I’ve had an infection over my front right top tooth – #8 –
for two weeks. I tried cutting it open
myself with a razor blade and a needle.
Nothing worked, so I had to go to dental.
At dental I was told #8 had to either be extracted or a root
canal needed to be done. The co-pay was
a hundred dollars. I couldn’t afford to
have them taking money out of my account. I just cannot live on $10 a month. I felt so ashamed telling them, “No, I cannot
afford to have the debt.” I felt irresponsible
and ‘old me’.
It kept swelling. The longer the wait, the less likely the root canal would work. I went back to my cell and cried – HATING this life. HATING the choices remaining to me.
The dentist had looked at me like I was stupid, like, “Well,
what can you expect?”
It hurts. I’m NOT
what they see us all as. I’m NOT
irresponsible. I’m NOT stupid.
And, I don’t want to lose my front tooth! But if I wait and let it get so severely
infected that it’s considered ‘life threatening’, they’ll pull it for free… Am I pathetic for even considering this?
So. I refused
treatment. Maybe I can get an antibiotic
from another inmate. It will be intended
to treat something else, so might not work, but I’ll get them for a dollar or
two.
My life is pathetic.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory and is currently working on several projects. He can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
My lower back feels the pain of twenty years of incarceration and sleeping on a thin piece of plastic the MDOC calls a mattress. The steel frame holds my 208 pound frame, and the darkness of my cement cage conceals the vulnerabilities I keep hidden from predators. Tears form in my eyes, but not even in the presence of myself can I cry. Not because it’s not manly – but because I’m numb to the pain.
I find myself replaying
an earlier conversation. I was talking
to a guy named Santana. I’ve known him
for twelve years now. I was eight and a
half years deep into my LWOP sentence when he first came. I took a liking to Santana from the start, so
I did the same thing the old heads did with me when I came. I shared with him some knowledge I felt would
help him on his journey. That was twelve years ago, and now Santana is knee
deep into his own LWOP sentence.
Today he literally shook
my foundation when he told me that he was ready for death. My first reaction
was one of concern, so I asked, “You’re not thinking about taking yourself out
of the game?”
He replied, “Naw,
big homie. I can’t do that, but I would
rather die than live out my days like this.”
I understood where he was coming from. I’ve often had that same thought over the course of my twenty years. I think everybody that is sentenced to death by incarceration has had that thought at one point. There are many nights one goes to sleep hoping not to wake up, only to waken to the reality of captivity. It wears on a person’s mind, body, and soul to wake up day after day in this dehumanizing environment.
It hurts to know I’ve served twenty years, four months, and fifteen days, but I’m no closer to physical freedom than I was twenty years, four months and fifteen days ago when I entered this system. Yes, times are changing, and I can see some light now, but it’s like looking up in the sky at night – I can see the stars, but they are so far away. I can see physical freedom, but it is so far away. Yet I keep pushing forward. I keep striving to be a better man. What other option do I have? I can’t fold. I can’t let them break me. I can’t give up. I have to be strong. I have to keep my head up. I have to be productive. I have to be positive because if I don’t, I will lose hope and the pain of LWOP will kill me. I guess then and only then will they consider justice to be served.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers. He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
The first time I ever struck my girlfriend, Renee, it was
due to a lapse in judgment. I begged her
forgiveness and vowed it would never happen again. At the time, I really meant it…
My second offense came when I shoved her to the ground and
cast the blame down with her. My woeful
sense of embarrassment made me deserving of pity, while the real victim
apologized to her aggressor.
By the third time, the abusiveness had become a force of
habit sparked by jealousy and anger. I
believed that if I didn’t hit her, then I would lose her, which made
undermining my integrity necessary.
Renee and I met on Halloween night, 1989. I was fifteen and hanging out at a friend’s house
when she appeared from next door to borrow sugar. Renee was barefooted with piercing brown
eyes, cropped cinnamon hair, and wearing thigh-high shorts and a fitted
tee. She was tiny but feisty, with a daring
personality and striking appeal. While
pranks and sweets were the order of the
day, the night was filled with promise as we sat cuddled up in a dark corner
getting to know one another.
The next night served a crushing blow to my ego when Renee
ran off with another guy. The two of
them disappeared into the night for hours while I was left to sort through my
suspicions. Snared by the thorns of her
charming whispers, I continued to pursue Renee, though nesting in the back of
my mind was a nagging skepticism.
Renee was thirteen with an infant son by a guy who
questioned the child’s paternity. He
showed up one day yelling obscenities and swore that he would never
return. After that, becoming a father
figure was the most exciting and important part of each day. No longer was I a kid who grappled with his
mom over curfews and academics. Fatherhood had given me purpose. I began to skip school to spend time with my
son and sat by his crib while he slept.
I chipped in for diapers and formula when I could afford it, other times
I stole. Being partly responsible for a
life other than my own made me feel as though I mattered, and I couldn’t give
that feeling up for anything in the world… so things had to work out between
myself and Renee.
Once, after being scolded by Renee’s dad, I decided to stay
away for a week. When I returned, I
discovered that Renee had moved on with some other guy. Emotionally wrecked, I walked away toward a
life without Renee until she started rattling off an explanation so earnestly
that before I knew it, I was staying.
Afterwards our relationship became brittle devotions laced with icy
disputes. Loving Renee was difficult at
times, but somehow, staying was easy.
Amidst continuous doubts of faithfulness, the violence of
our sordid union arose. Renee and I had
argued, our moods were tense and the dissension between us escalated. As usual Renee went into explanation mode,
but it was becoming redundant. Her
groveling and swift affection were no longer a remedy. I was getting out.
Agitated, Renee grabbed onto my clothes to prevent my
leaving. Then she cocked her fist and socked me in the nose. I doubled over, thinking, ‘What the hell just happened,’ as blood
and pride trickled to the ground. Even more confusing was her immediate
sympathy as she showered me in apologies and kisses. Her show of cold/hot affection left me
sifting through my head for answers and strangely enough, I felt loved. It was a critical turning point in our
relationship and the seed of a fantastic delusion as I rationalized – a love
that hurt was better than no love at all.
Some months passed before a guy popped up and claimed to be
Renee’s boyfriend. Apparently the two
were dating at school, and he had hoped to take things further. I was so furious with Renee for not denying
his claim that I tried to leave, but I couldn’t. My entire world had collapsed at my feet
while she stood blank-faced and busted. I demanded that she choose – either him
or me. She hesitated. I became so desperate to prove how much I
loved her, I lashed out and slapped Renee.
My palm flared with the sting of indignity as I watched her crumble at
my feet. I then turned my rage on the
schoolyard beau as he hurried on his way.
Appalled by my disgrace, I immediately deflected the
blame. It was all Renee’s fault, she
forced me to hit her, and I wept with self pity and a little self-loathing as
Renee accepted guilt. Even though I promised to never hit her again, I could
sense a drastic change. I was deep in
the throes of a twisted evolution, and the worst was yet to come.
Soon we were both cheating on love and committed to hurting
one another, like the time she pressed a razor blade to my neck or when I
clipped her across the head with a log.
Ironically, the abuse didn’t seem egregious, just something we expected,
typical behavior that was progressively volatile yet reinforced our love.
Renee and I did share wonderful moments together that made the
pain worthwhile. Oftentimes she was my best friend and the person I trusted most. It was only when the trust was questioned that
we tended to bicker and fight – except, Renee hadn’t thrown a punch in years…
the fighting was all me.
Then one night, the illusion shattered and all that remained was the truth. It happened during a cheating allegation that I found myself plotting revenge. I lured Renee to an area that was dark and secluded, then I rehashed an earlier dispute. Renee was flustered and caught off guard, her responses rather dodgy. I then drew back my fist with all the love that I could muster, and I punched her in the face. She stumbled back, horrified, and attempted to bolt, but I grabbed her and struck her again, slamming her to the ground. I insisted on the truth but the truth wasn’t what I was after, it was that fleeting moment of gratification by reciprocating the hurt. Renee scooted away crying and pleading as my vicious love closed in. Then she looked up at me with her mouth filled with blood and said, “Please don’t hurt me, Duck.”
I stopped abruptly, guilt ridden and dejected as my fist
fell limp at my side. I’d never
considered that Renee actually feared me and to see such a thing was unnerving.
I thought of our rambunctiousness as
roles we played to indicate our love for one another, yet to see someone you
love who’s afraid of you was utterly self defining.
I stood ruined, trying to recognize myself, but all I saw
was a monster who would mask the brokenness inside me by victimizing
Renee. I was caught in the cycle of
unethical madness that mistook love and perpetuated cruelty. I’d already witnessed a tragedy at four when
my uncle loved his wife with bullets. My daddy was known to love with his
hands, but my mother wanted something better.
And there I was, resorting to violence to salvage an aching love. I had become someone I detested, a man of
wavering integrity. I abused Renee not
because I loved her, but to scare her into loving me. It was a menacing tactic to manipulate her
feelings while empowering my own. But a
love that is fostered by fear and violence is hardly love at all, but simply
the substance of shame and dishonor that never quite goes away.
Suddenly, I realized that life had more to offer us both, though it was unlikely that we would find it together. But I did love Renee enough to know I would never hurt her again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
In 1999 Wayne Hill, Charles Mamou’s court appointed defense attorney, thanked Mamou’s mother, Angelice, when she handed him a letter he could use to defend his client. Mamou was facing the death penalty, in a case centered on a ‘confession’ to murder. A confession Mamou said never happened. His defense attorney held in his hands a letter written by the man claiming to have heard the ‘confession’, Terrence Dodson. In the letter written to Mamou, Dodson wrote, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”
In addition to the letter, Wayne Hill had access to Dodson’s video statement. Police paid Terrence Dodson a visit early in the investigation when they were looking at him for his involvement in the murder. At that time, he made a video statement claiming Mamou confessed to him. Hill had access to that video, and if he watched it, he would have known all the contradictions between Dodson’s statement and his actual testimony in court.
One of the most significant contradictions was how and when
the alleged ‘confession’ took place. According
to Dodson’s video statement, Mamou called him on Tuesday morning from Louisiana
– even though Mamou wasn’t even in Louisiana on Tuesday morning – and confessed
in a single telephone conversation. Yet
on the stand, Dodson said Mamou began the confession in Texas, face to face, on
Dodson’s sister’s porch. He then went on
to say that the confession continued over a ‘couple days’ in ‘several’ conversations. That wasn’t the only contradiction Dodson
made, there were several.
Wayne Hill, the defense attorney, never entered the letter
Dodson wrote as an exhibit for his client’s trial. He never mentioned the letter,
nor did he mention Terrence Dodson’s many contradictions of his own video statement.
Terrence Dodson is Charles Mamou’s cousin. The prosecution used that relationship to
solidify their argument of guilt, pointing out that Mamou must be guilty if his
own family would testify against him.
They wanted another cousin of Mamou’s to testify as well. That would make the ‘relative’ argument stronger. The only problem with the other cousin, Anthony Trail, was, he didn’t know anything about the night in question. He wasn’t there, and no one had told him anything about what had happened to the victim. He had no desire to get involved because he didn’t have any relevant information to add. The prosecution wanted him involved though. At one point, while being questioned, he had decided he would not testify. Then a man came into the room. According to Trail, he believed the man was the victim’s father, and that was the impression he was given. The man proceeded to persuade Trail to get involved and eventually Trail agreed to testify. We will probably never know if it was actually the victim’s father who persuaded him or someone that was just trying to give that impression. Trail’s testimony added nothing material to the trial because Trail had no knowledge of what happened that night nor had anyone shared with him a ‘confession’. The prosecution didn’t ask him those things on the stand, but rather used him as another ‘family member’ who testified against Mamou. They asked Trail about some sunglasses Mamou and he had picked up the day after the murder, leaving the impression the glasses were some type of evidence, but it was never pointed out for the jury by the prosecution – or defense – that the glasses they picked up were nearly five miles from the crime scene.
Throughout the Mamou trial a sexual assault was repeatedly referred
to for the majority female jury. Although
it was presented as important in the courtroom, outside of the courtroom there was
no urgency to find out if any sexual assault actually occurred that night. Dr. Joyce Carter ordered a rape kit to be done
when the body was found, to include oral swabs, fibers, clothing, fingernail
scrapings, etc. On December 11, 1998, those
items were picked up by an HPD officer and placed in the HPD property room
freezer. There they sat. The rape kit was not ordered to be processed
until long after Charles Mamou was in custody. Eight months after the crime, on July 8, 1999,
and shortly before Mamou’s trial the D.A.’s office requested the rape kit be
processed by the HPD crime lab. The
results – no semen was detected on any items analyzed.
Although the District Attorney’s office ordered the test processed and was given the results, graphic references to sexual assault were repeatedly used throughout the trial, in what appeared to be an effort to inflame the jury – although Mamou was never charged with sexual assault. There was never any evidence a sexual assault took place by anyone, according to the incident report.
Mamou’s defense team left the sexual assault accusations
without argument, never telling the jury that a rape kit was processed months
after the crime that turned up nothing.
Also of note, ‘hairs were collected from the t-shirt’ of the
victim. The hairs were never mentioned
by the prosecution or the defense. It appears they are still in the HPD property
room.
Charles Mamou always maintained his innocence, and the only
witness statements available support his account of his whereabouts that night,
although a couple statements appear to be currently missing as of an Open
Records Request done this year. What is
known is – the victim and Charles Mamou were both on Lantern Point Drive at
approximately 12:00 midnight on the night of December 6, 1998. On that point, all accounts are in
agreement. After a drug deal gone wrong, Mamou and Samuel
Johnson drove away in two separate cars, with the victim in the backseat of the
car Mamou was driving.
Charles Mamou says both men drove to an apartment complex on
Fondren where he was staying while he was in Houston – about a ten mile
drive. That is also the location where Johnson
lived.
A witness statement taken from the woman who lived at the apartment
where Mamou stayed that night indicates Mamou was back at her apartment at
approximately 12:45. In her statement
she spoke of waking up at “about 12:15 AM.”
She then says, “It seem like was around thirty minutes later I heard a
knock on the door.” She goes on to say, “I
asked my brother who was at the door. He
told me it was Chucky.”
That statement indicates that Mamou was exactly where he
said he was forty-five minutes later.
Unfortunately – the jury never knew that statement existed and that
information was never presented to them by Mamou’s defense team.
During the trial the woman’s husband, Howard Scott, testified
and when questioned he was shown his own statement, “when you say Mr. Mamou got
there, does reviewing that statement specifically refresh your memory that it
was 12:15 and 12:45?”
Scott’s answer, “Yes.”
Question, “Okay. So
you’re positive it couldn’t have been later than 12:45?”
And the answer, “No, sir.”
Two witnesses who had no reason to defend or support Charles
Mamou both supported exactly what Mamou said happened. The body of the victim was found on
Lynchester Drive, a location that was about thirty minutes from the Lantern
Point Drive location where the drug deal gone wrong took place. The prosecution’s version of a sexual assault,
murder, and dropping sunglasses at a location on Ashford Point Drive – couldn’t
have been done in 45 minutes. The time
constraints were never outlined for the jury.
There is something else very troubling about Howard Scott’s
testimony. The statement he was shown
while on the witness stand – is not in the case file as of the recent Records
Request.
Howard Scott made two statements to police – one on Tuesday, December 8, and one on Wednesday, December 9. The incident report, received through an Open Records Request only includes one statement. The Incident Report refers to the ‘missing’ statement on December 8, “It was then decided to bring Howard Scott to the homicide office to be interviewed there since there were some discrepancies between his story and Robin’s. Officer Hollins then transported Howard Scott to the homicide office where he was interviewed by Sergeant Novak.” This interview is not in the incident file that was received pursuant to the Open Records Request.
The missing interview is mentioned more than once. It is also referred to later in the incident
report, stating that at 9:45 on Wednesday, December 9, Sergeants Yanchak and
Ferguson went to pick up Robin and Howard Scott to be ‘re-interviewed’.
It is referred to again, “On this date, Sergeant Yanchack
and Sergeant Ferguson assisted Sergeant G.J. Novak and Officer H.F. Chisolm in
the follow up investigation into this offense.
Earlier this date, we had ‘re-interviewed’
two witnesses named Robin Marie Scott and her husband, Howard Scott.”
Even on Page 3 of Howard Scott’s statement taken on Wednesday, December 9, 1998, he refers to the interview the day before, on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, “Around 11:30 AM two detectives showed up and began asking me about Chucky. I told them that Chucky left earlier and gave them permission to search my house. I later came with them to the homicide division.”
But, Howard Scott’s first statement did at one time exist and was also referred to in the court transcripts when Wayne Hill asked Scott to look at it and refresh his memory. The second statement of Howard Scott’s makes no reference to when Mamou arrived back at his apartment, so the statement referred to in court is the one that is now currently missing from the file.
There are other things that appear to be missing from the
file, unless the detectives did not document their work. According to a News Release put out by the
Houston Police Department shortly after the crime, “A second suspect drove away
in what was initially described as a red Dodge Intreped. It has since been determined the vehicle was
an orange Dodge Concorde that was recovered
and inspected.” The news release
referred to the vehicle that Samuel Johnson was driving that night.
During the trial Johnson was specifically asked about that
car. “Did the police then examine your
car?”
Johnson, “They examined it a couple of days after I got out
of jail.”
Although there are photographs of the vehicle in the file,
there is no written report or documentation regarding what was found in the
vehicle.
According to Samuel Johnson, a resident of Houston as well
as an employee of Orkin at the time, he went home after the drug deal, drank a
soda, took a shower and went to bed, not even disturbing his wife to tell her
of his involvement in a shoot out on a dark alley. And
there is no documentation other than photographs of anything that was
discovered inside of the vehicle he was driving.
Other documentation not included in the file are any notes or statements made by other parties located at the apartment complex that night, including interviews of Shawn Eaglin. Eaglin was an integral part of introducing several of the parties according to statements, and the police spoke to him. But there are no statements or interview notes in the file regarding interviews of him. As with the vehicle documentation, there is no way to know if the detectives chose not to document their work or if the documents have been removed from the file. But, according to Robin Scott’s statement, she discussed with Eaglin the homicide division going to her home, Shawn’s home, and the employer of Shawn’s cousin, ‘Ced’.
According to Robin Scott’s and Howard Scott’s statements,
Eaglin was at the apartment complex on the night in question and it would be
expected that detectives spoke to him. Unfortunately, there is no record of those
conversations.
In addition to the impossibility of the 45 minute window of time – it is highly unlikely Mamou could have located the backyard of the house for sale on Lynchester Drive where the body was found. He was from Louisiana, and not a resident of Houston. In the Houston Police Department’s incident report, the location was described by a detectives as follows, “The 9200 block of Lynchester Street is located in the Keagan’s Woods sub-division located on the south side of the 14000 block of Bissonnet Street in Harris County. The Keegan’s Woods subdivision is best accessed by turning south onto Bering Wood Street and continuing south to Plantation Valley and then turning west on Plantation Valley. Lynchester Street intersects with Plantation Valley. Lynchester Street does not intersect with Bissonnet and is a difficult street to locate.” That is how a HPD detective described the location, and an investigator recently told me she had difficulty locating it, even with her GPS.
The ability of Charles Mamou, a resident of Louisiana, to
have found the location was never brought up by Mamou’s defense attorney for
the jury.
For whatever reason, Charles Mamou’s defense team did not present most of the above information. The jury wasn’t left with a lot to consider regarding Mamou’s innocence. As unusual as this may sound – they were given a lot more than in a typical trial. The jury was shown autopsy photos and heard painful, heart wrenching testimony from family members of victims of crimes Mamou was never charged with. As unbelievable as that may sound – it happened. Mamou’s mother, Angelice, was on the elevator with some jurors when she heard them discussing how they were going to decide. It was agreed by the jurors she overheard that they would, ‘vote with the majority’. Ms. Mamou reported what she overheard at the time it happened, but nothing came of it.
They say truth is stranger than fiction. Charles Mamou has been in prison for twenty
years, most of it in solitary confinement on death row. Blind faith in the courts is often
misplaced. According to the National
Registry of Exonerations, the number of exonerations is currently at
2,488. It would be a good bet that a
state such as Texas, that executes numerous people a year – has executed innocent
people. If the witnesses are to be
believed in the Mamou case, there will be one more when he is executed. He couldn’t have done the things he will die
for in the time allotted for him to do it.
