Caged creatures Growl at one another. Youth, primed for life, Placing first one foot… Then another Into the cesspool of a culture Where they don’t belong. Dreams faded, jaded and defined By the moldy smell of dirty money. Old, wrinkled white men Making laws, standing judgment Over black, yellow, red, brown And poor white folks, Just wanting to live the promised dream. Spirited women searching for Lives without being chastised or despised, Pedestals unattainable. Razor topped walls shred sunlight, Wrought iron doors closet sins that never die, But compound, like interest, In a social bank account That doesn’t exist for the cardholders, Just like investors whose credit lines Are governed by dreams deferred. Ruined bodies, broken minds, The mangled souls of families that no longer exist. Friends once had, Moving on without a care Or backward glance. Behind locked doors, Cries can be heard, Young men gone bad, Ruined further, Lost manhood. Unsure women, Afraid to shower. Both taken by the legacy of decades, Years, weeks, days, hours of rotten time, Breeding wadded genocide of generations gone, By the way of soulfully flushed toilets Into the wombs of bloated sewers, After count, at the stroke of midnight…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Preston Shepherd is new to WITS, and I am glad he chose to contact us. Mr. Shepherd is a poet, striving to share the experience of being incarcerated with the younger generation, in the hope that they might avoid that path. Mr. Shepherd can be contacted at: Preston J. Shepherd BP7188 4B-1A-107 P.O. Box 1906 Tehachapi, CA 93581
Hey, I’m not sure how much love you get through the mail, brah, so I thought I’d push some your way. It’s free, so why on earth wouldn’t I give it away? You only have to pay for it, if you refuse to pass it on. Funny the truths that you’ll trip over in these little cages, right?
My name is DeLaine Jones, and I’ve been on lockdown for the last thirty-three years. I’m also a writer for WITS. I’ve been reading about you for awhile now, meaning to get at you, but only now making the time. I’m not sure if you’ve read any of my work, but I’d like to write a piece to you.
I’m not looking to gain from the war you’re fighting to take your next breath. But I don’t just look like this, I’m really black! I speak, read, watch and write through these bars, into and about a struggle that I can’t physically take part in. But even as I gasp and choke my way to hope… I see you, brah!
Back in the dayz when we were in chains on the other side of these bars, we as black people used to speak to other black people whom we had never met. Not simply as a courtesy, but from a genuine concern, a want to help someone who’s chains, pains and scars resembled our own. I personally believe that if I can in any small way, shape, or fashion, help you be heard – it is the reason for my ‘hood card’. As I started out, you’ve got to give it away to keep it coming in, brah.
I’m serving ninety years for crimes I committed when I was seventeen years old. Though I don’t have a date to die, I too know the value of hope, how being touched can alter the quality of the air you breath. That at times it’s easier to let go rather than fight to hold on for another day. That at times, we need to be held on to. Today, I’ve got ya, brah!
So, this is us passing on an old dirt road in the deep South… “What’s up blood, you good?” – meaning, if you need me so you can hide for a awhile and rest till you are able to run again – I’ve got you. I’ve got a scrap or two of food that’ll tide you over too! “You good, cuzz-in?”
I’ve only ever written about my life and the people who’ve passed through it. It’s crazy how I can hear their voices at times when I write. Has that ever happened to you? For me, it comes when people encourage me. It’s then that I hear my granny say, “We are all that we’ve got.” Only the encouragement comes from some place other than my blood. So I expect the givers of those words to give up at some point, to wake up tomorrow and they too will have ‘passed through.’
No family, I’m not in the same part of the river, but I can see you being drowned from where I’m being held down. Those words are needed, welcomed even, but as we both know this is way too much water for either of us to be tryin’ to drink!
People will try to rob you of your anger, telling you to be ‘be calm’. But as a black man in the system, ‘be calm’ is code for ‘stop struggling so that I can kill you!’
Charles, I’m not sure if I’ve ever met an innocent man before. But I do know that they hand out far too many of these sentences without revealing every bit of information that they can get their hands on, laying it out for all to see, rather than allowing the D.A. to decide what it suits his case to present. Who knows a diamond’s worth until it’s seen? Under magnification at that!
It’s the systemic contradictions and racist collusions that gall. To be willing to seek a mans’ life as payment for a life – but to be negligent in that you don’t turn over every single stone in your quest, this in respect of the very priceless substance you claim to hold so dear.
Life!
Charles, I call the collusion systemic and racist because its not an accident that you’re black nor how you’ve come to be on death row. Your legal counsel never bothered to ask basic and obvious questions that would have lead to the truth. How does anyone who’s passed the bar in this country allow testimony about a sexual assault without the challenge of a rape kit? Evidence? Examination? Something!
Your counsel stood by and let that become part of what the jury heard and a fact, agreed to but not supported by evidence. The D.A. knew it and your counsel had to know it. But it gets better!
The medical examiner shows up without the physical evidence he gathered! Doesn’t even mention it. The D.A. shows up without the only physical evidence that can suggest that you didn’t, in fact, commit the crime. The Judge allows it all to happen, and your counsel, none of the sworn officers of the Court, think that it is note-worthy? Each of their perspectives center on the same physical evidence, which happens to have been collected in a rape kit, and none of them bother to produce the only existing physical evidence? And we ‘the public’ are to simply ignore the obviously choreographed farce?! Allow you to kill a man based on the above?!
A lone woman from Virginia went to Texas and found the rape kit twenty years later. It was never lost.
Charles, I have no idea at what temperature the naiveté of white people is burned away. Many seem baffled as to why black men would be so desperate to escape the mere presence of police if they were not guilty – as if guilt justifies murder.
For some, it’s the walk on the sun that has fried the brain’s ability to believe what it’s seeing, a quick flicker of a thing that is banished in a single blink of the eye. In that glint, they reach for justification that makes them okay with themselves and cools their soul. They can then dismiss and pardon and excuse themselves.
In that flicker, they find themselves on an old dirt road in the deep South, passing a person who’s breathing hard from running. They see the pain of the other’s soul reflected in eyes they quickly turn away from, denying them to be like their own. They don’t offer the other a place to rest until they can run again, a scrap of food to tide them over. “You good, bro?” only crosses their minds.
In that encounter they find themselves face to face with themselves. Their guilt isn’t about Jim Crow or slavery or things of the past, but what happened this morning. The modern day lynching of a black man that took place in a courtroom in Texas. But hold tight, brah! Charles, be encouraged! If you need me so you can hide for a awhile and rest till you are able to run again – I’ve got you. I’ve got a scrap or two of food that’ll tide you over too!
ABOUT THE WRITER. DeLaine Jones is not only an amazing and thoughtful writer – he displayed his heart and compassion in this piece. He was never asked to write this, simply sent it in with no prompt at all.
As a WITS writer, he receives pieces from other WITS writers when possible. In that way he came to know Charles Mamou’s story, also a WITS writer. I can’t think of a better piece to post this holiday season. As always – I look forward to hearing from him again. Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 82911 Beach Access Road Umatilla, OR 97882
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
Tell me, Sis, How we supposed to get past this? I’ll never be content Talkin’ about in the past tense. And I gotta ask this… Was it my fault? Should I have kept it all in and masked it? I mean… I called you Angel, but it was only metaphorically! I didn’t mean for you to go and get a halo and wings! Ups! Down! But we never meant to say those things! I was only mad… and ignorant… I didn’t know how to act! I didn’t know how to be – a brother. I was too busy tryna be a ‘G’, Something I wasn’t! But see, I don’t wanna go get this tattoo saying R.I.P.! And I know how you felt about Ma and Kareem, But did you miss ‘em that much? That you had to leave so early, Just to feel they touch? Damn, Sis! What about us? (what about us?) What about Rob? What about T.J.? He didn’t even get enough… of you. Was it all just too much… for you? Backbone to a family? Mother and father to a son, Yet, you weren’t manly! And what about, Mama? She raised her own four, And here’s another two. Okay, more like three, we all know how Rob can be! And I don’t mean to sound selfish, But fuck that! What about ME? Do I accept this? Take it in stride? Or do I come with you? To spend a little bit of time, Standing in line? ‘Cause you know everyone makes it to the gates, But not everyone makes it inside. So, when you make it in… Vouch for me, Let God know I’m not that bad! Or at least ask for a weekend pass! So when I’m in Hell, it won’t feel like it The way I make the memories from those three days last! I just wanna come kick it with you and Beamer. I know she there! All dogs go to Heaven, They’re innocent creatures. Now, back to the subject, How do you want me to deal with this pain? Guess I’m happy to have it, ‘Cause if I would’ve went before you, Lord only knows what that would’ve done to your brain. Brain? Well, there’s some screws loose, But I would give you mine in a heartbeat. Now I wish I could just give you a heartbeat! My heartbeat! I’m feeling kinda dead inside, There’s a lot of lead inside. I would sink if I went swimmin’. I’d rather go feet first into the flames, Then to have this feeling! And what’s the correct way to mourn an Angel? I don’t know! But why the fuck did you have to be the one to teach me! You were the only one who could reach me, The only one to feed me… All that love that God blessed you with! I’m sorry for all the shit I ever stressed you with. Remember, you told me about Kareem? And I was asking, ‘Who goin’ to be next and ‘ish? I knew it wouldn’t be you! You didn’t even make the list. I coulda never guessed this ‘ish! Yeah! Yeah! I hear you now, tellin’ me not to stress the ‘ish, But that’s easier to say. My puzzle been missing pieces,
and another one just went away…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jarod Wesenberg has shared his poetry here before. He wrote this piece for someone special who he was not able to say goodbye to. Jarod doesn’t write for us often, but when he does, it is a pleasure to share his writing.
Jarod can be contacted at:
Jarod L. Wesenberg, Sr. #1830643 Michael Unit 2664 FM 2054 Tennessee Colony, TX 75886
“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
my father told me a story once it was only one of a few… you see he was a stranger a deadbeat i barely knew… anyway he ran me out the front door into a ghetto summer outside his little duplex was a waste of space on chicago’s black southside he pointed up forest avenue like a man waving a gun squinting at some invisible foe escaping on the run “your grandpa stood right here,” he said “in a wife beater stained with paint “he shouted to that midnight burglar “I may be drunk, but I sho’ shoot straight” he laughed and slapped my back he doubled over to wheeze then he stood up clutching his belly reminiscing his fond memory the ghetto sun faded to a dark, blackish hue my grandpa died a dirty drunk and so will the father i barely knew the inheritance
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I am forever impressed by the people who contact WITS. Phillip Smith is no exception, and that is because after reading about his many accomplishments, and listening to him on youtube regarding a bill he has authored, NC HB 697, advocating for others, I know I would be hard pressed to do all he has done with so few resources. I hope we get to hear more from him, and I am excited to see all he accomplishes.
Mr. Smith can be contacted at: Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
I will never forget August 30, 2006. I was on A-pod, occupying B-dayroom’s recreational section, nexus to Death Watch on Texas Death Row. It was after 5:30 p.m. and visitation was over, so I headed toward the front of the dayroom, hoping to catch a guy I affectionately called RoadDawg. His real name was Derrick Frazier, but many knew him as Hasan. Before that, he was Castro – like Fidel, Cuba’s former dictator.
Hasan never knew his father. His mother left when he was fifteen, weeks later to be found dead of a drug overdose. He had an abusive stepfather. Eventually, Hasan grew tired of the abuse and ran away. He began living in the streets and soon after was adopted by Crip gang members. Becoming a new member meant he had to get a new name, and that’s how Castro was born.
I didn’t meet Castro until after he arrived on Texas Death Row. It was then that he denounced his gang, took up religion and became a Muslim. He studied the religion relentlessly, renaming himself Hasan and following the ways of Islam. He founded two newsletters – Operation L.I.F.E. and the Texas Chapter of the Human Rights Coalition, and that is how I came to know him. Hasan took his money from that and practiced ‘zakat’ towards his fellow death row inmates, no matter what race or religion. If you didn’t have, he gave clandestinely.
When he told me he had received an execution date, he said it as if he was telling me the score to a football game that I had missed, there was no emotion – at least, none on the outside. He told me he was going to unroll his mat and pray… and he did.
Hasan had a friend from Canada that was seeing him through visits. He even had her visit me. He was visiting with her on August 30, 2006, as I stood in the dayroom waiting to get a glimpse of him, to somehow communicate my solidarity through a look I planned on giving him. Shortly after 5:30 that evening he came walking through the door, looking like a king who stared down adversaries without an ounce of fear. He hadn’t noticed me, so I called out to him. Robotically, he turned my way, and seeing me, broke free from the escorting officers’ grips and started my way. He was handcuffed, and the guards didn’t stop him. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I stuck my hands out of the bars and gave him a hug. He began to cry, tears that fell rapidly, knowing time was running out.
Then he kissed my left cheek, whispering into my ear, “RoadDawg, do me a favor. You have the best chance of any of us here. Get free. Go home. Don’t let these folks win. Promise me!”
I told him nothing. Not that I didn’t want to. I was still shocked he kissed me, and at the same time the guards started calling his name and came to retrieve him to bring him into the ‘death watch’ cell. It all happened so fast, words eluded me, and I watched my friend walk off.
That night I was standing in the door of my cell, all the lights off on the pod, when I became aware of something I was seeing. If I looked at the pod’s control picket that is made of glass, I could see the reflection of all the cells on death watch, and I turned my attention to #8 cell, which held Hasan. There he was, standing in the door with his light on. His light was on. Mine was off. I watched him for a few hours. He didn’t move once. Through the years I wondered what he was looking at. Was he soaking in his last hours of life as he looked out in the dark jungle of iron bars and steel gates? Trying to understand how he came to his final moments? Was he waiting and hoping for a miracle? Or was he wondering what was I doing standing in my cell’s door in the dark? Did he see me? Eventually, I went to lay down. I said a prayer for my friend and would get up to come to the door every so often only to see him still standing there.
Hasan left at 7:40 a.m. for his last few hours of visitation with his friend from Canada. I also was told that an aunt came to see him. He never came back.
When they pronounced him dead a little after 6:30 that evening, I cried, unconsciously holding the cheek he’d kissed. My friend was the epitome of change, strength, and courage. I will never forget that about him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is the first place winner of our most recent writing contest. Although a long-time writer for WITS, he rarely enters our contests. I’m glad he did. Mr. Mamou has always maintained his innocence, and after extensive research into his case, WITS actively advocates for him. If you would like to know more about his case and sign a letter requesting an investigation, please add your name to his petition.
Charles Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
When my ex-wife sent me divorce papers, it was a hard day. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in more than three years, and I was hurt she had broken her promise before God. But I came to understand… eventually. I was unable to free myself from this hell after nine years of marriage. I’m happy to have been touched by that woman, to have breathed that air. I can’t be mad.
Food, water and touch – I don’t care who you are, where you come from, or what your socio-economic status might be, those are vital to living. Time in prison is meant to deprive you of touch, being loved. It’s meant to cut others off from confirming your worth and value despite your faults.
I first started getting locked up when I was about twelve. Truancy was a crime that they put kids in a cage for. Back then it was my grandmother’s touch that mattered, her showing up to say, “That one over there? You can’t have him! I want him back!” Value. Worth was set.
I didn’t know what it was to condition someone back then, purgatory. It wasn’t until I had served three and a half years on twenty-three hour a day lockdown, one hour out per day, and found myself adapting that I panicked. I was a mess when I got out. I still have trouble being in large crowds. I had to go to Toastmasters to regain the confidence of speech. To this day, my reactions to conflict tend too violent at first blush. It’s hard to shake years of depression and the ‘you ain’t worth shit!’ mentality of ‘fuck it!’ after that much time of having no contact with anyone. I’ve gone up to ten years without family or friends, without touch.
I’ve lived most of my life on lockdown, over more than twenty years total. It’s done things to my mind and spirit, killed parts of me in an isolated cage, witnessed only by God and myself. Vital pieces of me the young man didn’t know that the old man would need, the two of us at war over what shape or form my soul, my person, would eventually be. Deprivation of touch is an old slavery tool, tried and true, meant to reshape the human spirit.
It’s a hell of a thing to question your worth because of conditions, situations and an environment designed to deprive you of an affirming touch. People are paid to make this happen?
I’m guilty, you say? I agree, I am. I’m also remorseful, grateful, humbled, able and flawed. I’m broken but not destroyed, and I’m worthy of more than judgment and fear. I’m so much more than guilty. I’m a man in need of a woman’s touch.
Many who are far more eloquent than I have written about the power of contact and connection, but I’ve been curled up on my bunk in tears for lack of her. That need has broken my heart in a hundred ways, as I call out to God for her touch, only to curse Him for not moving fast enough! I’ve had a thousand conversations designed to return love to her, only to hear myself speaking out loud to no one I’ve ever met or knew to be real, a conversation based on a freedom that may never be returned to me, that I may never recapture.
A product of this battle is an intense focus on myself to the exclusion of others, withdrawing into my own pain and rejection, knowing to touch or be touched by another comes at a great risk, much like a child punished for his love of candy bars to the point that he fears the glorious taste of chocolate. A man adrift in a sea, fearing the dry, sandy shore will not return his feet once they are covered.
Just as fear and desperation are the greatest of motivators, hope and desire are the coinage used to barter passage from the what was of yesterday to the dream board of tomorrow, and all you have to build on is the now – this moment of contact, of being touched.
I met her through a friend, by all accounts a beautiful soul, person and woman. Brave and courageous beyond believe, she flung herself forward with an open heart, one broken by some who were forever cutting the wheel in a game of chicken when she has always too much of a woman to bluff. Then, as such stories go, she’d blame herself for not being enough. It’s crazy the way the brave are willing to carry the faults of others as their own, despite the facts.
Loneliness? Depression? Sure, we’ve both seen those, but as long as I’m 100% the man in her life and she fills mine to the brim with her touch, we’ll change the quality of the air in this hell we find ourselves in.
Is it enough to simply survive the hardships of life? My world is a place of hot ash and fire, metal and concrete. The real danger for her is that I’ll never see freedom. She could spend the rest of her life sharing breath with a man she can never reach out to in the middle of the night. But do I be the man she needs in her life, tempt her, only to then reject her in the name of sparing her the ‘possibility’ of future pain? At the expense of her touch in my life? Is that a noble sacrifice or me fearing the sand won’t give my feet back?
Everything in life should be insurable! There are too few guarantees in this world. Identify who you like and need, and fight longer and harder than anyone else for who you must have. Give your all to see that someone grow and prosper, as they tend the same garden in your life. This is how you wed to someone, know and become known by someone. Shared contact. Touch.
Sharing dark moments of my life on paper gives someone else permission that was never needed to clench their fist or soften their hearts – or both. For some, its teeth and claws, for others, its writs and laws, maybe a business plan, but for yet others – it’s a helping hand to one not your kind, color or even your friend, because trouble is a promise and nobody gets it right every time.
ABOUT THE WRITER. DeLaine Jones has, once again, risen to the occasion. He his our second place writing contest winner. He is a great talent, and we are honored to be able to share his work here. As always – I look forward to hearing from him again.
Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 82911 Beach Access Road Umatilla, OR 97882
‘White privilege’ was something she admits she had her entire life, but she didn’t realize it until a few years ago, not until all the movements that took place to bring attention to mistreatment of black and brown people. She wanted to help, do something, speak up and fight for the voiceless and those whose voices were heard – but ignored. She wanted to get involved, but she didn’t know where to begin or how to start her journey.
She didn’t have to, but she took the initiative to take the first step. She reached out to a church that connects inmates with positive people on the outside willing to get to know them without judgment, and eventually she became my penpal.
She had found a passion for change, and she shared that with those she knew, though many didn’t understand or support her. Everyone thought she was crazy for wanting to help people in prison, but she still reached out to me, determined to put light on what she saw as an unfair justice system that often sees guilt in the color of your skin.
She took the time to read about my case and the fifteen to thirty year sentence I was given for aiding and abetting, for being present when a crime took place, but not actually participating in a crime. She didn’t have to, but she chose to speak up and help fight for my freedom – or at least bring attention to it. She posted on social media sites and talked to advocates about my story. People she knew were embarrassed that she posted about me and knew people in prison. The people closest to her were against her, but she didn’t give up on me.
It was the first time in nine years of incarceration I felt hope again and believed someone cared even without actually ‘knowing’ me. She helped me to fight for my life and file appeals again even though I had already given up. She could have lost people close to her, but she stood up for something, against all odds, and showed true grit.
I ended up getting my federal appeal approved, and my penpal will forever have had an impact on my life.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Nero is our third place writing contest winner. This is only our second post by Tevin, and I am really glad to see him here for the contest. He wrote exactly to the prompt, and it does take a lot of courage and grit to stand true to your convictions when your peers see things differently. Curiosity had me look up his case – and I have to agree with his penpal. It was a very harsh sentence.
Tevin Nero can be contacted at: Tevin Nero #792000 Alger Correctional Facility N6141 Industrial Park Drive Munising, MI 49862
“We are all that we’ve got! If I don’t do for you, who else will? The world? They wouldn’t piss down your throat if your guts were on fire!”
Those were words my normally silent maternal grandmother lived by. I’ve oft sat in my cell and wondered at the cruelty – the experiences – she must have endured. What had been done to that sweet southern girl to bring such a harsh reality? And had those deeds matriculated into the truths that colored my thoughts and actions, the reality of my life thus far? If you are what you eat – how about what you’re fed?
My grandmother didn’t give birth to my uncles Benni and Squeaky (Victor and Richard, respectfully), but she raised, loved, fed, nursed, and fought for them, just as she did her own. They slept in the same beds, bathed in the same tubs, were hugged by the same arms, but I imagine it was tough for them. Their birth mom was a heroin addict who couldn’t care for them but for her addiction. Their father was the father of five of my grandmother’s eleven children.
Now, my Uncle Benni was slightly ‘swish’ in his gayness. He was called ‘Benni’ after the classic Sir Elton John song, Bennie and the Jets. Growing up, he was more apt to be found with his sisters doing each other’s hair rather than running with his brothers. It was braids, barrettes, and clothes verses bats, balls and the hustle of the streets with brothers who clowned, taunted, jeered, and refused to show love.
“We are all that we’ve got!”
I always loved my Unc. Yeah, he was gay, a bad thing from the way it was thrown in his face, but I didn’t know what that was. All I knew was that he loved us and paid attention to us. I remember once seeing the flash of anger in his eyes upon realizing we hadn’t been anywhere since the last time we saw him – five and a half months earlier.
He grabbed a newspaper and in a flurry of ironing, braiding, and cocoa butter, we were off on some adventure – the movies, a radio sponsored jam session in a far away park, the carnival, the swap meet. Hot lines, jojo fries, cold cream sodas!
I was still just a short stack when my lil’ sister and I heard the knock at the front door at 2 a.m. one night. We were still young enough to share a bed. Then we heard the familiar voice that had us out of that bed in a flash! Looking in the window, my Uncle Benni told us to open the door. Seeing him through the window, we didn’t bother to turn on the lights in our excitement, and when we opened the door, there was snow on the ground and the air was sharp. My grandmother sharply asked who we’d let in her house at that hour, and Unc answered to keep us out of trouble.
“It’s just Benni, Mommy, I lost my key,” he slurred by way of explanation.
We didn’t care that he was drunk. He often came home that way. Benni’s lifestyle saw him in a lot of bars and gay clubs. He was a performer. He used to dress up like Diana Ross and sing in shows. Us kids had found photos in the single bag that he kept in an upstairs closet as if it were his refusal to give up on a people who didn’t really want him around – not the gay version.
So, he lived his life mostly apart from us. We had no idea where or how he lived, other than the shows, no idea who his friends or loves were. We just knew he could vogue and dance his ass off.
“If we don’t do for each other, who else will?”
My sister and I took him by the hands and guided him up the stairs in the dark, where he changed into his floral muumuu and climbed into our bed. Just as he’d shown up without warning, Unc often left in the same fashion, so we always wanted to keep him close. The rank alcohol smell was a price we’d pay, willingly just to keep the magic of him near.
But when the two of us climbed into bed next to his already sleeping form, it was wet! Was he so drunk he’d peed the bed?! Finally, we turned on the lights in the room and were greeted by the horror of blood! There were pools of it where he’d stood and sat, hand prints on walls and dressers where he’d braced himself. Blood pooled around his still body and made the thin gown stick to his slender frame.
We tried to wake him, but he was far beyond our childish ability to help or revive him. We didn’t know what it was to be gay, or why it was bad, but we’d seen people die before. Uncle Benni was dying.
“The world!? The world don’t give a damn about you. They wouldn’t piss down your throat if your guts were on fire!”
It seems that two guys accosted him outside of a gay bar with large knives, thinking that intoxication and queer equaled soft, easy money. They call it ‘rolling fags’. They were wrong. Benni still had a bloody bottle opener in his pocket and a blood soaked wad of cash, two hundred and eighty some odd dollars. You see, he’d promised my sister and I that he’d take us to the carnival on the waterfront and didn’t want to let us down.
He came home from the hospital with bandages everywhere and more than three hundred stitches. My grandmother had his brothers place him on a couch she’d made up for him in the living room. She walked him to the bath when he needed, changed his bandages, and took care of him like he was who he was – her child.
My other uncles were proud of him, and I noticed that their jokes included him after that. Things had changed. The rest of the family could see that there was more – a lot more – than being gay to the loved one lying on the couch all cut up. It’s a shame he had to be cut open that bad for them to see what was inside, how special he was to us.
Victor ‘Benni’ Deloney would pass away in his sleep from pneumonia in a room full of family and friends, none of which ever knew him. I got this time and never got the chance to say good-bye. I have no idea just where his spirit is today, but I promise that he’s putting on one hell of a show.
I also have no idea why we, with all our flaws, sins and contradictions, are so quick to place conditions and labels on those we set out to love, as though who someone else is constitutes an attack on us. My glory and my sins are my own.
I don’t think my uncle Benni was looking for agreement when he would stay away for so long, alone in the world. I remember the force of his smile on that couch. He loved his family who loved him back, at least on that day. No, I think he stayed away looking for clan, kin, la familia. He tramped home on that cold winter’s night so he could die among his people because we were all he had. I was happy we could all be there for him. If not us, then who? I just hope we were enough, that he knew he was more than that for my sister and me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Jones has never sent in anything I didn’t truly love, his talent evident in everything he writes. I hope he compiles all of his memories into a book one day – I would buy it. He paints pictures with his words, sharing his life like an open book. I always look forward to the next piece of mail with his name on it .
Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 82911 Beach Access Road Umatilla, OR 97882
