Note: This is fourth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go 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. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 3, 2015 (Tuesday, 11:14 pm)
I’m praying, God. I heard it said that you know our hearts. Don’t do me like everybody else has done.
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.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
My Grandma Bea – short for Beaulah – taught us how to fish. She’d kick back in an armed beach chair with a big floppy hat and appear to be asleep. Every so often she’d give the line a tug. When asked why she’d come all the way out to the lake to take a nap, she’d respond, “The wind causes ripples on the lake that distort how you see the fish, and how the fish see you. Only by closing your eyes can you see and be seen clearly enough to catch their attention. Everybody knows that!”
I’d been dreaming of the moment all my life – the day my Dad would show up to get me and my life, my world, would change. Such dreams are made up of layer upon layer of desire, memory and imagination. They make no pacts with reality. Only plans have the power to connect the two.
My sister and I were playing a video game when Grandma Bea answered the knock at the door that afternoon with a shriek of joyful surprise, “Hey, boy! Come on in here!”
“How are ya doing, Bea? It’s been too long.”
The man’s voice was unfamiliar. The timber, the basso, the speech pattern were all new to my sister and me. After he followed Bea into the living room, she announced in her boombastic fashion, “Boy, this is your daddy!”
Now let me pump my brakes here for a moment and cloud the water. My sister and I had, for as long as I could remember, played the ‘I Wish Momma Was Alive’ game. It’s a game played by all motherless children, but we only ever played it with each other. It was our most sacred time, our most private pact, a connection all our own.
However, it was her father who had killed our mother and left us without. Motherless. So, when I’d express dreams of my dad coming back, it was to get us – not me. The first thing of value I’d ever shared. He took us both for ice cream and we all hung out on the beach. It was cool!
Now, I’d never met my dad. We’d traded pictures when I was about six or so, but that was it. At twelve years old, I looked so much like him that family and friends who saw us together for the first time did a double take. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me! Looking back, it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one who had been dreaming.
What I didn’t know was that the emotion of such long awaited events can place blinders on the most experienced adults and blind children altogether. Not just for a moment, but for years. Ignorance has no shelf life, and while dreams are oft powerful, wonderful, magical things, I never thought they could be dangerous too.
My little sister, whom I‘d shared a bed with for half of my twelve years, must have seen and felt the way my dad looked at me and remembered the excuse we’d been told he’d used to leave me behind in Compton – it had been her.
My grandmother wasn’t going to allow her murdered daughter’s only childen to be raised apart at the time. She also wasn’t going to deny a man who she had known his entire life the chance to raise his son. So, she told him that he had to take us both or he couldn’t have me. It was biblical and the excuse he needed to avoid an obligation he’d felt boxed into showing up for. He ran from the house as if his hair was on fire!
The only reason he was here now, all these years later, was because he had fallen on hard times and had to move his three children and pregnant wife back into his mother’s three-bedroom with my aunt. They were only 24 miles away. But kids avoid the ‘whys’ of their rejection. Such is the danger of dreams. Distortions. Ripples.
My sister must have seen how the love in his eyes excluded her from the dream, the promise I’d made in the dark, sealed with our tears and our motherless wants.
The next week we went to visit my pregnant step-mom, my two younger brothers and my step-sister, who was about nine years old. A ready made family. While the adults were away on a shopping trip, I was left with all of my siblings. My little sister locked my stepsister out of the house until she was in tears. I scolded her for it. I was embarrassed that she would do something like that on a visit.
What made it worse was that, caught up in my own emotions, I never stopped to ask why she would do it. She’d rarely ever been aggressive or mean. But I missed it! And it’s possibly one of the biggest mistakes in a life full of mistakes. I was angry and I must have been cruel and unloving, rejecting the sister I’d shared a life with for the sister I’d just met – not my intent at all.
The situation had so angered my grandma Bea that she threatened to beat me over it, but all I heard was her angry attack. So I sought to defend what I never intended in the first place, eyes wide open, I thought my vision clear at the time.
