For months when I was twenty-three, I sensed God calling me to live in a tent. Actually, He called me to forsake my party lifestyle and selling drugs; and since part of me yearned to do this, I started fantasizing about being homeless and living out of a tent at a local campground. My desire had nothing to do with some romantic, spiritual vision that saw connecting with nature as a way to connect with God. Rather, it was the embodiment of my wish to be free of my attachment to creature comforts. And it was a practical path to accomplishing what God was asking of me because without my ‘supplemental income’, I simply could not afford to pay all my bills.
My small town had few available decent jobs paying livable wages which didn’t require higher education and a clean criminal history. With a felony on my record and a GED, I counted myself fortunate to earn $9 an hour building furniture; but even working full-time, I barely covered rent, power, water, phone groceries, toiletries, gas… I’ve never had health insurance. Without my extra illicit money, I couldn’t afford little luxuries like cigarettes or new clothes, or taking my girlfriend out to eat or the movies. I was willing to stop partying, but I felt like God was asking me to stop living! So, while camping in a tent to save money became a symbol of redemption for me, ultimately I chose to keep my creature comforts.
It’s been twenty years since I made that choice, one that ultimately led to a drug-related violent offense for which I received a death sentence. Though I long ago gave my heart to God, I’d trade this concrete box for a flimsy tent outside any day – without the girlfriend, cigarettes, running water or electricity. I realize now that God was not asking me to give up living. He was trying to teach me how to live without those chains.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and also a veteran WITS contributor. George is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion, and he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
He can also be contacted via textbehind.com and gettingout.com
I recently studied a photo of Stephen Hayes’ exhibit, 5 lbs., featuring a wall of dark dinner-plate-sized frames, each filled with brass shell casings. Emerging from the bullets, hands that seem to be reaching from underneath – or maybe surging up through – a flurry-flood, breaking the surface like drowning men and children.
The first message is cerebral. As a series, the lots of dinner plates and lots of hands suggest a widespread pattern of violence.
The second message is emotional. Wide-spread fingers and clenched fists speak a language I recognize – DESPERATION – showing that ultimately each of us suffer fear and death alone.
I’ve been incarcerated twenty years, but even now, at forty-one, my breath quickens as if those fingers are mine, screaming at me from the past. When I was twelve and living in the projects, I suddenly realized that before I turned thirty, I’d either be dead, serving a life sentence, or waiting to be executed. When I told my homies, they looked at me coolly, like I’d pointed out some obvious and natural law, the way gravity pulls all bodies toward earth’s center.
February 1993. The Projects.
You need to call the cops… What? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Call the cops! That was taboo in the projects; we all knew the consequences. My homie’s mom draped her heavy arm around my shoulders, lifted my chin to examine tonight’s damage. I had thick red welts from where my dad’s fingers had encircled my neck.
“George, sweetie, I know we not s’posed to, but if you don’t call the cops, yo daddy gon’ kill you or one of yo brothers.”
She said it so tenderly, I started sobbing again. Though I was scared of my dad, I was terrified of the po-leece.
As boogeymen, police had supernatural powers to make people disappear. Adults threatened children with them, like, if you don’t take yo li’l ass to bed, the po-leece gone take yo li’l ass to jail. Our campfire stories centered around THE LAW – run-ins with them, running from them, getting captured by them. I didn’t want to call the cops; I didn’t want to die either.
She dialed, then pressed the cordless phone to my ear. A stranger’s voice said, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
Finally, desperate, I told on my dad. I told about the years of beatings, the broken bones, how he’d tried to kill me, that my brothers were still in the apartment with him.
By the time the cops came to rescue me, I felt better. I figured my brothers and I would either go live with our mom (wherever she was) or go into foster care. Either way, we’d escape the projects and our dad.
The cops were kind. Both were middle-aged, one White, one Black. They took me to confront my dad who stood shirtless on our stoop, smoking a cigarette. He smirked when he saw me walking up between two brawny officers.
We stopped about five feet away. One of the officers rubbed warm circles between my shoulders. They told my dad all I’d said, then got quiet. My dad dropped his cigarette, stubbed it out with his bare heel, then growled, “Yeah, I did it. All of it.”
The guy on my right looked down at me a couple seconds, then back at my dad. Then he pressed me forward and said, “Well… you must’ve done something to deserve it.”
