I hate being on Texas Death Row.  The air.  The stripping nude four times a day on average so officers have something to do or look at.  The cold, faux-food.  The redundant radio station playing the same ole’ commercialized songs every half hour.  I hate my current existence so much, I even hate telling you about it.

We’re all enigmas here.  Each emotionally abused and scarred in some way, shape or form.  This is a place where a guy named Marty McFly can change his name into something catchy and it sticks like a new skin – Big Mac, Marty the Leotard, Mc-Dawg.  Guys can rename themselves after their city, town, zip code, favorite animal, or even a car – something they never would have thought of had they been free.  That’s one thing I don’t hate.  I find the names quite creative and the choices interesting.  At one point, I went by the name Louisiana because others couldn’t pronounce my last name correctly. 

In some regard I think I’m better off than some in here, having battled my own thoughts of suicide and self-harm.  There are times that are comforting, like when it’s quiet and I can read a good book and see the words come to life on the inner stage within my mind.  There’s nothing greater than that.   

Then – there’s visitation.  I love getting visits and a chance to get out of this cell, to be allowed to interact with ‘freeworld’ people and have a moment of nostalgia.  I saw a kid race another across the floor, and it brought back memories of seeing my own daughter doing the same exact thing two decades earlier. 

I wasn’t much of a talker when I was free, but I’ve since acquired a taste for conversing.  People fascinate me and I want to know and understand how they see the world, and how different cultures can be. 

I recently did a BBC interview with a lovely reporter.  It was my understanding the segment was to be focused on my beloved friend, Mary, who was here to visit me.  Perhaps I understood the angle.  Perhaps I didn’t.  Or, maybe, I was a self-centered bastard who thought that – once the camera began to roll – it was ‘action time’ and all about me.  Which would explain why I wanted to shave away the grey hairs from my face before the interview.  Why I urgently smoothed the Olay moisturizer sample I received inside one of my girlie magazines on my face to give me a glow when the big lights came on.  And maybe it explains why the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Where’s my glam team?”

A few days before the interview I had to have a tooth removed, and I found myself talking on the opposite side of my mouth so the camera didn’t catch the side-gap in my mouth.  I am many things – true.  Add ‘vain’ to the long list.

I attempted to change the narrative of the interview by talking about me, my case and this environment as the British reporter shifted right to left in her chair out of patient frustration.  She was chasing a story.  I was chasing freedom and wanted the world to know it while I still had a chance to express it.  I could tell she ‘understood’.  Somewhere, hidden beneath her eyes, she knew I was a lonely soul, cast into a lonelier sea.  I may have seemed a bit ornery to her, or she may have even thought I was a meshugana.  I’ve been called the latter a few times. 

The reporter was a true pro.  Smooth.  She sensed it when my own oxygen began to run out.  She had to have seen it in the finality of my expressions.  The desperation of my emotions.  The expression of agony of two decades of being mentally lynched within the halls of solitary confinement. 

“Can I ask you one final question?” she asked with a smile.  I invited her to ask me anything, confident that nothing asked would be too complicated for me, until she asked, “Do you have any regrets?”

Mentally?  I began to perspire.  Emotionally – I could see air-bubbles form with no words.  I was caught off guard.  Speechless.  Suffering from a ten-second delay of censorship.  Was this a trick question?   Was she asking about my case?  My life as a whole?  I was truly confused and didn’t like it.  I rubbed my head, looked into the camera and explained that I was innocent in every way from the conviction that molested my freedom from me.  Sure – it wasn’t what she wanted.  But, it was what I needed.  I needed to say it.

I’ve been told an Italian saying that goes, “Vivere Senza Rimpianti” – to live with no regrets.  And when I came back online mentally, that was the only thought I had.  So, I told her, “I have no regrets.”  Perhaps I regret saying that without fully explaining what I meant.  Perhaps not.

What no one can see is that I’m not the same person I was when I was free, thinking I knew everything about everything, when in reality I knew nothing about anything.  I’ve traded in gangster rap lyrics for informative literature.  I now get intoxicated on history, philosophy, politics, psychology.  Not beer, wine or champagne.  I’m a different person today because…  and I HATE to admit this, but my limited environment gave me access to unlimited knowledge.

Since I’ve been on death row, I’ve met so many people from all over the world.  People I have no doubt I would have never encountered had such a wicked kismet not fallen upon me.  People I love more than I love myself.  People who have educated me, visited me, defended me and my innocence and have taken care of me as if I was always one of their own.  A love that transcends mere words of affection.  A love that does not judge my past, but supports my future.  A love that isn’t defined by social acceptance or traditional neglect for those like me who are incarcerated. 

I believe that if you regret some things, you will learn to regret all things.  I love who I am.  It’s my past mistakes that have made me who I am today.  I learned from them.  I grew from them.  You can wish that certain outcomes never happened the way they did, but regrets?  Traditionally, our mental wells have been poisoned into not challenging clichés and social norms when we know a challenge is needed. 

When I told the reporter, “I regret nothing,” I meant that.  For I could not and do not want to entertain an existence where I live without my friends who are family.  I wouldn’t trade my freedom for them.  Living would be a ‘regret’ if I didn’t have them in my life.  Vivere Senza Rimpianti! 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.

He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

Writing By Charles Mamou

For several months when I was a kid, we lived on Powell Street, a lowly urban neighborhood rich with crime.  Daylight brought a liveliness for drugs and alcohol, while nighttime a thirst for violence.  Powell Street was a cautious city block where pilfers and opportunists inhabited the shadows, and a street hustler, Slim Rodgers, stood at the heart of its workings.

Slim was ghetto royalty, a middle aged, bald headed, ebony prince, whose influence pressed on the locals. He was exceptionally introverted with keen observation, often lounging on the porch in his Lazyboy recliner while overseeing the day’s take.  Occasionally, he doled out coins to the neighborhood kids for sweets at the corner bodega. We didn’t dare to steal.  If we were caught stealing, it was said that Slim would ‘get us’.  I thought it meant he would get us in our sleep.

Once, after spending all our coins at the arcade, we headed over to the liquor store to bum for spare change.  Slim found out.  He corralled us together with a heated glare, then marched us up the street to his apartment. After disappearing inside, Slim returned holding a yard rake, trash bags and a velvety purple pouch.  He said that begging was disgraceful, and if we wanted something, we should work for it.  At seven, I had no idea what the word ‘disgraceful’ meant, but I still swore off begging.  Slim handed over the items and tasked us to rake leaves; the pouch was filled with coins.

One summer day in 1981, while Powell Street happened outside, tragedy nearly struck my family.  We were gathered in the rear bedroom of our apartment, my mother tending to the diaper change of her newborn daughter.  My brother, Ray, was making weird faces to distract Sophia, whose bawling was unsettling the quiet evening, while I snickered away in the corner. For my untimely humor, I received the worst detail of all.

“Here…” my mother said as she bundled up the stinky diaper, “…go put that in the trash.”

I clamped the diaper with two fingers and hurried toward the kitchen, my scrunched nose grateful for the midday breeze.  Once there, I chucked the waste into the trash bin, then lustily eyed the fridge as I figured on some stolen sips of Kool-Aid. I peeped down the hallway, cracked the icebox, and guzzled the sweetened beverage.  My mischief was suddenly shattered by an eerie, watchful presence. I turned to the door, and there stood a stranger.

He was tall and beefy with a matted afro, his beard tuft and nappy.  His light colored tee was darkened with stains and drooped over narrow shoulders, and his hulking fist was wrapped around a brown paper bag as he tarried on the porch and peered into the kitchen. Uncertainty fixed our gazes on one another, while the awkwardness of the moment rendered us still.  He then glanced over his shoulder, tugged on the handle and said, “Hey!  Open this door!”

I sat the pitcher aside and headed over to the door, where the strange man dithered noticeably. Stretched upward on my tiptoes, I fumbled at the latch when I heard my mother shout disapproval. 

“Duck, what chu’ doing, boy!  You better git away from that door!” 

I jumped back, confused by the stranger’s face, which twisted in defiance.  A violent pop announced his intrusion, as the door blasted open.

My mother rushed over and pulled me close behind, while I struggled to see around her sturdy frame. The man moved into the kitchen with his eyes wild and his hand fastened to a gun. It had chrome cylinders, much like a cap gun, except heavier and more menacing. Immediately, I thought, ‘I want one’, as the urgency in his voice grabbed my attention.

“Where Slim at?”

“Who?” my mother responded, her own voice standoffish.

“Slim!” he repeated.

“Slim don’t stay here. He lives next door.”

There was an unexpectedness in the air that filled the awful silence, as protector and intruder faced off. Finally, he muttered, somewhat apologetically, “Uh… can I go out the front door?”

A profound sense of relief poured through the room, dousing any signs of trouble. It seemed as though discord had no place wherever Slim was mentioned.  With a nod, my mother permitted the man’s exit, as he tucked the gun away. He then dashed across the living room, peeked through the window and vanished out the door.

Within moments, my mother’s anger turned my way.  “Don’t cha know that man could’ve killed us!” 

Unsure if I was being questioned or warned, I decide to keep quiet. She hauled me to the bedroom where my siblings remained, then she went about securing the house.  When she returned, my mother sat with me and disclosed a terrible truth.

“Everyone who shows up at your doorstep aren’t always good people,” she explained.  “Some may try to hurt you, or worse.”  She counseled me to never open the door for a stranger, and I promised that I wouldn’t.

It would be many years later before I realized the dire possibilities of that day.  I watched as my mother jumped into action to protect her children with little regard for her own safety.  Her devotion was the mark of a great parent and something I hoped to inherit someday.  It was discovered that the man had robbed a liquor store, and he was desperate to hide out.  His intrusion gave me a glimpse into the hostile capabilities of wrongdoers in their efforts to avoid penalty.

However, the thing that impacted me the most that day was the measure of one’s power and influence, how some circumstances are dictated by the promise of retribution. I witnessed as Slim’s reputation alone tamed potential tragedy. I wanted that same power and reputation someday, if only to protect my family. I wanted conflict and disorder to be a fleeting notion in the face of my influence. It would shape my perspective in a way that was flawed, affecting poor choices.

Slim, too, was flawed by certain legal standards, but he wasn’t without decency. He was not the ideal role model for kids, but neither was he unworthy to inspire.  My childhood hero was not some great man honored throughout the pages of history, but I will forever be inspired by the day our lives were secured at the very mention of the name Slim.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

In June, 1993, I came home after serving 27 months in prison.   While I was gone my mother had relocated from the projects where I grew up to an upscale community on the outskirts of town.  I arrived home to a section of seemly brick homes, spacious yards and lush greenery in a neighborhood that was relatively safe – but boring.

The morning after I arrived, I checked the mailbox at the end of our driveway and later strolled to the neighborhood store, noticing each time I left that I drew the attention of a young boy across the street.  He had sunbaked hair, hazel eyes and skin the color of butterscotch, with a slender frame under clothes that were marked by rough play.  In the yard were toys and other objects to which he showed no interest, seemingly content to sit and stare all day.  When my mother  returned from work, I inquired about the strange boy across the street.

She succinctly replied, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

In the following days Chad proved to be as normal as the other kids as they boisterously played throughout the day.  Oftentimes he tussled with his dog or shot hoops in the backyard, other times he simply observed.  He was around eight years old with two older siblings and a kid sister. Their mother worked two jobs, and their father frequently came and went. Their house wasn’t the most adult supervised one on the strip, but it was a crime-free neighborhood so there was little concern.

One day I set out to walk our dog and saw Chad headed my way at a determined pace, his head held sharp and unwavering.  He stepped to me and asked if he could walk my dog.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Before I knew it, I was strolling around the neighborhood with the most inquisitive kid ever. Many of his questions had simple answers, though Chad posed them in a difficult way.  He had a budding curiosity that was pleasant company and reminded me of myself at his age.

Soon Chad found an excuse to come over almost every day, whether to help with yard work or to show me something he had found.  His attentiveness gave me such a feeling of relevance that I looked forward to having him around. One time a friend of mine spent the night.  She went outside early for the morning newspaper, and when she returned, she asked, “Who dat lil’ boy sittin’ on ya’ll doorstep?”

I guessed safely and answered, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

Chad and I often fished at the local pond or practiced target-shooting with pellet guns. We washed cars, mowed lawns and played video games all for the sake of filling the days.  He was so willing to learn and committed to work that he never once complained.  And although he could be incredibly annoying at times, he was still the best part of waking up to a new day.

Two years would pass before trouble pierced our rural haven, and I wound up handcuffed in the back of a squad car.  Chad looked on from the curb with confusion etched on his face.  I sat in prison for 31 months for a crime I didn’t commit, and by the time of my release, I was a fragment of myself with little good to offer.

Chad was like a one-man welcoming party, exhilarated by my return. Just seeing him helped me to shuck some of the bitterness and appreciate the warmth of home.  I would peep outside some days and see Chad sitting idly on his porch waiting for our front door to open.  When it did, he would rush over just to say, “Hi.”  He was the reason I stayed home many a day, though my vengeful heart kept me gone most nights. 

I turned to drug dealing and petty crimes to validate my sense of self-worthlessness, carrying on destructively to mirror how I felt inside. I was caught between being a hooligan by night and a mentor to Chad by day, as I appropriated stories of my nighttime endeavors to preserve a wholesome image. Occasionally, Chad would ask if he could go with me to town, and I would come up with an excuse.  Then I discovered that not only was he a curious bug, he was also quite persistent.

One night I arrived home around 2 a.m. to reup on drugs, not the least bit surprised when Chad wondered over.

“What’s up, Duck?  Are you staying home?” he asked.

“Nope,” I answered while in a mad dash inside to grab the dope supply and head back to the block.

When I returned, Chad was still there waiting in the chill of night, determined to get a word.  “Lemme go wit’ chu, Duck.  I’ve got money.”

“I’ve got sumpthin’ to do tonight, Chad.”

It was the scene that had played out countless times before except this time the outcome was different as his shoulders collapsed and his smile faded.  He turned and started for home.

“Hey, Chad….” I called out to him without giving it much thought because at that moment all that mattered was his happiness,  “…C’mon, get in the car.”

Ecstatically, Chad bound over and jumped in the backseat as I dipped inside the house, removed all the illegals, and joined him in the taxi.

We were dropped off in the filthiest, most crime-infested area in the heart of the city’s drug market, where the unlikeliest shadows gave rise to dope fiends jonesing for a fix.  Cars cruised surreptitiously along narrow side streets as dealers kept an eye out for trouble, and while many residents’ doors were closed and bolted for the night, others were just beginning to open.

The first spot we headed to was the bodega for knickknacks and arcades. We then took in a spectacle of rambunctious trash-talkers over an intense game of craps. With loads of money scattered on the ground and vulgarities stirring, I thought it best that we split, and Chad didn’t have to be told twice to move – he stayed close behind. 

Next we walked a few blocks to the poolroom for chili cheese fries and chicken wings, then we settled in a vacant park and scoffed down our meals.  While there, Chad delved up tons of questions, some even provoking thought, and I could tell that he was having the time of his life because I was too. 

We finished off the night with a fast-food breakfast and caught a taxi home at the cusp of dawn. Once there, Chad hopped out with a yawn and said, “Thanks, Duck. I’ll see ya later, a-ight.”

I watched as he shuffled to his house across the street and disappeared behind the door, not knowing that it was the last time I would ever see Chad.

Days later I was charged with murder and within a year I was sentenced to death.  I prayed that Chad would get used to me not being around anymore. 

Four years later, I learned through a visit with my mom that Chad had been killed. It happened during a skirmish that he was fatally injured and his body was recovered in the woods.  I couldn’t believe it – Chad was gone and he was only sixteen.  I sat with the news gnawing at my conscience, feeling crushed beneath a swell of guilt while imagining the inquisitive kid I first met – not understanding why someone would want to take his life. I blamed myself for not being there for Chad and prayed to take his stead.  He was a much better person and deserving of life than I could ever be.

I have lived with the guilt of Chad’s death for over sixteen years with tomorrows still to come, wondering how our lives would’ve been had I not gone away.  I try not to remember how Chad was taken – I remember how he lived, and I’ll forever keep the fond memory of our night on the town together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made in his life. His honest revelations are an inspiration and a testament to who he is.

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

All Posts By Chanton