You sensed the element of grief and sought to know the pain beneath, The angst behind these gritted teeth… you listened… You recognized the shattered peace, that mirth was suddenly deceased, My soul, desperate for relief… you listened… I was going to throw it all away, but you helped me to see the need to stay. You showed up in the nick of time, before I nearly lost my mind. You paid attention to the signs… you listened.
A staff member once saw an ominous storm brewing within me and lent an ear in order to prevent a self-inflicted catastrophe. At the time, my family was stricken with a plague of division and confusion. My father and I were at odds with each other without any real cause. Through years of distance, my wife and I had grown emotionally out of touch with each other. Our daughters grew weary of me calling home. Concerns had developed over my brother’s Alzheimer’s, and funeral arrangements were being put in place in the event he would succumb. To make matters worse, I would not be permitted to view his body due to the wishes of our father. It shocked me to the core when I discovered I would once again be denied the privilege to honor a deceased family member. My mother had died almost a decade earlier – from Alzheimer’s.
It was when I was nearing the end of my rope and about to give up that someone intervened. I had suddenly turned grim and silent, extraordinarily indifferent to life, no longer my jovial self. When shown genuine concern for my well-being, I felt compelled to open up and share my grief. I was provided attentive listening and assured what I shared would be confidential. One person reminded me of the value of life regardless of how troubling circumstances can end up. Doing so resulted in me no longer posing a threat to myself.
I was grateful for the consideration of my grief, the act having such a great impact on me that I eventually decided to work on getting my life in order. The experience taught me the importance of remaining vigilant to signs of depression in others, and being willing to express genuine concern for another’s well-being. I know first-hand, the very act may be the determining factor in the prevention of self-harm.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert Vallejo recently submitted this piece to a WITS writing contest. While the work did not place in the contest, one of the judges ranked it in first place. A person’s perspective, life experiences and preferences often determine the outcome of the reading, and WITS writing contests are judged by multiple people. I hope this encourages all submissions, as this happens often. To contact Robert Vallejo:
Generally speaking, I am often able to pull a silver lining or two out of even the darkest cloud. That is in spite of decades spent behind the walls of a maximum-security, federal penitentiary; the marriage and divorce of the same woman – twice; and a lifetime and oft lost battle with addiction. Those things should have me mired in darkness and more than ready to give up as my release date approaches, yet here I sit.
According to the numbers, I’m destined to fail. The odds are horrible for somebody with my lack of outside support and a current release address of homeless, boasting a 77% chance that, within five years, I’ll end up back in prison. The thought of even trying to enter the workforce at an age when most people are considering retirement is scary. Couple that with a lengthy criminal history and lack of marketable skills – well, things don’t look too good.
My time has been spent in maximum-security, and the sad truth is, the higher security the facility, the less opportunity for programming. That being said, in the federal system, everyone who is able is expected to work. That led to me becoming a G.E.D. tutor. Turns out, teaching is something I am pretty good at, and I also enjoy it. Matter of fact, I was the first inmate to complete the Teacher’s Aide apprenticeship program at this facility. That’s right, I spent 4,000 hours of learning and teaching and earned myself a piece of fancy paper from the U.S. Department of Labor proclaiming me a Teacher’s Aide I. Not that I’ll ever be able to use that certification in the real world because, as hard-up as society seems to be for teacher’s aides, the whole ex-con thing’s not gonna go over too well.
What does one do when he or she has failed at everything else in life? Patricia McConnell once said, “When you failed at everything you ever tried, what’s left? To become a writer, of course.” Sounded good to me. To date, I’ve published several volumes of poetry, the most recent, Read This When I’m Gone, is available from Amazon and would look fantastic on your bookshelf. I’ve appeared in a wide range of publications, and I guess one could say my career as an incarcerated writer has been a success. However, poetry, much like crime, does not pay, and the $5.25 per month that I am paid to teach doesn’t stretch very far. As the days pass and my release date inches closer, I also inch closer to homelessness and the need to find a real job.
So, just what opportunities are out there for a thrice convicted felon such as myself? The truth is, most jobs available to an ex-convict are lower paying and offer little in the way of benefits, job security or advancement potential. Numerous states even seem to go out of their way to make things more difficult by implementing arbitrary and nonsensical licensing restrictions on certain careers. In Mississippi, convicted felons are presumed to be without the good moral character needed to sell automobiles. In Florida, a felony conviction will keep you from tending bar for five years, and North Carolina can make it challenging for an ex-con who wishes to work in the pest control field.
While those things are frustrating, the discretion given to certain state licensing boards further discourages people like me from even applying for certain jobs. In New York, a former prisoner needs special permission from the Secretary of State to obtain a real estate license, and in Texas, a felony conviction adds a mountain of paperwork to being an apprentice plumber.
There is no shortage of statistics, the two biggest needs of a body just walking out of prison are housing and employment, in that order. Studies have shown that providing access to both costs much less than reincarceration.
In spite of all that, I’m a silver linings kind of guy. The same 77% chance of my failure leaves me with a 33% chance of making it. If nothing else, my floundering as a writer has taught me how to write a good ending. Where there’s a will, there must be a way, and when I’m not sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I’m looking for proof that someone like me can make it.
Just look at Mike Carter, Executive Chef of Down North Pizza in Philadelphia, PA. In 2023, Down Home Pizza was named one of the Washington Post’s 50 Best Pizzerias in the U.S. Like me, Mike once found himself trapped in the revolving door of the correctional system, yet Mr. Carter never gave up. Instead, he adapted. Whereas, free-world pizza is as simple as some mozzarella, dough and tomato sauce, those ingredients can prove elusive in a cell block. Even so, a penitentiary pizza, borne of Ramen noodles, BBQ sauce and crushed up Cheez-It’s isn’t as bad as it might sound. And, as Down North Pizza reminds me, there’s hope. Sometimes the solution lies in just deciding not to be the problem anymore, and knowing none of us are the sum total of our worst mistakes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dan Grote is the author of We Are All Doing Time and Read This When I’m Gone. Mr. Grote’s poetry has been widely published and also featured in WITS Newsletter Issue 13. While polishing his writing skills, Dan also became a certified teacher’s aide and will soon be going home to the Chicago area where he hopes to connect with support and begin building his new life on the outside. To contact Dan Grote:
Dan Grote #22670-424 USP Canaan U.S. PENITENTIARY P.O. BOX 300 WAYMART, PA 18472
April 8, 2019, was the hardest day of my life, even harder than getting a death sentence. It was the day my mom passed away, and I remember it like yesterday.
I was in the cellblock when I got called to the Chaplain’s office over the loud speaker. Usually, that’s not good. I had been called down to the Chaplain’s office four times before and each time it was a death in the family, so I was on pins and needles. Who could it be this time? I never thought it’d be my mom because she was in fairly good health and hadn’t mentioned anything to me.
When I saw the Chaplain and an officer waiting for me, I knew it wasn’t good. She shut the door behind us and came around her desk to sit across from me before telling me that something had happened in my family and she was going to call my sister. When she handed me the phone, my sister’s first words were, “It’s mom.”
I started to break down but held it together long enough to ask what happened. My sister told me that my mom was cleaning a gun when it went off and hit her in the chest.
Nothing about what happened next sounds right. I was ready to cry my eyes out, but I chatted a bit more before hanging up. The Chaplain tried to comfort me by asking if I was alright or if I needed anything, but I was numb. The tears were gone, and I felt nothing. I realize now I was probably in shock, but at the time it may have seemed like I was cold-hearted or didn’t care. That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I left that office numb with a million thoughts running through my mind. Each step toward the cellblock seemed to make it more real, and I could feel myself breaking down. As I neared the booth where officers control the doors, I heard Officer Roscoe call my name. He asked if there was anything he could do, and he was sincere about it.
Mr. Roscoe was one of the best officers I’ve ever met. He cared and treated us like human beings, so I asked him to let me talk to a few of my best friends. While we were able to go to recreation together, we lived on separate pods and were not supposed to have contact with each other outside of rec. Mr. Roscoe did me a good service that day by supporting me in my time of need, and I will always remember that.
After he let my friends out into the hallway, I hugged each of them and started crying. Those guys had been there for me since my first day on death row thirteen years earlier. They were older than me, knew about loss and also knew how to be real friends despite all the prison stigma. In prison you’re supposed to be hard and showing feelings can be seen as weak, but here on death row in NC, we’ve been around each other so long many of us have seen someone next to us lose someone important. We try to be there for each other, especially if it’s one of our friends. I appreciated those guys so much, and without them I would have been lost. When one of us loses someone here, it’s a death row prisoner that helps us through the tough times.
After I finished talking with my friends, Mr. Roscoe told me he was sorry to hear about my mom, and he asked me if there was anything else he could do. I said no but that I appreciated him so much.
Shortly after that day, Mr. Roscoe died in a car wreck on his way to work. Everyone felt that loss, whether you were an officer or a prisoner, and I will never forget him. Mr. Roscoe was a truly great person who treated people fairly, it didn’t matter what you did in life or what you looked like. It’s people like him who give me hope because he saw me for me and cared about me in my time of need.
Thank you Mr. Roscoe for everything you did for us, and thank you to all the brothers who helped me when I needed it the most.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Darrell Maness placed second in our recent writing contest with his essay, Those Who Care. Great writing often shares those times in life that are the hardest to share, and Darrell did that with this essay. The judges not only appreciated his vulnerable and honest writing, but he also wrote directly to the prompt. Darrell can be contacted at:
Darrell Maness #0831753 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
No one ever tells you how long the burning lasts after you’ve been pepper sprayed. I found out on my own my first night in the hole. The spray I thought I had showered off was still clinging to my face, my arms, and the lone blanket I had to settle in with. Every time I cried, I could feel the bite of the spray in my eyes, though it paled in comparison to the realization of the mess I’d made of my life. Though I lost it all that night, it was also the day I learned I could be truly found.
That morning started off normal enough, feeling frazzled and drained all at once. I was a Field Minister, which felt somewhere between seminary graduate who specialized in counseling and unofficial prison mascot. I was responsible to big bosses, given access to walk almost anywhere at any time within the prison, and beloved by the people I worked for. Having been incarcerated when I was 20, this was my first ever professional position, and I felt like I was owning it. That Sunday was supposed to be an off-day, but rather than sleep in, I felt like helping a friend explore his struggle with addiction. I didn’t realize I was drowning, keeping myself too busy to believe I could ever stop swimming. Pepper spray changed that.
Like many days at that time, I was functional. I was just out of the counseling session and in another dorm with some friends playing cards. One of the guy’s daughters had been missing since last August, and I prayed with the dude often. Within this circle of friends, fellow nerds, I felt genuine trust. I didn’t have to be religious or showy or anything more than a guy happy to know about the newest Rick and Morty episode or that Iron Man was going to be Dr. Doom in the next Marvel movie. I could be me. I was packing it in and prepping to go back to my block when an official walked in and immediately made it known I was being reprimanded. The reason? The card game and my participation in it. At that moment the weight of the expectations from my family, the job, the prison sentence, the six-year-relationship with the girl I didn’t believe could love me, the work-life balance I thought I needed to survive, felt as if it was pulling me under and I was no longer swimming. Naturally, I did what I always do in rough situations – I blew it all up.
To a man, the witnesses that day describe the scene as shocking. One second I was holding up a schedule showing where I could and couldn’t be and waving it like a matador’s cape. The next, I was inundated by orange and standing in shock. The cuffs, the walk through the yard, the blurry faces all shouting, “What did you do?” – those are the memories that stick with me the most. I wasn’t feeling the pain yet, mostly because my giant glasses took a majority of the damage. The real pain came later when I was in bed, wondering if I had a future after losing the job I had worked four years for and whether I’d suffer my first demerit (I would), or if I’d lose my job (that also!), or if I’d live in the hole forever (thank God, no!).
Praying desperately, words met me in the darkness. Words spoken by the girl who had been telling me for a while that I was losing myself in the identity of being a Field Minister, in being everything to everyone. It was after I shared with her how I had talked a dude down from believing his life was a waste and helped him see he could genuinely change. I expected praise and affirmation, but I got a question. “If you lost your job, José, who would you be?” I had an answer for her, spoken quickly to remove the discomfort of the question and move on to other subjects, but the question didn’t go away. It found me that night.
I’m a believer in Jesus, in that everything we go through is for a purpose. As sleep evaded me for the next two days and tears made the spray burn, I wrestled with that question and begged God to give me what I had sold down the river of life for a job and status: Himself. Somewhere between the third season of The Chosen and walking the yard in chains, I saw the truth in everything my friends, coworkers, and yes, my girlfriend had been telling me about the need to slow down and quit working so hard to make up for failing in life. They were telling me the truth that I had been swimming so hard to avoid. I was more than a Field Minister or a prisoner or a workaholic. I was someone more. I had worth and didn’t have to earn anyone’s approval. I found light during those dark days, a light that never goes out. As it turns out, the light got really bright.
My first sign that things had changed outside of the hole were the chants. Specifically, the Free José! chants. That first week out of the hole was like nothing I’d ever known before, like being John Wick on a bad day. Everybody and their mom either wanted to know the story, somehow knew the story, or thought that I needed to take punitive action in connection to the story. I was the most well-known man at a camp begging for a martyr. For me though, I only had one label – José; local man trying to find his groove in life. To that end, helping a 21-year-old kid I met in the hole unpack the trauma of abusive family members, learning Japanese, and assisting the local Latino church translate their message to the American crowd became my world. When the questions of “Will you get your job back?” (at least twice a day for 137 days) or “Will you fight the reprimand?” (accepted it honestly) came, I found my peace in being truly me for the first time in a while. The job didn’t matter. My legal situation wasn’t important. The way back meant finding myself.
Not long after my time in the hole, the talent show was posted. “Do comedy,” my friend Malik said. I looked at him like he had sprouted hairs on his bald dome.
“Comedy?”
“Comedy.”
“Madness!”
He believed my corny dad jokes in AA would work with a prison audience. I thought he should ascribe to NA for what he was telling me, but the idea wouldn’t die. My friends told me everything from I’ve never heard you tell a joke in my life to That sounds awesome! So, I embraced all the urbanness of the block, learned who Pooh Sheisty was, and went up there before the crowd. The one thing I didn’t expect? My old boss laughing at me!
“How many of you, by show of hands, have been in prison five years?” A slew of hands went up, boss included.
“That’s awful!”
Miraculous laughter started bubbling up to me.
“Ten years?” Most of the hands from earlier stayed up, my boss’s included.
“I’m so sorry.”
The audience broke! After the show, the line that got quoted to me the most was, “If you have to tell me how much you’re really like that… You’re not really like that.” That and the jokes about being sprayed!
Owning the spray, owning the good and the bad of my journey, I found me in others. There were people who backed me for being myself and being true to my Christian identity in the midst of hard circumstances. I found my place in a place that pushes people into the darkness of life. Light came in people I had never met before, from the most hardened criminal to the nerdy survivor, they came with the same message: “You’re you, and that’s why we like you.” I was finally enough.
Then, after two weeks of waiting, my boss came for me. Her message?
“You’re cleared for Monday.”
“…whut?”
“Yup. Mess up again and it’s a wrap!”
“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
I kept my composure for two seconds before leaping into the air and doing an uncoordinated fist pump that was something between a drunk Mario and Tiger Woods on a terrible putt.
I did my first walk into my old dorm a week ago. The welcome was cathartic. I got everything from a standing ovation from the line of dudes waiting for a hair-cut to Welcome back! from people whose names I don’t actually know and am scared to talk to. In all those moments, I remembered the way I was saved from drowning, and the way I found myself back to real redemption. I remembered that no matter what job I have, what I do, or where I find myself – I’ll always be found.
ABOUT THE WRITER. José Rodriguez-Basquez has been a contributor to the WITS newsletter, and with this essay José won 3rd prize in the most recent writing contest. It is always a pleasure to share this writer’s work, which exhibits a natural, unforced sincerity. José can be contacted at:
Seems like it’s where you’ve been that dictates where you’ll go, but no matter what it is, it will never be what it was, when all you ever had is gone. Sometimes it’s the shortcut that leaves you needing stitched back up again, but whatever it is that helps you hold it all together could one day be what ends up pulling you all apart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dan Grote was writing poetry long before he submitted to WITS and is the author of We Are All Doing Time. Mr. Grote’s poetry has been widely published and also featured in WITS Newsletter Issue 13. Dan Grote has been polishing his writing skills and also became a certified teacher’s aide while in prison and will soon be going home to the Chicago area where he hopes to connect with support and begin building his new life on the outside. To contact Dan Grote:
Dan Grote #22670-424 United States Penitentiary Canaan P.O. Box 300 Waymart, PA 18472
I met Bush over two decades ago at a prison in Raiford, Florida. I had just turned thirty and only been in prison a few years. Bush, on the other hand, was over fifty and had been in prison since the early 80’s. He quickly became a mentor, teaching me how to make it through a violent prison system. Simply – he taught me how to act. Bush had already spent over twenty years at Raiford, he was grounded and knew how to stay out of trouble.
I left that prison in 2005 and hadn’t seen Bush in almost twenty years when, by chance, I had to go to a prison hospital to see a medical specialist. While there, I ran into an acquaintance, Harley, who told me Bush was at the hospital. Bush had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was expected to die at any time. The man I had always known to be large, muscular and healthy was virtually on his deathbed.
I asked an officer the following day if I could go upstairs and visit Bush, but my request was denied. I didn’t give up. The next day I snuck down to where the inmate orderlies lived. The orderlies wore white uniforms while everyone else wore blue. I ‘rented’ a uniform.
The following day, during the orderly shift change, I went to the hospital and blended in. Once on the second floor, I found Bush lying in a hospital bed and fighting for his life. He wasn’t easy to recognize at first, housed in a room with six terminally ill men. After someone pointed him out to me, it took all I had in me to keep from crying right then and there.
Bush was awake and looked at me for a minute before he recognized me and smiled. Thinking I worked there, my old friend asked how in the world I’d pulled off getting a position as an orderly. He’d always had a good sense of humor. He smiled even more when I told him that I hadn’t pulled off getting the position, I’d only tricked them into thinking I’d gotten the position.
We chatted for a bit, caught up on our lives. Bush told me about his cancer and the treatments he had gone through to no avail. Then he got very serious and shared with me that he was ready to depart this world, he’d lived long enough in prison. After those words, I had to step away to keep from crying in front of Bush. Prison life can be lonely, no matter how many friends and people we have around us. I couldn’t imagine how lonely one could feel at the end of life in a hospital bed and having no friends or family around to say goodbye to.
I told Bush he wasn’t alone. Along with Harley and others he knew, we would be with him all the way. I told him what he meant to me and others. I visited Bush everyday while I was at the medical prison. I brought snacks from the canteen and anything else he wanted until I had to go back to my prison.
I learned later that Bush died three days after I left. I said a prayer, hoping he never felt alone as he faded from this world to the next. Ever since that experience, I have been trying to get a job as an orderly in a prison infirmary. I never want any of my fellow prisoners to feel they are alone. I want them to know that someone is there and actually cares for them.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Robert King is new to WITS, as well as creative writing. This first piece was written with heart and reflects the humanity, empathy and compassion that we value. I hope to hear from Mr. King again, and he can be contacted at:
Robert King #J04029 Lake Correctional Institution PO Box 23608 Tampa, FL 33623
These two guys just won’t stop talking. Or, more accurately, they won’t stop making noise, because they’re not so much having a conversation as they are making individual statements next to one another that provoke both of them to continue doing so. It’s bad enough being crammed in a narrow chute with thirty other sleepy men waiting to be called to breakfast, but the witless banter is too much, and my stoic patience is fast approaching a breaking point.
“I think it’s french toast. The french toast is good here.”
“Eggs – we haven’t had eggs in a couple days.”
“The syrup’s good here too – real syrupy.”
“They was boiled eggs last time; the whole dining hall smelled like farts.”
“I hope they don’t shake the spoon on the syrup; I like my french toast drowning in it.”
Just before my head explodes, the intercom mercifully squawks chow call. A guard in the booth slaps a button, the doors rattle open, and the herd of us zombie-shuffle toward the cafeteria. Making it out into the cool, early-morning darkness, I beat feet to put some distance between me and the rambling breakfast twins. Or at least I try to, because for some reason everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, deliberately in my way. I can’t win like this; what should be an easy walk to chow has somehow become a human obstacle course.
I eventually reach the dining hall and grab a tray. They were both wrong: it’s S.O.S. (a watery gravy over two slices of bread that’s about as tasty as it sounds). I get to a table and – of course – find the end seat is taken. I’ll have to squeeze into a middle slot. I do so and, with my elbows jammed into my sides, eat as fast as my T-Rex arms will allow, dump the tray, and head back to the unit.
Ahhhhh. The walk back is at least relaxing. Most of the herd is still eating, leaving no noise or obstacles to deal with on the return trip. It’s just me, the cool air, and – I suddenly notice – the rising sun. I glance up at a sky exploding in color: glowing orange clouds, with wisps of red and yellow, stretched across the entire expanse above me, backed by a bright Carolina blue sky. I stop and stare; my concerns fade away. I remember that this place I’m in is just a tiny piece of a much greater world, that this place – no matter how hard it may try – can’t keep me from seeing beauty.
The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, was imprisoned for a short time, the experience having a profound impact on him and his subsequent writing. He once said that ‘humanity will be saved by beauty.’ After twenty-plus years inside a system seemingly designed to obliterate any sense of the beautiful, I believe him.
Most people realize prison is a difficult place to feel human – the concrete, cold steel, and razor wire make it abundantly clear. But prison’s most insidious feature may actually be how quietly its harsh exterior creeps inside you, influencing your thoughts and feelings without you even noticing. It does its work invisibly and effectively, oppressing you to the point that you oppress yourself and others. You soon realize most of your struggle to change in prison becomes the struggle to not be changed by prison.
Fortunately, I’ve found a growing community of people inside and out that recognize and fight the dehumanizing undertow. We intentionally seek beauty in any and all forms: good belly laughs, moments of human connection, a mind-blowing sunrise on an otherwise dreary morning, a short simple essay by a humble or not-so-humble incarcerated writer. Whatever it is, we remind each other, as much as possible, of our shared humanity and of the ineffable mysteries of being alive.
Reminders are vital. It’s all too easy to be swept out to the deep waters of apathy, depression, and hopelessness. Keep seeking moments of beauty in all its forms. Find those moments, cherish them; and most importantly, remind yourself of them over and over and over again. Doing this, if Dostoevsky was onto anything, just might save us.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Geoff Martin graduated from North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program in 2023, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he uses to counsel and mentor his peers. Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. All of his writing for WITS can be found here, and he has also contributed to the N.Y.U. Review of Law & Social Change with his poems Rainy Respite and A Sorry List – Abbreviated. In addition, Geoff has organized a small group focused on exploring self-discovery and personal growth. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and has chosen to invest his time in positive endeavors.
Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.
I grew up being the oddball, labeled a “black sheep.” I used to think the term was racist until I realized there are black sheep of all colors. But any way you color it, all I could come to terms with was that I rarely fit in. Anywhere.
So, I made a decision. Instead of trying to trim my edges to fit everyone else’s box, I became an all around do-what-I-want, nobody-tells-me type. Box the world, don’t box me. On the outside I made it look good, continued to walk like I talked, but on the inside it all felt wrong.
Fast forward a few years, ‘cause that’s really how time flies, I found my way to a place where it was easy to be that way… you know the rest. The state penitentiary was merciless and very unkind to me, a vicious cycle at best. Yet this is the one place that openly received me, though I rightfully earned my ten years in captivity. I made a commitment though – I was not leaving the way I came in.
Time settled as it does, and then the day arrived. My eyes saw the heavens open up, and in my pain and tears, I asked God to help me change. In that moment, I felt relief. As I spoke the name of Jesus that day, comfort filled my heart.
I sensed my brand new start in that moment. As I prayed and smiled, I was reminded that God sent someone before me who was rejected, someone who could help me learn how to live. He set me apart long ago, and only now do I realize I am who and where I’ve always belonged, in the loving arms of the biggest one ever rejected.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Talena Banks is new to the WITS family, and fairly new to creative writing, but you wouldn’t know it. Faith is often overlooked in writing spaces, though it is a source of strength for so many. I hope this writer shares more with us.
Talena Banks can be contacted at: Talena Banks #1177254 4370 Smiley Road Las Vegas, NV 89115
“Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.”
Psalm 105:4 (NIV)
Everyone knows small children rely on their parents for necessities, things like food, water, clothes, shelter. But as an adult, I’d forgotten how much needier kids really are until I spent a day with my friend Kevin and his four-year-old son, KJ. When KJ couldn’t open his soda, he brought it to Kevin. After KJ brushed his teeth, he got right in Kevin’s face and grinned for inspection. When we took KJ to the park, I noticed that whether he climbed on the monkey bars, slid down the slide or swayed on a swing, KJ constantly sought Kevin’s gaze – as if for approval. Even when Kevin and I were lost in conversation, KJ would shamelessly run over, get between us, grab Kevin’s face and say, “Daddy! Stop talking to Uncle George and look at me!” Instead of getting irritated, Kevin seemed to actually delight in his son’s incessant need for attention.
Reflecting on that time all these years later, I believe KJ’s dependency on his dad can model how we adults should depend on God, our heavenly Father. Perhaps it’s partly what Jesus meant when he counseled us to ‘become as little children’ (Matthew 18:3). When weak, seek God’s strength. Before making decisions, seek God’s guidance, wisdom and approval. When hurt, anxious, or lonely, we should seek God’s comfort, healing, reassurance. No matter how advanced our age, we should never outgrow our reliance on God – for we will always be his beloved children.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist. He 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 and 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 recently, George partnered with Kat Brodie, authoring Digging Deep, a book of writing prompts intended to guide readers to self-reflection and growth. Much of George’s 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
He can also be contacted via textbehind.com and gettingout.com
Note: This is seventh in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. And, sadly, not everyone who is innocent gets out. 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. This most recent entry was not actually obtained from Terry’s journal, but is a brief clip from a conversation that took place In The Cellar.
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, his memoir and co-authoring a project with his In The Cellar co-host, Mumin. Terry 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 that innocence.
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.
