The first time I ever struck my girlfriend, Renee, it was due to a lapse in judgment.  I begged her forgiveness and vowed it would never happen again.   At the time, I really meant it…

My second offense came when I shoved her to the ground and cast the blame down with her.  My woeful sense of embarrassment made me deserving of pity, while the real victim apologized to her aggressor.

By the third time, the abusiveness had become a force of habit sparked by jealousy and anger.  I believed that if I didn’t hit her, then I would lose her, which made undermining my integrity necessary.

Renee and I met on Halloween night, 1989.  I was fifteen and hanging out at a friend’s house when she appeared from next door to borrow sugar.  Renee was barefooted with piercing brown eyes, cropped cinnamon hair, and wearing thigh-high shorts and a fitted tee.   She was tiny but feisty, with a daring personality and striking appeal.  While pranks and sweets were  the order of the day, the night was filled with promise as we sat cuddled up in a dark corner getting to know one another. 

The next night served a crushing blow to my ego when Renee ran off with another guy.  The two of them disappeared into the night for hours while I was left to sort through my suspicions.  Snared by the thorns of her charming whispers, I continued to pursue Renee, though nesting in the back of my mind was a nagging skepticism.

Renee was thirteen with an infant son by a guy who questioned the child’s paternity.  He showed up one day yelling obscenities and swore that he would never return.   After that, becoming a father figure was the most exciting and important part of each day.  No longer was I a kid who grappled with his mom over curfews and academics. Fatherhood had given me purpose.  I began to skip school to spend time with my son and sat by his crib while he slept.  I chipped in for diapers and formula when I could afford it, other times I stole.  Being partly responsible for a life other than my own made me feel as though I mattered, and I couldn’t give that feeling up for anything in the world… so things had to work out between myself and Renee.

Once, after being scolded by Renee’s dad, I decided to stay away for a week.  When I returned, I discovered that Renee had moved on with some other guy.  Emotionally wrecked, I walked away toward a life without Renee until she started rattling off an explanation so earnestly that before I knew it, I was staying.   Afterwards our relationship became brittle devotions laced with icy disputes.  Loving Renee was difficult at times, but somehow, staying was easy.

Amidst continuous doubts of faithfulness, the violence of our sordid union arose.  Renee and I had argued, our moods were tense and the dissension between us escalated.  As usual Renee went into explanation mode, but it was becoming redundant.  Her groveling and swift affection were no longer a remedy.  I was getting out.

Agitated, Renee grabbed onto my clothes to prevent my leaving. Then she cocked her fist and socked me in the nose.  I doubled over, thinking, ‘What the hell just happened,’ as blood and pride trickled to the ground. Even more confusing was her immediate sympathy as she showered me in apologies and kisses.  Her show of cold/hot affection left me sifting through my head for answers and strangely enough, I felt loved.  It was a critical turning point in our relationship and the seed of a fantastic delusion as I rationalized – a love that hurt was better than no love at all. 

Some months passed before a guy popped up and claimed to be Renee’s boyfriend.  Apparently the two were dating at school, and he had hoped to take things further.  I was so furious with Renee for not denying his claim that I tried to leave, but I couldn’t.  My entire world had collapsed at my feet while she stood blank-faced and busted. I demanded that she choose – either him or me.  She hesitated.   I became so desperate to prove how much I loved her, I lashed out and slapped Renee.  My palm flared with the sting of indignity as I watched her crumble at my feet.  I then turned my rage on the schoolyard beau as he hurried on his way. 

Appalled by my disgrace, I immediately deflected the blame.  It was all Renee’s fault, she forced me to hit her, and I wept with self pity and a little self-loathing as Renee accepted guilt. Even though I promised to never hit her again, I could sense a drastic change.  I was deep in the throes of a twisted evolution, and the worst was yet to come.

Soon we were both cheating on love and committed to hurting one another, like the time she pressed a razor blade to my neck or when I clipped her across the head with a log.  Ironically, the abuse didn’t seem egregious, just something we expected, typical behavior that was progressively volatile yet reinforced our love.

Renee and I did share wonderful moments together that made the pain worthwhile. Oftentimes she was my best friend and the person I trusted most.  It was only when the trust was questioned that we tended to bicker and fight – except, Renee hadn’t thrown a punch in years… the fighting was all me.

