Upon arrival in prison, one is met by disdain and contempt from all sides. Among your new neighbors this may be because of the type of crime you committed, friends or family of the victims, the gang or people you associate with, the way you look, how you talk, or something as simple as how you breathe. Among the administrative staff, it is simply because you have committed a crime, and they have been vested with control over your life. And within this new world often exists a mentality of merciless anger, brutality, hatefulness and manipulation. Here, compassion can be scarce. However, in my thirty-three years of doing time, I have never been enriched like I have been from getting to know two gentlemen here – Richard Nelson and Ross Thornton. They defy the traditional prison mentality.

Ross Thronton is a 52-year-old man serving a life sentence. He has been working in the kitchen dish room for as long as I have known him, which has been about twelve years. He spends the first ten to twelve hours of each day overseeing the orderly running of all the equipment in the dish room, and he trains each person how to do their job with integrity, precision and a good attitude. I find Brother Ross extraordinary, not only because of his commitment to what many consider an unflattering job, but also for what he does every day before, during and after working his shift – serving the elderly population.

Brother Ross takes time throughout his day to pick up many of the elderly men’s clothes, help them to and from the shower, clean their cells when needed, walk them to the chow hall, get their trays and eat with them. He sits on benches and provides companionship to a segment of the prison population that is often overlooked. He makes them feel valued, respected and loved. His prayer requests are always selfless. We have been praying over them for eight years and have never read one requesting a prayer for himself.

And then there is Brother Richard Nelson, a 79-year-old man also serving a life sentence. He works in the cellhouse and goes about his job of cleaning, restocking supplies (which consists of carrying a very large box of toilet paper holding 96 rolls), and also helping people in any way that they need. He is the type of man who will walk by, hear you expressing a need, and if he is able, he will fulfill it. It makes no difference whether he knows you or not. Race, age, religious affiliations, etc., none of it matters – other than what you need.

I find Brother Nelson extraordinary not only because of his selflessness, but he also has the uncanny ability to make sure people know they are not forgotten. Brother Nelson can be seen on many days delivering birthday cards all over the cellhouse. He finds out people’s birthdays, writes them down, and then he either draws or has cards drawn. The front covers consist of the good qualities God created in you, why you are valuable, and the personal nickname God has given you! Then he sends three months’ worth of cards through his Incarcerated Individual Network to be signed by his friends as well as yours. How he finds out your birthday and who your friends are remains a mystery. All I know is, you come in from work or the yard and there is a birthday card on your bed.

These two men have taught me how to love unconditionally by the way they live. They never seek recognition. They never brag about anything they do or the help they give. They simply live their best prison life making prison life better for others. I would never have become friends with them for so many shallow reasons, but meeting them through the church helped me understand a particular scripture – Hebrews 13:12.  “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”

Ross Thornton and Richard Nelson raised the bar for me. They became the human paradigms that elevated the way I serve. I see them as two people I entertained and learned they were Angels.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Michael Blackwell is not only new to WITS, he is also the First Place Winner in our recent writing contest! I am always glad to hear from new writers, and as this writing family grows, the insight shared here grows. I hope Mr. Blackwell continues to write, and I hope he shares more with us in the future. He can be contacted at:

Michael E. Blackwell #0060156
Fort Dodge Corectional Facility – 1114
P.O. Box 96777
Las Vegas, NV 89193

Throughout much of my life I struggled with the concept of what “love” is.  From an early age the very people that were supposed to love and protect me harmed me or put themselves ahead of my well being.  To conceal the pain of isolation, I became a master of disguise, wearing masks to fit in with others. Sadly, I found my place drowning in an abyss of other broken souls much like myself… after thirty-five years of incarceration, I had forgotten what love actually was.  I managed to survive a life of imprisonment by not feeling my connection to the humanity around me.

Then the prison I am housed at announced they would be bringing a Service Dog Training Program to the facility.  I hadn’t seen nor touched a dog in over two decades, nor had I ever had a dog of my own growing up, though I envied the boys in my neighborhood who did. But, I was excited and wanted to be a part of something that felt outside of prison, something that had nothing to do with the coldness of concrete walls and steel doors.  I simply wanted to feel again after years of hiding behind pain.