Adults do not have it in them to not think about what comes next – that is the breath catching province of children. Adults have experienced too many consequences for that ‘next’ to be ‘the’ factor. Their minds have been trained, much like a dog with a newspaper is taught to sit, roll over, or to play dead.
But at twelve years old, adults would yell, and I would just shut down and defend. I didn’t know how to think my way through being wrong. It’s vital because the best lies ever told happen in the vacuum of your mind, simply because there’s no one there to call ‘Bullshit!’
I went to live with my father and didn’t see my sister again for more than 18 months, the longest we had ever been apart in our young lives. We’ve never spoken of that day, that time, the things that I said and did, or the rift between us that has been growing for more than 37 years. I never told her how sorry I am, for all of it was my fault. That sorrow eats away at my bones, one of the worst things I’ve ever done.
I haven’t spoken to my mother’s only other child in more than 22 years. Still waters run deep. Doing ninety years in prison, I get reports on the activities of her life from family even as my life stands still. The irony of that balance is not lost on me.
I recently met her son as he came through the system, a man that I didn’t know who had only heard rumors of an uncle he never thought was real. She still doesn’t accept my call. Family has ever been like eating spaghetti with a spoon. Doable, but only if you are very hungry. Love and efforts simply are not enough at times, yet they are the only bait worthy of fishing with.
So, I’ll cast again, for life, until my arm gives out. Then I’ll switch hands. What I won’t do is act as if the reflections cast by the ripples on the surface of the water are real. The pain of our casting, in reality, causes a splash and sinks much deeper than we know. It’s the ripples of our dreams that distort our vision. So, I’ve been resting my eyes when I fish and hoping that my little sister remembers to do the same. Who knows, maybe then we can see each other again, or at least more clearly. But fishin’ ain’t catchin’.
ABOUT THE WRITER. DeLaine’s descriptive way of writing always paints pictures in my mind. He has a way of taking you back in time with him, to places you have never been. I’m hoping one day he will put together a book, and I will be first in line to purchase it. I simply love his writing.
Mr. Jones has served over three decades for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 Snake River Correctional Institution 777 Stanton Blvd Ontario, Oregon 97914-8335
Over the 22 years I’ve been on Death Row, the days have become progressively more difficult. The physical toll it exacts is unabating; the mental toll, too strenuous to bare. Incarceration is like starting off every morning at the bottom and laboriously scaling up the ladder to morale. Nobody wakes up in prison feeling good about themselves, and feeling worthy comes with effort. For many, being incarcerated will be our greatest challenge in life, shaping us in the best or worst way. It’s adversity come to declare war on our peace of mind and the price of defeat is our mental wellness. It should come as no surprise, the drawbacks of this system that devalues human rights, which is why it takes a special kind of resilience to get through the day.
Over the years, I have relied on several mechanics to stave off the despondence of daily restrictions. I’ve put in long hours at the poker table. I’ve watched enough TV to go blind. I’ve swapped war stories, read tons of books, and even meditated to fill the void. I’ve sang and written and turned to prayer when singing and writing didn’t work. But the one thing that has been a constant relief for me is dance. Yep, you read that right… dance. Dancing has gotten me through the toughest moments, not just on Death Row but throughout my life.
I came up in a time when family and friends frequently expressed their love for one another through dance. Drunks slow grinding. Church folks stomping. And those non-dancing head boppers who just couldn’t help themselves. I started dancing myself when I was around four, merely twisting and shaking to the music while the grown-ups chuckled and pitched me coins, showering me with a feeling of acceptance. By thirteen, I was plagued with insecurities and too ashamed to dance. I envied the other teens during Friday night dance battles at the community center as they performed, seemingly without fear or reservations. Envy gave way to passion, and I began practicing dance in private, choreographing routines with the help of my kid sister. Then one day I danced before a crowd, and all my insecurities slipped away. I knew right then I would never stop dancing again.