The cops nodded to my dad, then walked away saying, “Have a good night, sir.” My dad sidestepped as I hung my head and went inside to rejoin my brothers.
Sometimes, after that night and just prior to or following a beating, my dad would drag me by an ear to the kitchen phone and thrust the receiver against my head. “Here, call for help,” he’d say, chuckling. I’d close my eyes and click the phone back into its cradle.
March 25, 1993. The Projects.
I’d turn twelve at midnight. I lay on my bed monitoring the sounds inside and outside the apartment, anxious. The corner where our sidewalk bordered our parking lot was a prime hangout spot for dealers, users, prostitutes. Every night I listened to car stereos thumping, people laughing, bottles bursting (sometimes through our windows), the undulating tones of an argument that ended with the slaps and thuds of fists on faces – or gunshots. After years of living here, like an inner city lullaby, these hypnotic sounds soothed me, rocked me to sleep each night.
But tonight was initiation night. Despite having lived here so long, my family still wasn’t accepted. At first, it was because we were only one of two nonblack families – my mom, Korean, my dad, White. Also, my dad tried to keep my three brothers and me within shouting distance at all times, locking our doors for the day once the sun went down. We were day-shift people.
During the day, the projects seemed mostly abandoned, withdrawn, guarded, like my dad. Though we lived in the ‘hood, we weren’t of it. My brothers and I were baited into fights every day. People stole our towels, socks, even underwear off our clothesline; threw mud, burnt grease, piss and shit on our drying bedsheets. All of it screamed, YOU DON’T FUCKING BELONG HERE!
So, I’d decided to join them. My friends would help initiate me into the real ‘hood life. What had me on edge was my dad. I didn’t know the term schizophrenia yet; all I knew was that he was crazy, unstable, violent.
He also oscillated between narcolepsy and insomnia. Most nights, he’d prop up on the couch in our living room, in pitch dark, chain smoking Winstons… until he passed out for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. I was waiting to hear his heavy breathing turn into snores. I needed those loud snores if I was going to sneak out – and later, sneak back in – under their cover.
I was startled upright by screeching tires and, “FREEZE!” A stampede of feet slapped grass and cement and rattled hedges outside my window as shadows flitted past. A minute later, several ambled back and became menacing silhouettes outlined by strobing red and blue lights. They laughed among themselves.
“…like roaches!” one of them yelled.
Though the cops had cleared the corner, everybody knew the crowd had simply relocated to one of the other parking lots. As kids, before we ever committed a crime, ‘hood life taught us to scatter reflexively at the sight of a police cruiser, period. It was a joke, or a dangerous form of Tag. You’re it.
My dad’s lawnmower-snores rumbled through the apartment, unbothered by the ritual outside. I laced up my sneakers. I was tired of being treated like an interloper. I knew my family was too poor to move anywhere else, so I crouched on my bed, listening to dad’s steady snores, then climbed out my window.
Present.
Looking back, that was around the time I found the first gun I’d ever own, just laying in the grassy field beside my parking lot – the same field we’d cross to get to the bus stop, or when running from cops.
Last week, I heard on the news that someone there did a drive-by shooting, hitting three teens standing on the sidewalk near that bus stop, across from the police substation. The assailant got away. It seems nothing has changed except the generation. I can’t help but wonder – was there so much crime, really, because our way of life in the projects was anti-police, or were we behaving criminally because police were anti-us, and we didn’t have anything to lose?
For me, the art exhibit photo merges past and present desperations. In the past, perhaps, one of those hands is mine, reaching toward the police for help. Presently, those hands seem to embody the pervading fear of police that people of color have – hands held up defensively, pleading, STOP… ENOUGH… WAIT… JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES…
It’s as if those hands know that to keep their freedom and bodies intact, while facing impossible odds, they must learn to part the sea. They’ll need a miracle.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am always grateful to share his work. George is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion, and he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This literally came to me in a dream – I feel like God told me to write this song.
When I heard about Jesus, God’s promise of a new start, I found the joy I had hunted could be a sun in my heart.
I heard this song in a dream, got up in the middle of night, and wept as I started writing because I knew it was right.
When I found out about Jesus something leapt inside my heart; I found the joy I was hunting had hunted me from the start!
