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

Pleasant Valley State Prison – Coalinga California

I am a resident of Pleasant Valley State Prison, and we are hosting an event at the institution. We are in dire need of guest speakers who are willing to volunteer their time and attend and share their personal insight and experience in the following areas:

Violence Awareness. Someone personally impacted by violence or works with those who have suffered violence.

Domestic Violence. Someone personally impacted by domestic violence or works with those who have suffered domestic violence.

Victims Impact. Someone who has lost a loved one at the hands of either gun violence or domestic violence, who is now advocating for and promoting nonviolence.

Suicide Awareness. Someone who can share personal experience concerning, knowledge of or insight into suicide.

We hope to host this event in September, however, the process of getting guests cleared to enter the prison is something that we need to address as soon as possible. If you are in the California area or know of anyone in this location, please reach out and help us make this happen. The men at Pleasant Valley State Prison D-Facility have been on a mission to bring more awareness, healing, and intervention/prevention to these very real issues… WE NEED YOU!

TO RESPOND TO KEITH, you can message WITS through the comments or the CONTACT US page, any messages will be forwarded to him. If you would like him to call you to discuss, please send me your phone number, as well as a good time for him to reach you and what time zone you are in.

You can also directly reach Keith 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

NOTE TO READERS. I count myself fortunate – blessed – to have the opportunity to hear from writers. This essay was not originally intended as a submission, but was taken from a message, Keith reaching out to WITS looking for resources for the people who live around him. This letter led to a conversation – which I then started recording, with Keith’s permission.

I am an ex prison gang member.  I’m proud to say I am a total contradiction of who I once was, or thought I was, and have worked hard the past twelve years to change my life completely.  As a result God has blessed me with so much.

I’ve been incarcerated this term since July, 1994. I was arrested and convicted along with my biological mother at the age of twenty-two for shooting and killing my mother’s then abusive boyfriend at the urging of my mother.  We were both arrested, and I was later sentenced to life…  Unfortunately, I was also sentenced under the three strikes law, and in the years following, I accumulated additional three strike cases while in prison.

That was then.  Today, I am ever-determined to get more tools and resources brought to this prison, and the administration has been very supportive in allowing me to do that.  I run numerous programs here, including the Youth Adult Awareness Program where local high-schools bring in at-risk youth for mentoring and to hear our personal stories. This is not a scared-straight program, and we feel its success comes from actually sitting and listening to our teens rather than trying to tell them what to do and not to do. 

I run other groups as well – Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Criminals & Gangs Anonymous, the Peer Mentorship Program, Parenting Classes in both English and Spanish, Domestic Violence Classes.  I ran the New Life Canine Dog Program for three years before they lost the funding to continue.  We raised and trained canines, Labradors and Retrievers, to be certified service dogs in the community where they would be gifted to veterans and first responders who were suffering PTSD.  The experience was a blessing and taught me more about myself than any other group/program ever could.  They plan on rebooting another Rescue/Shelter Dog program in October, which I will again oversee.  Working with canines is an awesome experience, and I would not pass this opportunity up for anything. 

This year alone we have also done fundraisers for children with autism, Valley Children’s Hospital, and a local horse program where we donated canvas paintings, painted baseball caps, and other hobby crafts to these outside nonprofits. The opportunities to do selfless things are countless, you just gotta want to do them and that’s what we do.  I spent so much of my life carrying pain with me, early trauma, and that pain influenced my life in a tremendous way…  

My biological parents divorced when I was three, and my mother eventually remarried my stepfather when I was five.  My stepfather was an alcoholic turned heroin addict.  He would beat on my mother, brother and I, and at the age of eleven he almost killed me with his bare hands. I suffered collapsed lungs, broken ribs, and a fractured skull. He was arrested and later sent to prison for what he did to me, and I was removed from the care of my mother and placed into the foster care system by CPS.  I spent years running away from dozens of foster homes, group homes, boys ranches, in and out of juvenile hall, and eventually sent to the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen, housed amongst other teens and men up to the age of twenty five.  Needless to say, I was exposed to the gang subculture  and greater levels of violence.

