Note: This is sixth 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.
January 29, 2023
[Typically, these journal entries are sent in written form. Terry called me on January 29, 2023, wanting to share something that he wrote, impacted by seeing the mother of Tyre Nichols on the news. We started recording shortly after he called.]
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 is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
This will be the biggest favor I have asked of anyone, I realize, my head slumped and the phone receiver shaking in my hand. My friend answers the call.
“Are you current on the situation with my Dad?” I ask, relief seeping through me when he responds that he is. I do not have to say the awful words.
My Dad is dying – not dying like we are all dying, or dying with two months to live – dying in that he will be dead in a few hours. The shocking news has hit me hard. I am scrambling to take care of the necessaries.
“I have a huge favor to ask,” an understatement, but I cannot think of adequate words. When my friend pledges his willingness to do anything for me, I press on. “I want you to represent me at the funeral. I am going to write a speech to honor my dad and want you to deliver it.”
Without hesitation, he replies, “Of course. I’ve got you brother.” The tears I had been holding back break through before I hang up the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.
It isn’t until I enter my prison cell and shut the door to muffle the ever-present clamor that I allow the tears to stream. Yet, even as I struggle to breathe, gratitude to God mingles with the suffocating grief, gratitude for a friend, a brother who loves me so much that he is willing to bear such a weight. My thoughts travel back to the day when I prayed for a friend and God gave me a brother.
“Wake up. You’re not going to sleep away our last few minutes together,” I told my biological brother, elbowing his arm. “You’re going to talk to me.” He sighed heavily and yawned but sat up, a reluctant compliance.
In our early twenties, we had traveled many thousands of miles side-by-side, but not quite like this. In the backseat of the family car on trips to visit family in Maryland and Florida, vacations to the Blue Ridge mountains, Disney World, and Myrtle Beach. Then, in high school and college, one of us driving and the other riding shotgun on road trips. So many miles, so many happy memories.
Never had we journeyed confined by shackles, bounced relentlessly by the decrepit shocks of a prison transfer bus. Never before had the trip guaranteed our separation, maybe forever.
Arriving at the Sandy Ridge depot, we were herded off the bus into the ‘Cattle Shoot’, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the livestock. My brother and I were being transferred from Foothills, where we had been together for about a year, to different prisons. With him serving thirty years and me life without parole, we wondered if this goodbye was the goodbye.
His name was called first. We exchanged “I love you” and “Keep your head up”, hugged as best we could in shackles, and he shuffled away. I prayed, “God, please take care of my brother.”
When my name was called, I prayed again, “God, please give me a friend where I am going,” while doing the shackles-shuffle to the next bus. Some of the guys already knew each other. They caught up on news of various prisons and prisoners. I did not plan to talk to anyone – the sting of saying goodbye to my brother still too raw.
The two guys closest to me discussed the previous night’s Fiesta Bowl. Upstart Boise St. had upset powerhouse Oklahoma in dramatic fashion. One of the two turned to me, asking if I had watched the game. Initially, I just stared through my fog. His smile nudged me into a response of “yes”. Despite my barely verbal opening, the conversation on my favorite topic, sports, drew me out of the haze.
We recapped the spectacular (now legendary) plays: the hook-and-ladder, the statue of liberty, the running back’s proposal to his girlfriend, a cheerleader, after he scored the winning touchdown. The sports talk replaced my lifelessness with animation. I was a Claymation form temporarily brought to life. At least the conversation helped the bus ride pass, I thought.. God had more in mind.
When I thanked God for the semi-familiar face of my sports conversation partner in the next cell, God must have chuckled, knowing He had already given me abundantly, exceedingly more than I dared ask.
The confined, compact nature of the prison environment amplifies the obstacles to developing and maintaining a friendship, while simultaneously intensifying the need for a friend. In the friendship building stage, the prison environment causes near constant contact, an abnormal closeness for the start of a friendship. The excessive time together combined with the high-stress state of living generates numerous opportunities for friction. Only when both parties are committed to working through the inevitable conflict does a friendship develop.
A friend is not a person without flaws but a person with whom exists a mutual contract of grace. If friendship required flawlessness, nobody would choose to be my friend. My new neighbor, Tommy, extended grace to me despite my caustic sarcasm and know-it-all attitude. Instead of taking offense, he laughed, even at himself. And he helped me laugh, a much needed soul-medicine.
Even when friendship demanded a price, Tommy embraced the imposition. After I tore my ACL playing prison-yard gladiator basketball, he helped take care of me, getting my tray in the chow hall. When a miscreant thought the crutches a license to be rude, Tommy bluntly informed the misguided chap otherwise. His exact words, “His leg might be messed up, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs. So, what do you want to do?” Tommy, a Marine always and forever, could be rather intense. Somewhere along the way, we became more than friends, we became brothers.
Many in prison avoid friendship because of the inevitable sudden separation. One person moves to another unit or transfers to another prison, without any warning, without a chance to say goodbye. That’s what happened to Tommy. He was just gone one day, transferred to another prison, no warning, no farewell.
Keeping in contact, even by letters, violates prison rules. As a Christian, I submit to a higher authority when a divergence emerges between the two. I write letters of support as a ministry. Most persons in prison have no way to navigate, or circumvent, the prohibition, but an understanding family member relayed letters between Tommy and me. We supported and encouraged each other through those simple words and, of course, we conversed on sports, especially football. In many letters, he expressed his commitment to always be there for me and to help provide for me after his release.
Tommy walked out of prison after fifteen years. I had not seen him in seven years. My parents visited him that week to help him get a few things. They had gotten to know him well over the years. They were emotionally impressed by the way he spoke of me as his brother and of his love for me.
I have had a number of friends get out, promising to keep in contact and send pictures, order magazines, etc. Most are never heard from again, unless and until they return to prison. A few kept in touch, briefly, then essentially vanished. Not my brother.
Maintaining contact and transitioning to the role of a supporter after release begets numerous problems. Upon release, a person is not starting from zero but from deep in the negative. Acquiring a job, home, transportation and food, plus paying supervision fees – with a felony record – sets many up for failure. If a person does make it through the post-release quicksand, playing catchup makes life move at warp speed. Staying in contact and providing support increases the strain.
Many leave prison carrying with them the trauma of that environment. Yelling, slamming doors, quick movement, feet scuffling, or countless other triggers can activate the adrenaline rush and other fight or flight responses. Every phone call, visit or letter with those still behind bars takes a toll. Maintaining contact with friends left behind forces the released person to constantly confront their own trauma, a steep price.
My brother sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, for me. As soon as he could manage, even at a cost to himself, he put money on the phone, sent money to my canteen account, ordered books and magazines (mostly sports magazines, of course), sent photos, and relayed jokes and funny memes to cheer me up. On his first truck, he put a NC State sticker on the passenger side, his way of letting me ride shotgun.
When I prayed for a friend, I asked for someone for a season, wanting God to supply a temporary need. God recognized a permanent need and supplied a brother for life. Thanks to the gift of Tommy, on the day I learned my father would die in a few hours, laying on a prison bunk with tears tumbling, I whispered, “God, thank you. I asked for a friend. You gave me a brother. I did not know how much I would need him, but you knew.”
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is not only a great writer, but he also expresses through his writing who he is today and helps to illustrate personal growth. WITS is about allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers, and I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing not only his loss, but also his faith. Timothy is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Timothy Johnson #0778428 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com
Author, Kwame Teague, has created a productive, creative lifestyle within the parameters of prison – through pure initiative and tenacity. He wasn’t provided writing classes and tools within his cell, but rather, took it upon himself to establish a positive and productive way of life with access to only a pen and paper. THAT – is inspirational, and also why I wanted to talk to him.
Conversation with Kwame Teague.
While WITS is not the platform to share fiction writing, it IS the platform to share and encourage writing in all forms. Fiction writing is equally as important as non-fiction, and in many ways can be an even greater therapy. The book clubs WITS sponsor primarily read fiction, a much needed doorway to another life and time.
Kwame has taken fiction and run with it. In 2021, Dutch, the movie, was released based on a series of books he authored by the same name. While I enjoyed the movie, and felt a connection to it in more ways than one, as I grew up in New Jersey, what was even more overwhelming to experience was watching what Kwame had inspired and seen to fruition from within a prison cell.
I don’t know Kwame’s history. But that kind of dedication to one’s craft, focus, and determination centered on productivity – screams of being well prepared to successfully go home. While he has been busy over the years writing, he has positioned himself as a positive role model, taking time to encourage other writers. For that reason, I wanted to talk to him. I will share his work in our library, and I hope he keeps us posted on any future projects he is a part of. Below is a list of links to some of his existing projects, although it is clear from our conversation, this list is far from complete.
I come from a fractured blacktop scattered with butts, blunt guts and broken butterfly jars. I come from broke and broken families where broken window theories clip wings early. I come from No Child Left Behind and Just Say “No” to three-for-tens and five-for-twenties, ten-ten skinnys and one-twenty-five by fives. I come from penny candies and two-for-a-dollar wings, fifty-cent hugs and dollar dutches – blocks where boys slapbox while the girls double-dutch. I come from humble homes where grandmothers are saints and every kid’s got a father they don’t know named John Doe. I come from late nights looking for my mother in the back-alley of a bar peeking through the crack in the backdoor. I come from where crack is king where the crack of dawn brings crack head neighbors to steal our newspaper. I come from crockpot dinners that simmer while our grandmother works seven days a week with a weak heart, gnarled hands and swollen feet. I come from hunger – from rumbling stomachs in the classroom to cutting class and rumbling in the bathroom. I come from redbrick rowhomes with glass ceilings, smoke-stained walls and tear-stained sheets. I come from big iced teas and big white tees, dirty Dickies and dicked sneaks that talk while you walk. I come from coupons and food stamps. I come from group homes and boot camps. I come from false prophets who sold me money-green dreams who never told me that God is dead and life is hell. I come from the otherside where trying to survive is a waste of time – I come from the end of the line.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, whose first submissions were a joy to read, and he has only gotten better over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Fayette P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
I just received a copy of Texas Letters, which includes a collection of letters written from solitary confinement in Texas. This is an incredibly important tool in any conversation regarding those subjects – prisons in Texas, solitary confinement, or specifically, solitary confinement in Texas.
The United States is an advanced country, and the systems of incarceration have not advanced alongside advances in other areas. Prison, solitary confinement and reform are not clear cut, black and white issues and arguments from those perspectives are not overly productive.
Arguments for solitary confinement include providing protection against violent and dangerous individuals, retribution and punishment, as well as individuals who actually want to be in solitary for their own protection, among other things. Arguments against solitary confinement include various perspectives regarding inhumanity, mental health and torture.
What is clear is that change is needed. WITS is confident there is adequate education, insight and resources within the United States to work together and develop solutions that are humane, productive, and safe, systems that protect those living within prison as well as those working there. Any discussion that entertains maintaining the current state of affairs is a wasted discussion. This book, Texas Letters, is a resource in the quest for solutions regarding an issue that becomes more urgent by the day.
A Conversation with George about Cross-Pollination and Compassion.
I once read a story about a farmer who grew excellent quality corn. She’d won many a Blue Ribbon for Best Grown Corn. One year, a reporter asked what her secret to success was. She grinned and said, “I share my seed corn with my neighbors.”
The stunned reporter said, “What! How can you risk sharing your best seed corn with your neighbors, when you know they’ll be competing against you next year?” What the farmer then explained illustrates a life lesson for me.
“Don’t you know? The wind lifts pollen from ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbor grows inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”
So it is with our lives. We all have something to offer. It may be a gift or talent we were born with or picked up along the way, or something we studied and practiced and honed. It could be an athletic ability or the gift of poetry. One might be able to draw anything they see or read the body language of others so well they can perceive what’s not being said. We’ve all seen people with refined skills teach their secrets and hard-earned wisdom to others… and we all know stingy folks who’d take a secret recipe for chili to the grave.
As editor of Compassion, a national newsletter written by and for people incarcerated on Death Row, I’ve had the privilege of working with hundreds of writers. Some live in the same prison unit as me; we started on this literary journey together about ten years ago. In 2013, the prison offered a creative writing class to the 140 or so men here on Death Row in North Carolina. Twenty of us signed up, though only a few had graduated high school and could actually write a proper sentence. Yet, over the course of its five-year lifespan, the class was mostly facilitated by professors from Duke University and UNC, along with professional journalists, novelists, and poets. We were in awe of these highly skilled people and didn’t understand why they were ‘lowering’ themselves for guys like us. Why waste their gifts? They said, “We believe in you. We’ve had opportunities and advantages you didn’t. So, now we want to offer some to you.” It reminds me of how NBA stars might volunteer at basketball camps for teens: It speaks to seeing the universality of human potential in even the least of us, the young, the wayward and uneducated. It’s about giving back, remembering that people greater than themselves helped them attain greatness.
Similarly, I have a friend on the outside who is a professional writer, editor, poet – she can do it all. She’s befriended budding writers in prison, and she corresponds with them, teaches them how to refine their craft, helps them to see their own potential and provides practical support to facilitate achievement. She finds publishing opportunities, types up their manuscripts, submits their work online (even paying the submission fees) since we have no computer access in prison. Without such support from people like her on the outside, it is impossible for incarcerated writers to succeed. I’ve asked her why she does it, and she’s said, “It’s in my heart to help people, and this is what I have to offer. I just want to do my part.”
But we don’t have to be experts to do our part, to give of ourselves. Among the volunteers who make Compassion possible, none are writing professionals. Rather, they donate time, money, energy, and labor to sustain this outlet. Each gives what they can. A couple type all the issues, someone else formats it, a few fundraise (Compassion is a nonprofit), etc. Of the writings themselves, most of the submissions I receive are handwritten, barely legible, and undeveloped as stories, essays, and poems, as most of the writers are uneducated, the same way I was when I joined the writing class here. However, Compassion is a defacto writing class for them. It can be instructive for the contributors when they compare their original submission to their edited version once it’s published. They also get to see the more polished contributions from highly skilled writers, which shows them what can be done if they keep practicing.
Of the twenty of us who joined the writing class here, seven stuck with it and became established writers, winning national awards and publishing books, essays, and poems. Several founded mentorship programs in collaboration with people on the outside. All were transformed because people invested in us, believed in us, helped us believe in ourselves.
It reminds me that we are all interconnected, and whether active or passive, we influence the world around us in a sort of social cross-pollination. If we wish to truly live well and meaningfully, we must help enrich the lives of others. The welfare of one is tangled with the welfare of ALL: like it or not, we are in this together. The fact is, none of us truly wins until we all win. Humanity is a race, but not the kind that lines us up against each other with only one winner. Rather, this race – HUMANITY – unites us. When we overemphasize individualism, “looking out for #1”, personal liberty, etc., we get exactly that – a bunch of lovely disconnected individuals. Too much individualism dehumanizes us, because humans are social creatures. The Golden Rule speaks to balancing selfish and selfless concern; we are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, not just promote one over the other.
Whether we know it or not, we are part of something bigger, something that transcends our subdivisions of gender, class, race, religion, age, political party. Life, the fulfilled life, is all about relationships – between us and God, and us and each other. Humans are not meant to be alone; we live symbiotically with others. Love is the nutritive force that keeps everything growing and producing a high-quality harvest, making humanity better as a race. Our differences are not designed to divide us, but to offer openings for us to pour ourselves into one another’s lives, to be enriched by each other, and to impart value by gifting us all with something special to bring to the feast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. He inspires me. When you work with people who live in prison long enough, you get to know some who make you hope to be just as loving as them. George is one of the people that makes me aspire to show his level of kindness. He is also an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside and Beneath Our Numbers. And, as discussed, he is the editor of Compassion. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Note: This is fifth 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.
Listen as Terry reflects on this particular journal entry.
April 17, 2016 (4:02 am)
It’s been 4 months since I wrote in this journal, but tonight I’m having trouble sleeping and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. I keep having these dreams of getting off Death Row, but I can’t stay long. For some reason I’ve gotta come right back. I’m going around visiting people I haven’t seen in years but it’s just to say goodbye. I don’t know if it’s meaning I belong on Death Row or this place is so far removed from the world that once you’re here, you’re lost forever. I wonder what happened to that little kid that used to be me, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead on Death Row. I used to dream of white picket fences and gardens around a trailer, now all I can dream of is the chance to see people before I die. Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, being woke to face all the bullshit that happens on Death Row, or going to sleep and realizing I’m still in this bitch.
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 is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
I am working on a new WITS book project. Taking a look at ‘ethics’. It is in the planning stages, but I am looking for essays on the subject.
What are ethics – in YOUR words. NOT a dictionary definition.
Are they important, why are they important? Should we expect ethical behavior from those in authority and why? I am looking for heartfelt responses as opposed to clinical responses, which is a challenge when it comes to this topic. I do not want textbook responses.
Share reflections on ethics as they relate to the population living in prison as well as the staff working with that population. This is not in an effort to hear negative perspectives, I’m hoping for a variety of material, to include both positive and negative. Most specifically what this book is looking at is one particular case of a WITS writer as it went through the system, calling into question ethics every step of the way, and the book hopes to look at ethics overall in relation to that case. These reflections on ethics will be used throughout. There is a fair amount of urgency, as this individual is on death row and out of appeals, and I would like to have the book finished in a reasonable amount of time for obvious reasons.
Also, feel free to share reflections on ethics within the judicial system.
Illustrations can include things you’ve seen or experienced.
This is an evolving project, and not all material sent in will be used in the book. Although some pieces might be posted on WITS’ site if appropriate, even if they don’t fit the material in the book.
Thank you! Send submissions to the below address, and poetry is welcome as well.
Walk In Those Shoes Attn: Ethics P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
