In the free-world separating true worshippers from fake can be difficult. No doubt, some are true to what they believe, and for them, their faith defines their identity. In prison sorting the true worshippers from the fake is nearly impossible, many ‘in it’ only for what they can get in return.  In here we have little variety, so the little variety offered, multiplies in significance.

Prison-issue anything is homogenous, monotonous, bland, devoid of personality.  Even one’s personality can start to look prison-issued unless one actively strives to individuate – by getting sleeves of bad tattoos, for instance.  Religious affiliation also offers a chance to stylize and spice it up a bit since each religion gives access to exclusive privileges. 

If one registers as Jewish, he can receive a ‘special diet’ tray at meals, prepackaged Kosher food that’s fresh and edible, especially compared with typical prison-made grub, which is often congealed, stale, and wilted.

To prevent a choke hazard – think garrote – necklaces are prohibited.  However, if registered as Catholic, one may place an order with a vendor for a fancy rosary.  Nothing displays one’s piety (and class) like gold-fixtured, dried-blood-looking rosary beads made from compressed rose petals.

Muslims get access to Kuffs (knitted skullcaps) of various colors, and giving alms to the less-fortunate is obligatory.  For some guys the deciding factor is the stylish cap that highlights their eyes.  For the indigent, the guarantee of commissary items from their brethren is the appeal – plus they get a couple of annual feasts and can brag about (or sell) the lamb, fried chicken, hot sauce, and delicate flaky baklava they get to eat that we don’t.

Back in 2009, tobacco products were banned in state facilities, including prisons, but not for Native American practitioners, for whom tobacco is an essential element in praying.   Overnight the Native population exploded from two people to thirty. Death Row’s population is only about 140.  Each man lined up outside, stepped to the center of the sacred prayer circle, and the chaplain would hand him a medicine cup containing a teaspoon of pungent tobacco pressed into it’s bottom like a fat brown quarter.  They could smoke it in their pipe, burn it in their smudge pot, sprinkle shreds of it into the wind – or secretly smuggle it back to their cellblock and sell it for a dollar per hand-rolled cigarette at least.  They could easily get five bucks for that teaspoon – that’s 20 ramen soups or 25 coffee packets: that’s nine stamps or, for the druggies, five pills; or for the perverted, a blowjob from Randy.  The Natives also get an annual feast they can brag about or sell food items from.

We can register with only one faith group at a time, but are permitted to change faiths every 3-4 months.  That alone should tell you something about the waxing and waning of devotion in prison.  Often, when one changes religions, his former faith’s paraphernalia – now contraband in his hands – finds its way to the black market.  Headbands and Tupperware sacred-item boxes, prayer rugs, Kufis and Rasta caps, thick Bible dictionaries, prayer beads and shiny crucifixes. It’s all for sale.

Back when they banned tobacco, I registered as Native American so I could smoke and sell tobacco three days a week.  I did this for years, despite being a professing Christian.  Eventually, I felt so guilty that I left the prayer circle and re-registered as a Protestant.  That first Sunday rolled around and I had no intention of attending church services with some I knew were hypocrites.  Lying in bed, fiending for a cigarette, I heard a voice in my head that I attribute to God sounding like Charleton Heston in that old movie in which he played Moses.  It was a deep, authoritative voice, with a slightly ironic tone.  He said, “You went outside to smoke three times a week for an hour at a time for three years straight and missed not one day.  In the rain.  In the freeze.  In the scorch.  In the ants.  You skipped weekly movies.  You skipped recreation.  You went through the strip searches… And you can’t go to church twice a week because of the hypocrites?  So, there weren’t any hypocrites in the circle?   Well, maybe not now, not since you quit going.”  Of course I’m paraphrasing, not quoting verbatim, but you get the point.

I got out of bed and went to church.  And I haven’t missed a day since, even after we Christians lost our three annual feasts we used to humble-brag about.  I also no longer pass judgment on who’s real or who’s a hypocrite because I realize that despite being a sincere worshipper, I often do things to make this hard life a little softer, which from an outside perspective probably makes me look fake as hell.  Even so, I am a Christian… meaning I’m forgiven, not flawless.