At the age of eighteen I was well on my way to the Department Of Corrections and gravitated to everything I had in the youth authority as a means of survival.  I was a documented gang member and housed in the SHU (Segregated Housing Unit) before I was twenty-five. The night my mother called me and pleaded with me to get rid of her boyfriend, I knew right from wrong and still made the decision to carry out her wishes. I spent so much of my life resenting my mother for putting my brother and I into harm’s way since childhood, and yet I could not say no to her the night she put the gun into my hand as I walked into his bedroom where her then boyfriend lay passed out in his bed. 

So you see, I have lived a very checkered life, and I know what it means to suffer.  But, I also know that the human spirit is a lot stronger than we often accredit ourselves for.  “I” am a walking testimony to that…

ABOUT THE WRITER. Clearly, I have a lot more to learn about Keith Erickson. He 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.  

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

Incarcerated people should participate in government. In 2020, I co-authored a bill that will combat prison violence and promote rehabilitation by offering release to those serving life called The Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Legislators paid attention. The bill didn’t pass, but we fight on. Please, encourage all incarcerated people to explore their ideas for change. It will make a difference.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, across many genres, and the work he has done for WITS can be found here, but he has done much more. Phil is currently the Editor of The Nash News, a publication produced by residents of Nash Correctional facility, the archives of which can be found here. In addition to being an editor and writer, Phillip is also pursuing his education.
If that were not enough, Phil is politically active. He is co-author of the above-mentioned Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Not only did he take the initiative to write a Bill – which I find phenomenal in itself – the bill is designed to give those who live in prison hope, a desire to better themselves, and to have a positive impact on a correctional system that is currently lacking hope and sufficient rehabilitative tools. Phil’s interview with Emancipate NC can be found here.
He penned an article for Prison Journalism Project, was mentioned in the the Univerity of North Carolina’s UNC North Carolina Law Review – The Prison Resources Repurposing Act, authored The Cost of Incarceration, and also wrote the article Long Distance Love And Its Benefits For Women. In addition, Phil was featured in NC Newsline in 2022, as well as June, 2023.
Phillip Smith’s accomplishments are extensive and will continue to grow. As a matter of fact, I am absolutely certain I have not included them all here. What is clear is he is a hard-working individual, laser focused on positive endeavors. I am grateful to know him and to be able to share his work.

Mr. Smith can be contacted at:
Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

It was never supposed to go as far as it did, but things get away from you sometimes – when you’ve just turned nine; when you don’t know any better.  One minute you’re pranking your cousin – the next, you’re faking a traumatic brain injury to escape your mother’s infernal wrath.  Just another day in the life, right? 

It all started innocently enough.  Aunt Kim and her daughter, my cousin Rachel, came to visit my mother and me at grandma’s house. Mom was between boyfriends, and we were staying there, once again, for ‘only a short time’. We just needed a little help while Mom saved up enough to get us a place of our own again, no more than a couple weeks, month tops. 

We’d had many places of our own before, mom and me, but grandma’s house was way better than any of them.  Grandma’s house was like a bear hug.  Her fridge always had real food in it, like lunchmeat and cheese, and because grandma knew I liked ‘em, she kept lots of carrots.  The only things mom and me always had in our fridge were a bottle of ketchup, about a half dozen grapefruits for whenever she was doing that diet again, and lined up like soldiers in formation on the rest of the shelves were as many sixteen-ounce cans of mom’s boyfriend-at-the-time’s favorite brand of beer. In the crisper, for some reason, we usually had an old head of lettuce or rubbery celery stalks rolling around, lending a slight odor of decay to waft about the kitchen and, depressingly, the entire apartment.  Grandma’s house always smelled good. She put special powder on the carpet when she vacuumed, making it smell flowery and fresh whenever I’d lay on the floor watching cartoons.  Our places rarely ever had carpet, and if they did, it never smelled flower-fresh, typically so dingy and stained you’d barely want to stand on it, let alone lay down.  

