These two guys just won’t stop talking.  Or, more accurately, they won’t stop making noise, because they’re not so much having a conversation as they are making individual statements next to one another that provoke both of them to continue doing so.  It’s bad enough being crammed in a narrow chute with thirty other sleepy men waiting to be called to breakfast, but the witless banter is too much, and my stoic patience is fast approaching a breaking point.

“I think it’s french toast.  The french toast is good here.”

“Eggs – we haven’t had eggs in a couple days.”

“The syrup’s good here too – real syrupy.”

“They was boiled eggs last time; the whole dining hall smelled like farts.”

“I hope they don’t shake the spoon on the syrup; I like my french toast drowning in it.”

Just before my head explodes, the intercom mercifully squawks chow call.  A guard in the booth slaps a button, the doors rattle open, and the herd of us zombie-shuffle toward the cafeteria.  Making it out into the cool, early-morning darkness, I beat feet to put some distance between me and the rambling breakfast twins.  Or at least I try to, because for some reason everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, deliberately in my way.  I can’t win like this; what should be an easy walk to chow has somehow become a human obstacle course.

I eventually reach the dining hall and grab a tray.  They were both wrong:  it’s S.O.S. (a watery gravy over two slices of bread that’s about as tasty as it sounds).  I get to a table and – of course – find the end seat is taken.  I’ll have to squeeze into a middle slot.  I do so and, with my elbows jammed into my sides, eat as fast as my T-Rex arms will allow, dump the tray, and head back to the unit.

Ahhhhh.  The walk back is at least relaxing.  Most of the herd is still eating, leaving no noise or obstacles to deal with on the return trip.  It’s just me, the cool air, and – I suddenly notice – the rising sun.  I glance up at a sky exploding in color:  glowing orange clouds, with wisps of red and yellow, stretched across the entire expanse above me, backed by a bright Carolina blue sky.  I stop and stare; my concerns fade away.  I remember that this place I’m in is just a tiny piece of a much greater world, that this place – no matter how hard it may try – can’t keep me from seeing beauty.

The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, was imprisoned for a short time, the experience having a profound impact on him and his subsequent writing.  He once said that ‘humanity will be saved by beauty.’  After twenty-plus years inside a system seemingly designed to obliterate any sense of the beautiful, I believe him.

Most people realize prison is a difficult place to feel human – the concrete, cold steel, and razor wire make it abundantly clear.  But prison’s most insidious feature may actually be how quietly its harsh exterior creeps inside you, influencing your thoughts and feelings without you even noticing.  It does its work invisibly and effectively, oppressing you to the point that you oppress yourself and others.  You soon realize most of your struggle to change in prison becomes the struggle to not be changed by prison.

Fortunately, I’ve found a growing community of people inside and out that recognize and fight the dehumanizing undertow.  We intentionally seek beauty in any and all forms:  good belly laughs, moments of human connection, a mind-blowing sunrise on an otherwise dreary morning, a short simple essay by a humble or not-so-humble incarcerated writer.  Whatever it is, we remind each other, as much as possible, of our shared humanity and of the ineffable mysteries of being alive. 

Reminders are vital.  It’s all too easy to be swept out to the deep waters of apathy, depression, and hopelessness.  Keep seeking moments of beauty in all its forms.  Find those moments, cherish them; and most importantly, remind yourself of them over and over and over again.  Doing this, if Dostoevsky was onto anything, just might save us. 

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ABOUT THE WRITER.  Geoff Martin graduated from North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program in 2023, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he uses to counsel and mentor his peers. Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. All of his writing for WITS can be found here, and he has also contributed to the N.Y.U. Review of Law & Social Change with his poems Rainy Respite and A Sorry List – Abbreviated. In addition, Geoff has organized a small group focused on exploring self-discovery and personal growth. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and has chosen to invest his time in positive endeavors.

Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.

We’re born with ambition to live, unbeleaguered by time.

Years tick by, counted in birthdays and anniversaries, the years lived before we die.

I waited for the school bell to signal the end of the day; at work, the clock to tell of time to go home.

There was elation at the end of a span of time, confined by school or work, rewarded with time away before going back.

At the age of 63, I’m 26 years in on a life sentence, Death by Incarceration.  I serve perpetual time with no anticipation of end.  

Time is my life. 