I had looked for joy at parties, but it wasn’t found in music, neither did I find joy’s secret when I searched all of my friends.
But then I found my Savior, unlocking the Source in my heart, and learned the joy I’d hunted had been calling out from the start!
I used to think joy was dollars, but greed is never content, so I worked harder and harder – thank God, we know how this ends!
I finally accepted Jesus, it wasn’t too late to start; now joy is blinding inside me, now I have a sun for a heart!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson never stops creating. He is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am always grateful to share his work. George is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion, and he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Not too long ago, George reached out to share this song with me, having it shared with him in a dream. In his dream, George was sitting at a table writing in a composition notebook when he was visited by an angel who shared with him the title, I Was Looking For Joy. When he woke, George knew he was meant to write the song he had sang with the angel who had visited in his dreams.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
The mind amazes me – how it can be the only power we have over attitude; how, though we can’t change our circumstances, our attitude can change the way we experience events. It brings to mind the way we experience a roller coaster ride – choosing between an attitude of faith or doubt. If I doubt the safety of the harness, question if it will hold, it will be a terrifying ride, hands clenched to the lap bar, feet dug into the floor, eyes closed and likely feeling miserable.
But if I choose to live in faith that the safety harness is strong enough to hold me, then I can focus on enjoying the ride. I can open my eyes, lean into every turn, throw my hands in the air and surrender to the thrill of it. Nothing on the ride has changed, the trajectory of the ride was already determined, every curve, every loop, the length. But inwardly, my experience was drastically different – faith felt like heaven, doubt felt like hell.
It’s pretty obvious the metaphor for spiritually and life itself; and, admittedly, the rollercoaster is a little cliche. Still… I am convinced that God has laid out a track for each of our lives, and while we can make certain choices – keep our hands on the bar or throw them skyward – much of our lives are beyond our control. Who knows? Only thing I do know is that God commands us to love our fellow man, which, if applied as a life principle, leads to a way of life – a track. So, once I committed to this way, it locked in the basic trajectory of my life, the circumstances I would find myself in, the people I’d encounter along the way, the trials and storms and temptations I’d face.
So, now all I can change is my attitude toward those events. When I doubt God, I find myself afraid to love others, afraid that my kindness will be mistaken for weakness, afraid I’ll be rejected or disappointed, afraid I’ll be taken advantage of. Prison is hard enough, and I sometimes fear that trying to love my fellow prisoners will turn me into prey.
Yet, when I’ve chosen to trust in God, I’ve felt an explosion of joy in my soul when I surrender to the love, let it shine forth. God says, “When the Lord takes pleasure in anyone’s way, He causes even their enemies to make peace with them.” (Proverbs 16:7) God takes pleasure in our ways when we love one another, forgive, show mercy, etc. And He keeps His people safe. Granted, there are times God asks us to sacrifice and suffer for a higher purpose, but generally, a lot of our suffering is avoidable – if we’ll just trust and obey.
So, often, my fears are unfounded because God is the X-factor. Sure, without God, people may treat me a certain way, or when I do things for my own purposes people may prey on any vulnerable area, but when I am sincerely trying to do God’s will, the normal laws of human nature don’t apply. Rather, God is involved because God is love, and so unexpected things occur – a cruel person suddenly is kindly toward me, the bully finds someone else to pick on, the thief decides not to steal from my cell.
Like I said, it amazes me how powerful our attitudes can be. Though the outward reality of being in prison has not changed for me, my attitude of faith has changed the way I experience prison life – I’m not afraid. Rather, I’m filled with joy. I have thrown my hands in the air, surrendered to the will of God, and now I just enjoy the ride.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am grateful to share his work. He isn’t just inspirational as a writer, but also as a person. George lives on Death Row in NC, and is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion. In addition, he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
A Conversation with George about Cross-Pollination and Compassion.
I once read a story about a farmer who grew excellent quality corn. She’d won many a Blue Ribbon for Best Grown Corn. One year, a reporter asked what her secret to success was. She grinned and said, “I share my seed corn with my neighbors.”
The stunned reporter said, “What! How can you risk sharing your best seed corn with your neighbors, when you know they’ll be competing against you next year?” What the farmer then explained illustrates a life lesson for me.
“Don’t you know? The wind lifts pollen from ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbor grows inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”
So it is with our lives. We all have something to offer. It may be a gift or talent we were born with or picked up along the way, or something we studied and practiced and honed. It could be an athletic ability or the gift of poetry. One might be able to draw anything they see or read the body language of others so well they can perceive what’s not being said. We’ve all seen people with refined skills teach their secrets and hard-earned wisdom to others… and we all know stingy folks who’d take a secret recipe for chili to the grave.
As editor of Compassion, a national newsletter written by and for people incarcerated on Death Row, I’ve had the privilege of working with hundreds of writers. Some live in the same prison unit as me; we started on this literary journey together about ten years ago. In 2013, the prison offered a creative writing class to the 140 or so men here on Death Row in North Carolina. Twenty of us signed up, though only a few had graduated high school and could actually write a proper sentence. Yet, over the course of its five-year lifespan, the class was mostly facilitated by professors from Duke University and UNC, along with professional journalists, novelists, and poets. We were in awe of these highly skilled people and didn’t understand why they were ‘lowering’ themselves for guys like us. Why waste their gifts? They said, “We believe in you. We’ve had opportunities and advantages you didn’t. So, now we want to offer some to you.” It reminds me of how NBA stars might volunteer at basketball camps for teens: It speaks to seeing the universality of human potential in even the least of us, the young, the wayward and uneducated. It’s about giving back, remembering that people greater than themselves helped them attain greatness.
Similarly, I have a friend on the outside who is a professional writer, editor, poet – she can do it all. She’s befriended budding writers in prison, and she corresponds with them, teaches them how to refine their craft, helps them to see their own potential and provides practical support to facilitate achievement. She finds publishing opportunities, types up their manuscripts, submits their work online (even paying the submission fees) since we have no computer access in prison. Without such support from people like her on the outside, it is impossible for incarcerated writers to succeed. I’ve asked her why she does it, and she’s said, “It’s in my heart to help people, and this is what I have to offer. I just want to do my part.”
But we don’t have to be experts to do our part, to give of ourselves. Among the volunteers who make Compassion possible, none are writing professionals. Rather, they donate time, money, energy, and labor to sustain this outlet. Each gives what they can. A couple type all the issues, someone else formats it, a few fundraise (Compassion is a nonprofit), etc. Of the writings themselves, most of the submissions I receive are handwritten, barely legible, and undeveloped as stories, essays, and poems, as most of the writers are uneducated, the same way I was when I joined the writing class here. However, Compassion is a defacto writing class for them. It can be instructive for the contributors when they compare their original submission to their edited version once it’s published. They also get to see the more polished contributions from highly skilled writers, which shows them what can be done if they keep practicing.
Of the twenty of us who joined the writing class here, seven stuck with it and became established writers, winning national awards and publishing books, essays, and poems. Several founded mentorship programs in collaboration with people on the outside. All were transformed because people invested in us, believed in us, helped us believe in ourselves.
It reminds me that we are all interconnected, and whether active or passive, we influence the world around us in a sort of social cross-pollination. If we wish to truly live well and meaningfully, we must help enrich the lives of others. The welfare of one is tangled with the welfare of ALL: like it or not, we are in this together. The fact is, none of us truly wins until we all win. Humanity is a race, but not the kind that lines us up against each other with only one winner. Rather, this race – HUMANITY – unites us. When we overemphasize individualism, “looking out for #1”, personal liberty, etc., we get exactly that – a bunch of lovely disconnected individuals. Too much individualism dehumanizes us, because humans are social creatures. The Golden Rule speaks to balancing selfish and selfless concern; we are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, not just promote one over the other.
Whether we know it or not, we are part of something bigger, something that transcends our subdivisions of gender, class, race, religion, age, political party. Life, the fulfilled life, is all about relationships – between us and God, and us and each other. Humans are not meant to be alone; we live symbiotically with others. Love is the nutritive force that keeps everything growing and producing a high-quality harvest, making humanity better as a race. Our differences are not designed to divide us, but to offer openings for us to pour ourselves into one another’s lives, to be enriched by each other, and to impart value by gifting us all with something special to bring to the feast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. He inspires me. When you work with people who live in prison long enough, you get to know some who make you hope to be just as loving as them. George is one of the people that makes me aspire to show his level of kindness. He is also an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside and Beneath Our Numbers. And, as discussed, he is the editor of Compassion. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
I want to get out of prison. As a Christian, this desire hasn’t decreased at all – but my reasons for wanting to get out have changed, some of them, at least. Before, I just wanted to return to my old, pre-prison life. Over time, I began to pray for God to let me demonstrate my repentance, promising I would serve Him better if I were free, help those in need. Those of us in prison who identify as Christian have probably all prayed and promised some variation of that. Repeatedly. It’s been about twelve years since I last did.
And God answered me! Just not by granting my request. Rather, God first answered with a question He wanted me to contemplate, and I could sense the question like a rock in my gut. “If you won’t serve me wholeheartedly now, in a place and situation with fewer temptations and distractions, what makes you think you’ll serve me when free, when inundated with many of the same choices and temptations that condemned you to begin with?”
My initial reaction was to argue that I had changed. But had I, really? Maybe I wasn’t selling drugs or using them, but I had no trouble with fighting if the situation arose. I could also turn a blind eye to the needs of those around me. And I had this attitude that because I was in prison, I could do whatever it took to survive, to do my time. I realized I didn’t really stand for anything; rather, I was like a chameleon, adapting to my surroundings.
But in my heart, I wanted to be authentic, to be the same person God wanted me to be regardless of where I was living, regardless of being imprisoned or free. I prayed, “God, how can I possibly serve you right here, on death row?” All I heard was silence, as if my heart wasn’t quite ready for God’s response. Nevertheless, my question seemed to hover before my eyes everywhere I went.
Then, one day, God suddenly broke into my thoughts. I was in my cell working on an art project when I saw this vision of myself putting together a bag of commissary items and handing it to an elderly, less-fortunate prisoner. He had a very abrasive personality (almost nobody liked him, including me), so I didn’t want to give him anything. Further, he lived on another pod.
Attempting to set aside the man’s grumpiness and my personal dislike, I asked, “Lord, how would I even get it to him? You know the guards won’t just let me walk over there and pass it to him – it’s against the rules!” In answer, God brought another scene to mind: me walking toward my pod’s door, carrying the goodie bag. That was it.
I got the message, “Just do what I tell you to do.”
So, I headed toward my pod’s door, bag in hand. As I approached, the pneumatic door hissed open. Looking up at the control booth, I saw no guard. And coming around the corner was the very person I was to give the bag to, hobbling along with his cane. “Hey!” I exclaimed.
The old man recoiled and screamed, “Hey!” Then he eyed me warily. I quickly stepped into the hall and thrust the bag into his free hand, saying, “Uh… God wanted you to have this…” I felt weird saying it, though he seemed unfazed. In fact, he brightened.
“Okay! Thanks! I gotta see the nurse,” and he shuffled off, rattling the bag as I stepped back into my pod. I was a little stunned about how it’d all played out.
A guard appeared in the control station’s window ten feet in front of me and saw the open door. She gestured angrily, as if I’d opened the pod door. I shrugged at her and walked away, hearing the door hiss and bang shut behind me.
Now I understood. I didn’t need to know how God would accomplish his goals. To be of service is simple. I need only to maintain a humble, willing and obedient heart – and do what God tells me to do, when He tells me to do it, how He tells me to do it. Period.
Whether I’m in prison or out of it, if my heart’s in the right place, I am useful to God’s purposes.
Of course, I still want to get out of prison. Only now, getting out isn’t a precondition God must meet in my life before I’ll serve Him.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. I think that this piece, more than any other shared here, is the greatest reflection of the person I have come to know. George is an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Crimson Letters and Beneath Our Numbers. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
routinely waking up at 4 a.m. while the prison sleeps. it’s as if the concrete softens when foamed in silence.
filling my clear plastic tumbler with scalding water, scooping in dusty coffee, then watching it bloom through the water. like the emotion i feel when my girlfriend laughs at my jokes.
when my buddy Kenny (whose dementia makes him unsteady as hell) suddenly buckled at the knee, i caught him just inches off the floor. in front of witnesses.
when I called my elderly mother, i honestly thought my sister had answered – so strong, steady, and wrinkle-free, her voice.
the perfectly shaped handprints on the floor of Cliff’s cell. he’s ratcheted out so many push-ups in the same spot, his palmsweat has blackstained the gray cement.
remembering how respect washed across our prison chaplain’s face her first day, when she borrowed my Bible to locate a verse and discovered my underlines, highlights, and notes covering every single page.
when I saw white dust all over the navy blue apron draped across my chest during my haircut, i thought it was baby powder, not gray hair.
i am still grateful for the tingly feeling in my belly that signals a great poem idea, though it also means i need to shit.
i love how loopy time is. despite having been in prison seventeen years, freedom feels fresh as yesterday. at the same time it feels like prison is all i’ve ever known.
the euphoria triggered by late-afternoon light. it has a mystical, dreamlike quality. rocks spew water and walls crumble at a word in light like this. it reminds me: anything is possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer, co-author of Crimson Letters, and author of his very own, recently published Interface. I love to hear from him. He has a unique style, all his own. The above poem was compiled from excerpts from his gratitude journal. As he puts it, he “wanted to look for things I loved about everyday life.” As always – I love it when George sends his writing our way. To read more of his work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
emerging from an ink-filled womb – that’s how it feels: the visitation
room is a quarter mile from death row down steep half-dark corridors
except the last chamber-locked hallway whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels
ablaze with light from outside. as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic
sallyport door shrieks and the guards and i flinch
and stumble down the hall. blinking rapidly i wonder,
as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes will be able to hold yours.
II. churning
my heart feels like my eyes, hot and bloodshot with nerves and excitement. it’s been a long time
since I’ve been anything more than a foggy thought or disembodied voice
on the phone to those i love. i marvel at my callused hands, how blurry they are speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the booth.
Kat, there’s so much i want to show you! (like the symbol i designed by combining the marks beside our signatures: your paw print, my peace sign)
but first i need you to see me perform a magic trick to reconcile the illusive conflict
between Fate and Free Will: how it’s possible that privilege and poverty marked us early enough to make our past lives
and the paths we chose from there seem almost completely other to each other – yet both our souls
and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible power of agapé and poetry seeming to churn and turn
the very earth and stars beneath our feet, to bring us here, as kindreds.
III. luminosity
and there you are, pushing the door shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation. we greet each other from feet away. you take your seat and frown
at the plexiglas between us, the bars, squinting and muttering something like, “It’s a little hard to see your face – the light coming in behind me
is making me see my own reflection.” having been down here before, this hindrance isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration, to witness your shifting and determination, the poet
in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment of empathy, the effort it takes to see past ourselves to an other. the moment your gaze clicks into mine
i feel my blood thrum and body harden into a real human being. “There you are!” you say, sounding so delighted to see me, i struggle not to cry.
IV. luminaries
i think, fuck my trick for a minute as we start sharing skin and ink. i unbutton this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist. i remove my shirt to show you LOVE NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters across my chest. you lift up your shirt sleeve to show me the plump sugar skull on your upper arm. we compare sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots on our bodies: forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close to the glass our breath smokes against it. by the time i remember the cards there’s no real need for tricks or explanations, and it feels irreverent to use magic to describe the miraculous – that we met; that you drove for hours to spend minutes with me in a suffocating prison visitation booth; that throaty laugh – how when we speak it feels like freedom in my mouth, how with you i feel i’m home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
In the free-world separating true worshippers from fake can be difficult. No doubt, some are true to what they believe, and for them, their faith defines their identity. In prison sorting the true worshippers from the fake is nearly impossible, many ‘in it’ only for what they can get in return. In here we have little variety, so the little variety offered, multiplies in significance.
Prison-issue anything is homogenous, monotonous, bland, devoid of personality. Even one’s personality can start to look prison-issued unless one actively strives to individuate – by getting sleeves of bad tattoos, for instance. Religious affiliation also offers a chance to stylize and spice it up a bit since each religion gives access to exclusive privileges.
If one registers as Jewish, he can receive a ‘special diet’ tray at meals, prepackaged Kosher food that’s fresh and edible, especially compared with typical prison-made grub, which is often congealed, stale, and wilted.
To prevent a choke hazard – think garrote – necklaces are prohibited. However, if registered as Catholic, one may place an order with a vendor for a fancy rosary. Nothing displays one’s piety (and class) like gold-fixtured, dried-blood-looking rosary beads made from compressed rose petals.
Muslims get access to Kuffs (knitted skullcaps) of various colors, and giving alms to the less-fortunate is obligatory. For some guys the deciding factor is the stylish cap that highlights their eyes. For the indigent, the guarantee of commissary items from their brethren is the appeal – plus they get a couple of annual feasts and can brag about (or sell) the lamb, fried chicken, hot sauce, and delicate flaky baklava they get to eat that we don’t.
Back in 2009, tobacco products were banned in state facilities, including prisons, but not for Native American practitioners, for whom tobacco is an essential element in praying. Overnight the Native population exploded from two people to thirty. Death Row’s population is only about 140. Each man lined up outside, stepped to the center of the sacred prayer circle, and the chaplain would hand him a medicine cup containing a teaspoon of pungent tobacco pressed into it’s bottom like a fat brown quarter. They could smoke it in their pipe, burn it in their smudge pot, sprinkle shreds of it into the wind – or secretly smuggle it back to their cellblock and sell it for a dollar per hand-rolled cigarette at least. They could easily get five bucks for that teaspoon – that’s 20 ramen soups or 25 coffee packets: that’s nine stamps or, for the druggies, five pills; or for the perverted, a blowjob from Randy. The Natives also get an annual feast they can brag about or sell food items from.
We can register with only one faith group at a time, but are permitted to change faiths every 3-4 months. That alone should tell you something about the waxing and waning of devotion in prison. Often, when one changes religions, his former faith’s paraphernalia – now contraband in his hands – finds its way to the black market. Headbands and Tupperware sacred-item boxes, prayer rugs, Kufis and Rasta caps, thick Bible dictionaries, prayer beads and shiny crucifixes. It’s all for sale.
Back when they banned tobacco, I registered as Native American so I could smoke and sell tobacco three days a week. I did this for years, despite being a professing Christian. Eventually, I felt so guilty that I left the prayer circle and re-registered as a Protestant. That first Sunday rolled around and I had no intention of attending church services with some I knew were hypocrites. Lying in bed, fiending for a cigarette, I heard a voice in my head that I attribute to God sounding like Charleton Heston in that old movie in which he played Moses. It was a deep, authoritative voice, with a slightly ironic tone. He said, “You went outside to smoke three times a week for an hour at a time for three years straight and missed not one day. In the rain. In the freeze. In the scorch. In the ants. You skipped weekly movies. You skipped recreation. You went through the strip searches… And you can’t go to church twice a week because of the hypocrites? So, there weren’t any hypocrites in the circle? Well, maybe not now, not since you quit going.” Of course I’m paraphrasing, not quoting verbatim, but you get the point.
I got out of bed and went to church. And I haven’t missed a day since, even after we Christians lost our three annual feasts we used to humble-brag about. I also no longer pass judgment on who’s real or who’s a hypocrite because I realize that despite being a sincere worshipper, I often do things to make this hard life a little softer, which from an outside perspective probably makes me look fake as hell. Even so, I am a Christian… meaning I’m forgiven, not flawless.
To demonstrate my devotion, I own the most expensive Bible in our small congregation, ornate, leather-bound, handmade (in China).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am going to enjoy the read, and I am going to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. I am grateful he takes the time to share his voice here.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
a hairy bear-of-a-man, my dad knew only how to love and fight death matches. unless knocked unconscious or it was broken up, somebody was doomed to die. simple as that. to beg my mom not to leave, my dad shoved a pistol into her lipsticked mouth. she left him anyway, daring to live – and, if possible, he adored her even more for it. Sometimes violence is the only love one gets. my dad
used to brag about getting his top four front teeth knocked out. they’d been surgically replaced, twice – courtesy of the U.S. Army. first time, a boxing match. second time was the story he told, retold, and retold. he’d tilt back his head, yawning open his mouth to display the gunmetal rears of those perfectly machined Army teeth. “See? I was arguing with my ex-wife and called her a bitch. That damned fool shot up and kicked my teeth down my throat. I never called her a bitch again. Not to her face,” he’d chuckle. he’d show photos of my mom’s brother, a taekwondo master. in one a three-foot-high stack of red bricks parted left and right in neat waves, frozen mid-air by the camera, my uncle’s brutal chop caught cracking through the bottom brick. sometimes love needs violence like that. a heart attack
killed my dad during my murder trial. i was relieved because he had sworn to God to get us both shot to pieces by the police right there in the courtroom if I got convicted – and I wasn’t quite as eager to die while attempting to escape my death sentences, my two failed suicides aside.