Mom and me had an unspoken rule, whether at our place or grandma’s – the house would be kept quiet, which really just meant I had to be quiet at all times while inside.  This rule didn’t apply to mom, who was a very loud, boisterous person herself.  While watching TV in the basement, I could hear her all the way upstairs on the phone with Jo-Jo, her best friend, yapping about one thing or another, usually something boyfriend-at-the-time was doing that he shouldn’t or something those assholes at work were doing that they shouldn’t.  I was cool, though, with our unspoken be-quiet rule.  I enjoyed quiet activities anyway – drawing, watching cartoons, volume super low of course, building ridiculously elaborate Lego spaceships.  I could go days in the house and barely say a word.  One problem with the be-quiet rule, however, was that I couldn’t have friends in the house – too noisy.  So we, mom and me, had a second unspoken rule. As long as there were no active tornadoes or biblical floods in the area, if I had any company whatsoever, said company and I must go outside and play.

Which is why and how Rachel and I found ourselves outside that particularly squinty-bright, sticky-hot summer day.  We didn’t have many options since she hadn’t brought her bicycle, and I wasn’t about to bring my precious Legos outside where God only knows what might happen to them.  They would likely get dirty or, more likely, Rachel might chew on one of them or, even more likely, start throwing them at me and lose some.  I couldn’t take the risk, so instead, we went with a classic game of tag.

Now, Rachel was almost three years younger than me, and you might be tempted to think such an age gap would’ve made a difference. I’m embarrassed to admit, that was not the case.  My cousin approached life with the focused seriousness found only in the very young or the very psychotic. She was an adorable, yet ferocious, little animal – a scabbed-kneed, pigtailed Tasmanian devil.  She was absolutely ruthless in pursuit, and being a giggler by nature, her laughter would build with her excitement until it became maniacal – terrifying.  The hysteria of her laugh was actually how I gauged when to let her catch me so her little head wouldn’t explode.  I’m telling you, she could’ve gone pro.  

Fortunately, I had plenty of room to run.  Grandma’s backyard was a huge grassy expanse fenced in on three sides by the neighbor’s chain-links.  There wasn’t much to it though – a large rose bush by the back porch, a sizable woodpile against one corner of the house, and off to the side, a clothesline with the poles offset and leaning opposite each other, giving the lines a pronounced twist.  I used these as obstacles during evasive maneuvers, weaving figure-eight style between the clothesline poles, cutting close corners around the bush and woodpile – anything to get away from the holy terror on my tail.  Occasionally, whenever I managed to put some decent space between us, I’d loop around and through the front yard, which was obstacle-free except for a single white elm in the center.  

We’d been playing only a short time when, on one of my front yard loops, my toe caught one of the elm’s many exposed roots, and I stumbled.  On silly instinct, I decided to go down in dramatic fashion, rolling and flailing about before coming to rest flat on my back in what I thought was the perfect dead man’s pose – arms out wide, one leg bent, head rolled to the side.  I considered hanging my tongue out, but thought – too much.  It would be fun to mess with Rachel a little bit, and I needed a breathing break anyway – two birds with one fall kind of thing.  I heard the laughing stampede fast approaching and paid for her arrival when she plunged, knees first, into my ribcage.  Being all too familiar with my antics, Rachel immediately began investigating my sudden and apparent death.

Leaning over me, peeling my eyes open with stubby fingers that, somehow, always smelled like dirt, “Uh, hello!” she giggled.  “Time to wake up!”  

I rolled my eyes back and kept my face completely relaxed, no flinching.

Next came the obligatory tickle test, but I was ready and had steeled myself against all attacks on my ribs and stomach.  No movement.  Solid rock.

The way the game goes, at just the right moment you explode to life with a shout that makes the other person jump.  It’s funny; you both share a laugh – good times.  We had played this scene many times before, Rachel and I, so in what I thought a brilliant play off expectations, I delayed my resurrection longer than usual.

She gripped my hand, shaking my rubbery arm up and down.

“I know you’re not dead, you know.  Get up!” Impatience crept into her voice.

A hard push, she grabbed my head, rolling it back and forth. “Helloooooo!”  This was going to be great.  I remained still and, fighting laughter, waited just a moment longer.