No chance to start anew, seasons tick by as staff measure time in shifts and promotions, short-timers make parole, sometimes repeatedly returning.

I could not have imagined how foolishly I would spend precious time, until life would be lost to it.  

Now, it is imperative I mentally venture out to spend time beyond this enclosed space, to live vicariously through 15-minute phone calls.  Television is a gateway to new information, gadgets or tragedy. 

A world I am no longer a part of ebbs and flows through a time that is different than mine, a world where there is no scent of a flower or the sound of bell when walking into a department store.  

Memories now sustain life through time gone by.  Life finds meaning through giving back, that honor may be bestowed on those hurt over time by the life I lived.

Don’t waste the time you’ve been given, make the life you have worth your time. 

ABOUT THE WRITER. Jeffery Shockley has been a contributor to the WITS newsletter and his writing can also be found at Prison Journalism Project, Prison Writers, and Muck Rack. Common themes of his writing reflect what Jeffery shared here, encouraging people to find purpose and making the most of the time one has. If you would like to contact Mr. Shockley, you can do so at:

Jeffery A. Shockley #ES4796
SMART COMMUNICATIONS/PADOC
(SCI MERCER) P.O. Box 330298
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

Trash heaps of humanity – prisons are often thought of that way.  Yet when these sprawling sites become recycling centers, those considered disposable climb up from under the heap remade and repurposed.  These transformed individuals, ‘ambassadors of change’, provide a model for other recycling projects.  There was a line from A Bronx Tale – “The saddest thing in life is wasted talent.”  Prisons overflow with this distinct form of sadness – individuals with talent wasted by destructive choices.  

Although prisons teem with wasted talent, there is a segment that rises above the waste of their past and circumstances.  These individuals refuse to remain wasted, they dedicate themselves to radical change, and they build lives of impressive accomplishments and positive impact, inspiring others in prison to also dedicate themselves to this reclamation project.  These ambassadors often come from a prison subgroup, those serving life without parole.  Three of those lifers are Phil, Kwame, and Barry.

When Phil was first sentenced to life, he thought his life was over so change was pointless.  Yet, despite a lack of meaningful incentives, a love of writing motivated him to become self-educated as he studied and strived to hone his craft.  The writing pursuit and corresponding education produced a whole-person maturation.

Phil has since written dozens of books and numerous articles, been published in two legal journals and drafted a legislative mass incarceration reform proposal and bill for North Carolina that combats institutional violence.  While editor of the Nash News, he was featured on the Criminal Podcast in an episode about prison newspapers.  He spends his time writing to advocate for reform and positively influence his community.  The reform bill he drafted has motivated numerous lifers to live a changed life and inspired many in prison to be their own advocates for reform.

Kwame, another ambassador, became a writer and trailblazer while incarcerated.  Some would label him a product of his environment – a minority youth raised in an inner-city neighborhood plagued by poverty, drugs, and crime, who then ended up in prison.  But that episode is not the entire story; it’s just the opening scene.

Kwame wrote one of the pioneering books in the urban fiction genre.  Using stories of the streets familiar to him, he has written stories and created characters that helped others from a similar background feel understood and forced many who could not previously identify with the struggle of the inner-city better understand and empathize with the systemic challenges.  

Kwame has now become a screenplay writer and movie producer.  He also created and taught The Art of Storytelling, a creative writing class for the prison population, seemingly discernibly like the NYU professor he could have been.

Kwame – author, producer, ambassador of change – paved a path for others in prison to enter the urban fiction genre.  He has created a legacy of possibility and a culture of writing that has been a catalyst for numerous others to change.

Barry, yet another ambassador, overcame a struggle with alcohol and substance use through a 12-step program.  He was building a career as a project manager for a construction company – until he decided he had come far enough to have one drink.  One drink turned into a pitcher, into several pitchers.  A lot happened that night, a man lost his life and Barry was sentenced to LWOP.  

Barry could have become bitter.  Instead, he spent nearly twenty years helping others – a peer counselor in a substance abuse program, dog trainer, and now a Field Minister.  He spends most of his time doing one-on-one counseling, helping guys work through problematic emotions, substance abuse, and grief by applying cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) principles.  He also teaches Thinking for a Change.