To demonstrate my devotion, I own the most expensive Bible in our small congregation, ornate, leather-bound, handmade (in China).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am going to enjoy the read, and I am going to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. I am grateful he takes the time to share his voice here.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com

“Man, fuck Wilbert…  he can’t tell me what to do.  He ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ daddy.”

That was a recurring phrase I heard about the director at the local community center, kids fuming over rules and regulations and a man dead-set on enforcing them.

I first heard of Wilbert over monkey bar banter during recess at elementary school, dissenting conversations about fun and rules that turned into a tug-of-war of words.  I heard enough to know I wanted to know more about the man who could inspire such joy while rousing such fury.  The next day, I walked home from school, giddy with anticipation as we made our way to the Center.

The Reid Street Community Center was everything I had hoped for.  Everything I dreamed.  Their basketball courts were indoors and had polished wood.  In the projects where I lived, there was only dirt.  There were billiards in the game room, air hockey and puzzles.   A dance studio with full-length mirrors.  Vending machines and a playground.  A kitchen.  A pool.  Arts and crafts.  Oh, yeah… and Wilbert.

He came in well short of his reputation which was prominent enough to be a titan, though he towered over the heads of onrushing kids as they poured through the doors of the Center.  His skin tone was dark, rich and as appealing as cocoa on a winter morning.  He was clean-shaven with a trimmed moustache that made him approachable while his steady glare gave me pause.  His fitted tee showed off bulging biceps, his warm-ups and sneakers making him look the part of a bona fide athlete in search of the competition.  I held my breath along with my opinion as I breezed by him, seemingly unnoticed.  It would be my first day in a place that would become a second home.

Wilbert turned out to be a cool guy – not some half angel/demon to which I presumed.  He was laid back, even when he was engaging kids and their activities.  His voice was mellow and well composed. Sure, there were rules plastered on almost every wall throughout the Center, but it’s not like he used them to browbeat us into submission.  Wilbert was as stern as he needed to be to teach us kids discipline and self-respect; a purpose well-served since many of us had no one else. 

The Reid Street Community Center sat in one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in town, where lack of resources often included a lapse in effective parenting.  Kids from broken homes with single, working-class, mothers and absentee fathers were those who most frequented the Center.  Many of them were unruly by cause-and-effect and didn’t give a damn about following the rules.   But where some home-life offered negligence and abuse, the Center was a sanctuary.

Wilbert wasn’t just the activity coordinator, he was also a mentor to troubled kids. His goal was to tap into the potential of every kid there and draw out our self-worth.  Sometimes it meant giving someone the boot for flagrant or repeated offenses, though the ban seldom lasted more than a day since Wilbert was exceptionally forgiving.

There were other staff members that helped out around the Center, counseling and facilitating events and proving their devotion to the cause. As such, Wilbert could often be seen in his office toiling over paperwork as he figured out how to keep the place running, yet he left his door open, always willing to stop in the middle of budget cuts to make himself available to talk.

He was the Center’s little league football coach, the basketball referee and also the swimming instructor.  He hosted Friday night dances in an effort to raise money for the equipment.  He showed up on rainy days, worked long after hours and drove the kids home when they were running late for curfew.  And yeah… he caught some flak at times for being strict when enforcing the rules, but it was only because he held us to high standards.  Still, no matter how many times the kids cussed him out and spewed their harsh opinions about Wilbert, he was always there for them the next day.

Wilbert went on to effect many lives with his work at the Community Center, a feat that was sure to offer its share of challenges. The building was marred by paint chips and broken windows, the equipment was rickety and threadbare.  Bullies and other misfits came around at times and turned the grounds into a battle field.  And with the Center serving as a hub for every urban kid in the surrounding neighborhoods, too often it was understaffed.  Yet Wilbert was the driving spirit that kept that place alive, his devotion the keys to the door.  It was his very stance on the policies and his unwillingness to compromise that made many of us kids feel safe.  Sometimes I would wonder how much he would take before he up and left us, but as it turned out, Wilbert was already home.  And he was never out to try to be anyone’s ‘daddy’…  No, Wilbert was determined to do better.

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. His unique writing style is in a league of its own. He is gifted.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
He wrote this essay in response to our recent contest, which he couldn’t enter due to his position on the Board. He’s a man who goes the extra mile even when he doesn’t have to.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

a hairy bear-of-a-man, my dad knew
only how to love and fight death
matches.  unless knocked unconscious
or it was broken up, somebody was doomed
to die.  simple as that.
to beg my mom not to leave, my dad
shoved a pistol into her lipsticked mouth.
she left him anyway, daring
to live – and, if possible,
he adored her even more for it.  Sometimes
violence is the only love one gets.  my dad

used to brag
                 about getting his top four front teeth
knocked out.  they’d been surgically replaced, twice –
courtesy of the U.S. Army.  first time, a boxing match.
second time was the story
he told, retold, and retold.  he’d tilt back his head, yawning
open his mouth to display the gunmetal rears
of those perfectly machined Army teeth.  “See?
I was arguing with my ex-wife and called her a bitch.
That damned fool shot up and kicked my teeth
down my throat.  I never called her a bitch again.
Not to her face,” he’d chuckle.  he’d show photos
of my mom’s brother, a taekwondo master.  in one
a three-foot-high stack of red bricks parted
left and right in neat waves, frozen mid-air
by the camera, my uncle’s brutal chop caught
cracking through the bottom brick.
sometimes love needs violence like that.  a heart attack

killed my dad during my murder trial.
i was relieved because he had sworn to God
to get us both shot to pieces by the police
right there in the courtroom if I got convicted –
and I wasn’t quite as eager to die
while attempting to escape my death
sentences, my two failed suicides aside.

ten years later my tiny Korean mom came to visit me
on death row.  i had to ask, “Mom, why
did you even marry my dad to begin with?
You two were so different, I just can’t understand it.”
she dropped her wrinkled gaze, as if weary or
embarrassed, then looked up with eyes ablaze.  i flinched
as she launched into a story.  “You father was so handsome!
Not like after he got fat.”  ((she pronounced “after”
as apter and “fat” as pat)) she bloated out her cheeks
to show “fat face” then slowly exhaled, making a scraping,
bubbling, throaty growl
to indicate visceral disgust.  it summarized her
feelings following their divorce.  then she went back
to being dreamy-eyed and tender.

“He came into bar with friend.  Me and my sister there. 
They so handsome in uniform.  You father was better looking.”
she lowered her voice at the end as if revealing her secret.
“It was disco bar.  He ask me to dance – Oh, my God,
he such bad dancer!  But cute.  You father, he dance
like this.  No matter song, he dance like this.”  she sprang up
in the cramped visitation booth to demonstrate
a big man, a big moment.  i ducked

to study her
through the six-inch-tall, two-foot-wide, waist-level window –
through the black iron bars and double-paned, grimy plexiglas
as graffiti-scratched as a nasty gas station bathroom stall,
through greasy handprints holding hands through the glass,
through crusty bodily fluids, through all this history
of lust, pain, anger and disgust, loneliness and madness and
beauty, all of which tried to distract me
from my origins, my heritage, my parents.  but I was, finally,
ready to see them as real people, not just symbols
of dysfunction.  and so I watched

my mom raise her delicate fists, spin them one-over-the-other
like Ali hitting a speed bag at heart-level, while two-stepping
back-and-forth, twisting slightly at the hip
on the back-step to toss a take-a-hike thumb over
her shoulder.  “You see?  Like this…  Like this…
All the song, like this…” she said giggling
and panting like she did forty years earlier
at nineteen.  she was breathless with adrenaline.
i had never seen her like this.  so animated. 
so alive.
i laughed too, because I saw how it must’ve been.

in the midst of all her teasing about my dad’s bad dancing
i spotted the operative phrase:  “all the songs.”
translation:  she stayed on the dance floor with him,
laughed and joked with him, tripped and fell head-first
in love with him.  it was simple, it was pure, it was even
atavistic, drawing on a primitive period when a violent
amount of eye-contact, body grinding, pantomime
and empathy’s grunting communicated everything.  when
each had to give the other their absolute undivided
attention or they’d miss something.  neither spoke
the other’s native language, but the tongue of raw humanity
transcended their cultural barriers.  they were smitten.

it was only twelve years, seven pregnancies, and five kids
later, once my dad’s schizophrenia began to speak, that
his violence turned divisive.  till then, my mom said,
“A lot of Korean, they hate American soldier.  Every time
we go out people cuss us, spit at me.  We fight
together.  But you father, he very proud,
very strong.  Always he want fight for me.   A lot
of people go hospital.”  she was virtually swooning
and had to sit back down.  i did not know this woman.

within weeks my parents married, having a traditional
Korean wedding, yet their honeymoon attitude was ruined
when the Army wouldn’t acknowledge it as binding:  it was time
for my dad to return to America but the Army stiff-armed
my mother.  when he tried to go AWOL she urged him
to just come back.  he promised and she promised
to wait for him.

the Demilitarized Zone was a strip of land that ran
like a ribbon the entire east-to-west length between
North and South Korea.  it represented the fragile
nature of peace between enemies who used to be family.
it was off-limits.                                           if either side
spotted anyone within that tense ribbon of land, they
might shoot without warning.  sometimes the North
took pot-shots at American soldiers, who helped the South
patrol it, on foot.  the terrain was jungle like, riddled
with landmines.  ((it described my parents’ post-divorce
dynamic exactly)) the DMZ was aptly nicknamed
the Dead Man’s Zone.  the only way to reach my mom
was for my dad to get re-assigned to the DMZ.
it took a year.

“He came back for me.  You father.  He came back for me. My family
say he wouldn’t.  Everybody say he wouldn’t, say he only want
one thing.  They make me give up
baby.  They say they kill baby if I don’t
give him up.  But you father come back.
He so upset when no baby there.  So upset.  But
he understand.”  she started to cry.  i didn’t know
what to say
so I said nothing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. We always enjoy hearing from him – simply put, I look forward to every submission he sends in, knowing he will never disappoint.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

Lord, why did you spare me
the night I lay shot and cried out to you?

All my transgressions I laid at your feet,
yet you turned not away from my spirit.

Now my troubles are imminent death
in the form of state sanctioned execution.

I have counted the faces of those gone down
in the chamber, their legacy left untold.

I, too, am slated for an unrighteous death,
Will anonymity mark my grave?

Am I forgotten, Lord, or just forsaken
and no longer worthy of your care?

I am deemed lowly and unfit
by those who call on your name.

There was a time when your mark laid heavily on me
and I was overwhelmed by your grace.

Now you give favor to my closest friends
and made me a victim of their deceit.

Even my thoughts are shackled and confined
to a chasm erected from anguish.

I have searched for your comfort in every way
and turned up only disaster and dread.

Do broken spirits make it into heaven?
Does my tongue spew curses of thee or sing praise?

Is repentance best served as a dying declaration
and faithfulness a daily chore?

Is there a path to eternity from Death Row,
a place set on misery and darkness?

And still, God, I trust in you,
hear my prayer when the morning comes.

Reject me not before I am called to your judgment
but find mercy in my shortcomings.

From bosom to bowels you have shielded me
when I was close to death.

From your will I strayed to worldly desires
and was left with my shame to bear.

My anger is of my own doing
my faithlessness was my doom.

I am trodden under the heels of my enemies
but in you, Lord, I am redeemed.

You have given me the way to enter your kingdom,
your glory is my salvation.

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 an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. Because he is an innocent man on death row, his gift of expressing himself and his experiences through the written word is invaluable in raising awareness of issues within the criminal justice system. The ease with which he was put on Death Row for over two decades, in contrast to the struggle to undo an injustice is what his life examplifies and he shares that experience with grace and eloquence like no other could.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

His features typically dour, Peter
seemed transfigured today when
he returned from wherever. 
He was giddy, like  a person after

sex, “I just came
from visiting the orthopedist at
an outside hospital.  She said
my herniated discs are squeeze-

ing against my sciatic nerve.  It’s
excruciating, and I need surgery.
But guess what?”  I shrugged.
“On the way back, they opened

the window a little.
I pressed my face into the gap
the whole time.”  I noticed red
parallel welts tracked up his chin,

lips, and cheeks – two inches
apart. Even a transport car’s air
is restrictive.  As an extension of
prison, it’s a portable cell with

an incarcerated atmosphere:
A death row prisoner cramped in
back, bound in full-restraints –
handcuffs, ankle-shackles; waist

chains connecting them – behind
a stab-proof stainless steel cage
protecting armed guards up front.
Evidently, the line dividing freedom

from imprisonment is thinner than
a thought.  Even now his face is
pressed against that two-inch gap,
                        mushrooming out,

tongue flapping happily in wind. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. We always enjoy hearing from him.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285