With the help of the facility Captain, I was able to name the dog I was assigned, a twelve-week-old yellow labrador retriever.  ‘Delta’ seemed fitting, and shortly after he would become the face of the dog program here on D-facility.  The moment I held him in my arms I began to feel things I had been longing to feel but could not say out loud.  The walls, the very walls that kept me from connecting with others around me, began to crumble.

I sat in my prison cell that first night with tears streaming down my face.  Here I was, convicted of first degree murder for taking the life of another human being, now responsible for the well being of this amazing creature.  I was instantly humbled by the experience and what was to come in the three years that followed.

Delta became one of the top Warrior Support Dogs in the program, and through our time together he taught me how to love and be loved.  The men who took this journey alongside me, raising dogs of their own to be of service to veterans and first responders in the community suffering from PTSD, allowed me to see a side of them that most men continue to hide within these walls.  In the end, I gained a family of men that showed their love, kindness, trust, and patience with me as their team leader, as well as their commitment to love their dogs.

My fondest memories, despite being bittersweet, were of the dogs going out into the community following graduation.  Together, we watched like proud parents as a dog would graduate and together we hugged and cried, no longer able to hide our emotions from one another.  If that is not love, love for self and another human being, I don’t think I will ever experience it while incarcerated.  

Delta now resides with a wonderful service vet couple where he has lived since graduating a year and a half ago.  I still carry with me all the things he taught me, most of all how to love others with acts of kindness, rather than deprive myself of the beautiful opportunities that come with being a part of something remarkable in another person’s life.  My greatest reward is that I can actually feel again… and I’m not afraid to do so. 

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I’ll be the first to admit I’m a sucka.  I let others place their opinions and values in my head, then I go running with it.  My dad and brother were and are in the trucking business (RIP Pops), so I naturally thought it would be my love too.  So, what did I do?  I studied everything trucking, from how to start a trucking LLC, to owning and operating, to onboarding.  But unlike my dad and brother… I don’t care much for trucking.

In 2012 I joined a rather radical organization, the Black Hebrew Israelites, and they hated whites, homosexuals and women.  What did my natural following-self do?  I became a homophobic racist who somehow liked women, but belittled them every chance I got.  That very same year I joined Occupy Chicago and Occupy Dallas and marched with the LGBTQ population to stop, or try to stop, big stock trading companies from taking over the government. 

And when I met Lukmon in a jail cell – it was no different.  His values became my values, and his way with words became mine.  You get the picture.  Since I was a homosexual-hating radical racist, me sitting in the county jail facing two murder charges shouldn’t surprise anyone.  But here’s the thing.  I suffer from a ‘personality disorder’.  If you’ve ever watched the movie Welcome To Me, I’m the black male version of that.  On top of that, when I was in the county jail, along came COVID-19, hell bent on wiping out half the population.  Suddenly no one was allowed to be released, and just as suddenly, it was decided anyone without a seriously violent crime like mine could get a P.R. bond.  Seventeen of us in my tank didn’t meet that qualification.  And it wasn’t long before I started noticing things…

In Dallas County’s North Tower there are tanks of 24 people with four cells that have six beds each.  There were no assigned seats, so people slept where they were comfortable.  Two days into the lockdown, I woke up to find I was the only man in a six man cell!  I gotta admit I’m a bit of a weirdo.  I had a big afro going, I didn’t talk to anyone, ever, and the medication I was on had me shuffling across the floor in circles all the time.  So, no, not one soul wanted to share a room with me.

Then one day I heard, or overheard (ear hustled), a conversation between a youthful older guy and his lawyer about how crazy it was for him to be jailed for breaking into his own home.  I gotta admit that was the dumbest reason I’d ever heard someone be arrested for.  But, it was a violation of his parole, so bail was denied and, like me, he had to just sit.  His name was Lukmon, he was fifty-four years old – and he was staying on a top bunk!  Eventually, he decided it was ridiculous for him to be climbing on a top bunk when I was living in a six-man cell by myself.  At first one of his cellmates said, “Don’t do it!  That fool is craaazzzyyy.  All he do is twist his hair, walk in circles and talk to his self.”  Lukmon heeded the advice at first, but after a couple days he remembered – not one person in this world is just something.  