Barry is fulfilling his talent by becoming the counselor his neighbors need.  The guys he has helped change then go on to convince others to change, to use CBT to face their troubles.  The counselees, who overcome explosive anger, addiction, depression, and anxiety, have become ambassadors themselves.  

These ambassadors prove the inherent potential for change within every person, including every incarcerated individual.  These ambassadors light the darkness of prisons as beacons of hope to the incarcerated and beacons of possibility to society, to the many who think a person who lands on the trash heap can be only waste. 

So, when people view the story of the young adult who robbed someone or even took a life, instead of thinking, ‘Throw them away’, remember these ambassadors.  These recycled and repurposed individuals have transformed themselves and their lives, and now they influence others to change.

De Niro, R. (1993). A Bronx Tale. Savoy Pictures.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review, Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act ; and he is currently leading the effort to build NC Prison News Today, a statewide prison publication.
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on YouTube.
Just this month, Timothy as well as others were featured on a Tar Heel Traveler segment which can be seen here.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com

They are known to many as murderers, robbers, and rapists – to me, they are co-workers, neighbors and friends.  Officials have labeled them prisoners, convicts, inmates, offenders, but those labels fail to describe the real people in prison, including those convicted of violent crimes.

During twenty years of incarceration I have witnessed incredible acts of kindness and compassion performed by people convicted of crimes, many by lifers convicted of murder.  This story is just one of thousands I can share.  

For many people the support of family and community is essential to the grieving process when you lose someone.  The death of a loved one is typically followed by gathering at the home, visitation, viewing, a funeral service, and family meals because mourning together provides comfort and facilitates the grieving process.  

In prison, the pain and grief of working through this process can be even worse.  Grieving alone in a place that already has people at the limits of their coping ability each day can be devastating, like an atomic bomb laying waste from the core outward.

My dad died in 2022.  He visited me for the last time on a Saturday.  We had no idea we would never see or speak to each other again.  Thankfully, every visit ended with hands held in prayer, big hugs, and a kiss on the cheek.  Our last words to each other were, “I love you.”  I waved as he walked out the door.  He went to the hospital the next day due to intense intestinal pain and the inability to keep down any food or liquids.  Three days later a surgeon worked for nine hours to untangle his intestines from a hernia mesh.

He never woke up after that surgery, spending the next several weeks in ICU on a ventilator.  Complications repeatedly developed, several infections, pneumonia, kidneys shutting down, heart problems.  It was just too much.

Returning from my job in the school area, I checked my tablet messages and had a message that my dad was being placed in palliative care, and he was being kept alive long enough for family to gather and say goodbye.  I wrote the words I wanted to say to him, because I knew that writing them was the only way to keep it together when I attempted to speak them.  Then I called my mom and had her place her phone by his ear on speakerphone.  He died the next morning at 5:56 am, ironically, the exact time he would normally be walking into work.  No more working a hard job in a plant to take care of others at the age of 78.  His work here was done.

My father was a great man, great father, great husband, and a great friend.  My parents were married for almost 57 years, and my mom’s life is entirely different now. His life was intertwined with ours.  I have been doing well, mostly.  Sometimes I am fine, then the grief crashes into me like a tsunami.  Grief is like that.  It surprises and overwhelms, then releases for a while, only to repeat the process.  My prison community has given me unsurpassed compassion and support.

The day before the funeral, I worked on a speech to be read in honor of my father.  While writing, my heart felt like it was in an ever-tightening vise, tears running onto the page, smearing the blue words.  A hand squeezed my shoulder.  I looked up to see a friend joining me in tears.  No words were needed to profess his brotherly love.

On the day my father died a co-worker knocked on my battleship gray cell door.  He had bought and prepared lunch for me – a Big AZ Angus Cheeseburger and french fries with Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ sauce for the burger and ranch dressing for the fries.  That may not seem like much to a person who drives by twenty fast food places every day, but in here, that act of kindness is enormous.  An apt comparison is paying someone’s mortgage or rent for a month.

Another friend drew a picture of Snoopy and his pal Woodsctock, then had guys write messages of condolence on it.  A large group signed a card full of kind words to send to my mom.  Other friends gave me ice cream, sodas, bags of cereal, cookies and a variety of snacks.  The cookies made me think of a maxim from Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster, “I live in the moment when things go good.  When things go bad, I eat a cookie.”

The cookies and other gifts did not change anything monumental, but these things reminded me how much I am loved and how blessed I am to be in a dorm where I have a community, a brotherhood.

