  it’s been a long time

since I’ve been anything
more than a foggy thought
or disembodied voice

on the phone to those i love.  i marvel
at my callused hands, how blurry they are
speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the  booth.

Kat, there’s so much i want to show you!
(like the symbol i designed by combining the marks
beside our signatures:  your paw print, my peace sign)

but first i need you to see me
perform a magic trick
to reconcile the illusive conflict

between Fate and Free Will:  how it’s possible
that privilege and poverty marked us early
enough to make our past lives

and the paths we chose from there
seem almost completely other
to each other – yet both our souls

and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible
power of agapé and poetry
seeming to churn and turn

the very earth and stars
beneath our feet, to bring us
here, as kindreds.

III. luminosity

and there you are, pushing the door
shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation.
we greet each other from feet away.
you take your seat and frown

at the plexiglas between us, the bars,
squinting and muttering something like,
“It’s a little hard to see your face – the light
coming in behind me

is making me see my own reflection.”
having been down here before, this hindrance
isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration,
to witness your shifting and determination, the poet

in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment
of empathy, the effort it takes to see
past ourselves to an other
.  the moment
your gaze clicks into mine

i feel my blood thrum and body harden
into a real human being.  “There you are!” you say,
sounding so delighted
to see me, i struggle not to cry.

IV. luminaries

i think, fuck
my trick for a minute
as we start sharing skin and ink.  i unbutton
this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist.
i remove my shirt to show you LOVE
NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters
across my chest.  you lift up your shirt
sleeve to show me the plump sugar
skull on your upper arm.  we compare
sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots
on our bodies:  forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close
to the glass our breath smokes against it.
by the time i remember the cards
there’s no real need for tricks or explanations,
and it feels irreverent to use magic
to describe the miraculous –
that we met;
      that you drove for hours
          to spend minutes with me
          in a suffocating prison visitation booth;
     that throaty laugh – how
when we speak it feels like freedom
in my mouth, how
with you i feel
                                                i’m home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com

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Concrete Cocoons, Cement Butterflies

Comfortable and hated
all the same,
this cocoon,
constructed of past
transgressions,
with hopes
of more to come.
Meant to be
a house of transformation,
like tossing a coin
in a well
with the expectation
your wish will come to fruition
by a coin sitting
at the bottom
of a well
waiting to be collected
by a drunk for beer money
paid for by hopes of change,
dreams of a brighter future,
the wish for the transformation
of an offering
into something greater.
Change comes natural
with time,
everything changes,
every day a day closer
to death,
a day closer to change.
Has my concrete cocoon changed me?
Or is it just the
aging process
that has given me
my beautiful wings,
colored with life’s
highs and lows?
Am I now a butterfly,
transformed by my concrete cocoon
or time?
Will my wings carry me
to something greater?
Or do concrete cocoons
produce cement
butterflies,
grounded for life,
a beautiful exterior,
a hardened interior.
Cement wings don’t beat,
and concrete butterflies
don’t fly,
but fortunate fields
do call.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Robert Neibler is a poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I am happy to share his work here. It is exciting to watch someone grow and push themselves as a writer, and Robert hopes to one day compile a book of poetry.  Mr. Neibler can be contacted at:

Robert Neibler #399870
Baraga Correctional Facility
13924 Wadaga Road
Baraga, MI  49908

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The Freest Spirit

Dear Bear,

Writing this letter is harder than I thought, but for you – it is worth trying.  I’ve never known anyone to write a dog before.  Maybe that’s because no dog has ever meant so much to someone.  It’s crazy to think where we both ended up – you buried somewhere in an unmarked grave and me worse off than dead.  That’s what Death Row is, Bear – a place between life and death.  It’s where people are deliberately kept alive long enough to anguish over the fear of being executed, tormented until all peace of mind is used up.  Only then are we ripe for slaughter.  How I got here on Death Row is too long a story and too depressing for the details – but, do you remember the guy next door whom I was cool with? …turns out he wasn’t so cool.  I may never know why, but he accused me of taking another man’s life during a robbery.  Can you believe that?  That’s why I couldn’t get home.

Anyway, getting back to the purpose of this letter.  Bear, I had a dream about you just now.  Hold on!  Before you start bouncing around with those lofty cartwheels of yours, you should know it wasn’t a good dream.  In fact, it was probably the saddest thing I’ve ever dreamt, even though part of me wishes I could’ve stayed under.  I woke feeling unfulfilled, like when waiting your whole life for something to happen, then realizing five seconds too late that it’s gone.  But I believe the dream was necessary, it put things in perspective.  I now realize that in life, I left a lot of people behind.

So, the dream – it started out with me finally being released from Death Row.  I was given some clothes and a severance package, but when I got outside, no one was at the gate.  No family.  No friends.  No news cameras covering the story.  It was as though any relevance I had owned had succumbed to my absence, and the world had moved on without me.  I headed home, but when I got there, it wasn’t the same house I remembered. The place was trashy and run-down with neglect, nothing left of the garden but wilted stems.  The barn where we held so many of our family outings was now a crumbling derelict, trying to weather the times.  All the holiday memories we made in that barn, and now it was no more than a safety hazard.  Then I noticed a strange-looking structure.  It looked like an igloo made of wood. And who do I see hobbling out from this dog house…  yep.  Bear – it was you.

You looked so mangy, worn-out and pitiful.  Your eyes drooped with the age of years past.  You looked like a dog that had been to hell and back with one foot still on the other side. The chain around your neck whined and creaked with the rust of twenty years.  Your semblance, I hardly recognized.  Then you looked at me and wagged your tail, and something in it spoke of you.  I wouldn’t have guessed that any feeling could amount to walking off Death Row after twenty years, but seeing you was an unspeakable joy.  And to think you’d waited for me all that time. The gratefulness brought me to my knees.  You then bound into my arms with your incessant tongue laps and tail thrashing. No homecoming reception was ever more welcoming.

I was struck with the fact that you had been tethered on a chain for more than two decades. Blame set in on me like a scolding tongue for my leaving you to suffer so.  Then I remembered… we never kept you on a chain.  My eyes stung with the indecency.  It seemed you were also unjustly serving time. I stormed off towards the house, ready to spit fire at the new tenants and demand the key to let my dog loose, but when I burst through the door, spraying glass shards and splinters, I unintentionally shattered the dream.

There is no ache like waking up to the longing of a friend who has never let me down.  I kept trying to get back to sleep to rescue you and discovered that the most meaningful things in life are the most elusive. So, you see – it wasn’t a good dream at all, except for the joy of seeing you again.  It made me realize what my sudden absence must’ve been like for you, how you must’ve felt abandoned by me.

Did you know the first time I saw you waiting inside the fence, I was reluctant and afraid. I was just dropped off by a parole officer, fresh out of prison that day.  I wasn’t aware we even had a dog.  I guess my fears stemmed from learning of the era when White supremacists set upon Black people with their dogs. I mistook your panting, pouncing, and acting so unafraid of me as a clear sign of your aggression. But then you settled down and let me pet you, and I realized that all you wanted to do was play. My first impression of you was so unfair.  Maybe that is the real source of my guilt.

Needless to say, I was wrong about you, Bear.  You just didn’t have it in you to hurt anyone.  Well – there was that time when you snagged ahold the pants of that sheriff, but hell, you were only trying to get him off top of me.  I remember thinking, ‘this crazy dog gonna get hisself killed’.  Nobody had ever risked their life for me like that.  I was so freaking proud of you.

I guess I should talk a little more about whatever since this will probably be the last time.  It’s not really considered normal behavior for people to write to their deceased pets. I don’t mind coming off as weird; that’s just another word for unique, and sometimes it’s the most abnormal approach that is the only path to closure.

Often enough, there are times when I felt that you were the only one I could talk to, when I could do without anyone’s judgment or advice – I just needed somebody to listen. So many late nights I came home with my pockets heavy from all the dirt I’d done and my conscience weighing on my shoulders.  I thought I had to wrong people to survive in the streets, when really I was just trying to be seen. My coming home to you was the only time when I felt normal. With you I could be my ugly self.  I would unload all the day’s baggage at the doorstep while you lay curled at my feet, listening as my silent resolve.  Bear – I can’t tell you how much having your ear meant to me.  Hell, I’ve told you shit I ain’t told no one else.  And on those rare nights when I didn’t drop by to unlatch your kennel and chat… well, on those nights my shame was a bit too heavy.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you, Bear, in both the dream and reality.  I just didn’t know that my doing so much dirt would get other people’s dirt on me.  I know you waited for me, and that must’ve sucked – wondering why all the late night walks around the neighborhood ended without reason, why all our fun just stopped.  I want you to know that it wasn’t because I abandoned you, Bear – not intentionally.  No.  I didn’t come back because I, myself, am tethered by a red jumpsuit and Death Row has a really short reach.  I keep on seeing that chain around your neck.  I hope that wherever you are – somebody there will take it off. If not, I don’t know how the spirit world works, but I promise to take care of it when I get there.

So long, old friend, and thanks for all the times when your company gave me solace. There is no loyalty like a dog’s love.  And, yep… I learned that from you.

Always, your trusted friend and spirit brother,

Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Living The ‘Black-American’ Dream

I was about fifteen years old when we moved into a yellow, three-story country home in an upper-middle-class community in Georgia. It was a new house in the type of neighborhood where good southern people waved as they drove or walked past. Lots of teenagers lived in the neighborhood, and there were times when it didn’t matter that I was the only black kid around… and then there were times when it did.

My mom had been married for a few years by then. The success of her and my stepfather’s careers as computer engineers was beginning to show. They drove nice cars and wore business suits to work. They spoke the speech of the successful, not the patois of the impoverished black communities that spawned them, and our new home was the first sign that my parents were living the Black-American dream.

I was living the Black-American dream, too, for the most part. I loved that house. It had a wraparound porch with an old-style swing, a basement, and a two-car garage. The front and back yards seemed endless. Across the street lay a pond where people sat in lawn chairs, with fishing lines slung into the water when the sky was blue and the clouds were few. Some nights I swung on the porch watching the sun set over the shimmering pond, a whisper of wind chimes clanking on the peaceful breeze from a far off house serenading me.

It was the early nineties, the golden age of the Super Nintendo, Trapper Keeper, and America Online. It was an era of societal reconstruction, and most of the country thought of racism and prejudice as ancient relics, only worthy of a few paragraphs of study during Black History Month, not a current in-your-face injustice. Most white people considered African-Americans equal because we had gained the right to live where we wanted, as long as we could afford it. Some would say it was true, and my parents were living proof.

Their success didn’t make my social life easy, although I didn’t have the problems a lot of black children had. Our refrigerator was always stocked full, our lights were never cut off, and my parents’ cars were never repossessed. Drug addicts in my area were privileged, white teenagers who smoked joints or rifled through their medicine cabinets for pain killers, not the stereotypical black crack heads depicted in the media as lazy midnight burglars hoisting themselves into unlocked windows in the dark of night.

Growing up around kids that didn’t look like me, added to my fragile, teenage insecurities, as did the way some of those kids felt about me. All of them weren’t heinous bullies. A few kids in my neighborhood made me feel welcomed and accepted… most of the time, but not always.

Our school bus picked up many kids from other housing complexes, and those other kids became my problem. By the middle of the first semester I had been called nigger so often that the bus driver didn’t know my real name. When he wanted to speak to me, he would say, “Hey, you.” My tormentors sat in the back and shouted up at me in the front. “I bet you want some fried chicken and watermelon, huh? You black-ass, pucker-lipped mule. Come on back here, and we got some grape soda to wash down your chitterlings. Nigger! I know you hear me, Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! NIG-GER!” Sniggering hissed all around me, even from some kids I considered my friends.

I sat straight with my eyes forward, determined to look dignified, as if what they said didn’t bother me and I was above it, but my bullies were bloodhounds, tracking timidity like fresh game. They never interpreted silence for strength. They rode me, and the bus, to and from school for months, until finally, I could take no more. One day I stood up, ready to confront a boy who regularly addressed me as Tarbaby. Four of his friends stood up to challenge me along with him. I plopped back down and rode home, holding back tears puddled in my eyes as they whooped and laughed at my cowardice.

It didn’t matter if I cried, or fought them, or shouted at the top of my lungs – none of it would have done any good. If those boys dished out brutal beatings, battering my body instead of splashing acidic insults burning me to my core, I wouldn’t have stopped them. I felt too weak.

Unfortunately, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about the bullying. I didn’t think my parents could stop it, and I knew they wouldn’t try. They were too concerned with their careers and rocky relationship to worry about me being picked on by a few rednecks.

I heard my parents’ arguments, muffled accusations and skirmishes escaping the crack beneath their bedroom door most every night. I sensed their pain like a wild animal senses a hurricane, and like a wild animal, I headed for the hills, fleeing as far away from their storm clouds as possible. I rarely spoke to my mother, and she sought me out only when she received a copy of my failing report card in the mail or if I did something wrong. Because I didn’t think telling them would do any good, I kept my pain concealed behind the outgoing façade of an obedient teenager who was quiet and always did his chores.

In a way, it didn’t matter. Once the school year ended, I didn’t have to worry about those kids anymore. I was free from their torture for a few months, the wounds they had inflicted becoming faint scars, the sting of which I no longer had to endure.   

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, and the above is an excerpt from his autobiography. I hope to be able to share more of it here. Phillip Smith is a student, an advocate, author of NC HB 697, and also editor of The Nash News. His accomplishments are extensive, and he has no intention of slowing down. I am grateful 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

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I Am Often Asked,

“What does it feel like to be innocent on Death Row?”

My answer? 

“A setback for mankind.”

I was born in the ‘70s to black parents in black times in a world that was gray at best.  My earliest lessons on guilt were not determined by wrongdoings, but by the color of one’s skin.  I saw the guilty as they were dipped in tar and strung up for public viewing, or set upon for sitting down to eat.  Guilt then becomes a psychological impression on the minds of black communities; a sense of guilt that is the origin of the criminal mind – a reflection of how we feel.  Guilt is the cultural identity that leaves behind a trail of regrets, so I am dissociated with feeling innocent in a country that charges people guilty for having black skin.

I was convicted of the murder of a restaurant manager in April, 2000, and sentenced to die by a consenting jury by way of lethal injection.  Arriving on Death Row, I conceded two things – my innocence was insignificant and justice grotesquely one-sided.  I decided that neither guilt nor innocence had brought me there – it was powerlessness.  I was powerless to take charge of my life and break the cycle of recidivism.  I was put on the path to prison at the age of seven, the time I first stole, my impropriety promising to progress over time.  By the age of twenty-seven, I was the product of circumstances and my road ended here, yet despite all my wrongdoings, still I did not deserve to be on Death Row.

I avoided eye contact with men, sparse with my words, afraid that my difference would show and the rapists, brutes and murderers would figure out I was not.  There was no introduction guide to Death Row, but if there was, I imagined it would’ve read,

Innocence does not thrive here,
your hope is your despair.

For the first year, I uttered not a word about innocence, though the subject was one of recurrence, casually hinted at by some in conversations, while others were more straightforward.  I wondered if my own innocence sounded as disingenuous as theirs when spoken aloud.  The improbability of their innocence caused me to dismiss their claims as prison colloquialism.

Over time, I learned to shelve my innocence while emulating the hardened killers.  I was wary and distrusting, argumentative, and constantly on the lookout for a fight.  At night, sometimes, my mind broke free, much to my dismay.  I never knew fantasizing could hurt so bad.  I envisioned life as a working-class citizen, doing stringent work that was wearisome but decent, with a pension as opposed to a penalty.  Other times, I grasped at the wilting memories of family and friends as their influence crumbled under their hefty absence, and their faces yielded to time.

