Monthly Archives: October 2024

Juvenile Justice, Views From The Inside

Soul Searching In Desolate Places

1 Comment

I spent years not knowing who I was on the inside, a state that is its own form of prison.  From age fifteen on, I felt insecure about my past, the crime that brought me to prison, the lack of having ever actually done anything in my young life of meaning or enjoyment, and even about not fitting the ideal of what a ‘real’ prisoner should look like.  I did all I could to mask those feelings, put on a front and hold myself together in prison.

I spent my first few years of incarceration in a prison for Youthful Offenders.  There was plenty of violence there, and knowing I would later be going to an adult prison until I was forty, I decided to put on some size.  I worked out like crazy to make up for the fact that I couldn’t make a convincing ‘mean’ face if my life depended on it.  I tried to compensate with the amount of weight I could throw around, which was considerable until I injured myself so badly I couldn’t do a pushup for a couple years.  I learned the habits of hypermasculine men, things like eating a banana by breaking it into pieces first so no one could sexualize it.  I learned how to talk to others, and in some ways I found part of the person I could have been if I had not destined my future to incarceration.

Getting locked up before I came into my own, I had a bad habit – among others – of trying hard to fit in with all groups and all people, trying to find what we had in common and how we were alike.  I’d talk about money with bank robbers, drugs with addicts, smuggling with cartel members…  I’d discuss God during the years I was agnostic, leave behind a conversation over a television show with a supremacist to talk politics with a member of the Nation of Islam.  Looking back, I recognize that some of that was because I was just interested in other people and their perceptions, having come from an isolated background.  But some of it was because I didn’t want to be the odd man out, and some because I feared being alone in a very hostile and dangerous environment.  Guys who didn’t fit in didn’t tend to have a lot of friends, and guys who were too different were targeted.  I was already of small stature, childish features, and I wore glasses.  I had twenty-five years to do, and I didn’t want that to be how my life was defined on the inside.

After enough time locked up, even a kid from the suburbs can talk gangster, and I could even pass, in short spurts, as ‘hood.  I hadn’t done many drugs on the outside, but experienced a fair share after getting locked up, and growing up around the people I did, I knew more about guns than most people locked up for shooting someone.  Those things and women are the things discussed most in prison.

I was smart enough and read a lot, so I knew at least a little about most things.  This got me a job tutoring in the prison GED school when I was still too young to have graduated high school.  Teaching and helping others from all walks of life helped me to relate to others, and my time in prison was easier for a while.  Some Bloods stood up for me, some Crips tried to recruit me, some Skinheads liked me, some Latin Kings had my back, and some members of other religions tried to convert me, though I never chose to join any of them.  I could get along with just about anyone, but who was I really?  Did any of them know the real version of me?  Did I even know me for sure?  

It’s hard to quite know who you are when your own history is something you’d prefer to escape, and your present is…  well, also something you’d prefer to escape.  It’s like being lost in the woods at dusk with no way to find your way backwards and the vague understanding that you likely have a thousand miles to go.  You’re left only to push forward, survive the journey, and along the way, search for the soul that crashed like a meteorite in the wilderness years ago.

I spent my first few years learning to survive without the future in sight.  My high school class graduated while I was locked up, and the few friends who had written moved on as we grew apart and they went on to college.  Smartphones connected everyone, loved ones passed away, guys I knew on the inside were released and came back, and all the while I stayed in one place.  I lived in the moment a lot, getting lost in them and the days and years, lost in stories told by those around me of their lives and dramas.  I remember the names of girlfriends of my first five cellmates, and I remember the prison-friends I made as a teenager much better than almost anyone I’ve known in the fourteen years since.  It was like high school in some ways, those early memories seeming a big deal and sticking with you because they were a part of your formation as an autonomous individual.  Those who were there were part of the concrete of your identity during the final churning in the mixer.  

I felt most insecure in the experiences I knew nothing about, never living on my own, never having a driver’s license.  I never had a serious girlfriend, never went off to school or moved around, or saw much of anything except some childhood trips around the country.  I didn’t know how to cook or eat healthy, didn’t know how to pay taxes.  The few wild stories I had took place in prison.  Listening to others around me, I couldn’t relate, nor could they relate to me unless I avoided the subjects completely, so I asked questions and listened a lot.  

What began as defense mechanisms turned out to help me as I was fortunate enough to meet a handful of new friends on the outside, usually through my dad.  I could not meet anyone without that person making the choice to open up to me, and when they chose to, they found someone who was genuinely interested in everything they had to say.  I gained understanding of life that way, of the things normal people deal with on a day-to-day basis.  These friends helped me remain human, rather than turn into a toxic caveman.

Within prison, I discovered people often actually liked me as a person.  Sometimes I found myself, especially in my early twenties, trying to act cool, or what I thought was how someone who was cool would act, and made a fool of myself more than once.  I went through a period when I used a fair amount of substances to deal with depression and the chronic anxiety that came from feeling I’d wasted my entire life.  That feeling defined me for a couple years, because it was so true in many ways.  I committed an adult crime with a child’s mind, I harmed people I loved and created the whirlwind I fell into.  At times I did not know who I was, but whoever I was, that was all a part of me.  It was my life, and there was no running from it.

I was a loser.  Not to be self-deprecating, but I was, because I sure hadn’t acted like a winner.  But even in prison things grow, whether they be noxious weeds or better things.  I decided I didn’t want to be like that my entire life, and though I struggled through the years, bored and occasionally terrified with a few moments of wonder, I managed to grow myself.  I became quite an amazing cook as part of an introductory culinary arts vocational class, and later became a tutor/chef.  I learned enough about law to help a teen get out of prison.  I started writing, creating, drawing and constantly reading.  Eventually, I learned about so many things I would have had an interest in had I not been locked up. I learned about what I wanted, began to see what I had the ability to create instead of the destructive tendencies that brought me to prison.  I made friends, and I started having more experiences and more to talk about.  I trained dogs, wrote for books, and performed with bands in prison concerts.

Though I still preferred to listen, I started to discover who I was, to find myself in the shadows despite being behind bars for the majority of my life.  I still can’t make a mean face even if it meant my early parole, but I don’t really care.  I still get stares from the predators when I eat a banana the regular way, but my beard makes me less appetizing and at 33 they know not to mess with me.  I know how to get along with everyone, but I’m much more discerning about who I choose to talk to.  The biggest thing that has changed about me in here is getting rid of my ego, which took work, and giving up on trying to fit in.  When I did, I found that more people took to me than ever before.  Maybe that’s what becoming an adult is, as opposed to a child.  I grew up, and I did it in prison.  It’s possible to find out who you are behind bars…  but it can be a bit harder. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  This is Chris’ first time writing for WITS, but he has been writing for some time. He wanted to share his perspective on what it is like to grow up in prison. If you would like to contact Chris, you can do so at:

Christopher Dankovich #595904
Thumb Correctional Facility
3225 John Conley Drive
Lapeer, MI 48446

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I Was A Part Of Kairos #52!

Leave a comment

Tuesday, July 23, 2024

Let me get this straight…

A bunch of old Christian white men coming to Texas death row to bring forth a Kairos conference for minorities held in chains within isolated cells?  I could hear tribal drum beats from my African ancestors telling me to run.  Flee the scene!  Avoid at all costs!  It was something I had successfully avoided for two decades, and I had never applied to join – until now.  

Over the years I had not refused out of penal dogma, nor was I convinced I would be radicalized religiously.  I am an iconoclast by nature, so I am not at all intimidated by people who have a different view on life than I do.  In fact, I cherish meeting people with different beliefs.  No, my lack of participation was simply based on my view of advocacy for Texas death row inmates and how it would look.  I believe that if one resident gets something from an outside organization, then all of us should receive the same thing or things equally.  Or none of us should get anything.  

When I first arrived on death row I learned this from former inmates who called upon unity and fairness as their religion.  Everything I do is done with the idea that I can make a difference in my environment, and my previous protests of Kairos were always done because I wanted everyone to benefit from it.  

But situational circumstances can be reason to make exceptions to the rules.  Sure, perhaps a bit manipulative, depending on how you look at it, but that became my dilemma, I was given a choice I had to make – “Join Kairos or be moved to another cell in another section.”  

A cell is a cell, I am sure one would assume.  True to some degree.  However, I have invested financially in the cell I currently occupy.  I have faux wallpaper on the walls.  It’s clean.  It is not as draconian looking as other cells due to my efforts.  It’s comfortable as far as death row standards.  So, I was reluctant to part ways with my current cell.  Starting all over is a mentally daunting task for me since the administration has done nothing to maintain our cells’ appearance and condition for over eighteen years. 

So, I agreed to take part in Kairos, convincing myself that in the worst case scenario, if I didn’t like it, I would only have to endure it for two days.  I mean, realistically, I have wasted 9,490 days in a solitary cell.  So, what are two days?

Wednesday, July 24, 2024

A section of one of our pods consists of fourteen cells with a recreational dayroom in front of all the cells.  On this morning, the dayroom was cluttered with crane-neck microphones, speakers, guitars, an electric piano – instruments that would be played by population inmates who had sufficient musical skills.  A few other population inmates, penal-certified Field Ministers and Life Coaches, arrived around 7 am to set up the area with chairs for the guests and decorate with colorful ribbons attached to short messages.   

The inmate-band did a test run on their instruments while another inmate began brewing Folgers coffee, filling the air with an aroma that had been absent from my nostrils since my youthful days living with my grandmother.  Another inmate walked around taking photos of death row inmates in cells.  I refused to have my photo taken at first until I saw that everyone else had theirs taken.  If you ever see the photo, you may notice my wallpaper in the background.  

At around 8 am, about twenty-five Kairos representatives arrived.  They were a casual bunch, not on the far side of over-the-hill, but having passed its summit. With their thinning gray-to-silver hair, they appeared more suited for a M.A.G.A rally than sitting alongside the condemned.  Never judge a book by its cover…

The not-knowing drove my expectations, and I would later learn the same not-knowing faced these Kairos men.  They heard that in my section resided enigmas.  We’d offered up nothing much for attempted spiritual support in past events, and they were told to be unsure of how we might react.  So when they came in, they prayed.

After their group prayer, two of the inmate Life Coaches rolled in breakfast and passed a plate to each death row inmate consisting of breakfast tacos, boiled eggs, oranges, apples, Folgers coffee, assorted cookies and real sugar.  Don’t even get me started trying to recall when my pallet last tasted real, uncut, diabetic cocaine…  sugar.

Once we had all eaten, each Kairos man introduced themselves, and we quickly learned these were not Jim Jones disciples.  Some were former military, including two who fought in the Vietnam War.  One was a scientist, another a mathematician, another a New York liberal, a pastor of a growing church, etc…  All were well off.

Then a Field Minister went to each cell and introduced each death row inmate and explained to them why we took part in the Kairos activities.  Some of us were truthful about not wanting to move.  A few said they wanted to build on or explore their faith and fellowship with Jesus Christ, one had no response, and another said he simply wanted to try something new.  

After the introductions, they sang three songs, encouraging us to sing along.  Then two men took center stage and gave their testimony and explained who they were as Christians.  All were passionate.  I think what grabbed my attention the most was how brutally honest their revelations were, from being used by the military as a Special Ops killing machine to a manipulative womanizer to a reckless alcoholic who nearly killed his entire family in a car accident.

Once these men were done, a group narrator divided the men into ‘families’, naming the groups Matthew, Mark and Luke, and groups of three men were assigned to come talk to inmates at their cells.  Conversations could be about the testimony given and how it moved us, if it did.  Or they would just listen to us talk about carnal stuff – sports, penal injustice, our delusional egos, and so on.  Nothing was forbidden.  Nor were they trying to judge us.  The talks would last for fifteen minutes before they were called back to the dayroom.  More songs were sung, more coffee passed out, and different men would then stand and talk.  Around noon, lunch was passed out, and afterwards there was more singing, more testimonies, and more family meetings at door cells.

Both days at around 2 pm the Kairos men would sing the song I’ll Fly Away, forming a single-file line, spreading their arms out like wings and flapping them as if birds, unashamed, sharing the biggest and warmest smiles I have ever seen in my life.  They were intoxicated, yet not under the influence of any alcohol or chemical agent.  Though I laughed at their ‘funky chicken’ dance routine, I was more appreciative of their genuine display than I thought I would be.  

And at around 5 pm each day, they ended with prayer, feeding us again before saying their good-byes.  

On Day 2, the final day, they explained that their wives, family members and church members had prepared the meals for us.  They even did all the baking.  This revelation touched me – then and now.  I’ve learned over the years that on death row, the majority of us receive support from strangers, non-family members, from different countries even.  It moves and humbles me.

They also gave us a little tote bag filled with notes and letters from Kairos men and their families, even from incarcerated men and women who took part in previous Kairos events.  I read every one.  Some were written with a formal message, but there were a few personal messages from the men I spoke to.  I’m sending them home so my mother can read them too.

When it was finally over and the lights were no longer bright on the section, when every instrument, chair and person was long gone, the most fascinating thing happened…  the air was filled with happiness, not the wild tension that normally fills up this place like a powder keg waiting to ignite.  If I had to describe it…  Recall how the green menace stole all the presents from the Whos in Whoville?  He was so proud of himself, thinking he had ruined the holiday for everyone as he patiently waited to hear screaming and crying coming from the small town.  Instead he heard singing.  Praise. 

Well, after the Kairos men left, IT WAS LIKE WHOVILLE UP IN THIS MUTHER…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time WITS writer. The circumstances surrounding his case have long inspired me, giving insight into how criminal courts work in some cases. Convictions resulting in sentences of death can be obtained, even when all the evidence that is in a state’s possession is not shared.

Details surrounding Charles’ case have been shared extensively on this site. If you would like to contact Charles Mamou, you can do so at:

Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit
P.O. Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266-0400

He can also get messages through: https://securustech.online/#/login

And any messages or comments left here will be forwarded to him.

Loading