The guy who brought me lunch is serving time for multiple armed robberies and an attempted murder.  The friend who cried with me is serving time for murder.  The Snoopy and Woodstock artist has a rape conviction.  The others are serving time for violent crimes, several of them lifers convicted of murder.  But those crimes are not who they are now. Those inexcusable crimes are things they did, not the people who have learned from their mistakes, who want to help others and who make the world a better place through kindness, giving and compassion.

Despite living in a prison, surrounded by people convicted of violent crimes, I could not have been in a better place while mourning the death of my father.  Nowhere else could have provided me a better support system.  Nowhere else would have given me the outpouring of love offered here.  My co-workers, neighbors, and friends, known to some as murderers, robbers, and rapists, literally and figuratively wrapped their arms around me in empathy and love.  

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review, Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act .
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on YouTube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com

I often think of myself as a sturdy, ancient oak, tucked away in the still quiet of the forest.  I have many scars, but I believe each and every one is a part of the necessary affliction to be overcome and has gotten me to where I am today.  Each scar, like the markings of an oak tree, is a measure of my inner growth displayed for the world to see.

Today, I did something I have never done.  I stood naked from the waist up in front of the worn and cracked wall mirror of my prison cell.  My reflection stared back as if to say, “I’ve waited for you to notice me for quite some time now, my friend.”  All I could do was stare back.  I was covered from neck to feet in prison tattoos, the fleshly billboard of places I’ve been and all the moments I wanted to capture beneath my skin through self-expression.  My reflection resembled so many other men locked away within these cold walls.  But, I knew the truth as I stood staring; I’d been hiding behind so many scars for so long, and I wanted to finally crawl out from behind them, once and for all.

I lifted my arms to see more and explored the ink of my torso.  My fingers traced the now mature scars where breathing tubes had once been inserted into my chest, and I went immediately back to my childhood where I’d suffered abuse at the hands of a violent stepfather who nearly took my life at the age of eleven.  I stood for a moment, reliving what it felt like to struggle for my last breath because my lungs had been collapsed by a vicious monster who had married my mother and beaten me often as a child.  He was an addict who took his pain and suffering out on my brother and mother as well, and he left a scar I could not cover with a simple tattoo, no matter how hard I tried.

Reality began to set in, and I was back in the confines of my 13×13-foot man-made cage, realizing thirty-one years have gone by.  I was incarcerated most of my life, as a juvenile and adult, and “time” has started to wear on me.  I may not have been in this very cell, but I have been in countless replicas where I’ve awakened each morning for three decades – cold concrete walls that leak when it rains, and a mattress as worn as the folded up blanket at the end of my bed.  I am getting older, undeniably. 

Through it all, shines the illuminating shimmer of light from the window in the back of my cell, light that reflects on what I hold dearest, the faces of my beautiful wife and daughters taped to my wall.  Their faces, despite all that I have gone through, remind me that I am still alive in spite of my scars.  There is, in fact, life outside these walls, and I will see it again.  

As I stood continuing to stare at my bare torso in the reflection, I thought, “I’ve come so far, and each scar has taught me a lesson, inching me closer and closer to freedom.”  I’d run from many of my scars most of my life, and in that moment I was willing to face them.  I stepped closer, lifting both my hands to my face as the tears began to fall.  It was the first time in a long time I could remember actually crying.  In that moment, I felt it.  I felt it hard.  The courage began to swell up inside my chest, my hands covered in the tears that fell effortlessly, and the voice inside spoke to me.

“Keith, you truly are like that of an oak tree, and your life is measured by the scars you have been running from for so long.  You must stop and face them.  Learn how to embrace them if you are ever going to reach your greatest potential because that, Keith, is where you will heal the most.”

My knees began to lower to the cold concrete floor as the words echoed over and over again in my mind. I started to understand just what my purpose had been all these years, seeing through the tattoos that I’d hidden behind for so long, and it was what every human is brought into this world for – to live; to love and be loved; to learn and fail when necessary in order to learn from mistakes; and forgive ourselves as much as we are willing to forgive others.  I sat kneeling and broken, yet I could not feel more alive, stronger than I had ever been.  I wiped away the tears, stood up in my reflection, and felt it.  I felt like that of an oak in the forest, upright and standing tall for the world to see.  These scars are mine, as yours are to you, but we are all like trees in the forest; we may become scarred, but growth is inevitable.  Our measurement is not going to be by what caused our afflictions, but how we endure them, refusing to be torn down.

Push through whatever has or continues to cause you pain.  You will find your way, it will come.  Your reflection, when faced, will lead the way, just be ever willing to look closely in the mirror and see that tree in the forest.  

Author’s Note: I wrote this piece to honor my Aunt Linda, who has been placed in home hospice care. She never had children but spoiled lots of the family kids. Being loved by this special, beautiful person has blessed my life immeasurably. 

My Aunt Linda never had children, but she had lots of kids, pouring herself into loving so many of us.  She took us to special places, gave us countless gifts, cooked us favorite treats, and made us feel most special by lighting up around us. Her joy in us made us feel loved, special, and full of warm fuzzies inside. I’m sure we all felt like her favorite. 

My brother Tony and I might have been the most fortunate benefactors of Aunt Linda’s great love though.  Weekends often found us at her house, waking up to her scrumptious scrambled eggs with cheese.  She was a wonderful cook.  For my birthdays, I repeatedly asked for her lasagna.  Christmas and beach trips brought her delicious fudge, haystacks, and lady fingers.  One of the best things to happen to me in prison was getting food from Aunt Linda and my Mom. They found they could deliver food for a Church Christmas party.  They cooked nonstop for two days, then had it driven to the mountains.  Every bite tasted of freedom, of family, of love.  They supplied a couple of dozen nearly starving prisoners, just so they could provide special treats to Tony and me. That’s a lot of love. 

Aunt Linda loved to travel, especially to visit family.  Our travels took us to Florida, Kentucky, D.C. and Maryland, many times.  She was either the most patient person ever or a little crazy because she endured those trips in the backseat with two rambunctious boys.  We never stopped moving, and she had to be counselor and referee.  It was almost as bad as a prison transfer bus.  Maybe she should have shackled us, but she loved us too much. 

And she loved spoiling us.  She could have bought a BMW with the quarters she gave us at the arcade, but she found loving others the most valuable possession.  She gave us money for ice cream, movies, putt-putt, go-karts and the waterslides.  When we went to Disney World for the first time, she bought us numerous souvenirs and extras.  My favorite was a Disney signature book.  She helped us get signatures from all of the stars – Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Cinderella and Prince Charming, Donald Duck and Goofy.  So much fun. 

Life is measured by the quality of our relationships.  Aunt Linda’s life was rich and full because she gave all of her self to building quality relationships.  She gave herself to blessing others and helping others.  She wanted only two things, and she wanted them every day – Bojangles and a Cappuccino Blast.  Ask her what she wants to eat. Bojangles and a Cappuccino Blast. Baskin Robbins should rename it the Aunt Linda Blast.

Aunt Linda, thank you for loving me so much.  Thank you for choosing me as one of your kids.  Your love and the many happy memories made with you have been a lighthouse for me on this voyage.  You shine light by which I find my way, and by helping me find my way, you share in everything I accomplish.  Every person I help is touched by you and by your love. 

Being my Aunt Linda’s kid has been one of the greatest treasures of my life. I love, love, love you!

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on YouTube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com

Both my past and my future were on full display before me – literally.  My past in the form of the dorm I once lived in as a freshman at NC State University.  I could not only see the dorm, but even more specifically, I could see the suite door which held my former dorm room and so many memories.  Through the very same diminutive, bar-covered jail cell window, I could also see my future – the formidable, infamous Central Prison which housed Death Row.  It was certain to be my next, and possibly final, residence.  Though both locations were separated geographically by less than a mile, just like my past and future, the prison and the university were as far apart in tenor as the east is from the west.

Four years earlier, amidst excitement and expectation, my parents had helped me move into that college abode.  A full academic scholarship had opened the proverbial door of opportunity for a quality education at an esteemed university, only to later be slammed shut by my choices to party and sell drugs; at the time, I thought it forever closed, locked and barred.  Facing a life sentence, or even a death sentence, a tutorial on doing time from ‘Old Heads’ was the only education I envisioned in my future.

Yet, even when education seemed only a dream withered on the vine, two seeds were planted without me realizing their concealed potential.  First, assured of many years in prison ahead and the consequent need for a substantial support system, I committed to writing to everyone who sent me a card, letter, book, magazine, money or any other form of support.  If they only signed their name, I would still write a full letter.  Even if they did not write for a while, I would keep writing.  I had always despised writing, procrastinating until the night before a paper was due, but the pledge to be the preeminent penpal developed a habit and then an aptitude for writing.  The informal portion of my education in the carceral environment had begun.  

The other seed came in the form of my need for a distraction from the immeasurable stress of awaiting trial.  I picked up a book, hoping John Grisham’s novel, The Brethren, could divert my thoughts for just a little while.  Each page turned took my mind further and further away from the claustrophobia-inducing concrete walls.  A love of reading quickly sprouted, helping me escape the inescapable confines of the dim jail cell.

I devoured book after book, John Grisham, James Patterson, Nelson DeMille, Robert Ludlum and David Baldacci.  I moved on to Jeffrey Archer, Pat Conroy, Nicholas Sparks, and Charles Martin, then worked my way through the classics, Les Miserables, Crime and Punishment, Gone With The Wind, Great Expectations and The Count of Monte Christo.

Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World, The Doors of Perception and The Island (I read all three, of course) advised, “Every man who knows how to read has it in his power to magnify himself, to multiply the ways in which he exists, to make his life full, significant and interesting.”  My love of reading has given me the power to magnify myself.  Reading of events through history, biographies and historical fiction taught me about the world, past and present.  Self-help books, like The Power of Positive Thinking and The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, helped shape and mold me into a person defined by values-based character. 

Reading has enhanced all aspects of my existence.  A pile of dog training books guided me in becoming a skilled dog trainer, giving me the ability to pursue a labor of love and purpose.  I loved working with dogs rescued from local shelters, teaching them basic obedience and a variety of tricks, giving them the love and skills to forever change their and their future owner’s lives, and teaching others to do the same.  John Maxwell’s books on leadership and communication equipped me to mentor other dog trainers on doing time in prison positively, and succeeding despite obstacles.  These undertakings gave my life purpose, a powerful tool in a place typically defined by a void of purpose.  Twelve hundred books and countless words penned later, the informal, yet extensive education in reading and writing has helped make my life full, significant and interesting. 

Five years ago, long after I had abandoned all hope of finishing my formal education, I was selected as a member of the inaugural class of the North Carolina Field Minister Program and enrolled in the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary.  In December of 2021, I graduated summa cum laude with a Bachelor’s in Pastoral Ministry, and a minor in counseling. The informal education in reading and writing helped me not only excel in the world of academia, but also tutor others and institute formal programs along the way.  I helped found an onsite Learning Center at the prison extension campus, launched a publication to represent the program as the editor and a writer, served on the Student Advisory Council, wrote a Writing Guide for incoming freshman, gave a speech at a Convocation, presented virtually at a national conference for higher education in prison, was published in a legal journal, and co-authored legislation for criminal sentencing reform.

Oprah Winfrey reasoned, “Luck is preparation meeting opportunity.”  When I looked out of that jail cell window, I thought my relationship with education was severed forever.  However, even at that moment the seeds of an informal education in reading and writing were planted.  Those seeds germinated, grew, and blossomed in the barren-looking concrete prison soil, preparing me to excel when the opportunity for a formal education came along.  Education has yielded considerable fruit in my person and my life, empowering me to positively impact the world around me.  Looking out that window at my past and my future I didn’t know my relationship with education was not dead; it was just beginning, and it will last a lifetime.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com

Lou Gherig called himself the “luckiest man on the face of the earth” during his farewell speech, recognizing the blessing of the love being poured out upon him by former teammates and fans despite being forced to retire from the game he loved.  Gherig’s heroism in the face of impending death due to ALS provides inspiration for any who face difficulty.  And while Gherig must have felt like the luckiest man, I think the title belongs to me.

I think myself the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth because God gave me a godly mother.  My mother wanted, and still wants, only one thing from her three sons:  that they love God with all their heart, soul, and mind.  And no mother has ever loved her sons more, found more joy in her sons, or sacrificed more for her sons.  My mother’s incredible example of godliness and sacrificial love makes me the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

My parents were told by multiple doctors that they could not have children.  They found a doctor who shared their belief that all things are possible with God, adopted my older brother, and kept trying – because why not, right?  They loved their first son with all their hearts.   Ten years later, surprise, surprise, a Timothy came along.  God made the impossible not just possible but actual.  Two years later, another son joined the Johnson home, another miracle.

Throughout our lives, my brothers and I have been told how much we were desired, how our parents prayed for us to be conceived and born.  I picture my mother, like Hannah, in the temple praying and crying out to God for Samuel, then dedicating him to the Lord.  She desired to have children with all of her titanic heart and devoted us to the Lord from the very start of her prayers.

No mother has ever found more joy in her sons.  Pictures exist of my family spanning across the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and through the early 20’s.  All of them, even the ones taking sans pose, depict a family who played and laughed together, a family who enjoyed being together.  This ‘together-joy’ flowed from my parents into and through their sons.

Even at 50, my Mom enjoyed playing on the beach or in the pool with her hyperactive children.  A day of playing was often followed by a game of cards or bowling.  During all of this play, we laughed and laughed and laughed.  My mom taught us that “laughter is the medicine for the soul.”  Laughter was not only our soul-medicine, but also our love-language.  Love and joy intertwine in my mom’s heart, then flow out to ferry her sons along in an unsinkable raft on this river of life. 

No mother has ever sacrificed more for her sons.  My mom has given more, especially of herself, than most people can imagine.  She gave us all of her time and money, and still does.  When I left my girlfriend’s corsage in the refrigerator the day of her prom, my parents drove an hour and a half each way to make sure I did not let her down.  My mom never had new clothes, but she made sure we did.  She took us shopping to the outlet stores in Smithfield, taking us out to eat, and celebrated with us at each special item found.  

When my younger brother and I began this incarceration crossing, my parents decided to make supporting us a priority.  They traveled to prisons around the state, week after week, for years on end to visit us.  They gave up their dreams of retirement to provide money for canteen, packages, shoes, food sales, phone calls, books and the many other expenses of supporting a person in prison.  My mother has never complained about the sacrifices.  She rejoiced every time we received anything special – a Christmas package, new shoes, or pizza – happy to sacrifice to give us something.

And no mother has ever loved her sons more.  Love cannot be precisely quantified but its presence can be detected, and my mother devotes herself to loving God and loving others.  The ‘loving others’ reaches her family first, especially her three sons.  Supporting a loved one in prison takes a financial toll, but the burden extends much further, especially when the incarcerated has an interminable sentence.  My brother was sentenced to 30 years and I to life without parole.  My mother did not just offer support, she shared our burden as her own.

She asked countless questions about our experiences and environment, and realizing that we live in a dark, drab world, she sent colorful cards, stationary, and bookmarks.  My hologram dolphins and donuts bookmarks make me smile every time I open a book.  The cards with affirmations like “Become the most enthusiastic person you know” and pictures like the frog who has the crane by the throat refusing to be swallowed and titled, “Don’t Ever Give Up,” hang on my cell wall and encourage me as I start each day.  My mom, my Mama, loves her son as much as any mother ever could.  

Outside support makes a difference impossible to explain.  It is impossible for most to truly understand how much it means to an incarcerated person to receive money, visits and books.  Having a little canteen money almost completely changes life.  I am not saying it means as much as being born anew in the Spirit of Christ – not even close.  That reconciliation changes eternity.  But having money to buy a decent toothbrush, dental floss, a Dr. Pepper, a Little Debbie Fudge Round, or ice cream does completely alter a person’s quality of life in the prison setting.  That money also makes it possible to purchase phone time, which is certainly not cheap, at $1.65 per fifteen-minute phone call.  Contact with friends and family is a precious blessing.  Whether good or bad, it makes it better to be able to share it with someone who cares.

Lincoln once expressed, “No man is poor who has had a godly mother.”  I’m taking that further, I believe a man who has had a godly mother is the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth.  I am that man, because God gave me a godly mother.  Yes, it is true; the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth resides in a North Carolina prison serving life without parole.  

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com

Last night I called my wife, something I do every night, and we went through our extensive prayer list together. Five minutes after we hung up, I was alarmed to see a message left from her on the prison tablet asking me to ‘call home again’…  

I braced myself for the phone call.  

“Please sit down, Keith.”  Her next words pierced right through me as she read the Instagram post announcing the loss of David Inocencio, founder of The Beat Within. My heart tightened and the tears began to form.  Our last telephone conversation had been just weeks prior.  I had not spoken with David much this year, unaware he had been battling cancer, and hearing his voice was always uplifting.  He described to me where he was when we spoke that day, sitting on his patio, his soulmate Lisa was cooking him breakfast, and the sunshine was especially beautiful that day. I never imagined it would be the last time we would talk, yet I look back now at that conversation and see it for what it may have been.

David, a man that came into my life as a stranger nearly ten years ago, became more than just a mentor to me during a time of soul searching and longing to be more than what I had been much of my life; he became like a brother to me, someone I admired for all he was in the community and the world around him. I wrote a letter to The Beat Within ten years ago after reading an issue, not expecting much in return.  I merely wanted to give them a “shout out” for the outstanding work they do throughout California. David replied to my letter with personal recognition and praise for the work that I had shared with him regarding my own struggles and successes while incarcerated. I was touched by the fact that this man took the time to read my story, give me feedback and encouragement, and more importantly, see me as a human being who had experienced a tough life, rather than just someone who had lived life committing crimes and making poor choices.

I began sharing more of my story with David all those years ago, dedicating time and effort into providing artwork to TBW, and before long I became a recognized feature amongst the teens who would flip through the pages.  David would tell me how they would ask about me when he would visit the juvenile facilities, wanting to know when I was going to do another drawing.  It made me feel like what I was doing was bigger than just the time and effort of me putting my talents on paper. 

“Keith,” he said, “your artwork inspires these kids to sit down and see possibilities they never considered before.” 

I never saw the significance in what my art was doing until he said those words.  I wanted to give others something from my heart, yet I was missing the bigger picture all along.  David, my brother and friend, taught me how to see the bigger picture. I spent years of my life incarcerated in the local juvenile hall, and eventually the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen.  I could relate to the teens that would write their stories, hopes and dreams in the pages of TBW publications. These young people, in every sense, were just like me and needed to be heard.  David, with no hesitation whatsoever, gave them a voice.

“Thank you for everything that you have done all of these years, Keith,” he said that last morning we talked.  “I love you my brother, and I am so happy that I got to hear your voice.”

Perhaps he knew something I didn’t know that day and wanted me to always know how much he loved and appreciated me. Despite all of our initial conversations, that one conversation felt more heartfelt and sentimentally sound than any other.  David always talked of me coming home one day, attending TBW workshops with him and Lisa, and I promised him we would have a nice barbecue with his family and mine once I earned the freedom that I’ve been fighting so hard for. 

“David,” I told him that morning, “you, too, have been a great part of my journey, and I love you and appreciate all the confidence you have in me.” 

There is never enough time to say goodbye, and even had I known it would be our last conversation, I would have never said goodbye to a man that will forever be present in my life, despite his passing. I grew to love this man with the better parts of me that he helped bring out over the years.

Earlier this year I was referred back to the courts for ‘resentencing consideration’ based on my accomplishments and positive changes to my life; David wrote a letter of support to the judge who will be making the final decision on my case(s) on any given date. I do not know what the outcome will be; however, I do know that even in his final days he displayed yet another act of compassion for me, and I will forever be grateful. I will walk out of these gates one day soon, I believe this wholeheartedly; and in spirit, the man that gave me a voice all of those years ago, as he has thousands of others in his lifetime, will be watching over me as I embrace my freedom for the first time in over three decades. Until then, I will continue to be the man David taught me to be through his own life’s legacy. 

My brother, my friend, I love you and will miss you…

For anyone who reads this – sometimes we don’t see the importance of others who are placed into our lives until they are no longer here.  Please take a moment to reach out to those you love dearly, let them know their presence in your life is more valuable than words can express… – Keith

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If his interaction with David Inocencio had something to do with creating that spark, David’s life will echo far beyond even his own reach in all those he touched who will carry on his spirit.

Keith Erickson is a writer, an artist, and a trail blazer, organizing and leading positive endeavors and initiatives. Keith has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith stays busy working during the day and facilitating programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future.  
To hear more of Keith’s story in his words, listen to his Prison POD podcast.

Keith Erickson can be contacted at:
Keith Erickson #E-74907
Pleasant Valley State Prison
D-5-225
Low
P.O. Box 8500
Coalinga, CA 93210
Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com