Some tragedies are gradual, prolonging dismay, others swift and unexpected, yet loss in any form effects in us a void that can only be filled with time.  It is loss to which we are all akin, regardless of status, color or creed, none excluded from the woeful affliction all of humankind will suffer.  Tear-stained cheeks, fine suits and condolences are the soothing, necessary etiquette, after which we look to move on – but occasionally we find we can’t.

Chris was a childhood friend I grew up with on Fountain Drive, a project housing development set on the outskirts of town.  There were no ills of the inner-city there, like drugs and prostitution.  Sequestered by fields and lush greenery, we were burgeoning country folk.  We scoured ditches for crayfish, climbed trees to pick wild berries, and explored the far reaches of the surrounding woods where we carved out a world all our own.

A favorite pastime was the community football game.  Narrow eyes stared across a makeshift field as we rivaled one another.   We tackled, grappled, and cussed with fervor to demonstrate our toughness, but in the end we always left as friends, looking forward to carrying on the next day.

It was the older kids in the neighborhood that first ganged up on Chris – my brother and his closest friends.  It was an assault that came without merit as Chris had committed no offense.  Instead of contesting their egregious violation, Chris up and ran away, unaware the flight-mode mentality would begin a lifelong recurrence.

Although a rural bubble, Fountain Drive was not the easiest place to live. No one qualified for low-income housing more than single mothers and senior citizens, and with many of our moms off working to improve their conditions and the elderly nestled up to their daytime television shows, we ran around mostly unsupervised and growing unrulier by the day.

We had petty differences, some escalating to fist fights, that seldom outlasted the day.  We ransacked the neighborhood community center and egged each other on to steal.  Everything from throwing rocks at passing cars to prank calling the fire department, our mischief knew no bounds, yet nothing would ignite our frenzy more than chasing after Chris.

Chris, himself, was a passive misfit – just barely on the right side of wrong.  His misdeeds were rather frivolous, swiping an item from a clothesline or lifting coins for his mother’s purse.  He was never one to talk trash, though his size was intimidating enough.  At ten, he was a head taller than most teenagers, and by thirteen, he was the same age as his shoe size.  With shoulders as wide as a welcome embrace and powerful legs that were the getting-away kind, we stood almost no chance of catching him, yet we were thrilled to try.

Chris, however, was a gentle soul.  He was thoughtful and forgiving, and usually, within a day or so, he was back amongst the clique.  Despite his hulking size, he had a boyish quality that was much more fun to keep around, and over time, our betrayals became less frequent, until we no longer chased him away. 

By fifteen, Chris’ interests had matured, and he began to venture outside the neighborhood to other parts of town.  It was courting girls that had procured his attention, and he thought to visit them whenever possible. However, as we had long given up chasing Chris, other kids from around town had just begun, until it seemed that bullying Chris was the most expected thing to do.

Once, I witnessed him fleeing from some guys – but did nothing in the way of help, afraid I was a word in his defense away from being bullied myself.  Chris, though, had an impeccable reputation for outpacing his foes, as many of his aggressors gave chase for sport, all except one… Mikey.

A local badass who favored drinking and fighting, Mikey was the epitome of trouble.  He was the guy the other bullies steered clear of.  It was a brisk night outside a nightclub when Mikey set his sights on Chris – but this time, there would be no running away.  Instead, Chris fought back.

As it turned out, Chris didn’t run all those years because he was fearful – it was a method of harm prevention.  He figured as long as he didn’t hurt anyone today, things would be better tomorrow.  He ran away because he was being a better friend to us than we ever were to him.  Unlike Mikey, who was ruthless – not to mention a sore loser.

Some few nights later while walking home alone, Chris spotted a suspicious vehicle.   He discovered that it was Mikey, along with some friends.  Outnumbered, Chris had little choice but to flee, taking cover behind some houses as Mikey stepped out of the car with a gun and fired a shot in the dark.  Assuming Chris was long gone, Mikey and his crew sped off, unaware the bullet had hit its mark as Chris lay dying in the night.

It wasn’t until the next morning his body was discovered, entangled in the brush.  Chris had been killed at just sixteen…  and I never got to say, ‘I’m sorry’.

Regrets, juxtapose to loss, are the things that remain, the stuff of good memories, shared experiences, and lost opportunities.  After 32 years, it’s regrets that have kept Chris alive in my heart, and without which, I fear I will lose one of the best people I ever knew.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS. He is an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. He is also an innocent man who has lived on death row for over 20 years. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and we are proud to call him a member of this team.

Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

The following is an excerpt from a poem written for his mother, a gift woven in words.

When I was but a little girl
I made myself a promise,
To rear my children with dignity,
Teach them to be honest.

But first, I had to grow,
Endure lots of pain,
Survive the throes of ghetto woes
Time and time again.

