Holidays locked up are a mix of emotions – happy to be alive, sad to be here, indifferent to being surrounded by people you don’t know instead of loved ones. When I was free, holidays were usually spent celebrating with family, eating too much, drinking too much, and regretting it the next day, all with a smile on my face.
As a child, I loved Halloween. I’d dress up in my costume on October 30th and sleep in it just to be prepared. I loved candy, especially free candy, and I wanted to be ready to go. Those memories are engraved in my head.
October 31, 2018, changed my Halloween memories of free candy. People in the free world were dressing up in costumes that day, and I was in Dallas County Jail dressing up in a suit and tie for my final day of a capital murder trial. It was the day the jury would make the life or death decision. They could either send me to spend the rest of my life living in prison or sentence me to death by lethal injection. There I was in a courtroom on free candy day, dressed to impress and hoping for the best.
Death was their final decision – forever replacing my joyful memories of Halloween. October 31 is now just a dreadful anniversary…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Kristopher Love has never written for WITS before, but he submitted this piece to our last writing contest. I am not a judge, so I don’t look at the entries very closely, but as I was going through the returned material, this caught my eye. I hope Mr. Love continues to pursue writing. He can be contacted at:
Kristopher Love #999614 Polunsky Unit 3872 FM 350 South Livingston, TX 77351
I write to escape, To hide deep within Where I can be alone With my hidden thoughts And secret hopes. That secret place Is mine alone, I can hide my torment, Anguish and despair, Where it need not be on display For the world to see. I write to bury my pain, To cast it aside with pen and paper. With the stroke of a pen, I create my own illusion Of joy and happiness. But the illusion is a lie, And like all lies, It cannot stand up to the light of day. I write the words my mouth cannot speak, The words that lay trapped In the deepest depths of this well That is my heart. I cannot give voice to those words, For then they would become A part of my reality And no longer could I seek sanctuary In the illusion, In the lie that cannot stand up to the light of day. I write to stay alive inside, To keep from dying A little more with each passing day, To keep love at bay as she nips at my heart. Because for me, to love is to die, Not physically, but inside, A little more each day. So, write I must As love kicks and pounds At the door of my heart. That is why I write…
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission I’ve received from Mr. Enis, but I’m looking forward to reading more of his work. His piece is a direct reflection of why WITS exists. He beautifully expressed what we are all about and what so many of the writers here have in common. Toni Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-three years, and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Something was off, I could sense it. It looked like Madear’s home, it just didn’t feel like her home. I could hear a familiar hymn being sung sotto voce towards the side of her home where her adjacent storage building was. She kept her washer and dryer there. She also had two extra freezers in there holding tons of assorted meats. Sodas were stacked to one side of the wall as high as five-feet, and gallons of assorted juices lined the floor. Madear loved buying in bulk because she loved to cook and feed others. There was an area opposite the beverages where all her holiday decorations were kept – including a unique white crystal four-foot holiday colored Christmas tree she proudly displayed in her window every year. To this day I’ve never seen anything like it. It was also the place I first kissed a girl, Carla Landry, and I liked it!
This area was not huge by any standard, but my little brother and some of my friends often used the wash-house, as we called it, as a club house. Madear would be there daily, putting loads of clothes in to wash, and once dried, she would fold and inspect to see if the whites were white enough or if the colored clothes were bright enough. She had no problem rewashing the clothes until they met her satisfaction.
So, it wasn’t odd to find her inside. I rushed through the door and saw her rocking away in her hand crafted wooden rocking chair that she used to find her Zen-moments in, relaxing or simply contemplating what she would do next. Madear didn’t speak much. I never heard her raise her voice, but she always evaluated any situation before acting, and when she did speak, her observations or opinions were always thought-out.
I could not see the features of her face, no eyes, mouth or lips – nothing. There was nothing but warm, blinding light. The rest of her body, from the neck down, was there. Even her favorite sundress graced the length of her body. She rocked away, faster than I recalled her doing. I tried to advance closer, but I could not move. It was as if I was stuck in cement that had long since dried, my feet buried.
“Don’t worry, Baby. Everything will be fine. You’ll see. You’ll be fine,” she repeated. Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to me from behind a waterfall… though soothing and comforting. I wanted to lay my head on her lap, allowing her to pat and massage me the way one would do a cat. Her voice brought about a sense of conviction to my soul. I could feel tears, hot tears, running down my cheeks. My heart started to beat more urgently. I blinked for a second and Madear and her rocking chair started fading away in the pasture behind her home. She faded the way a home run baseball floats away… and is gone.
“Chow time, maggots! Get your asses up if ya’ll wanta eats!” barked a guard.
‘Fuck!’ Steel gates crashed into more steel. ‘It was all a dream? A stupid, fucking dream!?!’ The mist of tears I had shed were still damp on my cheeks. My heart was still thumping. I turned over to see what time it was, fifteen minutes after three in the morning. I’m not a morning person and my weakness was affirmation of that as I turned on the cell’s light. I’m not a breakfast eater either, and I was going to refuse because it was too early to be eating, but the growling sounds coming from my empty stomach were the motivation I needed to eat something. I was hungry. No, I was starving, having eaten little to nothing my first few days on the famous Texas Death Row. Pancakes were served. They were not IHOP worthy, but I wasn’t going to be picky. I was also given an 8-ounce carton of milk, a 4-ounce carton of orange juice and four spoons of fruit cocktail. I ate everything before going back to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t dream again.
Around ten o-clock in the morning an officer opened the bean slot to the cell and threw a big commissary bag in, “Some of your fellow-condemned brothers put some things together for ya.”
I stared, my eyes fixed on him, wondering if he was joking. I don’t know if I expected a snake to crawl from the bag or a bomb to go off at any moment. Sure, I was paranoid. This wasn’t Kansas anymore. I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.
After some time, I got up, kicked the bag a little, and waited for a reaction. Nothing. I gently opened the bag to find a bunch of snacks, four writing tablets, envelopes, and over fifty bucks in stamps which, due to my naiveté, I used to tape photos of my children to the walls. I had no idea I was supposed to use stamps to write. No shit. I hadn’t written a letter to anyone at that point. I communicated through daily phone calls or visits. There were socks, a thermal top, and some much needed hygiene products, all of which I greatly appreciated. No note was given. No one shouted to get my attention. Nothing. The act of charity was empathetically done. Guys knew I was going through some things because they went through the same ‘new beginning’. It was an act of kindness I greatly appreciated even though I had no one to thank.
I walked to the front of the cell to look out. The place was teeming with sounds of existence, a farrago of inmate laughter, crashing steel, buzzing light fixtures that looked like something you’d expect to see in the beginning of the 20th century, as well as radios and multiple televisions that blared recklessly. This ‘new world’, was too much for me to embrace, so I returned and sat on my bunk. I grabbed photos of my children and their mothers, my mother and siblings, and I thought about what they were going through. I loved them all dearly, and the more I thought about them, the more I cried. I saw an unopened letter I had received the night before. It was from one of my children’s mothers. It started off like a Dear John letter. She was telling me she was getting married to a truck driver. A year earlier I shared a bed with her. I immediately thought, ‘Where the fuck did he come from?’ At that moment, I was certain. I was no longer dreaming.
ABOUT THE WRITER: Charles Mamou has been writing for WITS for quite some time and has always maintained his innocence. In the summer of 2019, it came to my attention Mr. Mamou had become very quiet. When I asked why, he explained he was out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. I asked to look at his documents. It didn’t take long to become very disturbed by what I saw. Some issues regarding Mr. Mamou’s case can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at contact@walkinthoseshoes.com.
There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou’s troubling case.
Have those words ever made a difference in your life? It might not have been said exactly that way, but do those words make you think of someone in particular?
WITS supports and believes in the limitless potential of positive reinforcement, and wants to hear about a time in your life when someone believing in you – had an impact on your actions and/or choices.
Is there anyone who ever believed in you – and that confidence and belief in you influenced you in a positive way? It could have been a child, a parent, a teacher or a friend – anyone, even a stranger.
That’s the theme of the first writing contest of 2021: Has Someone’s Belief In YOU Ever Impacted Your Decisions And Actions?
I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
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.
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: March 31, 2021. Decisions will be posted on or before April 30, 2021.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
As always – I’m excited to see what comes in!
As a reminder, WITS is giving away a book or magazine subscription once a month to a random submission that gets posted for each month of 2021. These posts can be on any topic, and are unrelated to this contest. January’s random book will be Where The Crawdads Sing.
The following is an excerpt from a poem written for his mother, a gift woven in words.
When I was but a little girl I made myself a promise, To rear my children with dignity, Teach them to be honest.
But first, I had to grow, Endure lots of pain, Survive the throes of ghetto woes Time and time again.
Things would not come easy, At times I felt like crying, Determined to gift-wrap the world Or willing to die trying.
Winter boots and Easter suits And summers filled with glee. Never mind if I was suffocating, As long as my kids could breathe.
So, I toiled by day and learned by night Lunched on rice and bread. Wore my children’s hand-me-downs Just to get ahead.
I cooked and cleaned and in between Encouraged my children to strive. I scraped and clawed but through it all, My eyes stayed on the prize.
Destiny for me was simply Duty without break. If asked to do it all over again, I would not hesitate.
See, all I ever wanted Was the life I never had Served to my babies In the absence of their dads.
I wanted to show them through persistence They could have it all, What matters most is how we rise, Not so much how we fall.
My kids are now grown with kids of their own, Some of those kids with child. Some day when my story is told, I hope I’ve made them proud.
All we have to offer the world, The legacy we leave behind. I pray all mothers love their children As much as I love mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. The above is only an excerpt from a poem he wrote for his mother who has been his biggest supporter. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. He has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
A pandemic came, The world started falling. A few free phone calls, Family I went to calling. It was all I could do Not to go insane. Never in my life Have I felt so much pain. Dead, buried and forgotten, It seems they want me to be. A free phone call from me, They refused. Back in my cell, I pace. No one ever again Wanting to see my face. My heart, mind, Body and soul Fighting the treason. Alone, mother, Grandmother, father gone. Can’t numb the pain with a drink. Can’t inhale it, Stick it in a vein or in my nose. Just grows. What do you say To someone like me? I extend my lovely smile, Help them approach a new day, Take another step or even a mile.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Brown is the newest addition to our writing family. He enjoys writing, which is what we are all about, and he contacted us with no more than a brief note, so I don’t know much more about him. I’m curious to see where he goes from here. Mr. Brown can be contacted at: Michael Lamar Brown #137280 Graceville Correctional Facility 5168 Ezell Road Graceville, FL 32440
After being in this prison system more years than I have lived on the streets, I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before – like my life was a waste. The world is almost thirty years ahead of me. When I think of people, I think of what life was like outside this prison in 1994. I still see the people who were once my school mates as kids. I still feel like a kid. I was one when I came here. I don’t still think like a kid, but I still shoot basketball and exercise just like when I left the world. I am 44.
I’ve spent over half my life thinking about the events that led up to the night of January 11, 1994 – the day before my eighteenth birthday. Mobile is different now. If I lived there now, it never would have happened. There is a Coalition Against Bullying now. They have Anti-Bullying Awareness Weeks. There is something called a ‘Bullyblocker’. You text a number if you are being bullied – your text goes straight to the District Attorney’s office. I guess it’s too late for me to text that. I did contact the right people at that time though. I went to my parents, the school, and the police. It’s all on record. I just didn’t have that Bullyblocker number. I would have used it if I had – and I wouldn’t be here.
What makes me different than a kid that lives in Mobile today? I was bullied by men that didn’t even go to my high school. There is no doubt the things that were done to me would have gotten a response if I had texted a hotline. It exceeded bullying. I was pushed around, chased, stalked – I was in high school and shot at on more than one occasion. If none of that had happened, what happened on January 11, 1994, wouldn’t have happened. People make excuses for themselves all the time. That’s not what this is. That’s just reality. If the people who were supposed to had resolved the issue like they were supposed to, I, Louis Singleton, Jr., would never have done what I did. I wasn’t raised to hurt anyone. That’s not who I was or am.
I’m smarter though. I refuse to give into the criminal life. I get on to young brothers who can’t seem to give up the drug life – until I break it down for them. They have big dreams of being Big Time Drug Dealers. They call me Unk. I try to encourage them to get out and do better for themselves. The at-home training my late mother gave me is embedded heavily in me. Knowing the difference between right and wrong will always be in me, no matter where they send me.
I’m living in the Alabama prison system, one of, if not the, worst prison system in America. Respect is at an all time low, but I never disrespect anyone, never have, never will. My mom taught me better. I hope those that were affected by my actions forgive me. I don’t expect them to understand because, truly, you’d have to walk in my shoes. You’d have to be the seventeen year old kid who was getting shot at. I don’t want that for anybody.
They see me as a ‘violent offender’. I’m not violent. That label doesn’t make me violent. I was seventeen, and it was a violent crime that never would have happened if I had been able to text that magic number and get help. I’m not even allowed to talk at my own parole hearing. They don’t see me. They see ‘violent offender’.
My first coach told me to never give up, no matter how badly you are losing the game. I haven’t forgotten that to this day. It’s the fourth quarter, the score is 44-10, the other team has the ball with 3:54 left on the clock. Play hard until the clock says 0:00. One time I was in a game playing defensive back, and a guy beat me on a broken coverage. He was running to the end zone, and I was chasing him. He got so far in front of me, I stopped pursuing him. He scored. I got chewed out heavily for that. Anything could have happened. He could have dropped the ball. From that day on, I’ve never given up.
ABOUT THE WRITER: Mr. Singleton’s story can be found here. WITS is grateful for his honest and heartfelt writing, and I hope he continues to write about his life in the Alabama Department of Corrections. Louis Singleton can be contacted at: Louis Singleton #179665 Fountain Correctional Center 9677 Highway 21 North Atmore, AL 36503