“Geoff!  Come on. This isn’t funny anymore!”  Her voice broke.  Hmm, what’s that about, I wondered, as she sprang up and shot inside the house.  

Oh well, I thought, she’s a little spooked is all.  Some people can’t take a joke.  No big deal, she’d be fine once I went in and explained everything.  Which I was just about to do when I heard mom call my name from inside the house – my full name – which everybody knows is bad.  I should have gotten up immediately and faced my mother’s wrath.  It wouldn’t have been as bad as I imagined, would it?  This, looking back, was that moment when, after a thing happens, you clearly see every element involved and know exactly where and when you could have done or said something – anything – that would’ve changed everything.  But, of course, I didn’t do the exact something, or anything, that would’ve changed everything.  Instead, I panicked and continued laying there.  Playing dead.  Wishing I was.  

I heard mom’s footsteps thud to the front door and stop.  “Boy, what the hell you think you’re doing?  Get your ass up.  Right now!”

My mouth was suddenly dry, and I craved a nice, cool drink.  My whole body tingled, and I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or exhilaration or both.  Never before had I so blatantly defied my mother.  I was scared to keep this charade going but even more scared to stop.  I figured a fake death was better than a real one any day.  So there I laid, unsure of what was to come, but determined to play it out.

Mom stomped over to me muttering threats, “You better not be playing, young man.  This shit is funny?  You’re some kind of comedian?  Playing with me?  We’ll see who laughs when I blister that ass!”  My mom; the profane poet.

She nudged me with a flip-flopped foot and, a little softer this time, “Come on now, get up!  Stop being ridiculous.  You’re scaring your cousin.” 

Absolutely nothing.  I gave her nothing, yet knew, at any moment, she would smell fear oozing from my every pore and attack. Instead, she knelt and cupped my face, turning it toward hers.  “Baby, stop this.  Look at me.  It’s mama.”  This time, I recognized the tender voice, the one she used when I was sick or when she was explaining how boyfriend-at-the-time would be staying with us now.

Mom hollered for somebody to call an ambulance, and I heard my aunt rush inside.  She grabbed my hand, raised it to her mouth and held it there.  She pressed the back of her other hand to my forehead as if I were sick.  She was whispering, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”  Her voice sounded so… different, which confused me.  Was she afraid?  Was that even possible?  A new kind of fear, ice-cold, shot through me as I realized that my mother was frightened, that I was causing my mother to be frightened.  This whole thing was supposed to be a joke.  What the hell was I doing?

I heard, faint and distant, a siren’s whine growing louder.  There was no longer any doubt the tingling in my body was pure fear.  I may have successfully fooled my cousin and mother with this whole ‘play-dead’ thing, but there was no way I could do the same with paramedics.  They would see right through me.  I didn’t know a heart could thump so hard; I thought it might break loose from my chest, escape my body, and flee far away.  The siren was now coming down our street.  The experts were here.  It was all over but for the fear and trembling.  Overwhelmed by it all, I crumbled and started to cry.

I thought tears would unmask my deception and be my instant demise.  I was wrong.  Mom interpreted my ‘coming to’ as the result of her comforting me, and the fresh-on-the-scene paramedics explained I was in shock, confused, and that it was, indeed, perfectly natural for me to be crying in her arms.  They strapped me to a board, put the board on a gurney, loaded it all into the ambulance and off we sped to the hospital. There, friendly nurses and not-so-friendly doctors made quite a fuss, pinching and prodding me, sticking me with needles and shining lights in my eyes over and over.  The doctors eventually determined I was concussed, but being so young, should fully recover.  They instructed mom in hushed, serious, doctorly terms, to let them know if I had any lingering issues.

