Category Archives: Solitary Confinement

Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Out Of Isolation

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I got outta solitary confinement – Yay!  They weren’t through with me though.  I expected nothing less…

On the 9th of May I was placed in a modified general population housing unit.  This means more privileges – limited, but a tad bit better than the barbaric isolation I endured for over 700 days.  I pray that my comrades back there are keeping the fight alive and manufacturing hope in a hopeless situation.

On Saturday, June 3rd, I received a fifteen minute phone call.  This was my second in less than thirty days, and I was ecstatic.  As you can imagine, we cherish this time no matter how short or long.  It’s a lifeline, a buoy that keeps us afloat in a sea of endless blue.  Without it, we feel hopeless and fall into despair because of the loneliness.  At least, I do.

The person on the other end of the line and I had some catching up to do.  I’m nearly deaf in my right ear, so I was holding the receiver to my left ear to hear over all the yelling in the wing.   I was on the phone no longer than ten minutes. I know it wasn’t near the end because after fourteen minutes we’re prompted by the operator to hurry up, “You have sixty seconds remaining.”

Mid-convo, I looked over my left shoulder because I felt as if my personal space was being invaded or I was being watched.  I stared into a face that was sun burnt, weathered and covered with liver spots.  “Wrap it up,” the face demanded, filling the small area between us with the acrid smell of a wet ashtray. 

I complied and hung up.  Mind you, well short of my fifteen minutes.  Yet, who cares?  I was elated to have heard my comrade’s voice and learn of his accomplishments. 

“You!” 

‘I have a name,’ I thought.

“Give me your I.D.”

 I handed him my identification card and went to my cell.  I was oblivious to why he needed my I.D.  The young guy that was walking back to our cages with me stated matter-of-factly, “He’s goin’ to write you up.”

‘For what?’  I thought.  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

A few hours later, my cellmate and I were in an intense battle for position.  I flanked, he thwarted. He sacrificed, I capitalized. I attacked, he parried.  Pop!  We nearly knocked the chess board over.

I peeked my head out of my door, and the loud speaker garbled something unintelligible. I was confused, so I looked to my cellmate for help, but he was still studying the board in confusion.

I struggled into my state issued orange jumpsuit that we have to wear in the unit. When I went to the bubble, I was told to go back and see the housing unit Sergeant.  The general population wings were open and in full swing. I was bombarded with questions, handshakes and hugs.  After nearly thirty days out of isolation, I was still catching up with people every day.  It felt good to still be celebrated and relevant after over two years in a box.

After forty-five minutes of waiting, I grew restless. I walked into the back and saw a conduct violation on the desk. I snuck a peek, ‘Refused to get off of the phone’.

‘What?’  I had to catch myself from saying or doing something uncalled for.  One thing I’ve learned is self-control.  I know impulsive decisions can have grave consequences, so I did the best thing possible. I exercised my right not to participate and walked back to my cell.  

But, my heart was beating rapidly, so hard that I felt it in my mouth and heard it in my ears.  In short, I was enraged.  Why did he lie on me?  Maybe it was a mistake.  He must have something against me or he’s making some type of weekly conduct violation quota.  And, YES, some do this more often than you would think. You can never be too hard on ‘us here pris’ners’.

After I calmed and accepted that I would be found guilty and stripped of all phone privileges for two to three weeks, I made a cup of steaming hot java – John Wayne style.  I had no sugar, creamer, or butterscotch candies, so I enjoyed every sip of the bitter fluid just the way it was. It distracted me for the time being. 

My cellmate knew what occurred.  We’ve all experienced the same bull.  We resumed our game. Of course, I took out my anger on the board. I probably shouldn’t have because I – ahem – caught  bloody murder in the middle of my cell floor.  On the board, of course! Checkmate!!!  Come on, you know me better than that, doncha?

On the 17th of June I knew I might get out on the general population yard on the 3rd day of July.  I began safeguarding myself by complaining to medical to obtain a ‘lay-in’.  If they aided me, it would stop them from giving me a conduct violation for something I couldn’t control – I was sleeping through institution counts. We should be standing, but again, I cannot hear.  Sorry, watchu say??? If I got a ‘lay-in’, they’d knock on my door or open it if they needed me. 

If medical knows that I suffer from hearing loss, why is it they don’t tell administration that I need to be prompted, and I’m not just being purposely defiant?  My apologies for rambling. This had to be expressed.   I live in a place that sees me only as a number.  Property.  Free labor.  Not human. 

They have a ‘dog program’ now.  I love puppies and kittens, no doubt about it.  But, the animals sent to be trained by incarcerated persons have more freedom and rights than the very men that nurture them and are advocates for their care.  Is this not odd?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D.  is a writer, poet, spoken  word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor.  He can be contacted at:

Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email:  Jpay.com

ALL POSTS BY TRACY GREER.

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

A Dreamer’s Story

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I’ve never done anything like this, but I can’t sleep.  Maybe these words will remain my secret, and I will try to make sense of things on my own, for better or worse.  But whichever way the wind that makes up my life blows, this is me and this is my story.

Whomever you may be, rest assured of one thing, I’ve never shared or trusted anyone with these thoughts.  Maybe I am now because you’re far removed from anything and everything I know, maybe because you’re a complete stranger, or maybe because I know there’s a likely probability I don’t send this out, and it’s nothing more than an entry of words on paper that I can look at, dissect, and try to assign a tangible solution to. Even though I know it’s unrealistic to think the reality of my situation can be fixed by reading it over and over on a piece paper.

But, here goes the reality of my life –  what it is the grown man behind this ink has made it to be.

The possibility of my release is accompanied by a very real possibility. It’s probable that my life will come to its end.  I’ve thought about this enough to know that I’m not afraid. That, in and of itself, saddens me.  Has it really gotten to the point that my own death is a concept that I welcome with open arms?  No, not welcome, but rather ‘accept’.  I guess everything I’ve been through and done has conditioned me to accept the reality of a violent death. I guess what saddens me is that I know by ‘accepting’ what’s to come, I failed her. I failed my hero…

Mine is the typical ‘Hispanic kid from the other side of the track’ story.  As a boy, Spiderman was my superhero. I refused to wear any underwear that didn’t have Spiderman emblazoned on them, and I refused to go to school if I didn’t have my Spiderman backpack and Spiderman lunchbox safely packed inside.

It wasn’t until one person after another started giving up on me for my poor life choices, that I realized my real ‘hero’ had actually always been a beautiful woman who lived in my home. My hero was my grandmother. My beautiful grandma, my mother, and she was stronger than Spiderman.

I was 13 years old when I learned my ‘mom’ was actually my grandmother and to what extent she had gone to make sure I was a part of her life. You see, I was born in El Salvador, and a mother’s loving embrace was not meant for me.  My real mother was rejected by my father, so I was, in turn, rejected by my mother.  After she delivered me, she gave me away in El Salvador before returning to the U.S.

My hero would not be denied her grandson though.  When her daughter came back home without her expected child and eventually confessed to what she’d done with me, my hero made a very costly and dangerous trip to a very poor and violent country to retreat the little guy who turned out to be me. If you were to ask her though, she’d say she only did it because she was told I had pretty green eyes – and I do.

So yes, I’m a ‘Dreamer’, or more accurately – I was. With the immigration issues dominating the political spectrum, I prefer not to mention it because there are men and women who have made far better choices and accomplished so much more than myself.  It would be unfair to them, in my opinion, to include myself in a conversation that would better serve them if those such as myself were far removed from it. From the depth of my heart I admire and am deeply proud of the men and women who were able to accomplish things that would otherwise not have been possible in our country. They made our people more, our lives relevant, and lifted us high. I’m truly sorry for every way I failed in my part and gave the Trump administration ammunition to use against us.

So while my hero did everything she could to protect me, there was one person she couldn’t save me from.  Me.  She couldn’t save me from myself.  I became a part of the street life that surrounded me. I’m not sure what hurt the most, the tears running down my hero’s face with every dollar discovered in my jeans while doing laundry (jeans she could not have afforded), knowing it was drug money she was looking at, or the way she would promise in a soft voice, with tired eyes, that things would get better and we would move to a nicer place. Then I’d watch her work harder and longer hours at a chicken plant that had a history of discriminating against immigrant workers, paying them below the minimum wage.  It was a common practice all the way through the 90’s.

What I now know, as a grown man who has been in prison for the last 13 ½ years, is that it was her love and the memory of her soft voice that got through to me eventually in a way nothing else could. You see, I was never supposed to know a mother’s love, but God sent me an angel when I was nothing more than a tiny little guy.  That angel will always and forever be my hero.

I had always viewed evil as a universal principle, and not so much as a malignant driven entity. It was just another way of doing things, the opposite of doing things the ‘right’ way, as defined by the law. And in my world, ‘evil’ was stronger and much more effective than ‘good’. I became fully absorbed in a lifestyle that brought me face-to-face with the government’s war on drugs, not to mention the reality of the wars behind drugs – attempted kidnappings of my person and the tragic loss of close friends to murder, suicide and kidnapping when the money or drug ransom could not be met.

My education throughout my teenage years and until I came to prison consisted of stratagems that minimized competition. A favored approach was one that required patience and time, something not found in abundance in a teenager’s life, but something taught by the older and more learned individuals on the corner. The stratagem was to force a drastic fluctuation in prices. This required preparing in advance and aligning yourself with a very deep well to pull from. Selling dope is a poor man’s hustle, regardless what rappers preach.  And poor men are seldom trusted with money or financial instruments. As a rule, only those who save more than they spend financially survive this tactic.

I learned that most followed the creed promoted by rappers, spending in abundance, completely confident the drug game would be there tomorrow.   And it will be, but only for those who are not in debt and understand the stratagems.

The end result, however, often led to the ghetto version of unemployment. Violent confrontations, home invasions, kidnappings, to name a few, took place to supplement the lack of income. That led to a deeper understanding of working and moving within a decentralized unit or group, often of only three, waiting and watching for other units to stabilize and establish their identity and then re-negotiating everything into an effective network again, weeding out the weak, unnecessary, and problematic players. Until you have to do it all over again.

Thus was my education, and the engine that brought me here.   I didn’t fully grasp the English language until sometime around middle school, and my first comprehendible sentence was something along the lines of, “Don’t play with me, Bitch.”

I was 21 years old when I came to prison, with my reputation flawlessly intact. Four years into my sentence, the state of Texas confirmed me as an active member of Mexikanemi, otherwise known as the Mexican Mafia, and placed me in administrative segregation, where I have been ever since – nine years and counting.

Why am I writing this?  I’m, honestly, not sure. All I know is that I can’t sleep. I lost my hero, and I’m just trying to make sense of what’s in front of me. I’m being deported to a country I haven’t visited since I was first abandoned there. Sometimes, I whisper words into the wind, hoping they find my hero and let her know I’m going back to where it all started, alone and among strangers.  Maybe I had always been destined to die there.  There’s no family awaiting me there and nowhere to go. Yet, I can honestly say I’m not afraid and not sure why.  I know I’m going to die there.

Maybe I’m writing this to reach out and seek the only thing I can arm and defend myself with – knowledge, wisdom, and an understanding of what I can expect once I reached El Salvador.  I suppose what I am looking for is someone of my nationality who could guide me and explain what I can expect once I reach El Salvador.

So, this is me, and this is my story, and if this reaches the House of God and the doorway to heaven, please send word to my hero.   Tell her I love her, and I’m going home…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.   Wilmer Portillo has an amazing ability to express himself through writing, and I hope he hears from someone in El Salvador.  He can be contacted at:
Wilmer Portillo #01356973
McConnell
3001 South Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

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Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement

The Comforts Of Solitude

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I’ve spent the past 6,945 days and counting in solitary confinement. I keep track of days the way one has a hobby in the free world. It’s only real significance is giving me a reason to mark another ‘X’ on the calendar.

I’ve filed grievances and signed on to be a plaintiff in a lawsuit about the inhumane and draconian practices of solitary confinement and how it’s the epitome of cruel and unusual (unnecessary) punishment. Lawmakers have eased up on its use for non-death row inmates and even publicly admitted that solitary confinement causes lasting harm to anyone locked away for 10 years or longer.  Such sympathy was shocking for ‘conservative’ lawmakers to admit. However, apathy is not given to male Texas death row inmates, who were excluded from the leniency.  We remain in solitary.

On July 19, 2018, my last appeal was denied. Not on the merits of actual guilt, for my case on appeal has never been argued orally. In fact, a recent study by the Houston Law Review cited my case and others for the opprobrious “rubber stamping” policy that Harris County and the southern appellate courts use.

Legally, they use a loophole, declaring a case ‘Procedurally Barred’ – giving the appeal judges room to not entertain a death row inmate’s case by adopting the previous court’s opinion, word for word. I believe it’s morally and ethically wrong, unfair, and racially biased and at times motivated. But what can we do? These practices aren’t ‘new’, and a lot of men and women have been judiciously murdered using the same practices, to which I often react the only way I can, with an inhale, exhale and languorously voiced, “Fuck it!”

On Texas death row we are allowed two hours of recreational time Monday through Friday, with no movement on the weekends. If you choose to go to this ‘recreation’, you are ordered to strip nude and do the nude-dance.   Then you are taken to another cell that is bigger in space than the cells we sleep in.  If it’s indoor recreation, you are placed in a cage in front of the other 14 cells in that section.  You can walk around like a lab rat, in circles, or some guys invent a workout routine that may be part yoga, part push-ups and sit-ups, and part creativity. As long as one can sweat, for the most part, one is relatively happy. Some guys don’t work out, and instead engage in shouting conversations about legal work, or which Kardashian is the most desirable or they engage in religious debates that start off with platonic, brotherly order and become heated when there are disagreements regarding trivial interpretations of Scripture – which leads to a cussing match and the overly-used, proverbial Texas row insult, “You dick-sucker!”

Pure madness!

Outdoor recreation isn’t that much larger in size than indoor rec. There’s a netless basketball goal and an orange, rubberless basketball that one can use to play run-and-shoot alone, to see how many shots you can make. You’re surrounded by four 25-foot off-white concrete walls so you can’t see anything diagonally, only an upward view of the sky. Sometimes you’ll see a plane fly high above leaving its wasted fuel’s trail within the cerulean sky’s sea.  With two major airports close by, these sights are common. This prison is close to a small highway and every now and then when it’s really quiet, you can hear the thunderous rage that screams from the pipes of a motorcycle that just opened up on the highway.

Most guys don’t like going outside in the summer because of the Texas heat and the sun’s rays that beat down on you without mercy. One can’t help but feel like a rotisserie chicken. I love it. The heat helps me sweat, and the more I sweat, the more I release stress. Plus, I like the solitude. It gives me a chance to think.

After I was denied, it took me nearly two weeks to pick myself up mentally. It is not the outcome I nor my family and supporters wanted or expected. When you’re disappointed like that, logic and one’s perspective gets thrown out the window. Desperation sets in. Your mind wonders about life after death, if it exists. You think about your family. You think about regrets. You fornicate with the idea of what you’ll miss within the carnal world. You think and think… until you need some aspirin to sooth the headache. You find yourself having so much to do, but lack the will to do it. You want to be left alone, although you are aware that loneliness isn’t what you desire.  So when it’s time for me to go to recreation I always ask to go outside in the heat – alone.

I’ll run a few games, reliving my high school basketball days. Crowds cheer my jersey number, “It’s on you twenty-two!  It’s on you!”  After an hour of this workout, I begin to relax and think. I’m haunted by time and dates, logic, philosophy, reasoning, fantasy and reality, failure and injustice. But, not just any injustice – the injustice that was rendered upon me.

Some people are visited by the ghosts of the past, present and future – I’m visited by dates. I’m not in denial, but I can’t believe I’m here on Texas death row, for something that can be argued was never an intentional crime on anyone’s part. For something the police initially told me they knew I didn’t do.

June 29, 1999. I was brought to Harris County from Louisiana to face capital murder charges after I refused the 20 year plea deal offered by Detective Bob King, an acting agent of the DA.   Why would I accept a plea deal when I wasn’t guilty and the police had suspects in custody they wanted me to testify against for the plea deal?  Above all, I wasn’t a lying ass snitch, testifying to ‘whatever’ to avoid getting charged – unlike others.

I wrote the DA, who admitted at trial he received my letter, and I offered up my DNA or any forensic evidence they could collect from me. I offered to take a lie detector test. I offered whatever I could, but I refused to testify against the others.

No DNA or forensic evidence was taken from me.

July 20, 1999 was the first time I saw a state appointed lawyer, Wayne Hill, who offered me a plea deal, with no concern as to who I was or what actually happened. I refused his deal.

July 21, 1999.  My first court appearance.

August 11, 1999.  I was officially read the charges against me. I pleaded not guilty. I was then arraigned and had a million-dollar bond set.

September 1, 1999.  I went to court, though my journal does not say why, nor do I recall.

September 7, 1999.  Jury selection began, and the judge told the potential jury members, “I’m not Judge Ito (from the O.J. Simpson trial of the century case), and we will get this right. Being a jury member is like being a pallbearer. No one wants to do it, but it must be done. Think of a child.  When that child acts out, we have to discipline that child.”

I was supposed to be ‘innocent until proven guilty’. The judge was making it clear to the jury, subliminally, that guilt wasn’t the issue. Those words implied I was guilty and they needn’t waste time and effort trying to assume I wasn’t.

September 29, 1999.   Eleven white jurors and one Spanish lady, who was questioned relentlessly about her status as a documented US citizen, completed the picks.

October 4, 1999.  My trial began.  It was also the first time I met my investigator, who asked me if there was anything I wanted him to investigate. Really? He didn’t bother asking this question two weeks – or months – ago?

October 5, 1999.  Two of the alleged state witnesses/victims admitted in court that they had been lying since day one. They lied to the police. They lied to the Grand Jury that had indicted me.  Think about that for a second…

Had that same Grand Jury known they were being told lies, they never would have indicted me on capital murder charges, or indicted me at all.

They lied to their family, the media, and everyone who asked them what happened.  They lied, thinking a lie would prevent them from getting into trouble. In fact, they now admitted the truth, “We were trying to rob and kill Mamou, if need be, for his $20,000.”

You would think that would be enough to set me free, right? Wrong. This is Texas. The Lone Star State. The only state in America that truly believes it can thrive as its own quasi-nation, and once did with Sam Houston as its proxy president. It’s the state that sneezes snow up North, and shits Hell’s fire down South. The state that believes it’s okay to execute an innocent person as long as they can document a fair trial.

WTF?!

In my trial there was no DNA evidence, no eyewitnesses, no gun, no physical evidence that was used or attempted to be used against me – the DA knew that beforehand. What they did was assassinate my character, saying I was a drug lord, which I wasn’t. They put witnesses on the stand who were nothing more than lying jailhouse snitches, trying to get out of the criminal situations they were in. They took deals and testified that I confessed to them.

One guy wrote me a letter which my lawyer had, but ‘allegedly’ lost during my trial and found after my conviction, saying he knew nothing about what happened and that the police and DA threatened to charge him with conspiracy if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear about me.

The DA also told the jury that I was ‘guilty’ of two other unsolved murders that I was never a suspect in and never charged for. The only commonality between the cases was that they were ‘drug-related’.  They may as well blame me for killing JFK.

One of the state prevaricators claimed that during my ‘confession’, I said I made Mary suck my dick before killing her. He also admitted that he spent days going over his testimony with the DA, and how he’d been told what to say and how to look directly at the jury when saying it.

Remember, there were nine women in the jury. When he said the lie, each of the female jurors began to cry, which was the result the DA was looking for.  Never mind the examiner testified that Mary’s body was not sexually assaulted, nor otherwise harmed. I wasn’t even charged with rape.  The allegation was made by a hearsay witness and left up to the jury to decide if it was credible. My incompetent lawyers assured me that the false claims were harmless because there was no evidence to support them.

Here we are nineteen years later, and after I was denied the newspaper and TV media outlets claimed I’m on death row for the rape and murder of Mary Carmouche.  That’s not what I am on death row for.  That wouldn’t matter in normal circumstances, but it does because I now have to explain to my grown daughters why the newspaper is saying I raped a woman.

It’s frustrating, especially when you know fake news is damaging any chance you have at justice.

October 12, 1999.  After thirty minutes of deliberation, I was found guilty.

October 15, 1999.  I received the death penalty.

November 17, 1999.  I was sent to Texas death row a mere three and a half months after I arrived in Texas to face false charges. I never had a chance. My second chair lawyer was hired one month before my trial began, and he had no clue what was going on. Call it railroading. Judicial lynching. Rubber stamping. Call it whatever you want, just don’t call it Justice. In this case the bitch, Justice, truly was blind.

…August 17, 2018.  I have walked and counted eighty-eight full circles while contemplating my situation, which seems so surreal.  Sometimes I wish it was as easy as John McClane made it seem as he stood bare foot, bleeding, bruised and scarred on top of Nakatomi Plaza screaming, “Yippee ki-yay, muther fuckers!”  The good guys stood triumphantly for justice and made sure it rang loud and true.

But this isn’t a scripted movie. It’s real life. In the world you know everything isn’t going to be all right. Even Belshazzar knew what time it was when he saw the writings on the wall with all that, ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,’ mess.

So, too, I see the writings. But I do not see symbols of mysterious hieroglyphics. I see names that indicate that justice is really ‘just-us’ and not for all. Names like Willie McGee, Todd Willingham, Emmett Till, Aiyanna Jones, Tamir Rice, Treyvon Martin, Michael Brown, and I could go on naming at least 100 more from the top of my head who never got justice, even though the whole world knew they were getting fucked over.  They were not part of the ‘just-us’ crowd.  Men, women and children who are more worthy of a second chance than I could ever be, but no one came to their aid. No one in power spoke out and said this was wrong before the wrongs became so final.

It’s with these thoughts that I appreciate the point of view that solitude has given me.  It comforts me to know I’m not alone, that American justice within the judicial system is only a reality if you have the money to pay the fees the system demands for its servants who have sold their souls and burned every ounce of civility, equality, righteousness and fairness that they once understood.

I may just become another footnote in a fact finding article years down the road, the story of an innocent who was murdered by the state, but I will use my platform anywhere I can to tell my story, a story America keeps on writing.

The comforts of solitude…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  His last appeal has been denied and he maintains his innocence.

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

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Prison Conditions, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

The Hole

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I am confined to a space designed to erase the last traces of humanity that remain after the war over my sanity.

The dark walls stare at me – reeking of the past torture inflicted upon the minds of men before me, men who fought not to succumb to the dangers of losing self.

It’s cold in this steel and concrete jungle, and I’m not talking about the temperature.  I’m speaking of the temperament of those overseeing my existence.  The ones who label my proud display of black manhood as resistance to the systematic annihilation of the divine nature of I-SELF-LORD-AND-MASTER.

I refuse to let you master me.  This torture that you disguise as punishment and use as a tool to break the spirits of men – some who fall victim by wrapping a sheet around their neck in the hopes that it will help – WILL ONLY MAKE ME STRONGER!!!

Strong, like the smell of urine seeping out of the pores of the metal toilet a foot away from my head, which rests on a cold slab of bricks that I count daily to utilize that which keeps me relevant.

In the middle of the night when I lay motionless, trying to ignore the rumbling of the hunger pains eating away at my flesh, every breath feels like a slow death.  Some say it’s hell on earth.

Each passing day eats away at my soul.  I keep thinking – I can’t wait until I get out of the hole.  The war rages on, yet I remain strong – finding salvation in my refusal to let them break me.  Mind over matter…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers.  He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin is no longer in ‘the hole’ and can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

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Harsh Sentences, Prison Conditions, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

700 Days

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Calendars are my enemy, sheets of paper that have the audacity to not only record but embellish the fact that I am losing time.  I can regain space, never time – ever!

My vision is diminishing.  Only days away from 29, and I suffer from glaucoma. Overhead fluorescent lights that stay on 22 hours a day shan’t bear the blame, no. The men and women who manufactured these isolation units in the conservative state of Missouri are to blame. I can’t blame the ‘tool’, only the wielder – the BUILDER of my very own personal torture chamber. Aren’t they sweet… I’m all alone to rot in peace.

I have other ocular issues too. The optometrist has diagnosed me with photophobia, meaning my eyes are extremely sensitive to bright light. He told my keepers to allow me to ‘purchase’ my own sunglasses – Nope!  Nor can I get tinted or transition lenses. Is this not deliberate indifference to my medical issue, hmmm…

My left ear has a ringing in it. My right just seems to ignore the madness.  A good thing, you say? Ehh, no, I’m just going deaf.   I’ma attest, my body is deteriorating s-l-o-w-l-y.  My sanity is leaving faster.

My neck and shoulders are strained from being hunched over writing and reading without a desk or a chair to assist me. Only a metal bunk that will give you a case of swollen hemorrhoids if you got ‘em.  My upper spine and back muscles are so damn tight that I can barely turn my head – ouch – I’m stiffer than Frankenstein’s monster but twice as mean, so my captors say…

Seven hundred days.  Seven hundred days plus in an outhouse.  Seven hundred days in a lunchbox. Seven hundred days…  and many more in the same spot – HELL.

This makes religious fanatics question faith – believe it or not. The most loyal, stringent, devotee and follower will find themselves crying out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, Iama Sabachthani?  My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’  I look up, distracted from a noonday nap. The blatant declaration of disbelief is repeated – of course, I laugh. Did he not know we were already in hell, duh, everybody knows that – “Jesus take the wheel!” SMH.

Do “I” believe in a merciful God? I do(n’t).  A merciless? I do!  Can you blame a man that’s surrounded by devils who brandish the crucifix in their defense for every sick, twisted, malicious and sadistic act they commit?

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.  COMPLETE ISOLATION.  BEATING.  YELLING.  KNOCKING.  YELLING – Oh, I said that.  HARASSMENT.   CONSTANT ILLUMINATION.  SPIT AND HAIR IN MY FOOD, UMM…  IS MY NORM.  My life is a crypt.

If I don’t push this pen… I would cease to live. My being would evaporate and my thoughts no longer exist. So with this I build, build diamond encrusted pyramids, that’ll become a wonder of the world for all warm hearts to see (smile).  Maybe your emotions will somehow affect me. All I know is scowls, mean mugs and fury.

All I think is conflict, war and violence. I’m physically deteriorating, yes, but I can fix that. That’s not beyond repair.  But what they’ve done to me mentally, my sanity – I can never regain – EVER!

*700 days*

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D.  is a writer, poet, spoken  word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor.  He can be contacted at:

Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email:  Jpay.com

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

See It Through My Lense

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Here is a look at surviving long term solitary confinement in a United States Prison.  Imma try to stay positive, and be it the will of God, you will never experience this burden.  It is heavy…  Believe us.  It’s bigger than myself.  Much bigger.  This I know.

Administrative Segregation – complete isolation – exacts it’s toll even on those who enter healthy.  Individuals with stable personalities and stronger cognitive functioning will still experience some degree of stupor, agitation, difficulties with thinking and concentration, obsessive thinking, irritability and difficulty tolerating external stimuli.  Some describe a moment of terrifying clarity and the sudden realization that they’re losing their minds and slipping into psychosis. It’s the result of living in an empty space, void of all stimulus, for years…

We sometimes begin to self speak with the inner voice and enter periods of regression.  Sometimes we can feel ‘the voice’ approaching and think… I gotta tighten my grip, or I’m gonna drown… All of us experience some form of this – even if we don’t admit it.

Almost every incarcerated PERSON I’ve spoken to in the last twelve years has coped with the growing insanity in any way they can with whatever is available to them – constructive or otherwise.  What saves most of our lives in Administrative Segregation is a productive routine. It’s is an attempt to approximate the vitalizing effects of your world. Personally, I live vicariously through newspapers and magazines when funds permit. A good fiction novel will do, too.  Those existing in ‘solitary’ must devise a regimen of continuous rigorous activity that utilizes creativity. Some draw. I write!

As the old saying goes – out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; massive characters are seared by scars.  COMRADES, from the moment I awake (I stay woke) until the moment that I fall asleep (which is rare) I strive for purposeful thinking. A passive mind, a daydreaming mind or a TV watching mind (I haven’t seen one in years!) is a self harming mind. If I stay in the cell in my mind, I’ll never escape. Trapped within a trap.  Caged within a cage. Double locked! Stuck between a rusty boxcar style door and a hard place. I’ll lose my mind. At least – what’s left of it…  I’ll become a victim of my environment, and I refuse to let that happen. I REFUSE TO FAIL MYSELF.

Remember this always – strength doesn’t come from winning. Your struggles develop your strength. When you go through hardship and decide not to surrender – that is strength.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.  The only thing I ask is that you become a part of the solution.  If you have loved ones in here – listen to their issues, write and visit if possible.  If you don’t, take time out to support someone.  You never know, it may be a fulfilling experience.  Make a difference in somebody’s life – and spread the word – We Are People Too.  I leave you in growth and peace.  Follow your heart, it’ll never lead you wrong.

Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542
Email:  Jpay.com

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Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

The Truth About Solitary Confinement & Administrative Segregation In Texas

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It’s easy to misunderstand exactly how we are housed on death row, because we are not actually ‘classified’ as solitary confinement, nor housed as such.  As death row inhabitants, we are classified under ‘administrative segregation’, a status that is reserved as punitive under TDCJ ID guidelines for behavior, gang membership and chronic disciplinary violations.

Regardless of whether or not a death row prisoner is an ideal inmate or not, they are permanently housed under these guidelines, with no arbitrary process to be removed from restrictions of movement and access. General population prisoners who are housed under the same punitive Administrative Segregation status are afforded the opportunity to go through courses created by TDJC ID in order to be removed from under the restrictions of Administrative Segregation.  Death-row prisoners are not given the same chance of removal to a less restrictive classification.  They are permanently ‘segregated’ and live under all the restrictions that entails.  We are not classified as solitary – and yet it feels very solitary, with no chance at relief.

On death row, we are allowed to come out of our cell five days per week for solitary recreation, Monday through Friday, for two hours each day.  On the weekends we are confined to our cells 24 hours per day.  Over the course of a year, the weekends have us confined for 104 days, 24 hours per day.  Throughout the year, we have four lockdowns for shakedowns of prison cells.  During this time, all the cells are searched for contraband, and everyone is confined to their cell 24 hours a day until it’s over. The first and third lockdown of the year includes 12 buildings – death-row and segregation – and lasts seven to ten days.  The second and fourth lockdowns include the entire prison and lasts 21 to 28 days.

Between the weekends and the lockdowns, we are confined to our cells 24 hours a day for approximately 164 days of the year – if you are a model prisoner.  If you were to get written up for violating a prison rule, such as not saying ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, or using vulgar language, or refusing to groom, the number of days you are confined in a cell 24 hours per day can easily climb to over 200 a year.

On death row, we are not just fighting to not be executed, we are also confined in a prison within a prison at the most restrictive level possible.  Any violation of prison rules relegates you to even more in-cell confinement.

This is because death row prisoners are subject to a form of restriction and confinement under a classification designation that none of the other 150,000 Texas prisoners fall under.  The spokesperson for TDCJ ID has glossed over conditions on death row when it was expressed that prisoners are no longer housed in solitary confinement.

From one standpoint, the difference between death row confinement and solitary confinement is great. Solitary confinement, when it was used, was a temporary status for general population prisoners being punished for disciplinary infractions.  Solitary’s use was confined to fifteen days per write up or disciplinary case.  No matter how severe the infraction, the punishment was not permanent.

Death row’s restricted status is permanent and therefore, a lot worse than solitary confinement. I hear the media continue to identify our status as solitary confinement, which gives people a false understanding of our circumstances. We have no outlet here on death row.  The years – not days – continue to pile up as we sit inside our cells, subject to a punishment based classification status.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel.  He lives on Death Row.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

The People’s Zoo

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Day  1:

I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo.  This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.

In my observation of ‘them’, we seem to be comfortable. Well, unbearably content, in our one-man cubicles.  All that is at the convenience of the occupant is a sink, commode and bed.  Ironically, it’s peaceful in the Gates of Hell when the ‘minders’ take breaks from assessing the great threats to maximum security overflow.  Quiet…  but not for long, only while they smoke.

Constant illumination, sensory deprivation and the excessive noise coming from the cage doors being rattled – the mammals want out.

Some’ll settle for meaningful conversation, others mental stimulation.  Most, sexual gratification for some of the lowliest beings on the planet: voyeurs in lust.  ‘Where’s the dignity in smiling when the manacled man sings?’  Tell me this.  I have yet to grasp the humor.  But, this is the infamous People’s Zoo.  We are here for entertainment purposes.  No matter how malicious, sadistic, and plain sick they seem to be.

We can’t exist… or so I think we can’t.  This is what their actions have shown, our handlers I write of.

As I sit on my two-inch mat covered with thin sheets, I’m enshrouded in a wool overcoat, my blanket, under garments and some semi-comfortable slide-ins.  The stillness reminds me of the inside of a monastery and my appearance, a monk.  However, my mind is an endless pit of no-thingness.  Free to roam outside of the boxcar doors that hold me.  Even the loud rumble from the exhaust vent can’t distract me.  My Zen isn’t compromised while smelling the vile sweat, putrid breath and bile of men who are no longer men.  Shells of their old selves.   Hollow.  Broken beyond mending.  So, I sit.

I hear the jingle of keys and the squeak of bald rubber on uneven concrete.  Food – if that’s what they call it.

The ‘chuck hole’ bangs open abruptly, disturbing my peace.

Clack, Boom, Boom, Boom – my nose is filled with the most noxious of smells.  Pigs entrails?!  The gods have sent me a message to read on earth.  So, why eat?   I stare at this filth and discard it into my toilet with passion.  I understand, so I sacrifice.  When I flush, my toilet swallows the entire portion hungrily in one gulp.  I hope he doesn’t, oh… vomit it back to the surface, presenting it as a ‘peace offering’ – guilt for all of the meals I’ve fed him, quelling the hunger pains and the gurgles and growls deep inside his bowels.  A gift…???  It whines, so I accept approvingly.  It’s okay, Ol’ Boy.

Day 2:

I awake the following morning to the same familiar stillness.  The warm sun cascading through the cracks of the metal window shudder that I can’t remove.  Beautiful.  I’m so glad that was nothing more than a nightmare.  Whew!

Jingle.  Clack.  Boom. Boom. Boom.

It wasn’t.  This is my reality.  Our proverbial Black Hole of existence.

It replays the same as yesterday, but I numbly chew the moldy bread and sour grapes.  ‘The gods are good, Amen’ – as I pull out the sword that I’ve hidden under my loin cloth.  I’m going to whet the edges against the yellow rock that’s in plain sight.  It doesn’t matter if I’m seen.  I’m always seen, watched, observed, lusted after and hated.  Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to the raps on my cage perturbing my Peace.  Testing my patience as another ‘tour’ is brought through.

“See, this one is quiet but deadly.  He doesn’t have too much to say,” in a hushed tone.  “Folks, he’s the most serious of them all.”  I can hear the exited murmurs as he looks in and knocks lightly, nearly respectful, and coo’s like I’m the pet circus lion he loves to be scared of at night. “How’re you holding up in there?  Can I help you with anything?”  I go back to whetting the edges of my sword while cool blue eyes in pale faces covered in blond hair gawk in awe.  “I guess he’s moody right now.  I know you wanted him to do something, Hon.  Maybe next time,” as he walks away disappointed.  They wanted me to display what, Anger?  It figures.

‘Where’s the dignity?’  This is what the voice keeps asking me.  I see movement out of the corner of my eye.  I look, but nobody is there.  Funny.  I know some-thing, some-body was there.   I don’t feel alone. He’s here…  again.  I mustn’t fight it.  I must sleep.

Jingle.  Clack.  Boom.  Boom.  Boom.  The hatch snatches me out of my dreamless slumber.  I roll back over and look at the steel shutters that I call a window.

Boom. Clack!

“Well, starve then, suits you best, punk.”  The chorus of the pig’s keys chiming helps me drift off to…

Day 3:

I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides.  Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion.  Yet, I dare roar.  It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from.  I’m now the ‘Quiet One’.  I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword.  I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember.  Flexible, yet firm.  Molding to my hand.  It belongs there.  So, I write,

Life is pointless if I cannot make a point.
So I will live doing or die trying.
THEY…
give me no choice.

Hatred isn’t a strong enough word.
What I feel has yet to be
invented, spoke, felt or heard;
Etymologically, it’s a verb. 

Obliteration is most fitting.
Oppression
Exploitation
There’s no dignity
BUT
these people seem to turn a blind
eye to our humanity.

Give me a reason to show mercy
when the tables turn.

Pigs’ flesh clouds my cross hairs.
Deep Breath.
Trigger pulled.
Powder burn.
Peace,
Tranquility.

I smile quietly, hmmm, this’ll be a nightmare befitting of applause.  BUT,

My room has no window
a box
devoid of cubic measurement.
a thought,
deemed to be illusion.
a cell.
a pit.
a room.
a tomb unfitting the confined,
metaphorically, dead.
us
me
them
WE
ARE
HERE.
this dismal crypt
our rooms have no windows…
none to see, but his
WHIP,
is this living?????
I see no other way
But OUT.

I must make it.  I must be strong.  I must, as tears sting my eyes, be…   strong…   I must.

To be continued…

Until THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Tracy Greer, Jr. has been in ‘the hole’ for two years.  He is a gifted writer of poetry, fiction and essays.

Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

It Was A Panic Attack!!! Trust Me… I Know??

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Since my arrival in the Missouri Department of Corruptions, I’ve grown.  I have developed. I have matured… but I’ve become some – thing, something I cannot place in words.  I have learned how to speak Swahili.  I’ve learned about religion, dogma, doctrine and esoteric science.  I have accepted life, I have endured pain.  I have seen conflict.  I have waged war…  I, in a nutshell, became insensitive to people, places, things, etcetera.

What I haven’t found is self. I overstand that many different key fundamental elements make up the crux of my being.  I know that I exist, yet I don’t know… I just don’t.  I sometimes sit and ponder as to the ‘how’ of things.  The ‘why’ of situations.  That ‘what if’.  My answers have merit, this I do know.  I get them in my most manic of states.  However, I am not crazy, or so I think.

In all of the malarkey that I hear, all of the beef I contend, all of the pigs that I resist, I still just am.  This is my issue.  Why won’t ‘they’ just allow me to be?  This is my question every nanosecond of every single hell scorned day, WHY?

Out of everything that I lost once, I was forcibly kidnapped, held for ransom and subsequently placed in the gulag to rot, wither and die – I have yet to lose my mind.  Of all the things that were taken away when they stripped me of my dignity, I was able to retain my thoughts. Every tangible object was taken and then memory obliterated, however, they have yet to kill my hopes and dreams.  I will not leave those behind.  Not because I am so strong to appropriate them from the death grasp of these feral hogs, only due to the reality that this is all that I have left. They would have to literally murder me in order for me to subserviently turn them over – or so I hope.

One other thing I haven’t lost is control.  It humors me to utter (write) such a statement.  I mean of self, but even this is frail.

I’m not pessimistic.  I just see nothing but darkness. Like Riddick in miseries Chronicle.  I view those most ugly of creatures, fighting with only tooth, nail, brawn, and vigor.   Still I remain the victor.

As the day twists into night, time seems not to matter much.  I can care less about a clock.  Maybe this is because I’ve gone years without seeing one.  Sun up, sun down.  Lights on, lights out. Three measly portions and a flex pen later it’s time to retire and they still won’t stop racing.  Even upon forced slumber, LaLa Land rejects me.  Will I ever be accepted?  Is there anybody who won’t ostracize me?  Do I approve of who I have become?  And the story goes on – the sun is peeking.  Nearly Fajr time.  I finally nod… yet still aware.

I’ve romanticized with the idea, the vision, experience, even aftermath of a revolution.  I am no revolutionary – I am a reformist in the most contemporary sense.  An ‘illegitimate capitalist’ as Huey P. Newton placed it in his essay, “Prison, Where is Thy Victory”.  I’m a militant feminist, debatist, reactionist, humanist, and a (poly)monotheist.  I’m intolerantly intolerant [sic], confused, yet in the know.  I’m an opportunist.  A follower as well as a leader.  I AM A CONTRADICTION; DUALISTIC.  If I cannot be true with self, I’ll be the epitome of a fraud to a jury of my non-peers.  They will judge.  It’s just the way of (wo)men.  Trust me, I know.  I am of them.  This is my struggle.  What occurs in my psyche daily. The thing I battle with subconsciously until my cerebral cortex feels as if it’s on the verge of implosion.  The shit I can’t control… my thoughts!!!  WHO AM I?  What will I become??? This is the question.

As I stir, I sit up and groggily walk over to the grimy steel sink.  “Bismellah,” as I make wudu, purification, I think about the Last Day.  I heard the wail of the Adhan, and its breaks my thoughts abruptly.  As I fall into sajdah, prostration, and mouth the prayer of Ibraheem and taslim to the left and then the right to the Noble Scribers, “Count time, Count time.  Standing count.  Name and number.  Make yourselves visible!”

I begin to think.  Unnaturally, I growl, “Greer 1153032.”  WHO AM I?  Is this my life?? My heart races.  Breathe… I thought I saw a monster out of my peripheral.  I turn to my left in alarm, braced for the attack.  Nobody??  It’s me, the man in the mirror.  As I look at my reflection, is it??  Damn! This can’t be happening again.  Breathe…

Tracy Greer, Jr. has been in ‘the hole’ for two years.  He is a gifted writer of poetry, fiction and essays.

Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542

 

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Prison Conditions, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Let Us Break Men In Our Image

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Most prisoners housed in solitary confinement for extensive periods of time, at some point, will see in the mirror an almost unrecognizable Dr. Frankenstein like creation.  Their own disfigured features are the result of the institution’s mode of dismembering faculties and a person’s natural resistance to being tortured.

Some choose suicide rather than be a co-conspirator in their own dehumanization.  The most atrocious part is not necessarily when we experience our intellect losing the battle with our instincts to preserve whatever fragile fragments of sanity we have miraculously salvaged.   Nor is it the pressure of our desire to make sense out of no sense crushing our conscience.  No, the most atrocious part may be the toxic chemical combustion of our hyper sensationalized reactionary parts, most of which are undetectable to the untrained eye until there is a violent explosion of highly flammable feelings. Including one feeling in particular I have discovered in which the source of the pressure, the desire to escape the inescapable fate that is my institutionalization, has evolved just as much as my necessity to breathe oxygen, drink water, or eat food.

It is a God like force we know as self preservation.  We each have immaterial faculties like our will, our reason, our emotions, and any inmate who is genuinely interested in rehabilitation cannot put his or her human nature up for ransom, even under the illusion that it is payment for a debt to society.  Not when this debt requires one’s agencies of independence to be traded for a politically induced state of permanent  dependency.

Let me be clear, as I want to leave absolutely no room for any misinterpretation or doubt about what I mean  by the title, ‘Let Us Break Men In Our Image.’  The Tennessee Department of Corrections, while acting under the official capacity of state law, demands at gunpoint that every aspect of my functioning be in full compliance with my own dehumanization.  The ultimate goal is to incapacitate my rights, incapacitate my mind, incapacitate my heart, and incapacitate my soul, until I have no power, until I have no will, until I have no reason, until I have no conscience, nor feelings, nor individuality.  Until I have no potential to survive the challenges of the day to day struggle to adjust and fit in outside these prison walls, nor even so much as love myself enough to care.

By the time some inmates are unleashed on society, after having long endured the post traumatic stress disorder like effects of extensive psychological warfare, it’s too late.  It’s too late when it takes the form of an impulsive, irrational, unprovoked criminal act because we’ve been left with nothing of our humanity but our instincts.

The majority of the institutionalized will end up back in state or federal custody, and in actuality, many will have never left.  The institution was designed, by its nature, to metamorphosis into a living and breathing replica of its own likeness.  You can call the system Torture and Dehumanization of Prisoners by State and Federal Design, or tough on crime, or you can even call it criminal justice.

As for me, I’ll just call what is left of the so called ‘department of corrections’ what it is.   I’ll just call it, this broken thing, that keeps reproducing these broken things…

The author, James Smith, has served nearly twenty years and will be eligible for parole in 2056.
James Smith #323820
MCCX/SMU
P.O. Box 2000
Wartburg, TN 37887

 

 

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