I had a plethora of ‘special visits’ within the past week – four visitation days filled with two different people, for a total of sixteen hours.  Had I not been awarded such visits from caring friends, I would have spent those hours within a defeat filled prison cell.

During those four hours of conversation, topics range from favorite TV shows – they liked Mork & Mindy, I liked Punky Brewster – to cartoons like the Smurfs, Care Bears, Voltron, and Underdog – a classic.

We talk about food, although my guests are all vegans.  They talk about nuts and crackers, while I ask, “Where’s the beef?”  When they buy me snacks, they refuse to eat in front of me.  No one likes getting food stuck in their teeth around me – what’s up with that?

We discuss politics, books read, family issues and jobs.  We talk about their dealings just as much as mine, and we will cover a wide range of wild and mundane topics.  At some point the unavoidable will arise, though I try to avoid it – my pending execution/murder.  After all, it’s the reason we are ‘here’.  It’s why our sailing ships crossed paths within the massive sea of interactions.

My friend, Mary, is from England where they drive on the wrong side of the road, though she begs to differ.  It’s where they say ‘arse’ instead of ass.  Can you imagine Cardi B singing about her ‘arse’?  Just don’t sound right.  Mary comes from a land where Mary Poppins isn’t a myth – rather a legend.  When she told her family and friends that she was coming to America to visit a man on Texas death row they asked, “Have you gone mad (lost your mind)?”

People often ask me if I am mad.  Bitter.  I’m not pretentious by nature, and what you see is exactly what you get.  So – in the tone of my cussing pastor and actor, Samuel L. Jackson, “You damn right I get mad and bitter!”  Even though hardly anyone ever sees that in me. 

“Chucky, I have one more question.  I would like to know just as the people of England would like to know – how do you stay so strong?  How can you stay smiling and positive?”

It’s a fair question.  One I’m often asked.  And, bravado has it’s place – but not in my story.  To put on a brave face would make a mockery of the struggle of being isolated all day for decades without the touch of another human being’s skin.  It is written, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’  I guess my oppressors didn’t get that memo.  How do I stay strong?  I pointed to her through the glass, to her surprise.  “Me?”

“You and people like you.” 

It’s not lost on me that it’s not easy entering a prison to come visit me. I understand the money and time so freely given to afford me a few hours of comfort.  I’m always grateful for it.  We are all – literally – strangers from different cultures, with different likes and different social economic norms.  The thought that strangers come to my aid and show me what love is – is humbling.  Without my friends, I would be nothing…  Nothing.

I draw strength from the acts of others who display a courage and unmanacled devotion on a scale that I can never fully comprehend.  I think about how busy their lives are and how they still find the time to think about me and write me.  They visit me knowing they are going to be made uncomfortable by guards. 

I think about my friend, Debbie, who was diagnosed with brain cancer and lung cancer and has undergone multiple surgeries within the past year. She has been a constant in my life since 2004.  And when she was told I lost my final appeal she argued with the doctor to discharge her so she could fly to see me and offer comfort so I wouldn’t feel alone. 

I think about my play-daughter and her mom and how they have enriched my life by adopting me into their family.  They are two of the greatest humanitarians my eyes have ever witnessed – and they shed tears for me and the injustice that has befallen me for two decades.  Some people have seen Gandhi, Mandela, Sojourner Truth, Dr. King and so on – to them, they are heroes.  My play-daughter and her mother are my icons, my heros – my angels.  If I don’t live to see another day, I know I have been cared for by people that are greater than this life.

Then there’s Mary.  She’s laughter.  She’s Lucille Ball funny and one of the most non-judgmental people there is.  She’s a great religious orator and an advocate for children who have been abused or suffer mental illness. She is a fascinating person and a genuine friend, as well as her husband.

These people are the core of my support group and the source of the strength others see in me.  If I’m strong, it’s because I have been shown and taught what strength looks like and feels like.  I am strong because I have been loved freely by those who so freely love.  That’s strength. 

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

Death Row is a somberness that never quits and a psychological dismay that never stales, offering fleeting hope in the distance, while an unspeakable cruelty lurks from behind.  It is the veil of vengeance over the face of forgiveness and the dark that seldom brightens.   And it is a system designed to diminish one’s spirit by decades of prolonged executions.   

Enter Joe – a highly spirited, gentle soul and a bonafide hillbilly (his words, not mine).  Joe was amongst several death row inmates whom I met upon arrival.  Although he and I didn’t quite vibe at first, eventually we became good friends.  Our divide was mainly due to our backgrounds which were astronomically worlds apart. However, proximity and shared affliction pieced us together and our friendship was a perfect fit.

Joe was an avid watcher of daytime soaps, bounding around the pod enthusiastically while awaiting his favorite shows. I’d listen to him zestfully recount weekly episodes until he finally piqued my interest.  Before long I was bouncing alongside Joe; the soaps were our escape.

Joe was a tinker also, an essential figure in every inner prison’s workings. Tinkers improvise using commonplace items to effectively service their inmate community.  In need of a coffee brewer?  See Joe.  Stogie roller?  That was Joe too.  From radio repairs to holiday greeting cards, Joe lent a little of himself to everyone.  And when matters were somewhat trivial, still he was eager to help.

I became most endeared to Joe the day he tattooed my forearm. We sat and chatted up one another as he tagged me with his artistry.  Joe opened up to me about his spiritual ambitions and the difficulties in his past. It made me realize, though our differences were superficial our adversities were much the same. I watched as Joe embraced his vulnerability as a means to mend his spirit. It taught me that my own woes were much deeper than death row; I suffered a darkness within.

Afterwards, Joe became the bright spot to every waking day.  A stickler for cleanliness, he swept and mopped the pod each morning before dawn.  Joe then turned to cigarettes and coffee to crank out his lively mood and for hours on end he would laugh and joke – and death row never felt so good.

Joe was a jack-of-all trades, though hardly a master at all.  He was a joyful klutz at basketball, yet the first to laugh at himself. At poker, he was a heavy better and lost with his heart carefree.  He was deeply committed to the happiness of others – happiness gave Joe peace.

It was three years past when the news came down and Joe faced a darkness of his own. The courts rejected the last of his appeals and issued him an execution date. Suddenly there was aridness in the air that ached with sympathy and despair. Well-wishers barely spoke above whispers as they internalized with ‘what ifs’.  Joe put troubled minds at ease by insisting that he was fine – but on the day that his executioners  came, he said to me, “Man, I don’t wanna die.”

In that moment, I was stumped for words.  I had nothing to offer but sadness.  I wanted so much to give Joe absolution and shoo his killers away. I felt helpless and betrayed for the coming demise by an evil which met no resistance.  The terrible truth was – my fears were also selfish.  I didn’t know how to be on Death Row without Joe.

Joe and I embraced for the last time, his cheeks slicked with tears while his eyes held out hope for the governor’s stay. 

He then bid goodbye to others as the party of white shirts escorted him to Deathwatch where he faced his final adversity alone.  Joe was executed by lethal injection.  It was a harsh reality that pitched Death Row into darkness.

Death Row is an immoral chasm filled with broken spirits. It is insubstantial highs and demoralizing lows in the fight to stay alive. However, having Joe around was like a break in the action.  His kindness lit up the dark – and I’m grateful to have had his light shone on me, if only for a short while.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is the winner of Walk In Those Shoes’ first spring writing contest. He rose to the occasion, as did many. The goal of the contest was to share light people saw and experienced behind bars, and I think what has become apparent is that often times – it was the light in the writers’ themselves that was shared.
Terry writes for us often, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Dear Duck,

You might want to sit down for this.  Being as you’re so young, my intention is to be delicate, but there are some troubling things that need to be disclosed about the path down which you are headed.

Who am I, you ask?  Oh, I’m nobody in particular, though I could’ve been. It’s just that I’ve made some really poor choices in life – kinda like what you’re doing.  Should you continue, well… eventually you may become nobody in particular too.

The things you’re going through that you think no one else understands – I do.  However, I’ve come to learn that other people’s shortcomings are not my excuses, and there’s self-accountability in most blame.  We are all responsible for creating the lives we want for ourselves.  None of us are exempt from that obligation, Duck. No one else determines how you live.

I know that you’re experiencing some household issues that compel you to find acceptance outside your home. Your older brother, Ray, whom you idolize, doesn’t want you tagging along with him anymore. And while you wait enthusiastically around the house for his return, still, he doesn’t notice you.  I know between your mother’s day job and night school, quality time has given way to fatigue.  And while everyone dotes on your cute kid sister, your presence feels passed over.  It makes you envious, and you question your worth.  You feel invisible, as though you don’t matter. You prioritize making friends for the sake of their opinions to validate your importance.  You assume a person’s reputation is the measure of their worth; that fear is ascribed to weakness.  So you smoke, deal drugs, and have unprotected sex simply to gain approval.  But real friends needn’t prove themselves to one another, and fearfulness touches us all. Even the stony looks on the faces of those you so desperately hope to impress, they too have known fear.  We’ve all been afraid, though not everyone has the courage to admit it.  Owning up to our fears is not weak but strong.

Open your eyes, Duck.  You could have a rich, joyous life, if only you would seize it and realize that nothing worth having comes free, it takes dedication and hard work. And yes – having to take ownership over your life at thirteen can be scary, but being a better person is a decision that can only be made by you.  Should you continue to travel down such a callous road of indignities, well… you’ll find yourself one night staring down the barrel of a shotgun while fumbling in your socks for what you hope is enough money to trade for your life.  You’ll have kids who will grow to adults and have no idea who you are. You’ll suffer scorching lead bore through your flesh as you are left in the street for dead.  You will become a slave to your addictions, contract STDs, and erroneously learn to settle domestic disputes with your fist.  You will hold a man’s life in your hands while wielding a powerful sense of judgment at the price of your humanity.  You’ll spend 20 years in a prison cell crying yourself to sleep at night with shame. Your life will be plagued with regrets, and you’ll find that behind closed eyelids, your demons await.

There’s lots of hurt coming your way, Duck.  Trust me – I know.  But there’s also the chance for you to make things different.  The life you want – your dreams and aspirations – they begin and end with you. Don’t let the pain of your poor choices diminish your goodness and exact its toll on your family.  Don’t let the expectations of others determine who you will become.  You’re a wonderfully smart and gifted young man with unworldly potential for greatness, so be someone to be proud of…  don’t be another me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work.

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

All Posts By Chanton

Whether a prisoner of concrete walls, iron bars and razor wire fences, or economic woes, or mental insecurities – everyone is hungry for a ‘why’ to get through one more day.

My name is Charles “Chucky” Mamou, Jr., and I have been a prisoner on Texas Death Row since 1999.  It is here that I found myself a student of my own self, a man whose mental incarceration has been pardoned.  I now see things with clarity, without bias.  I am not the same man I was a decade or so ago.  Now, don’t get it twisted – my imprisonment and death sentence did not bring about such change.  For any person to fully attempt to start the process of change, it has to start with the changing or reforming of one’s own mind. I took a liking to the cliché, ‘You are what you think yourself to be’.

A robber doesn’t walk around thinking what sermon he’s going to preach on Sunday, nor is he singing Amazing Grace to express the joys of his heart.  He’s thinking about his next heist.  But, I’ve come to accept what many deem unthinkable – humans do change!  Some from good to bad.  Many from bad to good.  It all begins with a thought toward a different approach that hasn’t been tried before. 

Life finds meaning through ‘why’ and cautious hindsight that allows us to decipher what is important to each one of us.  For me, such sanity comes from my devotion to my mother, children, family and sincere friends.   More importantly, the devotion they have for me that sustains me.  It keeps me smiling when my face should be caked with frowns.  They help levee my eyes so that my tears do not cause my heart to flood in misery.  They are my ‘whys’ and continue to give me hope for a brighter future. 

My family has allowed me to see the other victims that don’t get much attention in a death penalty system.  The victims who go unnoticed, uncounted, unheard and not spoken enough about.  As much as I understand that it is because of me that the ones I love have become victims, I see an incredible resiliency in them, a beacon that no longer allows my own ignorance to be the master of my mental chaos.

I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring.  I can only concern myself in the now.  What I learn in the now will allow me to be a better person in the tomorrows that lay ahead – should any tomorrows come to pass.  And, I can smile in this moment, because I am mentally alive.  Indeed, I am stronger and wiser in mind, if nothing else.  Stronger today than I in my yesteryears.

Life isn’t how you see it, it’s how you make it.  We’re here for a reason.  To learn from lessons that are unseen.  We are here for more than McDonalds and the mall.  We are here to love those who adopt hate.  We are here to understand each other without the divide that ignorantly sees some as lesser beings due to the color of their skin, when it’s the content of their character that should be sought.  We are here to rehabilitate the rehabilitatable.  We are here to forgive, even if redemption isn’t feasible.  We are here to seek our meanings, our whys, and make a difference.

This is what I have observed.  If we completely understand self first – then we can understand others.  We are all designed in the same likeness, with the same capacity for peace, love, and respect of ourselves and our fellow brothers and sisters.  This is my understanding.

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

A caged bird sings,
And a condemned man writes.
The only freedom to be had
In a tomb, sealed tight.
But no, not airtight,
Just enough to breathe.
See the mugginess that looms
In the dank lonely room?
Shall it bring you constant misery
For the wrong you have done.
Murderer!
You worthless monster!
The same grief you have caused
Should be exacted on your mama.
O’ but it has,
Just not enough.
Heathenish villain
Who deserves no forgiveness,
And for that we’re going to bring
Out the lethal stuff.
Undo what God has done,
Rid fathers of their sons,
As your souls erode in darkness
Till the day of judgment comes.
And when that day comes,
No tears, nor fears,
Nor uprising peers
Will hinder the injustice
Inflicted on you for years,
From way, way back
On the slave man’s back.
We are all black,
And the distinction of skin color
Is fallacy designed by the elitist
As a means to stay in power.
Watching the seconds tick
As it nears the twelfth hour,
Where preparations are made
And sympathy forbade;
Ain’t nothing
Going on here
But the necessary removal
Of a threat to society.
Placaters
Turned player haters,
Never losing an ounce
Of sleep at night
From knowing that death
Is just a business.
Torture chambers need hosts,
Tax payers foot the cost,
With endless sights of vigil lights
As advocates brave the cold,
Chanting, “No more deaths!”
“No more deaths!”
But there will always be deaths
Till by death there’s no one left,
But the supreme man
And him who understands
That classism
Is about one clan.
Not black, or white
Nor those with the will to fight.
And neither the caged bird that sings
Nor the condemned man that writes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton