I guess…

I always tell people if they’re capable of being the ‘glass half full’ type, I would advise them to do so for as long as possible in here.  It’s not so bad until you realize the fullness of where you are and what has happened.   But sooner or later, the bitter reality of prison settles in and changes who you are fundamentally.  You witness something so inhumane that when the shock wears off you realize you aren’t the same and may never be.  There is nothing more dreadful than to see a human’s capacity for hate.

About a week ago a very young and impressionable young man was almost beat to death by another impressionable young man at the direction of a bunch of cowards.  The last I knew for sure was the victim of the savage beating was in the ICU on life support. I have since heard that the young man died from his injuries, but that is only a rumor, and I pray it remains so.  The man who committed this horrible act will be held accountable, of that I am sure.  The cowards who directed the violence will probably not be held accountable at all, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Since I was very young, I was told to take heart when I witness this kind of injustice, for there is a God above who is just and will visit His vengeance upon those who are due it. I find myself hoping that this is true until I think about the fact that I too deserve God’s vengeance for my actions.  Then I’m a little more inclined to advocate for divine mercy.

Light in a dark place?  Maybe.

This is my eighteenth year in prison.  I took an innocent life when I was young and impressionable.  There were no cowards to direct me to do it.  I was the coward to blame.  I did the best I could to deal with the hurt I caused.  Ever hopeful, I have never stopped looking for the silver lining in the black cloud I cultivated and actively pull around with me, but I grow tired.  I’ve carried guilt and shame I never knew possible to carry and pray you never have to. The lies, deflection and denial that I created out of desperation to protect myself, ultimately infected me.  They crawled under my skin and made a bed down deep in my bones.  When I ask them to leave, they reason with me, “You can’t do this on your own.  You wouldn’t throw out old friends would ya?”

“I would if I could,” I whisper. 

“We can hear you…  Be careful, or we’ll expose you, coward!”  they cackle.

What are my choices?  I have to keep moving on.  The human spirit can be indomitable, and maybe that’s the light in a dark place.  If there is a God – and I really pray there is because even if that means judgment at least I know it will be righteous judgment – there’s a possibility for forgiveness…  Someday.

Light in a dark place?  Why not?

Anything is possible, and maybe that’s what life is about.  I’ve seen love in here.  It’s fleeting, but I have seen it.   Maybe all the love I can count on is the love I show, and that’s both sad and hopeful at the same time.  It’s like the Gandhi quote everyone rips off, “Be the change you want to see in the world.”  Sometimes quotes help, like at graduations and in presidential speeches, but they aren’t very inspirational when you feel like you’re dying.  That’s kind of a quote, I guess.

What’s truly beautiful is the human capacity to love, and there is nothing greater than that except the love of God, I guess.   So, if I am looking for the light in a dark place… why can’t it be me?

Light in a dark place?   I hope so.

I just heard the young man who was beaten mercilessly the other day may still be alive.  I hope with all hope and pray with all my heart to a God whom I really need to hear me that he is alive and that he makes a full recovery.  If he does make it, things will be a lot brighter for all of us.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King’s was the very last entry to arrive for the spring essay contest. Although he wasn’t the winner, he was one judge’s first choice, and everyone who read his entry was moved by it. I hope we hear from him again. Joshua can be contacted at:
Joshua King #69192
ISCC-F1-44A
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

Man, I’m tired!  I want to know better.   Do better.  Eventually be better.   It’s hard when you’re paying for inflicted pain. 

Today, my Father’s Day visit was great.  I heard my son describe his joys and pains, his eyes lowered as he spoke in whispers, his hands becoming fidgety at times.  He looked at me when he was done talking, but his eyes continued to speak.  Unknowingly, his words stung me, as he described things I wished to shelter him from. 

Have you ever had a child ask you a question you really didn’t have the answer to?  You don’t want to lie because you know it would eat you up inside, and eventually they’ll see that you lied to them.  So, you decide to toughen up and tell them you don’t know.  Then you hear them go into their own thoughts, as they help you know the answer, like you are the child. 

Today I felt like I could never be ready for fatherhood.  That’s something you have to do and be physically.  I wanted to swipe away his surroundings, work with him, clean his room with him, have conversations with him and help him with his strength.  I wanted to wipe the tears from his eyes, but thought I had better not – let him search. 

All these wishes and wants.  I’ve got to stop this shit, and find a way to stay on top of it.  That’s my seed and Father’s Day will be over shortly.   He’ll be home sleeping, maybe wondering, and me here – hoping.  I wonder how he felt when he left today.  I gave him a lot for his little mind to process.  He told me he understood, but I know that was his heart talking with his pride.  It’s me that doesn’t understand.  My lil’ homie is a champ, and he’s indifferent to the difference.  He’ll make it better. 

I just hope he never gets tired of reading my letters…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tedderick Batiste writes from his cell on Texas’ Death Row. He can be contacted at:
Tedderick Batiste #999568
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

There is no shortage of horror stories from individuals whose lives have been destroyed by wrongful conviction, or who are serving outrageous sentences because of incompetent or indifferent representation, or who were slammed by fanatical, win at all costs, prosecutors who are often little better than criminals themselves.

My story isn’t one of those.  I could list why’s and tell the back story – but none of it justifies taking a man’s life.  My story is one of a million sad tragedies that fill the annals of newsrooms.

Sentenced to life, I’ve been incarcerated since 1994 and in solitary confinement since 2004 after an escape attempt went very badly.  Like my original crime, I could list the why’s – the violence, the conditions, the prison sexual predators… but none of it justifies hurting others.  I don’t ask for or expect sympathy.   I did wrong and however painful it is, I have to accept the consequences.

There are no policies against indefinite or permanent solitary confinement in the State of Texas.  Chances are I will die in solitary, and I only say this to illustrate that I know a thing or two about darkness.  After fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen a lot of it… Indeed, I’m currently housed on the James V. Allred Unit – a unit known for having the highest suicide rate in the state and one of the highest numbers of uses of force against inmates.  There’s nothing I haven’t seen in solitary.

However, even in a place such as this there is light to be found.  Simple acts of kindness – sometimes from guards, sometimes from inmates… hardened gang leaders, violent men, extending kind gestures to strangers and acquaintances alike.  I have been both the recipient and the one offering, but the light I want to speak on is the light that shines from the outside in…

The efforts – often in the face of scorn, ridicule and personal sacrifice – by advocates, activists and family members who rally for change, who visit the lonely and forgotten and work tirelessly to shine a light on America’s Gulag Archipelago.

These people give the condemned hope – the activists fighting for criminal justice and sentencing reform, demanding improvements in mental health treatment, improvements in conditions, treatment and transparency.  Those willing to simply share a little of their time by writing a letter or offering some small gesture for the woman or man who has no family, no hope for release, or terminal illness.

These people are rays of light that illuminate dark places.  They make a difference and inspire change and give hope to those of us in seemingly hopeless situations.  I know this to be true because I’ve seen and experienced it.  Were it not for the kindness of strangers, my world would be a much darker place.  Were it not for the hope that activists may one day force change in the solitary confinement policies across the country, my outlook would be very bleak.

So, while there’s no shortage of horror stories about prison conditions and treatment of prisoners, there is also no shortage of light, no shortage of individuals willing to try and make a difference and be a voice for the voiceless.

To all of you who care, I think I speak for every prisoner in saying a heartfelt – Thank You!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He was an entrant in our recent writing contest that was only supposed to have one prize winner, but there were three writers that caught our eye and are deserving of an Honorable Mention. Dalton is one of those three, and I hope we hear from him again. Dalton can be contacted at:
Dalton Collins
#768733 Allred
2101 FM 369 N.
Iowa Park, TX 76367

I was almost eleven years old and had lived in Lake Tahoe for under a year, a beautiful place and my personal favorite city.  My mother brought the three of us there after fleeing the big pink house in Oak Park, a house full of anger and physical abuse.  The abuse had risen to a new high.  My stepfather, her husband, had previously restricted the physical violence to just my mother and I, leaving both of his ‘real’ children alone.  When, for the first time, he beat my little brother and broke his arm, it seemed to be the final straw for my mother and she fled. 

For years, my mom and I had been the focus of anger and frustration, and I had several trips to the E.R. under my belt by the time I was ten.  There was the time I was pushed from the top of the house for ‘playing on the roof’, dislocating my hip and cracking my tailbone.  When my face was shoved through a dresser, I’d broken the bone in the orbit of my eye and had some facial lacerations.  One time, after being punched and force fed jalapenos, I received a concussion and damage to my lips and throat – it was punishment for lying. 

While I had not escaped my mother’s beatings with the move, I had escaped the worst of the violence, and for two months stayed with her ‘friend’, a man named Steve Jones.  He was kind and generous, and my life improved. 

I was out one afternoon, running through the trees and collecting tree seeds. I had discovered them one day when one landed on my face.  Looking up, I saw that every couple of minutes, they would fall from the trees, spiraling down slowly and landing on the ground. They reminded me of the little toy army men with parachutes on four thin strings, the ones meant to be thrown into the air so the parachute would deploy, and the little man would float to the ground.  They never seemed to work well, not like the seeds that floated in their super thin leaf like covering.  These would spin and spin, floating safely to the ground.  I took to throwing rocks into the trees to shake the limbs and dislodge them in hopes of seeing them fall. The seeds themselves were encased in a bean like shell that, once cracked open, offered up the meat much like a sunflower seed.  I loved to collect and eat them.

Steve’s apartment was on the end of the building, and when I got back to his apartment that day I was not visible to him and my mother when I approached.  As I got close to turning the corner, I heard what sounded like an argument and slowed. It was always wise to measure my mother’s mood before entering a room, and I could hear that she was angry.

“I have enough to move, but you said ten!  You still owe me seven!”

“I know, and I will pay you, Sue. It’s just taking longer than I thought.”

“You keep saying that, but if you don’t have it before I move, I’m taking him with me!”

“I’ll have it.”

They were still talking loudly when I walked away. They both smoked, and it was as gross to me then as it is now.  He smoked Camels, no filter, and she the Salem ultra light something or other. When they finished talking, they went back inside the apartment, and I came in a few minutes later.  They seemed happy to see me.

My mother moved about a month later.  She took my brother and sister to wherever she went and left me with Steve.  It wasn’t until much later and after much pain that I understood that my mother had sold me to her ‘friend’ – a pedophile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  The above is an excerpt from Jeremy Robinson’s, The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Jeremy can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351