I didn’t set out in life to be a great dancer, just one who wasn’t ashamed. It didn’t seem right to quit doing something I loved for the sake of others’ opinions. Too often we buy into the narrative of dance with words like rhythm, grace, and beauty. Yet we lose sight of the most important attribute of dance – its potential for healing. I dance whenever the C/O’s piss me off. I dance when I’m locked in the cell. I dance to prevent shit talking inmates from provoking me to fight. I dance around the dayroom, the rec yard and throughout the hallways – wherever I’m in the mood; and what’s validating is when the other inmates not only encourage me – but are themselves inspired to dance.
Dancing isn’t meant to be taken too seriously, unless you’re a serious dancer. It’s okay to clown around if it helps us to feel better about ourselves. I, myself, am a fan of crumping, a dance style that consists of hard-hitting, chest popping versatility, except I’m forty-eight with bad knees, self-taught, and mediocre at best. But do I let that stop me from reaching my happy place… hell no. I man up and go for mine. And when the dance ends and the euphoria fades away, I find that prison is a little more bearable.
Dance doesn’t belong to the rhythmic and the graceful – it’s a force that’s driven by emotions, the therapeutic resolve of our inner conflict when words otherwise fail. Dance has been not only a confidence builder for me, but also my source of inspiration allowing me the spontaneity to express myself in a place where emotional expression is generally discouraged. It is a spiritual catalyst that transcends incarceration and brings me closer to peace of mind, therefore I dance to get through the days in prison because dancing sets me free.
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.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
I have been called young, dumb and uneducated. I use those words to prove insults ignite my efflorescence. I view my mind as a seed, so I water it daily. There are not enough resources for incarcerated citizens to further their education. It’s also not probable in the eyes of those who keep us that ‘criminals’ want to propel positively. Most of them deem rotting in a cell as our final destination. They see us as one-dimensional; our minds not liberal. We aren’t fit to have wit.
Arriving to prison in my juvenescence, I had no major objective. I was a die-hard, savage, gang-banging, jokester. They say prison is not a joking matter. I had to learn the hard way. Prison is very similar to a Love and Hip Hop episode to me. The facility I’m in consists of sex, drugs, drama and fighting that never ceases. The grounds for saying this is, if you aren’t trying to change, the prison won’t make you. The day I saw this for myself, I made a decision to educate myself. It was a mental release from my physical shackles.
The shake-off alone was a huge eye-opener for me. I spent my entire adolescence playing Russian roulette. I am 24 and in prison, so what did I do? I got cracking on my road to edifying by reaching out to any and every organization whose mission was to help the incarcerated. I expanded my library, replacing the entertainment with all self-help and educational books. I began reading, studying and teaching myself the subjects from high-school that I didn’t pay attention to. I buckled down on my purpose in life using the aversion as a flame. I had to choose to elevate my means of brainpower, because I could not give my haters any satisfaction.
It seemed as though I was possessed by a supernatural determination. I was radically looking toward my future. The mere thought of returning to this depressing digression put my determination on one hundred percent. The slight use of hostile insults from TDOC staff pushed me to follow my dreams. The more I allocate my energy towards proficiency – the less energy the staff inhibits.
Every night when I sit on my bunk, I smile a proud, prodigious grin. I am proud of my prospering cerebration. All of the arrogant insults gave me inspiration to prove that prisoners are clever, resourceful and intelligent. If it was not for my current circumstances, I wouldn’t have pushed my ability to learn and understand the importance of my own brain. I truly appreciate the garbage that was tossed my way – it shocked my blossom in an awesome way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quineshia Townsel is only our second female writer, so I was excited before I even had a chance to read the submission. Of course, I was even happier once I read her piece. Education, books, reading, and access to things of those nature has, throughout history, been withheld, subtly or not so subtly, to keep people in a ‘box’. I am glad Quineshia sent this in, I’m glad she is inpired, and I hope she keeps writing and reaching. She can be contacted at:
Quineshia Townsel #597032 West Tennessee State Penitentiary 480 Green Chapel Road P.O. Box 1150 Henning, TN 38041
Note: This is third in a series. 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 go 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. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
September 2, 2014 (Tuesday, 7:46 pm)
Man, what a wonderful day – not necessarily for me and especially not for all hating-ass envious dudes who don’t wanna see nobody get ahead, but for Big Hen and the McCollum family. Dude went home today – wow, man, how great is that. I was speechless when I saw the news, but happy nonetheless. I guess it does pay to have hope. I lost my hope a long time ago and didn’t even know it. I held on for as long as I could, then I just stopped believing in justice. I’ve gotta get my hope back – sometimes things do get better.
