There’s nothing festive about waking up to Christmas on N.C. death row – the magic doesn’t work where there’s misery.  In a place where the air holds the irrevocable stench of probable execution, holiday spirit can be rendered a casualty.  December 25th, 2025, I began Christmas day sorely contemplating whether to get out of bed.  It’s not the most comfortable place, a flattened cot sprawled out on the prison floor, but at least it knows me.  I dreaded getting up to face the injustice that has tormented me for over 25 years.  It ain’t easy suffering wrongful conviction.  But staying in bed posed its own sense of torture – continuously replaying the same question in my head, “Why me?”

Any morning peace to which I’d clung was disrupted by the wake call of the C/O rapping his knuckles on the cell door.  If only he’d have greeted us with Merry Christmas, his shouting may have been tolerable, but announcing “Count Time!” at the top of his lungs felt rather intrusive.  Still, it was my cue to spring out of bed and start the death row day with my daily abolition.  Clean teeth.  Rinse face.  Get dressed.  Damn – red is so not my color.  On the mirror was a sticky pad with a calendar that reminded me the day was the 25th.  It would be the 25th Christmas I’d spend on death row.  I was 25 when I was framed for murder.  I’d spent my 25th birthday recovering from near death.  Some 25 years later, I’m still dodging the Reaper.  I’d heard people say they had a lucky number – but an unlucky number? …ridiculous.  Yet the number 25 has not been kind to me, though I was never one for superstition.  Maybe I’d close my eyes and hold my breath for 25 seconds to see if my luck would change.

The cell doors opened as the death row men set off briskly with many a one track mind, bidding terse, “Merry Christmas,” and, “Merry Christmas to you too brother,” while determined to be the first served at breakfast.  I realized none of them wore their red jumpsuits since the food trays are delivered to us every holiday.  Forgetful me – it seemed Thursday was not my lucky day.  I peeled off the reds and quickly joined the others as we popped open the Styrofoam lids.  Egg whites and peanut butter, minus the bread. Better had it been cookies and milk.

No worries.  I was hungry for something other than food anyway, and not a cup in the world could hold my libations.  So merry was I with the anticipation of talking with my loved ones that I found my morning moodiness gone.  It was 8:36 am when I video visited my mother because those six minutes were all I could stand to wait.  She popped up on the screen wishing me a Merry Christmas.  My gift to her was in putting up my strongest front.  Just seeing my mom reminded me of our Christmas times past when hotty-totties and VCR movies ruled the day.  It all came rushing back, those family gatherings at Thanksgiving, birthdays, and Easter, as I reveled with the woman who gave me life.  We made the most of our tender moment and pushed on past the unspoken hurt of a mother and son missing one another. We’d had 24 prior Christmases of absence and endurance; somehow we’d make it through 25.

I called up other family and friends, whose love and support put my mood on high.  Eventually I’d come crashing back down to death row, but at least now I’d land on hope.  I kept the phone calls short, because those mega companies like Securus and Global Tel-link have teamed up with prisons to make the prisoner’s misfortune expensive.  Plus, I’d been standing too close to hardened attitudes, sordid prison, and despair – I couldn’t have any of that get on the people I love.

Distractions are essential, though optional, to get through any other prison day, but on Christmas, it’s the biggest gift under the tree – one I anxiously tore into, donned my distraction, and grinned because faking the Christmas spirit means sometimes dressing the part.  I chose to play chess first since it’s a serious game.  In fact, seriousness is somewhere in the rules.  Playing out the analogies of life on a checkered board would give me all the time I needed to work up to a smile.  Then it was on to entertainment: sports, rom-coms, and Christmas day parades.  If death row wouldn’t permit me any real joy, then I’d relish what it looked like on others.  Lunchtime was the highlight of every Christmas day on death row, a time when the State saw fit to serve us roast beef.  Mine was cold, dry, and unseasoned, doing nothing to sate my appetite for freedom, so instead I settled for granolas and chips. I’d hoped outdoor rec would boost my holiday delusions, but no amount of basketball and pull ups could deflect the truth.  All around me were concrete slabs, concertina wire, fences – hardly the place to exude any manner of spirit.

Night time rolled around, when many of the guys broke out the heartier meals, having saved all week to host a Christmas feast.  I, myself, whipped up a fish dish with mackerel, cheese, and Spanish rice – a touch of garlic powder and pepper to make it taste like home.  Others prepared cheeseburgers, chili, burritos, and pepperoni pizzas, along with sodas, cookies, candies, and ooh whop cakes.  Swapping recipes and sharing grub was as festive as death row would get.  During grace, I thanked God that Christmas was almost over.

Back in the cell later that night, I discovered I’d left my gratefulness behind.  I never start the day without it.  I’d been short-sighted and missing the glory of Christmas with my moping around between highs and lows.  No wonder I’d had such a shitty day.  In my emotional seesawing, I’d forgotten to be grateful that I was still alive.  My loved ones had good health, my case was being fought in the courts, and I was coming into my purpose everyday.  Death row had taken so much from me already – I refused to let it take Christmas too, so I climbed up to the window and set my gaze beyond the prison walls.  A quick prayer to God for gratefulness was all the gift I would ever need.  I then checked my watch at 11:05 am with just enough time to pull out my journal and salvage what little Christmas spirit I could.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s death row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.

Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, he was a subject of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions and also as co-host of In the Cellar, a podcast that explores the challenges, tragedies and triumphs of living with a death sentence.

Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven, and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.

Terry can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.