One morning about a week later, mom took me along to open the bar where she worked as a bartender.  I would often hang out there for a couple of hours, playing video games or shooting pool, until grandma or Aunt Kim would get off work and pick me up.  At some point, mom made me a coke. I loved the cokes at mom’s work because they came in big, heavy glasses packed with tiny ice cubes that I could eat with every sip, like a Sno-Cone.  I drank-ate as many cokes at mom’s work as she would allow.  When I went to get this coke, however, the bottom of the glass clipped the lip of the bar, toppled out of my hand, and shattered on the floor.  I froze.  There was really only one simple rule at mom’s work, this one spoken often, ‘dammit boy, pay attention to what you’re doing’, which meant, in this case, to use two hands on the glass.  Those big, heavy glasses were expensive, and mom would have to pay for the one just broken. That meant I, too, would have to pay for breaking it.  I expected fire and brimstone to strike. Instead her gentle voice assured me, “Oh, baby, it’s okay.  The doctors said you’d have trouble with motor control. I’ll just make you another one.”

During the few days following my fall, a fierce  battle raged in my mind over telling mom the truth.  I struggled to work through the right and wrong of it all.  I regretted how far things had gone and knew the longer I waited to come clean, the worse it would be when I finally did.  But… I felt so loved that whole week.  Please don’t misunderstand, as a child I never felt that mom didn’t love me, but ours was a complicated relationship where love, though assumed, was rarely demonstrated.  Her love was like a foreign country I’d read about in school; I knew the place existed in a vague, abstract sense, but I had never been there and truly experienced it.  That week I had, for the first time, toured the country of my mother’s heart – and I didn’t want the trip to end. 

Her reaction to the dropped and broken glass clarified everything.  Regret went out the window.  I no longer cared what was right or wrong.  I only knew in that instant and with all certainty that I would never tell my mother the truth about that time she found me on the ground, lying.

I am in prison because of my downward spiral of compromise, the gradual degeneration of my character and consequent choices.  One compromise led to the next which led to the next, each one increasing the momentum of travel to and the probability of the next compromise.

My story is a tragedy, but not one of tragic beginnings.  I was tremendously blessed to have wonderful parents and the advantages of academic gifting and opportunity, yet I still ended up in prison with a life sentence.  How?  Why?

My parents were incredible – loving, caring, kind, gentle, giving and honest.  They taught and lived by their Christian beliefs of loving God and loving others.  They prioritized the needs of others, supported without being overbearing, disciplined firmly yet without harshness, provided while instilling appreciation, and emphasized character, integrity, and respect for all. 

I was academically gifted.  Teachers frequently told my parents I was the smartest child they had taught.  I won math contests and Science Olympiad events, participated in numerous opportunities reserved for top students, attended the prestigious North Carolina School of Science & Mathematics (NCSSM), and received several college academic scholarships.  

I did not nose dive from the apex of the values my parents taught down into a cesspit of selling cocaine and carrying a gun.  I descended one selfish, unprincipled choice at a time over several years.  I entered the downward spiral by compromising with alcohol and marijuana.  I drank alcohol for the first time while spending a week at the beach with a friend’s family.  We went to a condo where more than a dozen people, all older, were hanging out.  Drinking with the older crowd made me feel accepted and cool.  Although I threw up and passed out, looking like a fool, I liked being part of the ‘cool’ crowd, naive with the dangerous desire to be accepted as part of the ‘in’ crowd.

The next year, the same ‘friend’ introduced me to marijuana, or pot.  I did not want to smoke but did not have the courage to say ‘no’.  My cowardice caused me to open a proverbial Pandora’s box of drug use.  I liked being high on pot because it settled my mind, which was normally like an extreme laser light show, constantly on hyper-drive.  Pot slowed the pace, allowing me to relax and feel normal for the first time.  I eventually developed a daily habit.

My junior year began at NCSSM.  Graduating from the residence high school for academically stellar students was my dream, but I traded it for nothing. Compromising by drinking and smoking pot cost me that valuable opportunity – it would not be the last one I wasted.  Preparing to leave for college, I made another pivotal compromise, purchasing pot to sell.

For a while I could smoke pot and function well and still excel in school, even winning a math contest (Calculus) while very high.  Selling pot allowed me to smoke every day, but smoking pot that much bore a critical side effect – it stole my drive.  The exceedingly driven person with big plans, goals, and dreams, as well as the dedicated effort to accomplish them, was replaced by a distracted slacker.

As a freshman, I attended far more parties than classes, did more drinking and smoking pot than studying and learning, and added experimentation with other drugs (ecstasy, LSD, hallucinogenic mushrooms).  I forfeited the academic scholarship due to terrible grades, having to attend summer classes to maintain eligibility.

I regained my academic focus and made the Dean’s List the next two semesters.  Although the frequency of partying, drinking, and using drugs decreased (mostly on weekends), continuing to use at all was complete compromise.  Two years later, I made another pivotal compromise, the terrible choice to sell cocaine.  Quickly, I became addicted to the money, and began to view myself as a drug dealer.  Adopting that identity led me to accept violence as a necessary part of the drug business.

Eight months later, my apartment was broken into and ransacked, drugs and cash stolen.  My little beagle puppy, Bruiser, was left hiding under my bed, shaking uncontrollably.  The break-in shattered my sense of security.  I hated feeling afraid, violated, helpless.  I wish I had responded by quitting the selling and using of drugs – forever.  Instead, I responded by seeking revenge.  Thinking I had determined the culprit, I organized a late-night armed robbery, however, the people we accosted were not involved in the break-in.

I thought striking out at someone, anyone, would make me feel less afraid and more in control, but the fear increased.  I started carrying a gun everywhere, even to class.  I always reentered my apartment with the gun at the ready, afraid.

Two weeks later my long, ever-worsening series of bad choices caused irreparable harm.  Killing other human beings and being arrested for murder awakened me to how far down I had descended. I had the gun because for two weeks I carried a gun everywhere, because guns and violence are part of being a drug dealer, because using drugs can easily transition into selling drugs, because one compromise leads to the next.  The overall direction of the compromises I made was steeply downward, but the incremental drop from one compromised choice to the next was so small as to be indistinguishable. 

My parents and my gifts gave me the foundation for success, but I wasted both.  The mistakes I have made are my own.  I am solely, wholly responsible for my impulsive, immoral choices.  I failed to learn from my mistakes, not only repeating them but making worse and worse choices.  Smoking marijuana took my drive, selling drugs took my direction, identifying myself as a drug dealer destroyed my boundaries.  

Now, I refuse to compromise on my values of honesty, integrity, compassion, diversity, and social responsibility.  I know it takes only one compromise to enter the downward spiral, and I will never again re-enter the downward spiral of compromise.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson placed second in our most recent writing contest.  Timothy has been incarcerated for nineteen years and 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/).

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

It was an unusually quiet night, the normally blaring TV’s and radios were quiet.  The typical long-distance conversations between inmates yelling back and forth from several cells away, or the blusterous sound of someone triumphantly declaring “Checkmate!” – were not heard on this night.  On this night, some of us were preparing to say good-bye to a friend for the very last time.

Hashi was ‘making his rounds’, saying his final farewells to those that mattered to him.  It was a ritual that played out each time someone’s ‘death date’ was upon them and upon all of us, like some Shakespearean tragedy.  Thus is life on Death Row – a series of greetings and farewells.  And my turn to say good-bye was approaching faster than I wanted it to.

I could hear Hashi drawing ever closer to my cell, and I steeled myself against the emotional onslaught that was certain to come when I looked into the face of my friend – a dead man walking.  I needed to be standing when he got to my cell.  I felt it would be inappropriate and disrespectful to be sitting, but I also felt like I had a ton of bricks strapped to my back, and I struggled to rise to my feet.  As I did, my solid resolve began to melt away like ice cream on a summer day.

Within seconds, Hashi was at my cell, his hand thrust through the bars in search of mine, and in that one gesture, my resolve dissipated to nothing.  I grasped his hand with mine and reached my other arm between the bars and hugged him.  “I love you, brother,” is all I could manage.  The dam broke, and my eyes flooded with tears.  

Hashi squeezed my hand one final time and told me, “I love you too, little brother,” and walked away.  In that moment, there was a dignity and grace to him that I had never seen.  Even in what were to be his final days, he was still teaching, and I was still learning.  I sat back down feeling a little lighter and sat vigil for the next three days.

We all knew that Hashi had about 72 hours to live.  And as it is with all who are transported to the ‘death house’, we prayed for that last minute stay of execution, but God decided to say “no” this time, and at 12:07 a.m., Hashi was pronounced dead by lethal injection.

Several years later, God would say “yes” to me, and I am alive today and no longer on death row.  Now, if I could only get him to say “yes” to easing this never-ending pain and loss.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Tony Enis does not write for WITS often, but I always look forward to hearing from him, and he never disappoints. He is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-years, was at one point on death row, and he has always maintained his innocence. He can be contacted at:

Anthony Enis #N82931
P.O. Box 1000
Menard, IL 62259

This will be the biggest favor I have asked of anyone, I realize, my head slumped and the phone receiver shaking in my hand.  My friend answers the call.  

“Are you current on the situation with my Dad?”  I ask, relief seeping through me when he responds that he is.  I do not have to say the awful words.

My Dad is dying – not dying like we are all dying, or dying with two months to live – dying in that he will be dead in a few hours.  The shocking news has hit me hard.  I am scrambling to take care of the necessaries.

“I have a huge favor to ask,” an understatement, but I cannot think of adequate words.  When my friend pledges his willingness to do anything for me, I press on.  “I want you to represent me at the funeral.  I am going to write a speech to honor my dad and want you to deliver it.”

Without hesitation, he replies, “Of course.  I’ve got you brother.”  The tears I had been holding back break through before I hang up the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.  

It isn’t until I enter my prison cell and shut the door to muffle the ever-present clamor that I allow the tears to stream.  Yet, even as I struggle to breathe, gratitude to God mingles with the suffocating grief, gratitude for a friend, a brother who loves me so much that he is willing to bear such a weight.  My thoughts travel back to the day when I prayed for a friend and God gave me a brother.

“Wake up.  You’re not going to sleep away our last few minutes together,” I told my biological brother, elbowing his arm.  “You’re going to talk to me.”  He sighed heavily and yawned but sat up, a reluctant compliance.  

In our early twenties, we had traveled many thousands of miles side-by-side, but not quite like this.  In the backseat of the family car on trips to visit family in Maryland and Florida, vacations to the Blue Ridge mountains, Disney World, and Myrtle Beach.  Then, in high school and college, one of us driving and the other riding shotgun on road trips.  So many miles, so many happy memories.

Never had we journeyed confined by shackles, bounced relentlessly by the decrepit shocks of a prison transfer bus.  Never before had the trip guaranteed our separation, maybe forever.

Arriving at the Sandy Ridge depot, we were herded off the bus into the ‘Cattle Shoot’, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the livestock.  My brother and I were being transferred from Foothills, where we had been together for about a year, to different prisons.  With him serving thirty years and me life without parole, we wondered if this goodbye was the goodbye.

His name was called first.  We exchanged “I love you” and “Keep your head up”, hugged as best we could in shackles, and he shuffled away.  I prayed, “God, please take care of my brother.”

When my name was called, I prayed again, “God, please give me a friend where I am going,” while doing the shackles-shuffle to the next bus.  Some of the guys already knew each other.  They caught up on news of various prisons and prisoners.  I did not plan to talk to anyone – the sting of saying goodbye to my brother still too raw.

The two guys closest to me discussed the previous night’s Fiesta Bowl.  Upstart Boise St. had upset powerhouse Oklahoma in dramatic fashion.  One of the two turned to me, asking if I had watched the game.  Initially, I just stared through my fog.  His smile nudged me into a response of “yes”.  Despite my barely verbal opening, the conversation on my favorite topic, sports, drew me out of the haze.

We recapped the spectacular (now legendary) plays:  the hook-and-ladder, the statue of liberty, the running back’s proposal to his girlfriend, a cheerleader, after he scored the winning touchdown.  The sports talk replaced my lifelessness with animation.  I was a  Claymation form temporarily brought to life.  At least the conversation helped the bus ride pass, I thought..  God had more in mind.

When I thanked God for the semi-familiar face of my sports conversation partner in the next cell, God must have chuckled, knowing He had already given me abundantly, exceedingly more than I dared ask.

The confined, compact nature of the prison environment amplifies the obstacles to developing and maintaining a friendship, while simultaneously intensifying the need for a friend.  In the friendship building stage, the prison environment causes near constant contact, an abnormal closeness for the start of a friendship.  The excessive time together combined with the high-stress state of living generates numerous opportunities for friction.  Only when both parties are committed to working through the inevitable conflict does a friendship develop.

A friend is not a person without flaws but a person with whom exists a mutual contract of grace.  If friendship required flawlessness, nobody would choose to be my friend.  My new neighbor, Tommy, extended grace to me despite my caustic sarcasm and know-it-all attitude.  Instead of taking offense, he laughed, even at himself.  And he helped me laugh, a much needed soul-medicine.

Even when friendship demanded a price, Tommy embraced the imposition.  After I tore my ACL playing prison-yard gladiator basketball, he helped take care of me, getting my tray in the chow hall.  When a miscreant thought the crutches a license to be rude, Tommy bluntly informed the misguided chap otherwise.  His exact words, “His leg might be messed up, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs.  So, what do you want to do?”  Tommy, a Marine always and forever, could be rather intense.  Somewhere along the way, we became more than friends, we became brothers.

Many in prison avoid friendship because of the inevitable sudden separation.  One person moves to another unit or transfers to another prison, without any warning, without a chance to say goodbye.  That’s what happened to Tommy.  He was just gone one day, transferred to another prison, no warning, no farewell.

Keeping in contact, even by letters, violates prison rules.  As a Christian, I submit to a higher authority when a divergence emerges between the two.  I write letters of support as a ministry.  Most persons in prison have no way to navigate, or circumvent, the prohibition, but an understanding family member relayed letters between Tommy and me.  We supported and encouraged each other through those simple words and, of course, we conversed on sports, especially football.  In many letters, he expressed his commitment to always be there for me and to help provide for me after his release.

Tommy walked out of prison after fifteen years.  I had not seen him in seven years.  My parents visited him that week to help him get a few things.  They had gotten to know him well over the years. They were emotionally impressed by the way he spoke of me as his brother and of his love for me.

I have had a number of friends get out, promising to keep in contact and send pictures, order magazines, etc.  Most are never heard from again, unless and until they return to prison.  A few kept in touch, briefly, then essentially vanished.  Not my brother. 

Maintaining contact and transitioning to the role of a supporter after release begets numerous problems.  Upon release, a person is not starting from zero but from deep in the negative.  Acquiring a job, home, transportation and food, plus paying supervision fees – with a felony record – sets many up for failure.  If a person does make it through the post-release quicksand, playing catchup makes life move at warp speed.  Staying in contact and providing support increases the strain.  

Many leave prison carrying with them the trauma of that environment.  Yelling, slamming doors, quick movement, feet scuffling, or countless other triggers can activate the adrenaline rush and other fight or flight responses.  Every phone call, visit or letter with those still behind bars takes a toll.  Maintaining contact with friends left behind forces the released person to constantly confront their own trauma, a steep price.

My brother sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, for me.  As soon as he could manage, even at a cost to himself, he put money on the phone, sent money to my canteen account, ordered books and magazines (mostly sports magazines, of course), sent photos, and relayed jokes and funny memes to cheer me up.  On his first truck, he put a NC State sticker on the passenger side, his way of letting me ride shotgun.

When I prayed for a friend, I asked for someone for a season, wanting God to supply a temporary need.  God recognized a permanent need and supplied a brother for life. Thanks to the gift of Tommy, on the day I learned my father would die in a few hours, laying on a prison bunk with tears tumbling, I whispered, “God, thank you.  I asked for a friend.  You gave me a brother.  I did not know how much I would need him, but you knew.”  

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is not only a great writer, but he also expresses through his writing who he is today and helps to illustrate personal growth. WITS is about allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers, and I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing not only his loss, but also his faith. Timothy is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.

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