My man, Big Hen. Good luck out there bruh, and I’m gonna miss you.
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.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
My hands fill the world with pain. They cause destruction at almost every turn. This is something I learned at a very young age. I remember being a little kid, more than three or four, and my mother had a hold of my wrists. She was telling me how bad I was. I had colored all over my closet door. My hands were bad; they ruined things. That’s what I learned.
As I grew older, this pattern continued. My hands kept breaking various objects, and I kept learning how bad I was. From dropping glasses to shooting BBs through windows, my hands destroyed most of what they touched. My handwriting was atrocious and remained that way. I lacked the ability to draw, paint, color, or create anything with my hands. My hands aren’t a mechanism for art or creation; they’re for destruction. That’s what I have learned.
As a teenager, the destruction that was left in the wake of my touch was exacerbated. I used my hands to break hearts, to withhold love, and to isolate myself from others. One day the inevitable happened, and I destroyed worlds ten times over when my hands gripped a gun and my finger pulled a trigger.
As I write this, I look at my hands. They look like hers. Every line, crack, print, swollen knuckle, I got from her. Seeing these day after day, moment after moment, fills me with pain. Still, after all these years, my hands cause pain. Endless, inescapable pain – that’s what I’ve learned.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ashleigh is fairly new to WITS, but she certainly does not write as if she is a new writer. Her willingness to make herself vulnerable in her writing makes it even stronger. Through sharing her thoughts, her hands made something very touching here. Ashleigh can be contacted at:
Ashleigh Dye #1454863 Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women 144 Prison Lane Troy, VA 22974
routinely waking up at 4 a.m. while the prison sleeps. it’s as if the concrete softens when foamed in silence.
filling my clear plastic tumbler with scalding water, scooping in dusty coffee, then watching it bloom through the water. like the emotion i feel when my girlfriend laughs at my jokes.
when my buddy Kenny (whose dementia makes him unsteady as hell) suddenly buckled at the knee, i caught him just inches off the floor. in front of witnesses.
when I called my elderly mother, i honestly thought my sister had answered – so strong, steady, and wrinkle-free, her voice.
the perfectly shaped handprints on the floor of Cliff’s cell. he’s ratcheted out so many push-ups in the same spot, his palmsweat has blackstained the gray cement.
remembering how respect washed across our prison chaplain’s face her first day, when she borrowed my Bible to locate a verse and discovered my underlines, highlights, and notes covering every single page.
when I saw white dust all over the navy blue apron draped across my chest during my haircut, i thought it was baby powder, not gray hair.
i am still grateful for the tingly feeling in my belly that signals a great poem idea, though it also means i need to shit.
i love how loopy time is. despite having been in prison seventeen years, freedom feels fresh as yesterday. at the same time it feels like prison is all i’ve ever known.
the euphoria triggered by late-afternoon light. it has a mystical, dreamlike quality. rocks spew water and walls crumble at a word in light like this. it reminds me: anything is possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer, co-author of Crimson Letters, and author of his very own, recently published Interface. I love to hear from him. He has a unique style, all his own. The above poem was compiled from excerpts from his gratitude journal. As he puts it, he “wanted to look for things I loved about everyday life.” As always – I love it when George sends his writing our way. To read more of his work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
And just in case NC’s book choice was not up your alley – this is the official start of our new Arizona Book Club!
Their choice this go round….
The Family Upstairs, by Lisa Jewell!
I read this book a few months ago, so I will be passing on this first read, but my opinion – I enjoyed it! I would definitely give it a 4.5 out of 5 stars. I hope they enjoy it as much.
A side note to the Arizona Book Club – I was told I could not order from my usual book supplier for Arizona. I was also told to try Hamilton Book. Wow. This is not an advertisement, but if you want to join us on this read – the paperback costs only $3.95! I couldn’t really believe that. Again, not an advertisement, but as the sponser of these book clubs, that was very much appreciated. In addition to that good news, the Arizona readers intend to donate their books to the library when they get done reading. I think that is a win for everybody!
The NC Book Club has been in existence for about a year and a half now, and we are going strong. This week we started The Testaments, by Margaret Atwood. I was surprised when a member chose The Handmaid’s Tale by the same author last month. And, again, I’m surprised by another member choosing the follow up to that book.
That is one aspect of our NC book club that I find fascinating – each individual person’s book choice when it is their turn. I would not have suspected any of the titles we have read. And the choices are all so unique.
So, our summer reading will be wrapping up with The Testaments. If you want to read with us, feel free, and you can message me anytime with feedback or thoughts, or if you want to pass along any messages to the book club members themselves!
I never knew my father. I have long since come to terms with that, but as a young child, it crushed me. I questioned why my dad would not want to be ‘my’ dad and eventually concluded he just didn’t love me. Years later, when my own daughter was born, I held her in the delivery room and made a promise to both of us that I would never fail her the way my father failed me – never cause her to question my love. I broke that promise spectacularly when she was only four years old. I went to jail and, later, prison with a life sentence.
My broken promise put my daughter in a highly vulnerable demographic. One in forty children in this country is affected by parental incarceration, the math works out to 2.6 million kids with at least one parent in a cage. This separation afflicts children with emotional and behavioral problems, low grades in school, high dropout rates, and a higher risk of incarceration. These effects scream the importance of incarcerated parents staying connected to their kids and their lives as much as possible. But how do you do that from here?
I discovered my answer while wasting away in county jail for two years. I spent most of the time sifting through the wreckage of my former life and weighing the damage my actions caused. One of the most tormenting pieces of debris was the lost connection to my daughter. In desperation, I did the only thing available – I wrote letters to her, pouring my heart out to the little girl left behind. There were tears as I expressed sorrow for not being the father I had promised and knowing she would suffer for my mistakes; there were smiles (even laughs) as I shared some of our good memories – endless Disney movies, ad-lib bedtime stories, and epic hide-and-seek games in our home, where the actual challenge was not finding the uncontrollable giggler hiding in front of the sofa.
As the letters piled up, a family member reached out offering to receive them and, when my daughter was older, give them to her if she ever asked about me. With great difficulty, I managed to stifle my excitement. I did, however, allow a glimmer of hope in my heart that we might one day reunite.
There are prison programs that assist incarcerated fathers with connecting to their kids – Fatherhood Accountability, One Day With God, etc. These are commendable programs worth taking advantage of, but they are mere drops in the bucket. It takes so much more to develop strong, loving relationships with our children. I found that writing letters helped me. Through letters our children get to know who we are. Through writing letters, we also get to process the separation as well. Some may hesitate for fear of sounding foolish, and I struggled with this at times. But I fought through with the belief that any emotion infused in a letter will be felt when it is read. What I wrote on those pages, the good and the bad, eventually made me real to my daughter, all of my tears and smiles made an impact.
I received my daughter’s first letter seventeen years into my sentence. The very first line – the first thing she wanted to say to me after so much time – “Hey, dad, I just finished your letters and would like for us to get to know each other… again.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Geoff is 21 years into a life sentence without the possibility of parole. The inspiration for his essay was the impact his letter writing had on reconnecting with his child. That came through so clearly in the essay as well as the accompanying letter. What also came across in his letter was his excitement at expanding his writing, which gets me excited. That is what WITS is all about, and I hope Geoff continues to share his writing here. Geoff can be contacted at:
