Today, May 18th, 2026 marks 27 years that I have stood falsely accused of murder.  It was a Tuesday, May 18th, 1999 when police converged on my cousin’s home with guns drawn, their helicopter overhead.  My last act as a free man was cowering on my knees awaiting a twitchy finger to carry out justice.  I was believed to have killed a man in cold blood, no one would question the ethics.  I wonder now how a sudden move would have weighed on the scale between justice and mercy.  Alleged Killer Dies In A Hail Of Police Bullets; that was news worthy coverage, even I would’ve stayed up to watch that on the evening news.  My mother would’ve mourned my mangled body at first, later rejoiced in my memory, and in time she could’ve moved on.  Instead, I was sent to Death Row, causing her to mourn for 27 long years while fate decides what to do with me.

I’m never my best self on May 18th, neither my worst, but rather that mood where best and worst collide.  I’m somewhere on middle ground where past mistakes live, trying to figure out why I’m still here.  I thought I was meant to be a fantastic father, but the likelihood of that happening was slim since fantastic fathers don’t run the streets.  Yet that was me, a street runner blazing a trail of hurt people behind me.  I wanted to be a loving son, achieving success in life and making his parents proud, but three stints in prison won’t give a mother pride, it gives her cause to pray.  I look in the mirror and see the many career choices that are 27 years gone, as nothing is more telling than an unexpected wrinkle, and nothing sadder than the death of a dream.  I wonder what is left for me to become in a crumbling world that is my prison cell.  I don’t know why I’m still here, but I am hoping to find my purpose somewhere in the rubble.

Hope – what a catchy, overly used word.  I’m hoping for a better day.  I hope I’ll get to hug my mother again.  I hope my grandkids will want to know me.  Hope is insubstantial and yet my only shield to fend off the doom of May 18th.  It can be magical at times, burdensome at others, but hope is all I’ve got.  I came to Death Row riding high on hope, but time proved to be the great minimizer; a hope that has spanned over a quarter century can be taut and ready to snap.  I’ve pitted my hope against a lot of let downs and oftentimes came out on top, only to discover that hope is not always the leisure option, but dangerously necessary.

It was a hard lesson to learn, dangerous hope in the face of extremely low odds.  Death Row isn’t known for its high turn out rate but rather the number of bodies it puts down. Hope is necessary for spiritual security, albeit it can foster delusions.  I had no way of knowing which hope I had until the first execution.  It was a defining moment when any delusions I had made their way to the execution chamber.  I had to grab hold of some spiritual hope and not let go lest I find myself on Death Watch.  It was a hope that was tested time and again with danger lurking around the bend, whether it was my best friend’s suicide, the resentment from my kids, or the Courts denying me justice.

Yes, hope can be joyous and alleviating, but on Death Row, it is not without peril.  It’s a potentially fatal yet unapparent danger, like running through the house with scissors hoping the risk is worth the reward.  In my case, the run has been 27 years spent waiting on court appeals, and the reward is to make it out alive.  The risk, a dutiful executioner coming to seek his due with not scissors, but a poisonous needle.  Death Row is an ill fated circumstance, yet the ideal situation where hope is needed most.  Hope’s rewarding quality comes at the price of uncertainty; even dangerous hope at the risk of falling is better than no hope at all.

My hope on this day is that the bitter reminder of May 18th is momentary, with a more manageable May 19th to come.  My hope gives me recess from the vengefulness in my heart for my accusers and the regrets that won’t let me be.  Hope is faith in the face of failure, leaning hard on the possibility that prosperity is never out of reach.  It can also cut, scrape, and bruise, but like many wounds, hope will eventually heal.  I’m sore in spirit today, but somehow I know my hope will be there to lift me up in the morning.  I may sit and sulk, but I won’t surrender; doubt but not dismiss.  I may even falter but I won’t fail.  I’ll take on this May 18th with pen and paper, Reggae, and isolation, and get through another Death Row day like I’ve done for 27 years.  But for now, I think I’ll stay in bed having a conversation with myself while mourning what could’ve been.

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.