Then came the biggest news… a Death Row man was freed from here after being awarded a new trial. I was skeptical, challenged his innocence, as he was someone I previously dismissed.  Still the question lingered… what if he was innocent?  And what if there were others?  These men I’d subjected to my silent criticism, fostered by widespread belief.  Unable to relate due to their menacing aura, my innocence was too fragile to trust, so I rejected them based solely on my preconceived notion.  It was the very same rejection I feared.  I wanted to be happy for a guy whose stay on Death Row was at its end, but with my errant dismissal of him and my own self interest, I was too ashamed.

As the years rolled by, cases were amended and death sentences overturned – mental retardation and the prohibiting of minors were enactments that saved lives.  In some few cases, the men were exonerated on the likelihood of innocence, an unsettling error revealing that behind the virtue of our courts was depravity.  There was a time when I presumed our judicial system stood on the right side of public service, but with the growing number of death sentences vacated, an alarming truth emerged. Wrongful convictions were not the result of legal mishaps – but a setback in the evolution of justice.  It was a systemic trade-off, conviction rates in return for support at the ballots.  On the verge of understanding how my injustice came to be, I was nowhere close to help, as I struggled to wish well those men who departed… their hope was my despair.

Every day I longed for my freedom until all my hope was spent, and I was left with nothing more than a stale existence.  With each reversal, I felt sorely abandoned by the securities of the laws.  I pondered the plausibility of my injustice and came away rejecting myself.  I used recreational drugs, obscenities and conflict to propel my downward spiral.  I severed outside connections, quit my aspirations and rigorously questioned my faith.  It seemed my road didn’t stop on Death Row, but I was headed to a place much darker, and no matter how far my mind drifted from my mad reality, the executions pulled me back.

On those nights I ached helplessly as the clock wound down on the lives of men tethered to a gurney.  I wondered if they winced at the needle’s prick like I did as a kid at the clinic, or closed their eyes in defiance to die alone.  Done with feeling helpless, I put their deaths out of my mind and tried to remain unaffected by the executions until a death date arrived for a friend of mine… and my helplessness turned to surrender.

It was thirteen years later before I gained some clarity into the disorder taking place in my life.  It began with written essays that chronicled my past offenses, offenses unrelated to my stay here, restoring in me a sense of worth.  Accountability for my previous wrongs – saved my life.  Without it, I would’ve given up.  With the many death sentences being vacated, I couldn’t wait one more turn, and through accountability, I discovered there was redemption behind these walls, the potential to reinvent the principles of humanity – and the most promising yet was the willingness of these men to die with more dignity than that with which they lived.

So, what is it like to be innocent on Death Row is best answered by the word ‘unrest’.  It is a constant grinding of the mind in an effort to determine how we tolerate such criminal indecency.  My being wrongfully convicted is a laborious affliction under the stigmatic strain of disbelief – a strain that offered one resolve for me, complacency for my accusers.  It’s lonely being innocent with no one to talk to about the certainty of my innocence.  And frightening.  Only Ichabod Crane, a character from my childhood, terrified me so.  Often enough, being innocent feels pointless after 21 years of punishment, when death is no longer a menacing possibility but a welcome alternative.

Being innocent on Death Row is soulfully depressing, granting little peace of mind.  It is my fight to hold on to the hope I deserve, when the culpability isn’t mine to bear.  My innocence is no more relevant than the next man’s guilt when the ink on our status reads the same – and yet, what does it matter, guilt or innocence, in a nation such as our own, where both are punishable by death. 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Entries From My Journal

Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. This is the first in this series. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.

February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)

Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here.  Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not?  Am I destined to die here regardless?  Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with.  The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this.  Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony?  To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity.  Constantly engulfed in darkness.  Always alone, even when others are present.  Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death.  I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father.  To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count.  The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’.  If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things.  My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Contest Prompt – What Inspires You?

Note:  The following prompt was contributed by Terry Robinson, a long-time WITS writer, board member, author and innocent man on death row.

Life can be a struggle, a challenge to get through the hardships and dilemmas of each day.  No one understands that more than those who are incarcerated.  Sure, life is not all struggle, there are those moments of joy, but for men and women behind bars, we can assume that the struggle outweighs the joy.  Prison isn’t meant to be a place for one to thrive, but instead for behaviors to worsen because a cultivated mind is a hindrance to recidivism, which is bad for business, and prison itself is a business. 

So, in a place where the joys are minimal, the struggles are constant, it’s a wonder how prisoners make it through the day.  Theirs is a resilience worthy of showcasing.

Walk In Those Shoes wants to know – what is your muse?  What is the source of inspiration that you draw from in order to get through each day in prison?  It can be family, books, dreams of a better life, positive change, education, religion – whatever you choose. 

Incarcerated men and women hold phenomenal value.  Share what it is that gives you what it takes to overcome your adversities in prison.

Only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate. 

We can’t accept anything that has been previously published.

Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit.  Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.

Entries should be 1,000 words or less.  Poetry is considered, as long as it is inspired by the prompt.

Submissions can be handwritten.

As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.

PRIZES: 

First Place:  $75
Second Place:  $50
Third Place:  $25

DEADLINE:  April 30, 2022.  Decisions will be posted on or before May 31, 2022.

MAILING ADDRESS:

Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia  23255

Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.

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Let There Be Light

I’ve been shipped to a deeper cranny of hell, and I have very little of my former property.  I have no idea why I was shipped, but it is common.  Texas has over a hundred prisons, and they ship us back and forth like ballast. 

Like everything in life, there are pros and cons to my new digs.  It’s a newer style unit, built less than thirty years ago, and that is a pro in that the cages are much larger – and much to my shock, the sinks have hot water, relatively speaking.  For the first time in a quarter of a century, I got to wash my hands with warm water.  There are, no doubt, other pros just waiting for my discovery, but I’ve been in the hole for a month and that remains my only experience of this place.  The first major ‘con’ I came across was staff apathy.  Maybe it’s the low pay, the low morale, the lack of structure, or the fact that Texas prisons have been critically short of staff for twenty years.  Or maybe it’s simply the subculture.  

I was put in the hole upon arrival.  Not for punishment, but because I’m waiting for a cage to open up in population.  Off the chain-bus, I was thrown in this place.  It was so dark, I could only find the toilet and ‘bed’ by feel.  The floor was a water puddle – or maybe piss.  Probably a mixture because it was so deep.  The odor was awful.  There were no shelves, or lockers, so the small bag of property I came with stayed on the bunk, which literally became my island.  I wasn’t happy but I’ve been through worse.  At first I even welcomed the darkness.  Privacy is at a premium in prison.  But after a couple days, the darkness got me. 

As a rule, I avoid hope of any kind.  I believe hope is a poison.  I have sub-conscious hope, obviously, or I wouldn’t still be alive, but consciously?  I don’t do hope.  But, whatever hope I don’t do was being leached by the darkness.  I had read that cloudy days do have a psychological effect on people. Stimulates the blues, so to speak.  That felt true, but again, there’s a difference between knowing something and experiencing it.  After a few days, I felt the despair creeping closer.  Positive thoughts became impossible.  Again, I realized how little value I have, how the world has abandoned me and blah, blah.  I had a feeling I was going to die and the feeling kept growing until it seemed certain.  Then I welcomed it.  I’ve had a horrible life by any standard, why prolong it?

So, why did the state inflict this darkness on me?  Well, it wasn’t intentional.  It was guard apathy.  I couldn’t persuade a guard to bring me a light bulb.  Then, on my fifth day, an officer, still new and on-the-job training who perhaps didn’t realize yet that prisoners aren’t human beings, brought me a light bulb.  The effect of light on my psyche was instantaneous.  I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. Suddenly everything seemed…  you guessed it – brighter.  And it gave me a new piece of wisdom or knowledge – the effect of light not just on consciousness, but perhaps even on a cellular level.  People need light to survive.  I find that very interesting. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  John Adams is one of my favorite writers. I have quite a few ‘favorites’, but in addition to John’s amazing writing, we often don’t see eye to eye when it comes to matters of writing for WITS. That’s not a bad thing, because if I can post his amazing work every now and then in spite of that, it’s a win. John is the first place winner of our final writing contest of 2021. John Adams has served twenty-five years of a life sentence and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:

John Adams #768543
3060 FM 3514
Beaumont, TX 77703

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Prison Writing and Expression