Then one night, the illusion shattered and all that remained was the truth.  It happened during a cheating allegation that I found myself plotting revenge.  I lured Renee to an area that was dark and secluded, then I rehashed an earlier dispute.  Renee was flustered and caught off guard, her responses rather dodgy.  I then drew back my fist with all the love that I could muster, and I punched her in the face.  She stumbled back, horrified, and attempted to bolt, but I grabbed her and struck her again, slamming her to the ground.  I insisted on the truth but the truth wasn’t what I was after, it was that fleeting moment of gratification by reciprocating the hurt.  Renee scooted away crying and pleading as my vicious love closed in. Then she looked up at me with her mouth filled with blood and said, “Please don’t hurt me, Duck.”

I stopped abruptly, guilt ridden and dejected as my fist fell limp at my side.  I’d never considered that Renee actually feared me and to see such a thing was unnerving.  I thought of our rambunctiousness as roles we played to indicate our love for one another, yet to see someone you love who’s afraid of you was utterly self defining. 

I stood ruined, trying to recognize myself, but all I saw was a monster who would mask the brokenness inside me by victimizing Renee.  I was caught in the cycle of unethical madness that mistook love and perpetuated cruelty.  I’d already witnessed a tragedy at four when my uncle loved his wife with bullets. My daddy was known to love with his hands, but my mother wanted something better.   And there I was, resorting to violence to salvage an aching love.  I had become someone I detested, a man of wavering integrity.  I abused Renee not because I loved her, but to scare her into loving me.  It was a menacing tactic to manipulate her feelings while empowering my own.  But a love that is fostered by fear and violence is hardly love at all, but simply the substance of shame and dishonor that never quite goes away.

Suddenly, I realized that life had more to offer us both, though it was unlikely that we would find it together.  But I did love Renee enough to know I would never hurt her again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Death Row is a somberness that never quits and a psychological dismay that never stales, offering fleeting hope in the distance, while an unspeakable cruelty lurks from behind.  It is the veil of vengeance over the face of forgiveness and the dark that seldom brightens.   And it is a system designed to diminish one’s spirit by decades of prolonged executions.   

Enter Joe – a highly spirited, gentle soul and a bonafide hillbilly (his words, not mine).  Joe was amongst several death row inmates whom I met upon arrival.  Although he and I didn’t quite vibe at first, eventually we became good friends.  Our divide was mainly due to our backgrounds which were astronomically worlds apart. However, proximity and shared affliction pieced us together and our friendship was a perfect fit.

Joe was an avid watcher of daytime soaps, bounding around the pod enthusiastically while awaiting his favorite shows. I’d listen to him zestfully recount weekly episodes until he finally piqued my interest.  Before long I was bouncing alongside Joe; the soaps were our escape.

Joe was a tinker also, an essential figure in every inner prison’s workings. Tinkers improvise using commonplace items to effectively service their inmate community.  In need of a coffee brewer?  See Joe.  Stogie roller?  That was Joe too.  From radio repairs to holiday greeting cards, Joe lent a little of himself to everyone.  And when matters were somewhat trivial, still he was eager to help.

I became most endeared to Joe the day he tattooed my forearm. We sat and chatted up one another as he tagged me with his artistry.  Joe opened up to me about his spiritual ambitions and the difficulties in his past. It made me realize, though our differences were superficial our adversities were much the same. I watched as Joe embraced his vulnerability as a means to mend his spirit. It taught me that my own woes were much deeper than death row; I suffered a darkness within.

Afterwards, Joe became the bright spot to every waking day.  A stickler for cleanliness, he swept and mopped the pod each morning before dawn.  Joe then turned to cigarettes and coffee to crank out his lively mood and for hours on end he would laugh and joke – and death row never felt so good.

Joe was a jack-of-all trades, though hardly a master at all.  He was a joyful klutz at basketball, yet the first to laugh at himself. At poker, he was a heavy better and lost with his heart carefree.  He was deeply committed to the happiness of others – happiness gave Joe peace.

It was three years past when the news came down and Joe faced a darkness of his own. The courts rejected the last of his appeals and issued him an execution date. Suddenly there was aridness in the air that ached with sympathy and despair. Well-wishers barely spoke above whispers as they internalized with ‘what ifs’.  Joe put troubled minds at ease by insisting that he was fine – but on the day that his executioners  came, he said to me, “Man, I don’t wanna die.”

In that moment, I was stumped for words.  I had nothing to offer but sadness.  I wanted so much to give Joe absolution and shoo his killers away. I felt helpless and betrayed for the coming demise by an evil which met no resistance.  The terrible truth was – my fears were also selfish.  I didn’t know how to be on Death Row without Joe.

Joe and I embraced for the last time, his cheeks slicked with tears while his eyes held out hope for the governor’s stay. 

He then bid goodbye to others as the party of white shirts escorted him to Deathwatch where he faced his final adversity alone.  Joe was executed by lethal injection.  It was a harsh reality that pitched Death Row into darkness.

Death Row is an immoral chasm filled with broken spirits. It is insubstantial highs and demoralizing lows in the fight to stay alive. However, having Joe around was like a break in the action.  His kindness lit up the dark – and I’m grateful to have had his light shone on me, if only for a short while.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is the winner of Walk In Those Shoes’ first spring writing contest. He rose to the occasion, as did many. The goal of the contest was to share light people saw and experienced behind bars, and I think what has become apparent is that often times – it was the light in the writers’ themselves that was shared.
Terry writes for us often, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Dear Duck,

You might want to sit down for this.  Being as you’re so young, my intention is to be delicate, but there are some troubling things that need to be disclosed about the path down which you are headed.

Who am I, you ask?  Oh, I’m nobody in particular, though I could’ve been. It’s just that I’ve made some really poor choices in life – kinda like what you’re doing.  Should you continue, well… eventually you may become nobody in particular too.

The things you’re going through that you think no one else understands – I do.  However, I’ve come to learn that other people’s shortcomings are not my excuses, and there’s self-accountability in most blame.  We are all responsible for creating the lives we want for ourselves.  None of us are exempt from that obligation, Duck. No one else determines how you live.

I know that you’re experiencing some household issues that compel you to find acceptance outside your home. Your older brother, Ray, whom you idolize, doesn’t want you tagging along with him anymore. And while you wait enthusiastically around the house for his return, still, he doesn’t notice you.  I know between your mother’s day job and night school, quality time has given way to fatigue.  And while everyone dotes on your cute kid sister, your presence feels passed over.  It makes you envious, and you question your worth.  You feel invisible, as though you don’t matter. You prioritize making friends for the sake of their opinions to validate your importance.  You assume a person’s reputation is the measure of their worth; that fear is ascribed to weakness.  So you smoke, deal drugs, and have unprotected sex simply to gain approval.  But real friends needn’t prove themselves to one another, and fearfulness touches us all. Even the stony looks on the faces of those you so desperately hope to impress, they too have known fear.  We’ve all been afraid, though not everyone has the courage to admit it.  Owning up to our fears is not weak but strong.

Open your eyes, Duck.  You could have a rich, joyous life, if only you would seize it and realize that nothing worth having comes free, it takes dedication and hard work. And yes – having to take ownership over your life at thirteen can be scary, but being a better person is a decision that can only be made by you.  Should you continue to travel down such a callous road of indignities, well… you’ll find yourself one night staring down the barrel of a shotgun while fumbling in your socks for what you hope is enough money to trade for your life.  You’ll have kids who will grow to adults and have no idea who you are. You’ll suffer scorching lead bore through your flesh as you are left in the street for dead.  You will become a slave to your addictions, contract STDs, and erroneously learn to settle domestic disputes with your fist.  You will hold a man’s life in your hands while wielding a powerful sense of judgment at the price of your humanity.  You’ll spend 20 years in a prison cell crying yourself to sleep at night with shame. Your life will be plagued with regrets, and you’ll find that behind closed eyelids, your demons await.

There’s lots of hurt coming your way, Duck.  Trust me – I know.  But there’s also the chance for you to make things different.  The life you want – your dreams and aspirations – they begin and end with you. Don’t let the pain of your poor choices diminish your goodness and exact its toll on your family.  Don’t let the expectations of others determine who you will become.  You’re a wonderfully smart and gifted young man with unworldly potential for greatness, so be someone to be proud of…  don’t be another me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work.

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

All Posts By Chanton

A caged bird sings,
And a condemned man writes.
The only freedom to be had
In a tomb, sealed tight.
But no, not airtight,
Just enough to breathe.
See the mugginess that looms
In the dank lonely room?
Shall it bring you constant misery
For the wrong you have done.
Murderer!
You worthless monster!
The same grief you have caused
Should be exacted on your mama.
O’ but it has,
Just not enough.
Heathenish villain
Who deserves no forgiveness,
And for that we’re going to bring
Out the lethal stuff.
Undo what God has done,
Rid fathers of their sons,
As your souls erode in darkness
Till the day of judgment comes.
And when that day comes,
No tears, nor fears,
Nor uprising peers
Will hinder the injustice
Inflicted on you for years,
From way, way back
On the slave man’s back.
We are all black,
And the distinction of skin color
Is fallacy designed by the elitist
As a means to stay in power.
Watching the seconds tick
As it nears the twelfth hour,
Where preparations are made
And sympathy forbade;
Ain’t nothing
Going on here
But the necessary removal
Of a threat to society.
Placaters
Turned player haters,
Never losing an ounce
Of sleep at night
From knowing that death
Is just a business.
Torture chambers need hosts,
Tax payers foot the cost,
With endless sights of vigil lights
As advocates brave the cold,
Chanting, “No more deaths!”
“No more deaths!”
But there will always be deaths
Till by death there’s no one left,
But the supreme man
And him who understands
That classism
Is about one clan.
Not black, or white
Nor those with the will to fight.
And neither the caged bird that sings
Nor the condemned man that writes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Cruel.   Heartless.   Malicious and cold.  That’s how the prosecutor described me to a jury during his pitch for a verdict of death.  He argued that I was, “…just mean and unfit to live.”  In the end, the jury agreed.

Four months after my arrival on Death Row, I stole money from an officer.  Though inadvertent, it was theft nonetheless.  It happened one morning during weekly ‘draw’, while one officer was training another.  At that time, available funds withdrawn from inmate accounts were counted and stapled together. 

The new guy – or Newbie – handed me a stack of bills in fives and ones meant to total forty dollars.  With no prior incidents or errors, I tucked the bills in my pocket and walked away.  Within moments, a commotion stirred as one inmate started shouting over missing funds.  Others became disgruntled and offered up chide remarks about the unfairness of the system.  The senior officer tried to de-escalate the ruckus, while the new guy searched frantically through the money bag.  I sympathized with the perplexity strewn on Newbie’s face.  It was his first day on the job.

After reassuring compensation, both officers exited the pod, as the ire amongst protesting inmates increased.   With a prickly notion to count the money, I collected the bills from my pocket and discovered it wasn’t one stack, but two.  The staples in each stack had snagged one another and pieced the money together.  I called over the guy to which the funds belonged, explained the mix-up and offered him the money. 

“Keep it,” he said, “Let the State pay for it, since they’re trying to kill us, anyway.”  Tempers flared over systemic oppression, as the other inmates egged each other on.   Reluctantly, I passed the money off to a friend – I was striking a blow to ‘the State’.

Not only was the meager blow ineffective to the State, it was utterly deflected.  I later found out the replacement funds were deducted from Newbie’s salary.  What a terrible feeling to know I was responsible for a mark on his work record.  And by involving another party, I couldn’t return the money, though keeping it cost me peace of mind.

Over the years, Newbie has gone on to become a well respected officer.  With an 18 year tenure of working on Death Row, he has seniority over all other staff.  He’s shown cordialness and consideration when enforcing policy, while effectively performing his duties.   A kind, hard working man, who seldom speaks, but is eager to flash a grin.  As I’ve come to admire his professionalism, I’m reminded of my offense.  Such a fine person deserves better from me – I deserve better from myself. 

Recently, I was among several Death Row inmates selected for a random urinalysis.  I arrived to find Newbie overseeing the process, as he went about his task with a grin.  I’d often experienced discomfort whenever he was present – a nagging guilt that pecked at my conscience and impeded the wholeness of reform.  Tonight’s discomfort was more salient and intense, as I struggled with the idea of possible outcomes.  What if Newbie had lost his job, or been accused of theft and criminally charged?  I squeezed my eyes tightly as my inner voice gathered.  Newbie deserved better.  So did I.

Some idle chat was used to generate dialogue on self-reform.   Then, with no one else around, my words spilled forth, “Yeah, man… many of us want to be better, but to do better, we have to own our truths.  Just like the time when that forty dollar draw come up missing…”  At that point, I had Newbie’s undivided attention.  While confessing my role in the missing funds, I felt embarrassed, but liberated.  I searched his eyes for a hint of anger.  They stayed steady and unrevealing.  I expressed my sincerity to return the funds and the difficulty of having involved another.  His fixed look filled me with shame – a shame I well deserved.

Finally, Newbie settled his thoughts and said, “Thank you for telling me that.”  For eighteen years Newbie had been puzzled by the events of that day.  He was certain about the money count and grateful to finally know what happened.  I was moved to witness such genuine forgiveness, given instantly and without effort.  I expected reprimand for my wrong-doing, instead, Newbie seemed relieved.  His forgiveness was validation in the courage to right our wrongs.  It was more than I deserved – it was a lesson in the goodness of humanity. 

©Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton