Imagine a life so darkened with despair, death feels like the only solution; a darkness that blots out your ability to rationalize that nothing bad lasts forever. Yours is a forever darkness, filling you with dread and pelting you with unrelenting regret. You are plagued by the spirits left broken in your wake from a horror you can never take back. You become desperate to end the pain, ingesting sharp objects that leave your insides wracked with blood, only to rouse days after surgery to discover death rejected you. What remains are the ills of living in pain, the aching darkness still looming. It pushes you beyond the realm of rationality until your escape is as dark as your mind. Medications don’t work and therapy proves but a pitiful attempt to make sense of the pain you feel. No – death is your answer and you will not be denied… so you try again.
That is the everyday darkness that confronts T.J. as he battles with mental illness. It is a deep depression that grows more ominous by the second and evermore self-destructive. T.J. is the latest man to be placed on NC Death Row. He is a tall brother with wandering eyes and a mellow disposition. It was a few months after his arrival that he and I talked for the first time, an exchange that started out casual enough but soon turned rather disturbing. T.J. revealed that he was suicidal and had already tried to kill himself twice. He then hiked up his t-shirt, revealing a scar from his sternum to under belly. I expected his next words to be dripping with regret, for surely he was grateful to be alive. Instead, T.J. sighed with an air of defiance and said, “It don’t matter, ‘cause I’mma do it again.”
The conviction in his words left nothing to doubt… T.J. would try to kill himself again. I opened my mouth but found my own words caged by an awful reminder. What T.J. didn’t know was that I’d lost a close friend to suicide right here on Death Row, and everyday I regretted not saying more to him when I had the chance. Now I spoke fast and fervently to T.J., grasping for anything to impart logic. It was my second chance, and I was determined to give T.J. a reason to live.
As it turned out, for all my determination, I was clueless as to how mental illness works. I tried to use rhetoric to shine light on T.J.’s darkness, but his was a vortex consuming all but one hope. Some months later, T.J. would make his third attempt to take his life when he climbed onto a stairway railing and fell backward to what he hoped was his peace at the bottom. The impact shattered his clavicle and left other bones mangled. His spine dislodged under the weight of the fall as ankles crashed against steel. T.J. laid crumbled at the bottom of the steps as the pain rendered him unconscious, a merciful darkness that spared him the agony but not the endless darkness he sought.
T.J. woke some time later in a prison infirmary to find, once again, the doctors had saved his life. He returned with a back brace and walking cane but still nothing to support his wayward thoughts. His latest suicide attempt gave me valuable insight on the effects of mental illness. For T.J., it is a corrosive disease that turns the rational state-of-mind into the urge to induce grave harm. Mental illness is a wellness deficiency that cannot simply be explained away but deserves heightened awareness, in one place more than any other – the criminal justice system.
What purpose does the death penalty serve for a person with T.J.’s mental instability? Where is the justice in executing someone who sees death not as a punishment but a goal? Such cases demonstrate a death penalty does not exact equal punishment. The death penalty exists to appease a sense of vengeance. True, there are bad people who do bad shit all the time, and they must be held accountable, but when the someone who is bad is suffering from mental illness, the flaw is a reflection of us, not them.
The criminal justice system of today has practically abandoned principles on corrective behavior and thrives on the intent to punish. It puts people like T.J. in hostile environments and expects to normalize him with medications. And while our very own state of NC has passed a number of laws excluding certain criminals from being eligible to receive the death penalty, still they readily punish the mentally ill, as in the case of T.J., instead of providing them with adequate treatment.
T.J. should be receiving round-the-clock treatment for the darkness trying to claim his life. He should be in a facility that specializes on his condition, not left to his own devices on Death Row. And of those cases where someone who is mentally ill does wind up in prison, it falls on the criminal justice system to treat these cases as such, yet the very people who may be in a position to help T.J. are the very ones who want to see him dead.
I spoke with T.J. yesterday while on the rec yard, and surprisingly, he was buzzing with life. He is on the mend, with friends and a local reverend dedicated to helping him heal his spiritual wounds. T.J. assured me that he indeed does want to live, but he doesn’t know how. And for as much as it pained me to hear that, still I didn’t try to rationalize life to him like I did before – this time, I just sat and listened.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson’s writing is consistently thought provoking. Terry writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He recently wrote an essay regarding that book club and what it means to the men involved at the request of a research group at the University of Texas, and he also recently contributed regarding the power of writing in self-care to a Social Work class at Virginia Commonwealth University. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was also recently published in JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Lastly, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion and is very hopeful that will be proven in the future.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
Dominica Raggs and I spent both seventh and eighth grade in the same class. For two whole years she sat directly behind me. There was a mere three feet between us, yet we were worlds apart. Finding out this quiet, hazel-eyed girl was the only other person from my graduating class to attend the same high school as me was mildly shocking.
Freshman year was, honestly, more interesting than difficult. I didn’t think much of it the day Ms. Anderson canceled fourth period swim class due to a maintenance problem with the school’s pool. She left a notice on the door informing us to report to Coach Torian’s gym class immediately.
The change in scenery was ideal for me. I’d been wanting to ball in the school’s gym all semester and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. I chilled in the bleachers with some of my dawggs, assured I was running next.
As the game neared its end, I got up, anxious to play. It was then that I noticed a commotion at the side of the bleachers. From where I stood, all I could see was Walter Jones throwing what appeared to be hair to some dude I couldn’t really see. Then I realized a girl was running between Walter and his partner in crime, trying in vain to get the hair they were keeping from her.
I don’t recall what exactly drew me to this tasteless spectacle. What I do remember vividly is the moment I was close enough to see the tear stricken face of Dominica being laughed at as she begged Walter and his friend to give her wig back. Seeing the pain in her eyes and the absence of hair on her head, I suddenly realized that all the days she’d been absent in elementary school were probably because she was hiding how truly sick she was.
I felt a piece of my soul begin to decay as I stood there, and I knew if I continued standing there I’d never be whole again. A compulsion overtook me, and I found myself standing over Walter after I educated him on the seriousness of the situation. Walter’s accomplice dropped the wig and ran before we could discuss his participation.
I picked up the disheveled hair and tried to straighten it as I gave it back to Dominica. When she looked into my eyes, still crying, I knew I would never regret standing up for her.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office being suspended for fighting. Eleven days into my two week suspension I learned from a friend that Dominica died. She’d had leukemia.
When I attended the funeral, Dominica’s mom came over to personally thank me for my actions. Someone must have told her who I was. Then she asked me to speak a few words on Dominica’s behalf. I didn’t have it in my heart to say no, and the words I spoke that day came from a place in my soul I didn’t even know I had. In the three years I had known Dominica I learned absolutely nothing about her, but in the moment I stood up for her, our souls touched. I’ll never forget her.
ABOUT THE WRITER. The author writes under the pen name Resolute, and although he doesn’t write often, the work he has shared here has been nostalgic and genuine, though both have been pieces about loss. Both have also been little windows into his past, and he has a very charming way of opening them.
Any comments left on this page will be forwarded to the author.
I was in the dayroom that day, taking up a tiny bit of necessary space when Moose walked by. It was medication call, and he walked with a pressing pace, a man on a mission. He had slimmed down a pound or ten, and his friendly countenance was gone. I must’ve commented on his shrinking waistline because someone blurted out, “Ya ain’t know Moose got stage four?”
Cancer. The killer that lives amongst the killers on Death Row. A parasite that looms around the turn of each year, slaying with impunity. It is an ominous disease, so widely suffered that it is recognized by several epithets. Stage Four. The Big C. Sick. And more infamously – The Cancer.
To some, this may be considered justice – anguish suffered in kind. But no one, not even a hardened killer, deserves the agony of a slow, wilting death. Even still, not all Death Row inmates are hardened killers. Some have slain in self-defense. Some, crimes of passion; some, drug fueled rages; and some haven’t killed at all. Still, there is no preference to a worldly killer that strikes without prejudice, affecting hospitals, schools, workplaces – even prisons; but a place where men were already slated to die?
The death penalty is the court’s swift, intolerant stance on heinousness, some actions dissolving our humanity. But when lengthy court appeals threaten to prolong executions by decades, cancer can become a welcome resolve. I was on Death Row for five months when Mr. Roper died of cancer, although he was well within its throes when we met; a frail man, surly at times and confined to his bunk most days, yet he adamantly refused to take his morphine pills. Then it was Gary, a mediocre gambler with a wishing-well for pockets who once summed up his terminal condition in poker slang, “I keep on catching the loser’s best.”
Then it was Ernie, who complained of stomach pangs and died weeks later, and J.W. who was found dead in his cell. Mr. Leroy. John. Another Gary and Eric, and some others whose names have been lost in the years past. And now it was Moose, a cheerful man who had befriended me often, that was said to have stage four cancer and likely preparing to die. An impossible task, one that I passed off as rumor – that way it was easier to dismiss.
A week later, I bumped into Moose while on the way to see a friend. We chatted briefly during which time he cracked a joke about his terminal condition. I was too caught off guard to respond. To laugh felt like I was downplaying the seriousness, yet my vacant response felt like pity; neither of which seemed appropriate for a guy who had just opened up to me about his struggles, so I thought to engage him instead. Moose was a talker, an enjoyable quality when he hosted role-playing games in the past, but that day he outdid himself. He jumped from one subject to the next, not saying much in the way of significance. It felt like he just needed someone with whom to talk. We covered sports and motorcycles, gossip and family – just thinking up random shit to say. I never made it to see that friend of mine but stayed hanging out with Moose and soaking up what could likely be one of our last talks together.
The topic of cancer came up, the word mentioned enough times to have been a person across the room, burly and menacing and marking his time to storm over and break up our bonding session for good. The more Moose let on about adjusting to his daily struggles, the more I admired his perseverance. It was a moving testament that I hoped would survive the cancer. On a whim I asked if I could interview him. I didn’t realize how insensitive it sounded until after the words left my mouth – but surprisingly enough, Moose said yes.
The next day he invited me into his room, a neatly kept area with gleaming white walls and folded sheets covering the floor. Any excess property he had accumulated over the years had been minimized to the barest essentials – a radio, cosmetics, and pictures on the wall were the only items in sight. There was an eeriness to the air that felt clustering and dark although sunlight poured into the room from the window. I wasn’t bothered by the cancer – I knew it wasn’t contagious, but death felt like something I could catch. Then Moose, ever the generous one, offered me a soda and some nabs and told me to have a seat. Suddenly, the eeriness was gone, replaced with compassion, and I remembered why I was there.
Chanton: Thanks for the soda, brother – man, but I would’ve brought something if I knew we were having a party.
Moose: Oh, naw – you keep your stuff, Chanton. My house, my treat.
Chanton: Your hospitality really isn’t all that surprising. You’ve always been a giver. In fact, I’ve still got the D-N-D handbook you gave me some years ago.
At this, Moose began to look around as though searching for something else to give away. To avoid my motives being mistaken, I dove into another subject.
Chanton: How’s that Washington football team of yours coming along?
Moose: They’re the worst. They should’ve kept Heinke in as the starter. That boy gooder than everybody think. I’ve done said if Riverboat Ron is still our head coach next year – I’m jumping ship.
We drank cola, ate knick-knacks and candy, and settled into the awkwardness of two men alone together who barely knew one another. I was nervous, but I wiped any trace of it from my face as the soda washed down the clump in my throat. There I was getting ready to delve into that man’s life while he was preparing for that very life to end. I figured I owed him every ounce of professionalism I could muster for the courtesy he was showing me.
Chanton: So, how’ve you been feeling, my man?
Moose: I’ve been doing good – ya know… except for that medication. It keeps me nauseated.
Chanton: What? The chemo?
Moose: Nah, I ain’t doing the chemo. All that’s gonna do is drag things out – ya know. I’mma let it do what it do. Let nature take its course.
Chanton: Don’t you wanna fight to live as long as you can?
Moose: What’s the use? Stage four cancer is terminal. Maybe if they’d caught it a few years ago, I might have a chance.
Chanton: How did you find out that you have cancer? Were there symptoms?
Moose: Hell, naw. I felt fine… a little tired every now and then. Funny – I was watching a story on Ron Rivera, the Washington head coach, and his recovery from cancer. So I’m fucking around and I checked my throat… and I found a damn lump.
Chanton: And your first diagnosis was stage four? Man, that’s fucked up.
Moose: Yep – stage four. They did that same shit to Ernie. And Eric, too.
Chanton: Oh, yeah, we know the State don’t got the best medical track record in early prevention. But here’s what I wanna do – let’s switch gears for a bit, Moose. Tell me a little about yourself.
Moose: Hmmm. Let me see. Well, I’m 56, and I grew up around Mount Airy.
Chanton: That’s in NC, right? I thought since you were a huge V-Tech Hokies fan that you were from around Blacksburg, VA.
Moose: Nah – I like V-Tech ‘cause their colors were the same as my high school team.
Chanton: You played football in high school?
Moose: Yep. I ran track, too, at Moss High. It’s a wonder how I graduated though, I was always the class clown.
Chanton: So what was going on with you before high school? What was your childhood like?
Moose: I dunno… great parents. My mama used to model for the clothing stores. Daddy was a salesman. He done been a bunch of other stuff too. I used to slop hogs and bale hay with him before school.
Chanton: So, your pops was a farmer?
Moose: For a while – yep. He owned a bit of land in Mount Airy. But then daddy became a preacher and everybody loved him. He never had to pay for shit.
Chanton: What? I never knew you were a preacher’s kid, Moose. Is it true what they say about all the restrictions?
Moose: Daddy was strict when he needed to be – but mama would tear our asses up too. I stole some bubble gum when I was three ‘cause she wouldn’t buy it for me. She whooped me all the way to the car.
Chanton: Spare the rod, spoil the child, huh?
Moose: That’s the thing though – mama and daddy did spoil us. They taught me and my sister to work hard but they still gave us anything we wanted.
Chanton: How many siblings do you have?
Moose: Just that one. Debbie. She’s older than me by six years. Overprotective too. One time when I was riding my bike I just got for Christmas and this older boy her age kept making me let him ride on it, Debbie caught that boy and –
Suddenly Moose’s face was a twisted mask of anguish, and his muttered words were drenched in tears. The memory had taken him back to a time in his life when death row and cancer wasn’t real. I felt so fucking guilty to ask a dying man to recount his life and not expect it to crash into an emotional wall. Yet, it was an emotional turnaround I didn’t see coming, and I was thinking of an excuse to terminate the interview when Moose smeared away his grief on a handkerchief and pulled himself together.
Moose: My bad, Chanton. I didn’t mean to get emotional.
Chanton: Aw, hell, man – you’re okay. I appreciate you feeling comfortable enough to let go in front of me. What was it that made you so emotional?
Moose: Just thinking about my sister. That girl always had my back. Even now. She ‘bout all the family I got. Like I was saying – she caught that older boy riding my bike and pulled him off it by his shirt and was beating on that head of his good.
Chanton: As well she should’ve. I’ve got an older brother who had to stick up for me when I was getting picked on. So, where’s the rest of your family?
Moose: Well – mama and daddy is gone. My grandparents passed years ago. I’ve got an uncle I was named after, but he lives way down in Florida. And my son – I don’t know much about him though. He don’t have nothing to do with me.
Chanton: Yeah, I know what you mean. Kids can be resentful to parents who weren’t around. I’ve got to imagine he does love you though… at least cares about you. You’re his dad… the only one he’s got.
Moose: Yeah. I do really love my son. If I could change things for him – I would.
Chanton: What are some things you would change about yourself? Any regrets?
Moose: I was headed to the military after high school, the Marine Corp. But daddy offered me a job working with him, so I stayed. I wish I would’ve went on. And – when I was a kid, I found a love for motorcycles from watching Chips. I wanted to own a shop someday.
Chanton: What kept that dream from happening.
Moose: I started running with the wrong crowds. Drinking and smoking weed. Getting into trouble.
Chanton: Tell me more about those motorcycles.
Moose: Shit, what’cha wanna know? Motorcycles is my thing. I started riding ‘em when I was 18. Later, I bought an old panhead and fixed it up. I was green as hell when it came to motorcycle gangs, but I loved riding with them. I got offered to be a prospect in the Sonny Barger gang before – but I ain’t never hold no colors. After that, I just started fixing ‘em up, trading parts – until I knew everything there was about a bike.
Chanton: Did you work on motorcycles for a living?
Moose: Oh man, I’ve done some of everything. Picked cherries. Chopped trees. I was a sprayer, mower, skating rink DJ, school bus driver, and salesman, like my daddy. When I took a machine out to sell, I never brought it back.
Chanton: Damn! With all those jobs, it’s a wonder if you were ever broke.
Moose: Shoot! I kept money. But I was a giver, just like daddy. I helped a lot of people.
Chanton: Ok, so you being a white guy and me, a black guy, I’m interested to know what were some of your experiences in race relations.
Moose: I’ve tried not to get into that stuff ‘cause daddy said, ‘we’re all God’s children’. But I’ve been around some Whites who didn’t like Blacks, and Blacks who didn’t like Whites. As soon as they show that’s who they are and how they think – I’m gone. Nope. I don’t play that. Don’t bring that stuff around me.
Chanton: Have you ever felt pressured to stay in a group of friends after they’ve shown racist tendencies?
Moose: Nope. I’ve had guys say racist stuff around me ‘cause they thought it was cool. But ya know what – I stopped messing with them after that.
Chanton: Good for you, bro. I always find it interesting how cultural and environmental backgrounds shape our views on race. I didn’t always speak out against my social peers for trashing other races. I’ve tried not to join them – though I’m sure I’ve crossed the line once or twice.
Moose: It happens… don’t mean you’re a bad person. Daddy said one time, ‘don’t judge no man by the color of his skin – judge ‘em by the color of his heart’.
Chanton: That’s deep. Your pops said that?
Moose: Yep. Daddy treated everybody fair.
Chanton: If your mom and dad were here right now, what would you say?
Moose: Tell ‘em how much I love them, and thank ‘em for all the stuff they put up with me.
Chanton: How old were you when you came to Death Row?
Moose: I got here October 1, 1992. I was 26.
Chanton: And what was it like, coming to Death Row?
Moose: I was a little scared – but it wasn’t nothing to me. I was on safekeeping down the hall from Death Row before I got the death penalty, so I knew some of the guys already. My first day on Death Row, the Sgt. pulled me in the office and there were a bunch of shanks laid out on the desk. He told me to pick one ‘cause I was gonna need it. When I did – they all burst out laughing at me. They were bull-shitting. He told me to put that shit back down and that I would be fine.
Chanton: And were you fine? Any trouble over the years?
Moose: I mean – I’ve gotten into a fight or two over shit that could’ve been avoided. But sometimes people need to know that you will fight before they’ll leave you alone.
Chanton: What’s your days like now, waking up with the cancer and all? Are you scared?
Moose: Not really. A little bit. I guess – but I don’t want to waste my last days worrying about something I can’t change.
Chanton: Did they say how long you’ve got left to live?
Moose: They said probably six months… could be a year. But I won’t last that long. My body is already shutting down.
Chanton: How so?
Moose: I wake up sleepy as hell. I can’t keep no food down, except the peaches. And my stomach be in knots all the time.
Chanton: And you’ve decided against the medications?
Moose: Oh, no – I take the meds. I just ain’t doing the chemo. I’ve gotta take the pain meds; it’s the only way I can make it through the day.
Chanton: I feel ya – in fact, it’s med call right now, so we should wrap it up for today. I’ve got a few more questions for another time. But even after this interview is over I’d love to swing by every now and then to hang out with you – if you don’t mind. You and I have played lots of D-N-D games together in the past. You’ve always been cool to me.
Moose: Thanks for saying that, Chanton. And sure – swing on by when you get the chance. Remind me to tell you about the dragon I’ve seen in real life.
Chanton: Dragon? In real life? This I’ve got to hear. Stay up Moose – and keep pushing on ‘til the wheels fall off.
Moose: I will. But wait, before you go – I want you to have this. They’re pictures of a panhead, shovelhead and knucklehead. Get you some tape, and you can make a bookmark out of them.
Chanton: Wow – thanks bro. This is pretty cool. Alright, Moose… I’ll see you tomorrow.
Moose: See ya, Chanton.
And with that, me and Moose dapped it up and officially concluded this leg of the interview.
The next day proved more challenging than we anticipated when we were hit with a COVID outbreak. The prison went into the red zone protocol and locked down all the dorms. We agreed to postpone the interview, but the cancer never let up. Moose was vomiting and losing sleep. He had to be hospitalized. I was trying to be optimistic of his return – screw the interview, I just wanted him to live. But on February 17, 2022 we got the news from the prison chaplain – Moose was dead.
Not a day has gone by that I don’t think about my friend and what his last moments were like. Maybe he wasn’t all that scared of dying, but I was scared for him. I wanted it to be one of those things where he could apologize to the cancer and everything would be okay. I wanted him to change his mind about the chemo and fight a little longer to live. What I hadn’t realized was that by not taking the chemo – Moose was fighting in his own way. He fought to keep cancer from depriving him of a death worthy of faith. Even his agreeing to do the interview was a challenge that he embraced because even though he knew he couldn’t beat the cancer – he fought for his words to survive.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson’s writing is consistently thought provoking. This is the first time he has done an interview for WITS, and it was not an easy topic, but he handled it skillfully, as he does everything. Terry Robinson writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He recently wrote an essay regarding that book club and what it means to the men involved at the request of a research group at the University of Texas, and he also recently contributed regarding the power of writing in self-care to a Social Work class at Virginia Commonwealth University. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was also recently published in JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion and is very hopeful that will be proven in the future.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
The mind amazes me – how it can be the only power we have over attitude; how, though we can’t change our circumstances, our attitude can change the way we experience events. It brings to mind the way we experience a roller coaster ride – choosing between an attitude of faith or doubt. If I doubt the safety of the harness, question if it will hold, it will be a terrifying ride, hands clenched to the lap bar, feet dug into the floor, eyes closed and likely feeling miserable.
But if I choose to live in faith that the safety harness is strong enough to hold me, then I can focus on enjoying the ride. I can open my eyes, lean into every turn, throw my hands in the air and surrender to the thrill of it. Nothing on the ride has changed, the trajectory of the ride was already determined, every curve, every loop, the length. But inwardly, my experience was drastically different – faith felt like heaven, doubt felt like hell.
It’s pretty obvious the metaphor for spiritually and life itself; and, admittedly, the rollercoaster is a little cliche. Still… I am convinced that God has laid out a track for each of our lives, and while we can make certain choices – keep our hands on the bar or throw them skyward – much of our lives are beyond our control. Who knows? Only thing I do know is that God commands us to love our fellow man, which, if applied as a life principle, leads to a way of life – a track. So, once I committed to this way, it locked in the basic trajectory of my life, the circumstances I would find myself in, the people I’d encounter along the way, the trials and storms and temptations I’d face.
So, now all I can change is my attitude toward those events. When I doubt God, I find myself afraid to love others, afraid that my kindness will be mistaken for weakness, afraid I’ll be rejected or disappointed, afraid I’ll be taken advantage of. Prison is hard enough, and I sometimes fear that trying to love my fellow prisoners will turn me into prey.
Yet, when I’ve chosen to trust in God, I’ve felt an explosion of joy in my soul when I surrender to the love, let it shine forth. God says, “When the Lord takes pleasure in anyone’s way, He causes even their enemies to make peace with them.” (Proverbs 16:7) God takes pleasure in our ways when we love one another, forgive, show mercy, etc. And He keeps His people safe. Granted, there are times God asks us to sacrifice and suffer for a higher purpose, but generally, a lot of our suffering is avoidable – if we’ll just trust and obey.
So, often, my fears are unfounded because God is the X-factor. Sure, without God, people may treat me a certain way, or when I do things for my own purposes people may prey on any vulnerable area, but when I am sincerely trying to do God’s will, the normal laws of human nature don’t apply. Rather, God is involved because God is love, and so unexpected things occur – a cruel person suddenly is kindly toward me, the bully finds someone else to pick on, the thief decides not to steal from my cell.
Like I said, it amazes me how powerful our attitudes can be. Though the outward reality of being in prison has not changed for me, my attitude of faith has changed the way I experience prison life – I’m not afraid. Rather, I’m filled with joy. I have thrown my hands in the air, surrendered to the will of God, and now I just enjoy the ride.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am grateful to share his work. He isn’t just inspirational as a writer, but also as a person. George lives on Death Row in NC, and is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion. In addition, he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Everyplace has a code of conduct, a pre-established format on how to behave, especially Death Row, where violating communal norms can have fatal consequences. And although I was surprised to learn when I arrived how clueless the men were to the accused crimes of one another, I soon learned it was a naivete woven from a thread of doubt that was necessary for us to coexist. Here on Death Row, we never discuss the crimes of others. Our spats are never armed with accusations. We share living space with men who have committed heinous acts and the courtesy between us is doubt. But what happens when the media airs coverage that shatters that doubt? What happens to courtesy when a vicious murderer is unveiled by his own admission? How do we come to terms with the visions of horror when there is no naivete behind which to hide? And what is the code of conduct when learning the person who is responsible is someone I’ve called a friend?
I first heard the rumor during my orientation to Death Row by a CO escorting me to the pod. He motioned toward a dark skinned man sitting alone at a table as we passed by a murky window. “See him? Watch out for that one there – he’s a serial killer.”
With questionable motives himself, I brushed off the warning as though it was merely a scare tactic. Either that or the CO was harboring a cold, vindictive grudge since his comment was dripping ice. I did, however, take notice of said ‘serial killer’, but I didn’t see a killer at all. No beady red eyes, twisted grin or drawing on the wall in his own blood – at least, that’s how I imagined a serial killer to look. This guy wore schoolboy glasses and had a quiet demeanor. He was husky and out-of-shape. It was not the infamous costume of a serial killer, but I decided to avoid him just in case.
Years passed before I ever said a word to the man and even then, it was mostly brief exchanges in passing. My observation of him was that he seemed knowledgeable about the world, well-respected, and typically kept to himself. The first time we ever had a greater interaction than that it was over a bet and got a bit tense.
“R. Kelly sings that shit!”
“I’m telling you man – it’s Aaron Hall.”
“Put $5 on it then.”
“Bet then mutha-fucka!”
We shouted opposing truths back and forth until he upped the bet to ten. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone, so I agreed. I lost and paid the debt, but I felt manipulated by him raising the stakes. We didn’t speak again for over a year.
But one thing about proximity on Death Row, it forges bonds out of shared affliction. Many a friendship here is founded on empathy alone; some on familiarity. We began having casual talks, and over time, I found he was quite pleasurable to be around. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, easy to engage, and never lost his temper. I felt petty for griping over a bet that I agreed to, and I discussed with him my point-of-view. He apologized and said he, too, was caught up in the moment. He’d bet to save face with the others. We were both trying to be liked in a place where likeability is relative to survival. We made our peace, shook hands with one another, and the two of us were friends ever since.
My friend, like myself, received visits frequently, and our loved ones became acquainted as well. My mother often asked about him, and I’d have great things to say. Occasionally, he stopped by the booth to wave hello. His name was mentioned regularly during conversations with my mom, but not once did we discuss the crime that brought him here. I told myself I didn’t care whether he was a serial killer – but maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.
Then came the Friday night that 20/20 aired its special coverage on his case. I felt like I was betraying my friendship simply by watching the episode. Did I even want to know? Was the element of doubt that was the glue to our friendship about to be dissolved? I decided that a friendship that hasn’t been tested is hardly a friendship at all.
From the moment the face of the first victim was shown, I was struck by the horrible reality. Such a sweet face and promising life snuffed out by a pair of hands wrapped around her throat. Then there was the girl’s mother whose tears and pleas made my own eyes blur with sympathy. I wasn’t thinking about forgiveness or reform for the killer – I was thinking somebody should pay.
Then came the face of another young woman that riddled me with guilt, her image penetrating me in a way that accused me of excusing her death. Then there was another face; and another, until the victim count was more than ten – all of them had been raped before having their lives squeezed from their bodies. The police had no leads, except the still-shot image of a man hunched over an ATM machine. It was grainy and distorted, but I’d recognize that hulking figure anywhere – it was my friend.
After his arrest, he confessed to the murders and gave a detailed account of his slaughter. The person sounded like my friend and looked like him, but it couldn’t be the man I knew. He was too thoughtful a person to want to hurt anybody, while the guy on TV was a monster. I kept trying to remind myself that people can change – but how does someone come back from that? Is there redemption after tying up the neck of a baby and leaving him for dead? If not, and we are forever judged by our past, then what would be the motivation to change?
Long after the show was off the air, the episode kept replaying in my head. I saw the women’s faces, heard their names, and re-lived hearing their families’ grief. Eleven women strangled, stabbed, even burned to death for no other reason than knowing the person I knew. Callous hands would cut down their future, choke away their dreams and desecrate a mother’s pride. And to think that I’d shaken those very same hands without consideration of the hurt they’d caused. I couldn’t help but feel I was committing a disservice to victims by befriending their murderer.
Suddenly, I was faced with two grappling concepts – justice and forgiveness. Many are taught to believe that by withholding forgiveness, we are perpetuating justice. But the perpetuation of anything is the opposite of justice, and forgiveness is a self-serving device. Different concepts that sit on the same end of the moral spectrum because there is not one without the other. I was taught that salvation comes after the worst thing we’ve ever done. I’m a believer in forgiveness, and no one is more deserving of justice than my friend’s victims.
There were two of the victims’ mothers and one sister who all said they’d forgiven him. However, one male cousin seemed consumed by the need for vengeance, vowed to petition for execution. Strength and resolve. Persistent anguish. How I admired one and pitied the other. Those women from whom everything had been taken were determined to take something of their own. Perpetuating the hate is a transfer of their power – by forgiving him, they took it back. It was the one defining moment throughout the entire segment in which justice felt truly served.
Now I know that I, too, must forgive the horrible things that were done. Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing the wrong, but allowing him to pay. And allowing him to live to pay – that is the only justice.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a writer who is consistently thought provoking. In this essay he gives us a look into an experience most of us haven’t had, and will leave some readers questioning their own self-understanding. Terry Robinson writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was also recently published in JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
When my family and I moved to E. B. Jordan Homes in 1980, it was like a ghost town in the woods – rural, secluded, somewhat lawless and all the perks of country living. There were ditches to scour, trees to climb, fields to rove; and also the not-so-friendly white people to consider. It was the early period of gentrification in Wilson, when underprivileged families were uprooted from the inner city and relocated to areas where we were less welcome.
E.B. Jordan Homes was a project housing community on the outskirts of town between a predominantly white neighborhood and a motorcycle club. We had the n-word flung at us from some few cars passing by, but other than that, it was a great place to live, and my mischief began when I was young. At seven I cussed, bullied and vandalized. I stole candy almost everyday from the old service station across the street. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught, nor was I bothered by the obscenities of some whites, but no matter how tough I acted, I was always scared of one thing… London Church.
That was all I knew about the old creepy church that sat several yards from our front door. It was called London Church. It was faded white with chipped paint and shutters on the windows and guarded by towering oak trees. The older kids told stories about London Church being built atop a cemetery and the funerals for those graves were held inside London Church; that alone kept me up many a night staring over at the church grounds waiting for something to move. I spent the first few years trying to forget all the scary stories I’d heard, but often enough I would pass by London Church and wonder – yet throw a pretty girl in the mix and just like that, I was ready to confront my fears.
It began one day with some silly notion that was caught on the wind. We were hoping to impress some neighborhood girls when someone said, “Let’s break into London Church.” At the time, I associated the name London with England, and I thought of him as some ancient white man, one whose spirit would not take kindly to a bunch of Black kids running around in his church. But then the thunder crackled and the lightning flashed, and the break-in seemed like the perfect thing to do, as though God himself was saying, “I’mma lookout for y’all little bad asses this time, but you owe me one.”
So we headed over to London Church, one foot-step coaxing the other with the acoustics of thunder to incite our false courage. We told tall tales of ghosts and demons and old white slave masters, who would shackle not our bodies but our spirits. When we got there, all the wide-eyed looks turned my way, and unanimously I was elected the scapegoat… so I shimmied open the window and with a boost I climbed inside, in effect breaking into London Church. What happened next is spotty and irrelevant as the events of that day are now but a haze in my distant past, but what I did was dishonorable and has left me with lingering regret as I would come to learn more about the man called London.
On Valentine’s day, 1970, three years before I was born, the Wilson Daily Times published a full-page article on London Woodard, a man who was born a slave, yet died as a pivotal figure in Black history. London was born in 1792, the whip-cracking era when black bodies were deemed no more than chattel in an economy driven by cruelty. A time when Black heritage and Black identities, like the names of London’s parents, were snuffed out of existence and did not survive the passage of time. Much of London’s young life was unknown, but at 24, he was recorded in the estate of Asa Woodard, and later at 34 with Julan Woodard, indicating the familial passing down of his enslavement. On March 22, 1827, just one year later, London would be sold again. He was bought at an auction by Administrator James B. Woodard for $500. London would spend the majority of his adult life on the Woodard plantation as the slaves in those days seldom strayed far from the “good master”. London was 35 when he met another Woodard slave, a woman named Venus, and the two found marital bliss and would remain a union for 18 years, until Venus died in 1845.
London was recognized as a distiller in fine fruit brandies, providing a euphoria to the other slaves to best deal with the day’s long heat and the lash of the master’s tongue. He was baptized on August 24, 1828, as a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, a site located some few miles from the E.B. Jordan projects where I grew up and established as the oldest church in Wilson. From there London was promoted to the Overseer, tending to the slaves for the master, a discovery to which I felt indifferent to old London, but unfair since I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave.
It was, in fact, as the Overseer that London caught the eye of Penelope Lassiter, a woman born free in 1814. When she was 29, Penelope was hired as the housekeeper and surrogate mother to the children of James B. Woodard after the death of his second wife. Woodard would again marry 4 years later, but by then Penelope had become vital to the rearing of the children, and so she was kept on as she would come to be known as Aunt Penny. It was while working on the plantation that Penelope’s admiration for London grew, and in 1845, the same year his wife Venus died and London was left with 9 children, he and Penelope married. London was 58. He and Penelope had 6 kids together.
Penelope was born the daughter of Hardy Lassiter, a mulatto who owned a farm south of Wilson. Penny, herself, would prove to be business minded, and at 39, she bought 106 acres (five miles east of Wilson on Tarboro Road) for $242. It was then 1853 and she and London had been married 9 years. The next year, she paid $150 to James B. Woodard and bought London’s freedom.
But freedom would come at a far greater price when enslavement was all that one knew, and London would stay on at the Woodard plantation for another 11 years until he was officially emancipated. He did, however, continue to thrive, and on December 11, 1866, just one year after his emancipation, London bought 200 acres of his own. He also continued in his devout membership at Tosneot Baptist Church until after the Civil War, and on April 22, 1866, he was granted permission to preach amongst his “acquaintances only”.
Elizabeth Farmer, who was also a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, donated one acre of land for $1 for the purpose of building a Black church. The stipulation was as recorded, “…in the event that said premises be used for secular affairs, either by concord or trustees, then deed was null and void.” London went on to preach in Black homes and other circles of his peers for 4 years, until he was officially licensed to preach and saw the construction of the Black church completed.
London Primitive Baptist Church was opened for service on Saturday, October 22, 1870. It was regarded as the first Black church in Wilson County. London was 78 and unfortunately he would preach at the church for only 3 weeks. His last sermon was on November 13, 1870. The next day he suffered a stroke and fell into an open fireplace. Burned beyond recovery, London lived long enough to dictate a will, leaving his wife Penelope much of his furnishings and equipment, and to his children, his beehives and a tenth of the residue each, valued at $7 a share. He dictated the will before the Woodard brothers (William, James Simms, and Calvin) as witnesses, though London was too weak to sign the will himself. He died the next day, November 15, 1870. His will was attested and probated one week later.
And that was the story of old London Woodard, who was best known as Uncle London. But it was only the beginning of his lasting legacy as his church would stand more than 100 years later.
The history of London Church was declared murky for the next 25 years until it was rebuilt in 1895. It’s new location was on Herring Avenue, some 50 yards from the original site on London Church Road and even less than that from my childhood home. It was recognized under the umbrella of the Turner Swamp Primitive Baptist Church in 1897, and it is still in use today, making it a prestigious landmark for Black spiritual practice.
So that day when I broke into London Church, I broke the seal on something sacred – a place where Black ancestors far and wide once congregated in holy union. I’d passed under the threshold and stood in the halls of an ex-slave and survivor, whose name would now defy the passing of time. And though I’d trodden on the floors of Black excellence, desecrated by my youthful ignorance but made whole I would hope by my earnest accountability, I pray that my egregious offense to Black history and my blundering childhood ways are pardoned by the spirit of Uncle London.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work,Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
Note: This is sixth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
January 29, 2023
[Typically, these journal entries are sent in written form. Terry called me on January 29, 2023, wanting to share something that he wrote, impacted by seeing the mother of Tyre Nichols on the news. We started recording shortly after he called.]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
A Conversation with George about Cross-Pollination and Compassion.
I once read a story about a farmer who grew excellent quality corn. She’d won many a Blue Ribbon for Best Grown Corn. One year, a reporter asked what her secret to success was. She grinned and said, “I share my seed corn with my neighbors.”
The stunned reporter said, “What! How can you risk sharing your best seed corn with your neighbors, when you know they’ll be competing against you next year?” What the farmer then explained illustrates a life lesson for me.
“Don’t you know? The wind lifts pollen from ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbor grows inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”
So it is with our lives. We all have something to offer. It may be a gift or talent we were born with or picked up along the way, or something we studied and practiced and honed. It could be an athletic ability or the gift of poetry. One might be able to draw anything they see or read the body language of others so well they can perceive what’s not being said. We’ve all seen people with refined skills teach their secrets and hard-earned wisdom to others… and we all know stingy folks who’d take a secret recipe for chili to the grave.
As editor of Compassion, a national newsletter written by and for people incarcerated on Death Row, I’ve had the privilege of working with hundreds of writers. Some live in the same prison unit as me; we started on this literary journey together about ten years ago. In 2013, the prison offered a creative writing class to the 140 or so men here on Death Row in North Carolina. Twenty of us signed up, though only a few had graduated high school and could actually write a proper sentence. Yet, over the course of its five-year lifespan, the class was mostly facilitated by professors from Duke University and UNC, along with professional journalists, novelists, and poets. We were in awe of these highly skilled people and didn’t understand why they were ‘lowering’ themselves for guys like us. Why waste their gifts? They said, “We believe in you. We’ve had opportunities and advantages you didn’t. So, now we want to offer some to you.” It reminds me of how NBA stars might volunteer at basketball camps for teens: It speaks to seeing the universality of human potential in even the least of us, the young, the wayward and uneducated. It’s about giving back, remembering that people greater than themselves helped them attain greatness.
Similarly, I have a friend on the outside who is a professional writer, editor, poet – she can do it all. She’s befriended budding writers in prison, and she corresponds with them, teaches them how to refine their craft, helps them to see their own potential and provides practical support to facilitate achievement. She finds publishing opportunities, types up their manuscripts, submits their work online (even paying the submission fees) since we have no computer access in prison. Without such support from people like her on the outside, it is impossible for incarcerated writers to succeed. I’ve asked her why she does it, and she’s said, “It’s in my heart to help people, and this is what I have to offer. I just want to do my part.”
But we don’t have to be experts to do our part, to give of ourselves. Among the volunteers who make Compassion possible, none are writing professionals. Rather, they donate time, money, energy, and labor to sustain this outlet. Each gives what they can. A couple type all the issues, someone else formats it, a few fundraise (Compassion is a nonprofit), etc. Of the writings themselves, most of the submissions I receive are handwritten, barely legible, and undeveloped as stories, essays, and poems, as most of the writers are uneducated, the same way I was when I joined the writing class here. However, Compassion is a defacto writing class for them. It can be instructive for the contributors when they compare their original submission to their edited version once it’s published. They also get to see the more polished contributions from highly skilled writers, which shows them what can be done if they keep practicing.
Of the twenty of us who joined the writing class here, seven stuck with it and became established writers, winning national awards and publishing books, essays, and poems. Several founded mentorship programs in collaboration with people on the outside. All were transformed because people invested in us, believed in us, helped us believe in ourselves.
It reminds me that we are all interconnected, and whether active or passive, we influence the world around us in a sort of social cross-pollination. If we wish to truly live well and meaningfully, we must help enrich the lives of others. The welfare of one is tangled with the welfare of ALL: like it or not, we are in this together. The fact is, none of us truly wins until we all win. Humanity is a race, but not the kind that lines us up against each other with only one winner. Rather, this race – HUMANITY – unites us. When we overemphasize individualism, “looking out for #1”, personal liberty, etc., we get exactly that – a bunch of lovely disconnected individuals. Too much individualism dehumanizes us, because humans are social creatures. The Golden Rule speaks to balancing selfish and selfless concern; we are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, not just promote one over the other.
Whether we know it or not, we are part of something bigger, something that transcends our subdivisions of gender, class, race, religion, age, political party. Life, the fulfilled life, is all about relationships – between us and God, and us and each other. Humans are not meant to be alone; we live symbiotically with others. Love is the nutritive force that keeps everything growing and producing a high-quality harvest, making humanity better as a race. Our differences are not designed to divide us, but to offer openings for us to pour ourselves into one another’s lives, to be enriched by each other, and to impart value by gifting us all with something special to bring to the feast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. He inspires me. When you work with people who live in prison long enough, you get to know some who make you hope to be just as loving as them. George is one of the people that makes me aspire to show his level of kindness. He is also an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside and Beneath Our Numbers. And, as discussed, he is the editor of Compassion. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Note: This is fifth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
Listen as Terry reflects on this particular journal entry.
April 17, 2016 (4:02 am)
It’s been 4 months since I wrote in this journal, but tonight I’m having trouble sleeping and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. I keep having these dreams of getting off Death Row, but I can’t stay long. For some reason I’ve gotta come right back. I’m going around visiting people I haven’t seen in years but it’s just to say goodbye. I don’t know if it’s meaning I belong on Death Row or this place is so far removed from the world that once you’re here, you’re lost forever. I wonder what happened to that little kid that used to be me, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead on Death Row. I used to dream of white picket fences and gardens around a trailer, now all I can dream of is the chance to see people before I die. Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, being woke to face all the bullshit that happens on Death Row, or going to sleep and realizing I’m still in this bitch.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
Inside the confines of solitary confinement’s concrete cell, you have to make abnormal adjustments in a rather abnormal situation. Otherwise, your capacity to socialize atrophies, you wither up and die a social death. In this place, you’d better adjust and find creative ways of connecting and communicating, lest your emotions become hollowed out, leaving behind only a mere shell of your social self. I’ve been isolated on federal death row for fifteen years now and have learned some deaths are more inhumane than lethal injection.
As long as there is an ounce of humanity left alive in you, a person is compelled to reach out and socialize, by any means necessary, even if you gotta yell through the solid steel door of your solitary cell. Or shoot the breeze, as I often do, with disembodied voices through the ventilation system.
In this four-storied, maximum-security building at the federal penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, the ventilation system is a social lifeline. The grapevine of prison gossip and not-so-private confessions. The social network where mundane conversations go viral, carried through the vents of far-flung cells across the four floors.
Standing on my stainless steel toilet in my third-floor solitary cell, I shoot the breeze with voices from downstairs, my head close to the perforated vent on the concrete wall.
“I’m a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” a feminine voice lilts through the air ducts, cutting through the heavy male notes clogging up the airways. I would know that nasal, high-pitched tone anywhere, the way it emotes a joy uncharacteristic in this dank and dark place. It’s Bonnie.
“Call me Bonnie Grace,” she told me when we first met at the vent.
Bonnie lives on the second-floor, confined to administrative segregation, also known as the hole, which occupies the first two floors (federal death row occupies the upper two). In the hole, men who were once in general population are segregated and locked down in solitary confinement for various reasons, most of which have to do with disciplinary infractions or pending investigations. Bonnie is there for the latter. Or so she says.
I’ve been chatting with Bonnie since earlier in the day. I’d been pacing when I heard her yell up through the vent.
“Death Row!”
I ignored the voice at first, not sure who she was calling.
“Upstairs!”
Still, I paid it no mind.
“I know you hear me. Hear you movin’ round up there.”
Sounds travel through all this steel and concrete, and apparently, my footfalls were thudding upon the concrete floor, Bonnie’s ceiling.
Tugged by the voice, and ever yearning for social proximity, I stepped up on the toilet seat, put my ear to the vent, and that was the start of our social exchange. And no matter the subject, Bonnie tends to go off on tangents and promote her appearance, as if she’s taking selfies with her words. At this moment, she’s doing just that.
“I’m about five-ten, weigh about 150 pounds. Skinny. Long hair. Pretty…” She pauses, perhaps distracted or thinking, and then she says with gleeful pride, “And they say I look like the girl on Beetlejuice!”
“Beetlejuice? What?!” I reply, confused. I faintly remember that movie. I think the characters are phantoms or a version of living-dead, ghostlike, and I’m surprised that Bonnie sees this as a compliment. “WTF!” I comment.
A male voice interrupts us, “And she gotta big-ass nose too!”
“Oh my god!” Bonnie says, her signature interjection. “But I’m cute though!” She giggles, and I picture her admiring herself, her hand running through her long hair, flinging it in the air, giddy with all the social attention.
Bonnie is transgender, identifies as female, and takes hormones. “I take estrogen and anti-testosterone pills every day,” she informs us. And now she’s “a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” one of fourteen or so transgender residents at this all-male prison.
Bonnie’s legal name is Steven, out of Texas. Steven used to be part of a white supremacist gang. “I used to tear shit up,” Bonnie says, wilding out, fighting and stabbing, doing all kinds of “crazy shit” for the gang. But all along, she says, a part of her felt like a female.
Bonnie never tells me what led her to taking the prison psych evaluation, one of the first steps to transitioning inside the federal Bureau of Prisons. She just tells me about the process. She started transitioning less than a year ago, and her body has changed drastically. Or so she says. You never know what’s true at the vent. A person can be anybody, assuming whatever persona, catfishing and being catfished.
But I choose to believe Bonnie. I have to. In order to socialize. To stave off social-death.
After some time, I end the exchange, step down from the toilet, and plant my feet on the cold concrete ground. I resume pacing compulsively, one of the adverse effects of solitary confinement, and I immerse myself in the lingering warmth – the afterglow of social rapport.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Rejon is new to WITS, but determined to build on his natural ability with words, spending a good deal of his time on federal death row constructively using his creativity. I hope he continues to write, and I also hope he sends some of that writing our way. You can learn more about Rejon at his website: www.rejontaylor.art
He can also be contacted at: rejonltaylor@gmail.com
To learn more about Rejon’s case, which involved being charged at the age of eighteen years old and later sentenced to death, click here.
