Growing up, I looked forward to holidays and family reunions because they meant we were going to visit Grandma in West Virginia.  She lived alone at the end of a long dirt road at the head of a holler.  Her two-story house had shingle siding, a tin roof, and no neighbors in sight.  It was where her in-laws lived before her and where she and my grandpa raised eleven kids.

Family gatherings there always began with the incessant slamming of car doors as uncles and aunts reached the end of a long drive and 29 grandkids scattered everywhere.  Some of us ran to the barn, some the creek or the woods, others headed straight to the house and the ceramic duck cookie jar resting on Grandma’s deep freeze where she stashed 5th Avenue and Zero bars.  Grandma watched us, smiling, as we ran every which way, and when one of our parents admonished us with a Slow down! or Stop being so loud!, Grandma would say, “Oh, let ’em play. They’re kids.”  She would remind them that they were once loud, dirty kids running through the same house.

As far as I can remember, she rarely raised her voice and only swung a switch maybe twice and only when one of us grandkids back-talked our parents.  That’s the one thing she didn’t tolerate… sass.  She was slow moving but first on the scene when it came to setting things right.  I remember her once telling my kindest uncle to cut a switch.  When he returned with it, she switched the legs of his son for sassing him.

Most of us knew better than to misbehave around Grandma.  We loved and respected her and knew the woods around her house were full of switches.  I thought the world of her, and it helped that my dad and others frequently told me I was her favorite grandson.  I’d do anything she asked and everything I found needed doing without her having to ask – chop and stack the wood, haul buckets of coal, cut brush, and pile rocks.  Sometimes there were several months between our visits, but upon arrival I would immediately set about completing whatever chores I could find.

I felt I received extra hugs, and Grandma would whisper in my ear that there were Nutty Bars (my favorite) in the cabinet, and I should get some when my cousins weren’t around.  Feeling I was her favorite, I didn’t want to disappoint her, while also feeling like nothing I could do would disappoint; a foolish mistake on my part.  One fall when I was fourteen, my dad and I went to visit Grandma for the weekend to do some squirrel hunting.  Grandma always beat the sun up when she had company, cooking as if all her children were home and hungry.  This particular morning was no different, and the smell of bubbling gravy and sizzling sausage drew us downstairs to the table.  As we ate with gusto, Grandma did as she always did, nibbled a biscuit and watched us enjoy her food with a smile on her face.  When my dad finished, he stood, grabbed his shotgun and walked out.  As I stood to follow, Grandma told me to put some sausage biscuits together.  Knowing we would be in the woods all day, she wanted to make sure we had something to eat for later.

After whipping the biscuits together and tucking them into the large pocket on my hunting coat, I said, “I better go catch up with my old man.”  She could’ve beaten me with a two-by-four and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the look she gave me.  I felt I’d instantly become her least favorite.  After a long pause, she scoldingly said, “He’s not your old man.  He’s your daddy.”

Her words were evergreen, influencing how I treat elders and my father to this day.  I muttered, “Yes ma’am,” lowered my head, and skulked out of the house and up the hill to catch up with my dad. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Jason Hurst has a talent for writing and a desire to pursue productive and creative endeavors. He was recently one of the subjects of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, has worked with Prison Pod Productions, and is currently working on a podcast project to raise awareness regarding death row.
Jason can be contacted at:

Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

You hear your name called over the intercom with instructions to report to the chaplain’s office.  If you’ve not requested to speak with a chaplain, nor been involved in a discussion with them after one of the many religious services, the summons can only mean bad news.  Losing a loved one is difficult to deal with, and how that news is presented when incarcerated can have a huge impact on how it is processed. 

After weeks of not hearing from my mother, I was dispassionately informed by a chaplain that she had been diagnosed with late stage cancer and required immediate surgery.  In his presence, I was allowed a few minutes on the phone with her.  During those few minutes, I learned she’d called the prison weeks prior and asked that I be notified so I wouldn’t worry.  Another chaplain had once waited days to tell me my son had been struck by a car and was in a coma.

Most of my fellow prisoners have had similar experiences, notified days or even weeks after a death by people with no bedside manner.  We’ve criticized their shoddy delivery tactics over the years, discussing how they could better do their job, but never would I have imagined being responsible for delivering a death notice myself.

During a phone call with my cousin, Teresa, I learned that the father of one of her son’s friends is here on death row. She asked if I knew him.  The death row population is relatively small, so we’re all familiar with one another.  I told her yes.

I knew the father, I’ll call him Adam, to be a very unassuming, gentle man.  Someone without many friends because he didn’t engage in the foolishness of the masses, while also seeming eager for friendship.  In a restorative justice class we’d participated in, he spoke about his two sons and how his ex-wife prevented them from contacting him since being arrested and sent to death row.  Now they were young men, and I was excited to share the connection between his son and my cousin.  Hopefully a line of communication could form, maybe he could be a dad again.

He lived on the bottom floor of the death row unit while I was upstairs, making it difficult to find opportunities to speak with him.  Long, anxious days dragged by till, finally, we were amidst a group of prisoners called to pick up our medication at the nurses’ office.  In the little time we had, I told him about his son, Steven, being a regular visitor to my cousin’s house.  His hangdog look was replaced by the joy of a parent finding their child after a decades long search.  I offered to pass along a message and cautiously, he asked that his son be told that he loves him.  Adam explained that he didn’t want to scare Steven away, and through experience with my own sons, I understood Adam may not have known what words to choose.  After a long drought of no communication, he wanted his words to be perfect… when there are no perfect words.

Sometime after passing along his message, Teresa told me that Steven didn’t seem ready to talk with his father, but didn’t mind if she sent his dad some pictures.  The next time Adam and I crossed paths, he immediately pulled out some pics of his son, thrusting them at me like a proud poppa showing off a newborn.  He explained that Teresa promised to send pics and share pieces of Steven’s life.  Seeing the positive impact the pics and promises of more were having, I was happy and hoped things would grow between them.

Over the following months I would occasionally see Adam.  He would share a recent pic or letter he’d received from Teresa, but mostly, I shelved it to the back of my mind.  Much of my mental space was occupied clinging to the safety bar of my own rollercoaster relationship with family. 

And then Teresa answered the phone crying.  She told me Steven had died from a suspected overdose and asked whether I knew if anyone had notified Adam.  Having no other connection to family, I felt sure no one would’ve.  She asked if I would tell him. She didn’t want to break his heart through a letter, and I wouldn’t have felt right to pretend everything was okay upon seeing him and then feign shock when he ‘broke’ the news to me.  I had no experience delivering terrible news, only receiving it, and had no idea how he would react.

The death row unit manager had begun allowing guys who played Dungeons & Dragons the use of an empty, downstairs cellblock on the weekends.  Adam would be there. Though I wasn’t a player, sneaking down with the group would give me more time to talk with him as opposed to bumping into him in the hallway, shattering his day, maybe his life, and being rushed along.

A guard’s voice crackled over the intercom, “Anyone going to D&D, now’s the time.”  I fell in line as smiling guys filed out of the four cellblocks upstairs.  The long hallway and set of stairs gave me a little time to steel my nerves and replay everything I disliked about the chaplains’ delivery while trying to formulate my own.

Entering the block, I noticed Adam and his fellow players gathered at a nearby table.  I caught his attention and motioned him to where I stood by a water fountain.  He was smiling as he walked toward me.  No one expects bad news about home from a fellow prisoner, and I realized that was an advantage in the chaplains’ favor; everyone they summoned arrived prepared for the worst.  I felt terrible, knowing his smile would disappear with my message.  

When he reached me, I told him I had to speak with him about something that wasn’t good and asked if there was somewhere else he would rather go.  The water fountain was about as far away from everyone in the block as we could get, so he said no.

With no reason to put it off any longer, I gently told him Steven had passed away.  He leaned onto the water fountain and was quiet for a while as a few tears made their escape.  Then he asked how.  I said it looked like an overdose.  I shifted my focus to the floor to give him some privacy, and a beat later he leaned over and gave me a hug.  I hugged him back, and through sobs he thanked me.  He then returned to the table where his group was waiting while I stood in place reflecting – how could a man in the midst of receiving such terrible news find within himself the means to console me.

I wondered at the impact such compassion could have between staff and prisoner upon being summoned to the chaplain’s office.  I reevaluated their position as I headed back upstairs… delivering bad news can be as difficult as receiving it.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Jason Hurst only recently began sharing his work here, and his contributions are so well written, I look forward to reading his submissions. He is a natural writer, and this is a subject that deserves talking about. Two WITS writers lost parents this week alone.
Jason can be contacted at:

Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

I found myself at a crossroads – not at an intersection but the grassy median dividing the north and south bound lanes of highway 29 in Greensboro, North Carolina.  It was summer, and though traffic was heavy that sunny Sunday morning, it flowed along at the marked 55 mph, and I stood beside the u-turn lane that cut into the median smacking the bottom end of a fresh pack of Marlboros into my palm, contemplating my life – and the possibility of ending it. Things can literally change overnight. 

At the time, my ex-girlfriend and I were expecting a baby, I was working long hours at a low wage job, and I didn’t have a place or a car of my own.  Though I’d bitten off more life than my eighteen-year-old self could chew, until that point I’d somehow managed.   But just the day before, I’d received a call from a friend I’d not heard from in over a year.  He wanted to hangout, so we drank beer and ate pizza at the nearby apartment he shared with his girlfriend.  It seemed like he was getting his life together, and it was good to catch up. 

Before long, his neighbor came over and we all talked for a while, the conversation eventually turning to drugs. The neighbor told of a crack dealer he knew who sold ‘double-ups’, meaning spend $20, get $40 worth of dope.  The conversation got me to thinking.  I needed more money than my paycheck brought in, and I knew a dope house in the trailer park where my mother lived.  I could buy $100 worth of crack, sell it in a couple hours and profit a hundred.  I was all in. 

The three of us drove to nearby project housing, and I handed the neighbor a Benjamin.  He disappeared inside, and upon his return he handed me a knotted sandwich bag with 10 small, yellowish rocks inside.  Feeling like I’d gotten a good deal, we returned to my friend’s apartment to finish our beer and pizza.  The neighbor asked if I minded breaking off a small piece of dope for him.  I gave him a rock figuring what the hell – I’d still make a $80 profit.  In the drug world, when someone scores for you, you turn them on.  He broke the rock into smaller pieces and after smoking one, placed another on his pipe and offered it to me.  That one rock turned into all ten, and soon we were on our way back to the dope man’s apartment. 

The process repeated itself all night until we were broke and discussing how we could come up with more money. The neighbor mentioned a 24-hour convenience store down the road, and driven by the overwhelming desire for more cocaine, we jumped into the car and sped past all common sense and logic.  After blowing through several moral stop signs, we pulled around back of the store and waited for the lone customer to leave before running inside and robbing the place of $43 and change.  We then drove around until sunrise looking to buy more drugs until my friend finally dropped me off at home.  Stepping from his car, I closed the door with a simple “alright,” wishing I’d never answered the phone and hoping I’d never see him again.

Hours later, I zigzagged across the busy highway to buy a pack of smokes, and that’s how I came to be in that grassy median, replaying the horrible things I’d done only hours before, not recognizing who I’d become.  Having made it across the few lanes of southbound traffic, I was unsure if I wanted to survive the northbound lanes. 

“Hey!” a loud voice interrupted my thoughts. There were no people in the middle of the highway so I was confused until I heard it again, “Hey man!” 

I turned to see a two-tone brown 280-Z stopped in the u-turn lane a couple feet away.  Worrying I would get something thrown at me or that the stranger was up to some other form of no-good, I cautiously leaned down to look into the car.  The driver was a Black man with a large bottle of beer in his hand.  I must’ve been giving off some strong suicidal vibes and had body language looking as low as I felt because he said, “Keep your head up.  Things are going to get better.” 

Stunned, I thanked him and right then he found a break in traffic, completed his u-turn, and headed north as nonchalantly as if he did that every day, driving around saving lives.  As his words seeped in, my chin lifted and my back straightened.  Finding my own break in traffic, I carefully made my way across the three lanes toward home. 

He was right.  Things did get better for a time, and in the 26 years since, whenever I’m feeling down and not sure I can go on, I remind myself of those words spoken by a stranger in a strange place, and I once again carefully navigate life’s traffic, determined to reach the other side.

ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission to WITS by Jason Hurst, and after reading this piece, my initial thoughts are that Jason has a natural creativity, articulating his experience in a descriptive way that feels natural and comfortable to the reader, not contrived or forced at all. I am glad he has chosen to submit to WITS and this body of work. Jason can be contacted at:

Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com