Things would not come easy,
At times I felt like crying,
Determined to gift-wrap the world
Or willing to die trying.

Winter boots and Easter suits
And summers filled with glee.
Never mind if I was suffocating,
As long as my kids could breathe.

So, I toiled by day and learned by night
Lunched on rice and bread.
Wore my children’s hand-me-downs
Just to get ahead.

I cooked and cleaned and in between
Encouraged my children to strive.
I scraped and clawed but through it all,
My eyes stayed on the prize.

Destiny for me was simply
Duty without break.
If asked to do it all over again,
I would not hesitate.

See, all I ever wanted
Was the life I never had
Served to my babies
In the absence of their dads.

I wanted to show them through persistence
They could have it all,
What matters most is how we rise,
Not so much how we fall.

My kids are now grown with kids of their own,
Some of those kids with child.
Some day when my story is told,
I hope I’ve made them proud.

All we have to offer the world,
The legacy we leave behind.
I pray all mothers love their children
As much as I love mine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. The above is only an excerpt from a poem he wrote for his mother who has been his biggest supporter. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. He has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

For over three years I’ve been writing for Walk In Those Shoes, a sounding board for prisoners whose voices would otherwise be muffled behind prison walls, as well as a call to action for readers.  In a world of social statuses, cultural practices and racial characteristics that serve to divide us, we remain connected through our human experiences.  We’ve all lost a loved one.  We’ve all dreamed.  We’ve all had childhood crushes for that special someone that turned our words to mush.   We’ve all done something we wish we could take back, and we all have something yet to attain.  Our experiences link us in a way that voids our differences, the fabric of our worldly relationships woven in our stories.

It was after reading personal and thought-provoking essays by writers like John Green and Charles Mamou, that I recognized the importance of Walk In Those Shoes.   Each piece was thoughtfully edited and kept true to its writer while providing a visual nexus that was soulful, stories not told with rhetoric but the realism of childhood abandonment, abuse and regrets.  There were also tales of familial joys, kindness and compassion.  I could hardly wait to join such an astonishing cast of writers whom I’d come to admire through their shared vulnerability.

On October 5, 2017, Walk In Those Shoes featured a piece titled I’m Still Breathing, an homage to Dr. Maya Angelou.  In addition to the message, there was an image of a rusted manacle laid bare on granite siding.  This visual selection was a symbol of empathy meant to resonate with my words. It was my first writing to be published on Walk In Those Shoes, my induction into a brotherhood of writers and one of my proudest moments.

Simply put, Walk In Those Shoes is a proverbial reminder that we are not without empathy.  It is a platform for writers with broken pasts to make whole their productive future.  I’m grateful for my fellow contributors for their courage to share their experiences.  Our stories are not meant to suffer in silence, our stories are meant to heal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and his creative resume is rapidly growing. His is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, a book banned from prisons in North Carolina; he is an active board member of Walk In Those Shoes as well as one of several frequent contest judges; and he continues to work on his memoir, as well as a book of fiction. His writing abilities are amazingly far reaching, and we are fortunate to have his voice and input in the direction of WITS. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after studying his case file and transcripts WITS also believes in that innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

He was called Little Tee – befitting since he stood no taller than the BMX bicycle he struggled to mount, eager to tag along with the older kids to the mall.  His cheeks flushed, absorbing the praise, while my friends boasted over his skill for thieving.  I knew they were manipulating him, but I didn’t speak up – being equally manipulative in my silence.  I hoped he would grow tired on our trail and turn back, but he didn’t, determination cascading from his forehead with each trickle of sweat.  We arrived at the mall and did wheelies in the parking lot as Little Tee vanished inside.  By the time we later headed for home, we all sported new gold chains.

That was the first day I met Little Tee, a burgeoning menace with an unwavering desire to prove himself.  He stole anything that wasn’t nailed down, his confidence like silk in his veins.  Thievery was only a fragment of his willingness to fit in; one simply had to dare Little Tee.  He hung out all hours of the night, putting doubts to rest with a fearlessness inspiring to watch.

Nights at my house were sometimes spent with Little Tee sprawled out on the sofa or scoffing cold-cuts and gawking at video vixens.  I wondered about his family and whether his whereabouts were anyone’s concern.  He was no more than eight or nine, and yet no one ever came looking for him.  I didn’t mind that he showed up unexpectedly and seemed to never want to leave; I liked having him around.   He had a timely sense of humor and dreams of the future big enough to lend me some.  He gave unsparingly and never asked for anything in return.  To him, charity was synonymous to wealth. Little Tee was a joy, but he did have a mean-streak and fought with other kids all over town like it was the latest craze.  The bane of his freedom, it would earn him some stints in juvenile detention where he ultimately grew more devious.

A few years later, Little Tee transitioned from thieving to dope dealing.  He hopped into cars haggling crack rocks and turned profits with the best of ‘em.  He smoked cigarettes and weed, drank beers and cussed.  No one seemed bothered by his youthfulness, instead they encouraged him.  The more his behavior worsened, the more popular he became.  By twelve years old, he had as much clientele as dealers twice his age.  He was always the smallest guy on the block, but nobody had more heart.

One night Little Tee was at a local hangout when a scuffle broke out between two men with their pride at sake, one of whom had a shotgun.  Scorching iron-pellets ruptured Little Tee’s flesh as he was inadvertently shot in the face.  It would be months before he healed from his physical injuries, but his psyche hardly recovered. Suddenly, he was torn between upholding his image and breaking free from his notoriety.  He had grown weary of his terrible ways, yet he couldn’t break character. The truth was, the shooting ordeal changed Little Tee and heightened his conscience in a way others could never understand.  He wanted so much to be done with the streets… but the streets don’t always let go.

On Christmas day, December 25, 1997, I was posted up on the block when Little Tee strolled through.  We greeted one another and shared some laughs before his eyes took on a piercing glare.  He then let on about his dissension with rival dealers in a nearby neighborhood and asked for my help.  By then, Little Tee was like a brother to me – it was all the answer he needed. Apparently, he had rented a car and parked it on Gay Street.  He said he would swing by and pick me up later.  Little Tee disappeared up the street.  Some minutes later, gunshots devoured the joyous holiday evening. Gossip raced along the streets on the lips of hearsayers – Little Tee was just killed by the police!

I bolted heedlessly for Gay Street while at the same time down a road in my head that had no end. I kept thinking that if I got there quick enough, maybe I could save him.  I prayed the whispers were wrong but the look of despair on the faces of the spectators confirmed my worst realty. Someone was dead.  “Please, God, don’t let it be Little Tee.”

The shooting had taken place in the backyard which obscured my view of the body.  Rumors of what happened ran rampant among those gathered, igniting a bon-fire of tempers.  The ambulance arrived and carted out a body partially covered under a blood soaked sheet.  I recognized the sneakers and fell to the ground wailing…  Little Tee really was gone.

All Posts By Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

A boundless void, daunting and ever present, a place where even the pleasure of a night’s dream is wrecked by the reality of the waking day – that’s where I live.  It’s a domain that spans a mere 6×10 feet, made of menacing concrete and steel, and offers the barest resources within an atmosphere that effects only sorrow.   That’s life on Death Row, rankled daily by restrictions… told what to do, how to dress and when and where to go with little choice but to comply, dutifully denied the simplest liberties many folks take for granted and yet the real punishment seldom comes by day, rearing its head most often at night.

IU240 are the numbers of my prison cell, a crypt of sorts, where memories are elicited and misery reserved.  With twenty years of digital sequences like IU240 to mark my identity, I am a nameless statistic with nothing left in the world to call my own.  The days here are but a tireless effort to distract from Death Row – tabletops, TV, books and gossip, anything to cope with the pain.  Yet ‘Lock Down’ call begins an agony anew, one from which there are no delusions or escape.

IU24O, a paltry wasteland of fussy dust mites that gather in hard to reach places.  Lonely, except for the crowd of tender thoughts that threaten to devour my complacency.  “Stand clear!” the warning blares as the mechanical gears churn and the vaulted door slams shut while I struggle to regard IU240 as a sanctuary rather than something worse than death.

The nights number 7300 that I’ve spent in isolation.  My voice yearns for companionship, but the solitude is stifling, the air bland and smells nothing of freedom, more of apathy.  As the brightness in the room plummets, I cling to a reason to steady the light within.   I am afraid in the dark I may lose my way.  Trivial items that lie dormant by day are now crawling reminders of the oppression, making rest and peace of mind laborious and evasive.

There is a column of tissue rolls stacked in the corner that serves as a coffee table and a desk constructed from Maruchan soup boxes and shoddy adhesive.  Bed sheets suspended from paper clips along the walls are all there is for privacy, yet in a world of trash where there is hardly treasure, one must improvise.  There’s a stainless steel mirror that erredly reflects the stains of my past transgressions, a toilet that ticks tauntingly and faucet water that tastes like lead.   The concrete and steel with an eerie affinity to that of the blood and spirit of the many who have perished already and those who await their fate.

It is likely I will die in prison, a truth that is written on the age lines of my face.  Already twenty years of my life’s essence etched into the fabric of these walls, and yet, IU240 isn’t some infamous badland where hope doesn’t exist.  It doesn’t stand in the way of accepting responsibility and the effort to amend wrongs.

On the contrary, it’s a place where accountability offers temperance and renewal… a place where I have emerged from chaos a better person than when I arrived.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/