I had a plethora of ‘special visits’ within the past week – four visitation days filled with two different people, for a total of sixteen hours.  Had I not been awarded such visits from caring friends, I would have spent those hours within a defeat filled prison cell.

During those four hours of conversation, topics range from favorite TV shows – they liked Mork & Mindy, I liked Punky Brewster – to cartoons like the Smurfs, Care Bears, Voltron, and Underdog – a classic.

We talk about food, although my guests are all vegans.  They talk about nuts and crackers, while I ask, “Where’s the beef?”  When they buy me snacks, they refuse to eat in front of me.  No one likes getting food stuck in their teeth around me – what’s up with that?

We discuss politics, books read, family issues and jobs.  We talk about their dealings just as much as mine, and we will cover a wide range of wild and mundane topics.  At some point the unavoidable will arise, though I try to avoid it – my pending execution/murder.  After all, it’s the reason we are ‘here’.  It’s why our sailing ships crossed paths within the massive sea of interactions.

My friend, Mary, is from England where they drive on the wrong side of the road, though she begs to differ.  It’s where they say ‘arse’ instead of ass.  Can you imagine Cardi B singing about her ‘arse’?  Just don’t sound right.  Mary comes from a land where Mary Poppins isn’t a myth – rather a legend.  When she told her family and friends that she was coming to America to visit a man on Texas death row they asked, “Have you gone mad (lost your mind)?”

People often ask me if I am mad.  Bitter.  I’m not pretentious by nature, and what you see is exactly what you get.  So – in the tone of my cussing pastor and actor, Samuel L. Jackson, “You damn right I get mad and bitter!”  Even though hardly anyone ever sees that in me. 

“Chucky, I have one more question.  I would like to know just as the people of England would like to know – how do you stay so strong?  How can you stay smiling and positive?”

It’s a fair question.  One I’m often asked.  And, bravado has it’s place – but not in my story.  To put on a brave face would make a mockery of the struggle of being isolated all day for decades without the touch of another human being’s skin.  It is written, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’  I guess my oppressors didn’t get that memo.  How do I stay strong?  I pointed to her through the glass, to her surprise.  “Me?”

“You and people like you.” 

It’s not lost on me that it’s not easy entering a prison to come visit me. I understand the money and time so freely given to afford me a few hours of comfort.  I’m always grateful for it.  We are all – literally – strangers from different cultures, with different likes and different social economic norms.  The thought that strangers come to my aid and show me what love is – is humbling.  Without my friends, I would be nothing…  Nothing.

I draw strength from the acts of others who display a courage and unmanacled devotion on a scale that I can never fully comprehend.  I think about how busy their lives are and how they still find the time to think about me and write me.  They visit me knowing they are going to be made uncomfortable by guards. 

I think about my friend, Debbie, who was diagnosed with brain cancer and lung cancer and has undergone multiple surgeries within the past year. She has been a constant in my life since 2004.  And when she was told I lost my final appeal she argued with the doctor to discharge her so she could fly to see me and offer comfort so I wouldn’t feel alone. 

I think about my play-daughter and her mom and how they have enriched my life by adopting me into their family.  They are two of the greatest humanitarians my eyes have ever witnessed – and they shed tears for me and the injustice that has befallen me for two decades.  Some people have seen Gandhi, Mandela, Sojourner Truth, Dr. King and so on – to them, they are heroes.  My play-daughter and her mother are my icons, my heros – my angels.  If I don’t live to see another day, I know I have been cared for by people that are greater than this life.

Then there’s Mary.  She’s laughter.  She’s Lucille Ball funny and one of the most non-judgmental people there is.  She’s a great religious orator and an advocate for children who have been abused or suffer mental illness. She is a fascinating person and a genuine friend, as well as her husband.

These people are the core of my support group and the source of the strength others see in me.  If I’m strong, it’s because I have been shown and taught what strength looks like and feels like.  I am strong because I have been loved freely by those who so freely love.  That’s strength. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.

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

Writing By Charles Mamou

Death Row is a somberness that never quits and a psychological dismay that never stales, offering fleeting hope in the distance, while an unspeakable cruelty lurks from behind.  It is the veil of vengeance over the face of forgiveness and the dark that seldom brightens.   And it is a system designed to diminish one’s spirit by decades of prolonged executions.   

Enter Joe – a highly spirited, gentle soul and a bonafide hillbilly (his words, not mine).  Joe was amongst several death row inmates whom I met upon arrival.  Although he and I didn’t quite vibe at first, eventually we became good friends.  Our divide was mainly due to our backgrounds which were astronomically worlds apart. However, proximity and shared affliction pieced us together and our friendship was a perfect fit.

Joe was an avid watcher of daytime soaps, bounding around the pod enthusiastically while awaiting his favorite shows. I’d listen to him zestfully recount weekly episodes until he finally piqued my interest.  Before long I was bouncing alongside Joe; the soaps were our escape.

Joe was a tinker also, an essential figure in every inner prison’s workings. Tinkers improvise using commonplace items to effectively service their inmate community.  In need of a coffee brewer?  See Joe.  Stogie roller?  That was Joe too.  From radio repairs to holiday greeting cards, Joe lent a little of himself to everyone.  And when matters were somewhat trivial, still he was eager to help.

I became most endeared to Joe the day he tattooed my forearm. We sat and chatted up one another as he tagged me with his artistry.  Joe opened up to me about his spiritual ambitions and the difficulties in his past. It made me realize, though our differences were superficial our adversities were much the same. I watched as Joe embraced his vulnerability as a means to mend his spirit. It taught me that my own woes were much deeper than death row; I suffered a darkness within.

Afterwards, Joe became the bright spot to every waking day.  A stickler for cleanliness, he swept and mopped the pod each morning before dawn.  Joe then turned to cigarettes and coffee to crank out his lively mood and for hours on end he would laugh and joke – and death row never felt so good.

Joe was a jack-of-all trades, though hardly a master at all.  He was a joyful klutz at basketball, yet the first to laugh at himself. At poker, he was a heavy better and lost with his heart carefree.  He was deeply committed to the happiness of others – happiness gave Joe peace.

It was three years past when the news came down and Joe faced a darkness of his own. The courts rejected the last of his appeals and issued him an execution date. Suddenly there was aridness in the air that ached with sympathy and despair. Well-wishers barely spoke above whispers as they internalized with ‘what ifs’.  Joe put troubled minds at ease by insisting that he was fine – but on the day that his executioners  came, he said to me, “Man, I don’t wanna die.”

In that moment, I was stumped for words.  I had nothing to offer but sadness.  I wanted so much to give Joe absolution and shoo his killers away. I felt helpless and betrayed for the coming demise by an evil which met no resistance.  The terrible truth was – my fears were also selfish.  I didn’t know how to be on Death Row without Joe.

Joe and I embraced for the last time, his cheeks slicked with tears while his eyes held out hope for the governor’s stay. 

He then bid goodbye to others as the party of white shirts escorted him to Deathwatch where he faced his final adversity alone.  Joe was executed by lethal injection.  It was a harsh reality that pitched Death Row into darkness.

Death Row is an immoral chasm filled with broken spirits. It is insubstantial highs and demoralizing lows in the fight to stay alive. However, having Joe around was like a break in the action.  His kindness lit up the dark – and I’m grateful to have had his light shone on me, if only for a short while.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is the winner of Walk In Those Shoes’ first spring writing contest. He rose to the occasion, as did many. The goal of the contest was to share light people saw and experienced behind bars, and I think what has become apparent is that often times – it was the light in the writers’ themselves that was shared.
Terry writes for us often, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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