ten years later my tiny Korean mom came to visit me on death row. i had to ask, “Mom, why did you even marry my dad to begin with? You two were so different, I just can’t understand it.” she dropped her wrinkled gaze, as if weary or embarrassed, then looked up with eyes ablaze. i flinched as she launched into a story. “You father was so handsome! Not like after he got fat.” ((she pronounced “after” as apter and “fat” as pat)) she bloated out her cheeks to show “fat face” then slowly exhaled, making a scraping, bubbling, throaty growl to indicate visceral disgust. it summarized her feelings following their divorce. then she went back to being dreamy-eyed and tender.
“He came into bar with friend. Me and my sister there. They so handsome in uniform. You father was better looking.” she lowered her voice at the end as if revealing her secret. “It was disco bar. He ask me to dance – Oh, my God, he such bad dancer! But cute. You father, he dance like this. No matter song, he dance like this.” she sprang up in the cramped visitation booth to demonstrate a big man, a big moment. i ducked
to study her through the six-inch-tall, two-foot-wide, waist-level window – through the black iron bars and double-paned, grimy plexiglas as graffiti-scratched as a nasty gas station bathroom stall, through greasy handprints holding hands through the glass, through crusty bodily fluids, through all this history of lust, pain, anger and disgust, loneliness and madness and beauty, all of which tried to distract me from my origins, my heritage, my parents. but I was, finally, ready to see them as real people, not just symbols of dysfunction. and so I watched
my mom raise her delicate fists, spin them one-over-the-other like Ali hitting a speed bag at heart-level, while two-stepping back-and-forth, twisting slightly at the hip on the back-step to toss a take-a-hike thumb over her shoulder. “You see? Like this… Like this… All the song, like this…” she said giggling and panting like she did forty years earlier at nineteen. she was breathless with adrenaline. i had never seen her like this. so animated. so alive. i laughed too, because I saw how it must’ve been.
in the midst of all her teasing about my dad’s bad dancing i spotted the operative phrase: “all the songs.” translation: she stayed on the dance floor with him, laughed and joked with him, tripped and fell head-first in love with him. it was simple, it was pure, it was even atavistic, drawing on a primitive period when a violent amount of eye-contact, body grinding, pantomime and empathy’s grunting communicated everything. when each had to give the other their absolute undivided attention or they’d miss something. neither spoke the other’s native language, but the tongue of raw humanity transcended their cultural barriers. they were smitten.
it was only twelve years, seven pregnancies, and five kids later, once my dad’s schizophrenia began to speak, that his violence turned divisive. till then, my mom said, “A lot of Korean, they hate American soldier. Every time we go out people cuss us, spit at me. We fight together. But you father, he very proud, very strong. Always he want fight for me. A lot of people go hospital.” she was virtually swooning and had to sit back down. i did not know this woman.
within weeks my parents married, having a traditional Korean wedding, yet their honeymoon attitude was ruined when the Army wouldn’t acknowledge it as binding: it was time for my dad to return to America but the Army stiff-armed my mother. when he tried to go AWOL she urged him to just come back. he promised and she promised to wait for him.
the Demilitarized Zone was a strip of land that ran like a ribbon the entire east-to-west length between North and South Korea. it represented the fragile nature of peace between enemies who used to be family. it was off-limits. if either side spotted anyone within that tense ribbon of land, they might shoot without warning. sometimes the North took pot-shots at American soldiers, who helped the South patrol it, on foot. the terrain was jungle like, riddled with landmines. ((it described my parents’ post-divorce dynamic exactly)) the DMZ was aptly nicknamed the Dead Man’s Zone. the only way to reach my mom was for my dad to get re-assigned to the DMZ. it took a year.
“He came back for me. You father. He came back for me. My family say he wouldn’t. Everybody say he wouldn’t, say he only want one thing. They make me give up baby. They say they kill baby if I don’t give him up. But you father come back. He so upset when no baby there. So upset. But he understand.” she started to cry. i didn’t know what to say so I said nothing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. We always enjoy hearing from him – simply put, I look forward to every submission he sends in, knowing he will never disappoint.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