There is not one shred of physical evidence putting him at the scene of
the crime. There is not a weapon to
test. There is not a footprint at the
scene. There is not a fingerprint at the
scene. The jury was shown photographs
and heard testimony from crimes Mamou was never charged with. Mamou was portrayed as having sexually
assaulted someone without a shred of evidence and his attorney did not point
that out. There was substantial evidence
to call into question the testimony of the key witness who said Mamou
confessed, that was never presented by the defense. There are ‘hairs’ that no one seems
concerned to follow up on. There was no
independent lab testing ever done by the defense. There is documentation that was either
never filed or is no longer accounted for – in addition to a statement that at
one time existed – but seems to have disappeared.
It reminds me of something I heard recently – close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Can we add ‘or in a courtroom’ with a public defender, the wrong skin color, the wrong year, the wrong state…
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
From the time I was a tyke until my early teens, my family
frequented a city park that sat on a hill overlooking the southeast region of
the city. The hill was a year round source of entertainment – in winter
months we would sled down it’s slopes, and in the summer we would glide down on
large sheets of cardboard scavenged from the dumpsters behind Safeway.
I would tag along with my mom to the malls on Saturday mornings unless my dad had a fishing trip or other excursion planned. It wasn’t that I enjoyed shopping so much, it was more about the perks that came along with shopping.
For one, we were away from home the entire day, which meant eating out at the fast food joint of my choice. In addition to lunch for being a ‘good boy’ while mom tried on what seemed like a million articles of clothing, I earned treats which could take many forms – anything from sweets at Dairy Queen to an after shopping activity like bowling, putt-putt, skating, a movie, or games at the arcade.
On one such Saturday, I chose to go cardboarding at the park after lunch. We went and got our boxes – the best ones were the toilet paper or paper towel boxes because they were quite large – and drove to the park. On that particular day we couldn’t find a close parking space near our favorite sliding spot, so we parked on the opposite side and had to walk.
We locked up the car and set off, lugging our cardboards. About halfway to our destination sat a couple of wooden park benches. At first I didn’t notice the lone woman sitting on one of them, but the closer we got, the harder it became not to notice her. She had a hanky or some tissue which she was dabbing at her eyes and nose as her shoulders shook. The closer we got, the louder her sobs became, and I began to feel awkwardly uncomfortable. I’m not sure if my discomfort was at the thought of walking past her as she sat in distress, or if I was embarrassed for her because I was seeing her cry.
The former didn’t matter because as soon as my mom realized the woman was crying, she quickened her pace and went to her aid. I, on the other hand, slowed my pace and crept to the bench beside them. I heard my mom ask her what was wrong. The woman leaned into my mom and mumbled something I couldn’t understand and then the dam burst, as she began crying uncontrollably. My mom wrapped an arm around her and commenced to consoling the woman in the motherly manner that mom’s do. Over the lady’s shoulder, she looked at me and said, “Go play,” pointing with her free hand at a spot a few feet behind me.
All I wanted to do was get away, so I grabbed my cardboard
and retreated, never contemplating how I was to ‘play’ with a piece of
cardboard on flat land. I just wanted to
get away from the embarrassment.
Some time later, mom came and said, “Let’s go.” I was dejected. I assumed she meant we were going home, but she turned and headed towards our sliding spot. Enthused, I snatched up my cardboard and ran after her. When I caught up, I asked, “What happened to that lady?”
“She went home.”
“No, I mean, why was she crying?”
“She was sad.”
“Did you know her?”
“No.”
“Then why did you help her?”
“Because people are supposed to help each other, that’s why. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know her,” then she stopped. “What if I fell down right now and broke my leg and,” looking around, “that man, right there, came and lifted me and carried me to the hospital. How would you feel?”
“I’d be… happy,” I said as we continued on.
“So, don’t you think that lady’s little boy would be happy
that I helped his mom?”
“I think so,” I said, smiling up at her.
As we reached our spot she said, “Of course, he would. Now, who is going first?!”
That wouldn’t be the last time I witnessed my mom help a complete stranger. In fact, sometimes I found myself looking around for distressed individuals – because I saw what helping others did for my mom. That’s when I realized something I don’t think she ever did – not because she wasn’t capable, but because nothing she ever did was about her – she was healing by helping others.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reshi Yenot is the pen name for a writer who lives on Death Row in Florida. He can be contacted at: Reshi Yenot P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, VA 23255