I was watching Wendy that day, like I always did around lunchtime, when I turned around on a commercial and saw a bald, light-skinned guy curled up in my cell!  Not only was I surprised, but I’d grown comfortable in my own cell.  So in hysterical laughter, Wendy ruined that day, I walked slowly to my cell and went to sleep hoping it would be normal again when I woke up.  

I don’t know how many days Lukmon and I sat in that cell in silence.  But one day I had just gotten off the phone with the mother of my daughter, and it didn’t go so well.  I stood to watch the news and felt eyes on me.  I turned to find Lukmon doing the ‘contemplating man’ walk behind me.  When our eyes met, he asked, “What do they call you?”  That should have been established on day one, I thought, before telling him my Hebrew name, Maleek.  And right there it started.  We took our conversation to the room, where we talked for the first time.

And Lukmon can talk.  He amazed me with his optimism about prison.  Having spent twenty-two years mostly on the Smith Unit as its Islamic Coordinator, he didn’t mind the possibility that he’d be going back.  “Why would I be bothered by going to prison?  Prison is the second largest university, you know why?  Because you got unlimited time to surround yourself with books!  In fact, colleges should envy prison.”

He proved his point by getting on the phone and ordering a bunch of books.  He also told me about his man-cave back home, where he had a plastic tub full of handwritten notes from the books he’d studied.  He prophesied, “That’s gonna be you.  People are gonna think you’re crazy cause all you will do is study and write.  They’ll be intrigued by what I was intrigued by, and that’s that you are an enigma.”

I didn’t know what ‘enigma’ meant, but I used my context clues to figure it out.  That night, we didn’t sleep.  Lukmon was a conversationalist and only talked about what mattered to the listener.  Through him, I saw history in a totally different way.  I stopped hating and blaming white people for everything wrong when he told me, “White people have only been ruling the world for eleven hundred years.  We ruled for four thousand.  They did what they had to do to matter.”  I then wanted to know more.

And Lukmon also inspired me to write, though not long after I started, I got a visit from the county chaplain notifying me that my truck-driving, hard-working, crack addicted father had died.  I didn’t tell Lukmon, but he knew I wasn’t 100%.  But I’m never 100%, I’m weirdo Franklin.  Two months later, I got news my Christian mother had died.  I was numb, and just wanted to be on the next Upper Room Express.  I gave up on writing and turned into a TV junkie.  Wendy, the news and TMZ were my life, until one day an unlikely source gave me inspiration that would make Lukmon’s prophesy of me doing time with a pen in my hand come to pass.  I was walking by the television which seemed to be wobbling in a shipwreck kinda way.  I turned to look and saw a large, black celebrity on TMZ twerking in a thong!  The nerve!  People told me she was a famous singer.

But it hit me!  I didn’t stop writing because I had two deaths in my immediate family.  It was my excuse.  I really stopped writing because I felt like Lukmon wanted to rate my writing.  My insecurity used death as an excuse.  But looking at that TV, I knew if this big ol’ chick could find the courage to expose her tale-NT to the world, then my talent should be easy!  So I kept on writing.  

But one night, not long after, I got cold feet and packed up my belongings and snuck out of the tank to keep Lukmon from reading my work.  I regret that.  Why?  Because I guess somewhere inside of me I still want Lukmon’s approval on that first piece I wrote.  I blew my shot, and Lizzo is still killin’ it!

I’ve written over thirty unpublished books since then.  I’m glad to say I’m no longer a homophobic, racist, Hebrew Israelite who hurt people and low-key hated women.  I’m also proud to say I chose to follow someone that I may never see again, but I’ll remember forever, the one person who wanted to prove that a crazy person isn’t just a crazy person.  Well… prove that and also prove he wasn’t scared to sleep in a room with one.  Lukmon once said, “A man that can’t make up his bed can’t make up his mind.”  I promise you that my bed is made right now.  I’m ready to publish.     

ABOUT THE WRITER: Franklin Fuller is new to WITS, and he is also the second place winner in our most recent writing contest. I’m grateful I do not have the task of judging writing contests, but this one was particularly challenging for the judges, as there were so many amazing entries, which makes this accomplishment all the more meaningful. More than one judge commented on Franklin’s honesty and willingness to be vulnerable in his writing. I don’t know much else about him, but I agree with their assessment. If you would like to contact the writer, he can be reached at:

Franklin Fuller #2431449
Bill Clements
P.O. Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266-0400