Category Archives: Views From The Inside

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Surviving The Day!

Leave a comment

I’ve been on Texas death row since November, 1999, and was first held with the others at the ‘old death row housing’, Ellis One Unit, that provided group recreation, church services, work programs – camaraderie.  There was a different vibe then.  Sure, men were still being led like sheep to the slaughter in record numbers, and sure, a few were innocent, some wrongly convicted and many guilty, but the deprivation of social and human interaction in all forms was not as glaring then because we were allowed to play four-on-four basketball games outdoors, able to share hugs with one another, able to lean on one another when one had some bad news and needed a shoulder to cry on, and we were able to pray in groups.  Some sat around tables playing card games, chess, or just sat in silence watching a movie or sports on ESPN.  In no way am I exulting that existence, because I can never be content as long as I am being held in chains.  I’m innocent.  But the reality of living at Ellis during that time was ‘doable’.  Man was not alone.

March, 2000, everything changed, including death row’s location and current housing.  From the moment we arrived on Polunsky Unit we were handcuffed and chained, from our ankles to our stomach to our hands by one long chain, and ordered off the heavily armed buses and stripped nude for the whole world to see.  That became the moment I knew everything was different.

We were placed in single man cells on sections that held fourteen cells per each of the six sections that encased one of six pods.  Gone were work programs, group recreation, church services and all forms of physical contact that we once enjoyed.  Morale was so low, it could be sensed within the thickness of the silence.  Suicides and suicide attempts spiked that first year.  A black, middle-aged inmate from Dallas, Clark, started shouting madly, daily, as if he was Paul Revere, saying things like, “In five years this place will be a place of madness!”  Many laughed, thinking him already mad. 

Clark and three others would die within the first five-hundred days, from unknown natural causes. They simply dropped dead in their cells.  Men as young as 26 and as old as 51 were now remembered as ‘how did they die’.  Though many surmised their depressive stress became too much to bear. 

As time passed, men started self-mutilating, one cutting his penis off and throwing it out of his cell.  Another, so consumed with religious material, set himself on fire.  One man stabbed himself in the jugular and made not a sound.  Before he bled out, he wrote, ‘I’m innocent’, in his own blood on the wall.  The following day, the Courts granted him a stay to look into his claims, to no avail.  One man ate his own eye, then ate the other.  He said it tasted like chicken.  Many hung themselves.  A few started eating their own feces.  An overwhelming number sought help from the mental health department which provided them with experimental psychiatric drugs that kept them in a nebulous, zombie-like state, in which they slept all day and could not function in a coherent manner.  Inmate-friends at Ellis became inmate-enemies on Polunsky.  Staff and inmate assaults rose substantially.  The ugly reality the aftermath, when loneliness became dictator.

Clark’s prophetic words soon became a beacon to the fact that man crumbles from the starvation of physical interaction.

I’m not exempt from suicidal thoughts, the cancer known as depression swallowing me whole from time-to-time, more often than I care to dwell on.  At times I’m consumed with thoughts of dyeing, being murdered, never getting free again and never getting another chance to feel the warm lips of a lover.  Will I ever again salivate over the seasonings and texture of a home cooked meal from my mother?  Who says insanity is all that bad?  My mind does play tricks on me. 

I want to be free.  My freedom was molested from me with false allegations, and I struggle every moment to exist within these solitary confines, my survival not based on my courage or strength, but on those who write me, encourage me and love me unconditionally.  I survive for them.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I’m out of appeals and the only step left is to get an execution date.  That notion weighs heavily on me, but I have given my friends a promise to continue to be me until my soul is liberated from the manacles of my flesh. 

Know this – I love you.  Doesn’t matter if you hate me or support me.  None of it matters.  For without love, we all cease to survive the day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence. For information on his case, and to support and share his story, follow on Facebook at – Charles Mamou – How Wrongful Convictions Are Made. You can also read all the information specific to his case at Charles Mamou on this site.

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

Writing By Charles Mamou

Loading

Views From The Inside

Karlee Ann

Leave a comment

She was four foot eleven, Italian,
And the biggest liar I’ve ever known.
She drank Burnett’s Pink Lemonade Vodka
And liked to be choked during sex.
At sixteen she’d slit her wrists
When she found her mother’s body
On the kitchen floor. It was blue
And as cold as ice, she said.
She was  liar and a whore
Who had no respect for herself,
Or anyone else, and hadn’t a
Single principle or moral to her name
But I loved her,
And I miss her
A lot.
She was only twenty-two
When she died.
I keep her picture on the wall
Of my cell
And tell her every morning
That I love her.
I know if I had been out there
That I could have saved her.
I also know that if I had been out there
I wouldn’t have.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. Although he doesn’t send in his work often, I always look forward to reading his mail. He recently mentioned trying his hand at songwriting, and I have no doubt he will succeed.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

Loading

LWOP, Views From The Inside

The Inevitable Is Happening

Leave a comment

I would be lying if I didn’t say part of me fears this may be the end of the world as we know it.  We are all in the grip of COVID-19.

I’m currently housed at Gus Harrison Correctional Facility in Adrian, Michigan, and at the time of this writing, there are no positive cases at this facility.  However, there have been cases in almost every prison around this area.  It’s inevitable for the virus to make its way here.   Not only that, on April 7, 2020, the MDOC decided to bring fifty prisoners to this facility who had tested positive for COVID-19 and were supposedly recovering.  While the prisoners are in an isolated part of the prison and administrators claim they no longer have the coronavirus, this decision only adds to the anxiety and uncertainty – adds to the fear that comes with this pandemic.

I fear for my life here.   I fear our overseers contracting the disease and spreading it to those of us on the inside.  Officers are angry the administration brought in once infected prisoners, and I’ve heard that some have said if they were to contract the virus, they were going to give it to us.  

I fear losing a loved one.                             

I fear my underlying illness preventing me from fighting off the virus if I were to contract it.

I fear the impact the coronavirus is having on Black and Brown communities.  

My worst fear, though, has always been dying in prison, and now that this disease is in such close proximity to me, I feel I am staring at death.   Why would the MDOC bring prisoners who were infected to one of the only prisons that doesn’t have any cases?  Since the COVID-19 outbreak there hasn’t been one single case reported in Lenawee County, which is where this facility is located.   Yet – as I write these words, I was just informed two prisoners in Level 1 of this prison were put in segregation with temperatures of 104° and  men in their cubes have fevers.  The inevitable is happening.  COVID-19 is closing in on me.  I hope my fear of dying in prison doesn’t start closing in on me next.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “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 can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Coleridge’s Middle Finger

1 Comment

Sharing the name of the apartment complex around it, at perhaps a quarter mile long, Coleridge Road rammed straight through the projects.   It was the crossbar between two semi-parallel streets that offered alternate routes to similar destinations, though their side roads led to completely different ends.  The front one was the busy mainstream people took when speeding to Asheboro’s white or blue collar districts.  People motoring on it clearly had somewhere to be, somewhere to go, something to do.  It was also a geographical cordon and dangerous to cross – nobody wanted to slow or stop.  That intersection saw a lot of accidents.  One car attempting to cross it from Coleridge got chopped in half by an SUV.

The rear street was lazier, more meandering and accommodating, but presented dangers of its own.  It veined into Asheboro’s darker areas where gunshots and crack pipes left blooming but distinctive scents in the air.  Like many of its occupants, even the projects back there went only by a nickname, ‘Low Rent’, which spoke to a key feature of their character.  Life itself got cheaper the deeper one went.

Like a giant middle finger flipping up from Coleridge Road into the heart of the complex, Kemp Boulevard looped about 100 yards uphill, past my apartment, where two friends and I stood sweating on a corner sidewalk. We shared a cigarette and peered downhill toward one of the other parking lots to pinpoint the tinny music that had pulled us outside to the curb – a rarely seen ice cream truck.  From this distance, the kids resembled roaches as they scampered toward the sugar.  Heatwaves shimmered above the asphalt, creating what appeared to be a mirage – an oasis or the birth of a metaphor for hope. Or both.

We wondered how many times it’d visit before somebody robbed it.  Then we wondered whether we could trick the vendor into handing us one orange sherbet, one rainbow push-pop, and one Mickey Mouse as we pretended to dig in our pockets for money.   It was 1993, hot as hell, and we were twelve and broke.

“They’d probably hand it to you… but not us,” J, the shortest but fastest of us said, meaning – ‘You’re not black’.  Puff nodded his agreement, and they both grinned.  I knew the look.  It teased that I looked soft, innocent – untested.

“Oh, hell, nah!  I’ve done more stuff than both of ya’ll!”  I cited the fights, the stealing, the broken windows and sliced car tires.  I was the most prolific.

“Well, you the one ain’t been to training school,” said Puff, the strongest fighter in our age bracket.  He hit the dwindling cigarette.

“Only ‘cause I ain’t got caught like y’all.”  The yet was implicit.  I felt uneasy.   We all knew prison was our inevitable destination.  It was a fact of life in the projects, the only life we knew how to live. Around Coleridge, people didn’t dream of being doctors or lawyers or firemen… if they dreamed at all.

We all got quiet.  I stubbed the cigarette butt. The ice cream truck turned onto Kemp, getting louder as it chugged up the hill and horseshoed around the bend.  It became a big, boxy, yellowish riot of glittery stickers and calliopean music as it stopped in front of us.  Suddenly we were jostled by a dozen excited children waving crumpled dollar bills or punching a fistful of loose change at the vendor.

My friends and I glanced at each other; they silently boosted me to attempt a free ice cream, but when I looked up, the vendor locked eyes with me and smiled.  After a second he scowled and shook his head hard, as if to warn me, ‘Don’t you fuckin’ try it kid’.   So I didn’t.

When he finally slammed and locked the serving window and pulled away from the curb, my friends and I gave chase and hopped onto the rear bumper. We clung to the panel-door seams and jumped up and down to bounce the truck, letting the driver know we were there, letting him feel our presence. Being seen and felt is its own sort of ice cream.  It wasn’t slowing before turning back onto Coleridge, so rather than be slung off, we hopped off and hit the ground running. We scooped up rocks and thunked them off the truck’s back, laughing as it squealed its tires to gather speed toward the front street.

Though it soon disappeared, we still heard its discomfiting moon music a few moments more, until even that was gone, leaving a sticky residue in our hearts. Ice cream dreams never lasted long in Coleridge.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson share his writing here, he was also a contributor to Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.

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

Loading

Views From The Inside

Mom-Mom

Leave a comment

I had come home late after a long weekend of
drinking and wondering the streets.  The house was dark.
I looked in on you and you were in bed
so I went to bed as well.  Deep in a dream
I could hear the phone ringing on the end table.
I didn’t remember there being a phone on
the end table.  But there was, and it was ringing.
With my eyes still shut, I felt around until
I found the phone and put it to my ear:
“Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked,
in a quick, hushed voice.  You sounded far away.
“Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone.
I could hear the fear and desperation
in your voice.  I was confused and scared,
I asked you where you were and you said that
you didn’t know.  You started to cry.
I told you to look around you and tell me
what you saw.  You said that it was dark and
you couldn’t see anything.  I didn’t
understand.  I thought to ask you whose phone
you were using, but you cut me off, and,
all of these years later, I can still hear
you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away.
When I awoke it was still dark outside and
as I walked down the hall to check on you
again, I knew.  Your room was pitch black, and I
was afraid to turn on the light because I knew
that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want
you to go. I walked over to your bedside and
gently touched your face.  It was cold.  You’d been
gone for hours, but were still there.  Did you not know
that you’d passed?  Were you waiting for me
to come home? Did you lose your way?  Or,
is that really all that awaits us?  I’ve heard
others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment;
of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above
your body as your entire life replays
itself before you; of deceased loved ones,
gathered around, telling you to go back,
that there’s still work to be done amongst the living.
I hope that these things prove true, for them,
but for me, I know in  my heart that when I die
it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be
cold.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

Loading

Views From The Inside, Writing Contests

Writing Contest – Message To A Younger You

Leave a comment

There’s a woman I know who plays Devil’s advocate for me.  She’s a skeptic – and I am forever grateful for her perspective.  She recently asked,  “What would ‘they’ have done differently?”  That led to a conversation about a previous post – A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self. 

Walk In Those Shoes receives those types of letters a lot.  Things happen in life, paths take us places and without the insight that comes with decades of living – choices are made that alter lives.  I lived through those years and made my share of wrong choices.  I got lucky – or blessed.  I’ve watched the next generation play with fire.  ‘Use’ a little.  Carry ‘that’ for protection.  Go to that ‘place’ – because they are invincible. Nothing can go wrong.  But plans sometimes go awry. 

That’s the theme of this writing contest:  If you could drop a piece of paper, a message, a letter in the dresser drawer of your younger self – what would it say?  I say it all the time – be vulnerable.  That may mean writing about your own insecurities. 

As always – only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate. 

We can’t accept anything that has been previously published.

Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit.  Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.

Entries should be 1,000 words or less.

Submissions can be handwritten.

As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.

PRIZES: 

First Place:  $75
Second Place:  $50
Third Place:  $25

DEADLINE:  May 31, 2020.  Decisions will be posted on or before July 10, 2020.

MAILING ADDRESS:

Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia  23255

As always – I’m excited to see what comes in.

Loading

LWOP, Views From The Inside

Field Trip Reflections…

2 Comments

When the officer woke me at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the one hour ride to Duane L. Waters Health Center, I had to mentally prepare myself for what I knew I would see.  I’ve been there before, and I knew death would be there, up close and personal.  It’s not unusual to see a dying prisoner being moved around the facility. 

Duane L. Waters Health Center is the MDOC’s prison hospital, located in Jackson, Michigan.  Every prisoner dreads going there – partly because of the ‘healthcare’ and partly because the building itself reeks of death.  It’s also where they house the hospice prisoners.  I had to go today for a hearing test for the loss of hearing in my left ear.  I’ve been dealing with it for almost a year, and today was my day to go to DLW. 

As I entered the building in shackles, the foul smell of human suffering and deterioration immediately filled my nostrils and the torment of death by incarceration filled my body.  After being unshackled by the transporting officer, I made my way to the crowded waiting area, where I saw a man I have been serving time with for years walk by.  The sight of him shook me to my core.  All that was left was a shell.  The man I knew had deteriorated, and I could see death practically knocking on his door.  I hadn’t prepared myself to see someone I knew in such bad shape.

The wait can be lengthy at DLW, but the sight of the old head in such bad shape made the couple hours feel like forever.  He’s me.  I’m serving life without the possibility of parole.  I’m sentenced  to die by incarceration.  I’m 39, and to most, that’s young.  But I’m twenty-one years in on a sentence of forever, and I can’t help but notice my health deteriorating.  I think every prisoner’s worst fear is dying in prison, but for those of us serving LWOP in Michigan – we will probably die at DLW. 

While I was waiting, thinking about what I’d just seen, another guy I knew entered the waiting area.  He works in the hospice unit.  He told me he recently sat with one of the old heads I had a lot of love for – as he died.    

So, here I am in the wee hours, reflecting on a day in which I saw my reality – what the final days of death by incarceration look like.  Death is promised to everyone, and for those of us whose worst fears come true and we die in this place, it will be alone in a dark prison hospital like the one I saw today.  Over the last six months six men I have been doing time with died after serving decades in prison.

Today’s trip replays and thoughts run rampant in my mind, preventing sleep as I stare at the concrete walls of my cage.  My pain is real –  and it gets realer by the second…
by the minute…
by the hour…
by the day…
by the week…
by the month…
by the year…

by the decade.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “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 can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Kenny, A Mosaic

Leave a comment

“…to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than… to blossom.” – Anais Nin

To many, Kenny’s a nobody – which is why he wanted to shine, to prove them wrong. 

Would that I could share my light with Kenny, give him another chance

To fit in, to be normal.  Since I can’t, I will share Kenny’s light with you,

Break it into wafers.

Death Row, Death Throws…

We slam, we scream, we fling ourselves against prison’s cosmic ennui.

We remember life from before, our memories another spectrum of light.

The texture of some memories never change; these lights refuse to go

Quietly into that goodnight.

Sometimes a soul’s meat-vehicle remains behind long after the light

Has gone.  Kenny remembers the moment his light divorced his body,

Remembers when it tore itself free – remembers it half as action sequence,

Half as background requiem for a dream.  His bodily

Memory knit together with eye-witness testimony, here tells

You his story, sings you a history, a chorus of blood sung

With words twinkling in air like asterisks.  It was preceded

By a blinding flash of light, an insight that had sounded green,
As in the moment is ripe, as in… GO.

We all pass with varying degrees of light.

Blossom…

Perhaps the idea began as a flower – it felt like one

At the time. One of those pretty, yellow-faced ones

With white petals.  Aster.  Or perhaps it started as a small star-

Like flame, a sad blue torch of forked flower in the brain.

A risky idea one might symbolize in writing:  *.  An asterisk

Indicated omission ((of common sense?)), redaction, doubtful matters.

Portents…

–aster:  a pejorative suffix denoting something that imperfectly mimics

The true thing – a bootlegged or knock-off version, for example.

–aster is also a combining form meaning ‘star’, which implies

Anyone can be a star – anyone can shine like the popular guys

Simply by stamping aster onto their chest, by declaring, “Let me

Be light!” like in Genesis.

“dis” is a prefix meaning asunder, part, away or having a negative

Reversing force, as in disability.  As in disaster, which is an unfavorable

Aspect of a star, emblazoned red, as in:  Kenny, the stars do not fucking

Align.  As in:  Kenny, this will rip your asunder, break you apart, and

Your ‘you’ will go away… but Kenny refused to see this light.

Men were slamming bone-yellow dominoes into stainless steel 4-way tables,

Hollering multiples of five and clattering their bones into position.  Like built-in

Bleachers, three blocky 18-inch deep steps cut into the rim of the day-

Room’s brownish-gray concrete floor, leading down to the lower cells.

Playing follow-the-leader exercises, acrobatic men would balance

On the top-step’s ledge, lean out with upsweeping arms – then leap

To grab the tier’s floor, to do pull-ups or show-off by monkeying

Up, once their bodies stopped wobbling.  Kenny used to watch them,

Wishing upon those stars…

In Carnations, A Cautionary Tale…

Slow, fleshy red haloes spread

And overlap like Venn diagrams laid on cement,

Petaling around Kenny’s blank comatose face

As a silken illustration of the relationship

Between grace and ground.

Soundgarden…

Light is such a fickle thing.  Kenny had tried to swing for it with a tottering

Leap.                       There was a split-second grace period. *****:

In linguistics, asterisks mark an utterance that would be censored

By native speakers of the language.  Generally a fall

From grace is blackhole – interesting, especially when it’s a superstar.

We anticipate a comeback…                     but

With us mundane asters, there is no coming back.  There

Is just a discordant **          *          ***

                     ***     **               *

       **           **    burst of asterisks that flap in the air

Like Kenny’s arms, or a flood of cusswords at startled bus stop pigeons.

Then silence.

The very air becomes electric with prayer, or JESUS… the name

Itself a form          of intercession.  Then a meaty thud

And a terrible revelation

Of Kenny’s horror obscurus, his brain a pinkish-gray

Light leaking from Kenny, after aster in brain, after Kenny-aster

On air, after air on bone, after bone on stone.  Thunk, crack,

The genesis of a ravaged lack of all it means to be human.  A shadow

Grows from a length of gauze wrapped round and round

A star.                                      That was in ’97.

My dawg, his dog…

Every few minutes Kenny’s dementia seems to chase down his recent

History and tear chunks from its ass.  I call Kenny my ninja, since

I’m Asian.  His cane we call the Cadillac to convert limpin’ to

Pimpin; his wheelchair the Escalade for which I made a cardboard

Vanity plate that dangles from its back – to infuse his disability

With style, luxury, richness.  With privilege, with ease.  Nowadays

He chuckles and calls himself stuntman stumbles (in his garbled drawl)

Or Stag Lee, a fitting confusion of Bruce Lee, “staggering,” and Stan

Lee the Marvel creator.  Shit’s funny, but shit ain’t funny funny. 

Dark Matter…

The brain is a self-contained universe made up mostly of star-shaped

Cells:  astrocytes, billions and billions of them, crackle with magic energy.

Hidden in blackness, the brain explodes with asterisks of thought.

It is the seat of language, music, motion… personality.  A lump

Of grace that will shine until we die, but… sometimes

Stars flicker and wink out, entire galaxies have power outages,

And the wrinkled surface of the deep becomes void:  dementia

Steals the self.  It would be simpler if one just vanished

The sun – not this gradual decay into the sightless realm where darkness is

                awake upon the dark.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice here. He has incredible insight and actually advised WITS in certain aspects of our organization, for which we are very grateful. Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

Loading

Views From The Inside

My Life

1 Comment

Born a ghetto child,
‘9th Ward’.
Why do I smile?
I still have dreams,
Owning a house on Miami Beach.
I had two close homies back in ’94,
But now both are deceased.
Look in my eyes,
See what I see.
Trust me,
It’s not pretty.
This is raw, reality T.V.
Up-close and personal.
My sights set
On the finish line,
But I’m so far behind.
I’m damn near outta time.
What is life really?
Do I have purpose here?
I thought I did
As a kid
Until my first crack sale
Down in New Orleans.
Being the crack dealer
And not the crack fiend
Was my ‘Amerikkkan Dream’.
Go ahead and laugh!
I ain’t mad.
But I am mad
I grew up without a Dad.
I’m sad because Dude ain’t never tried
And I’m confused because Dude is still alive.
Hell no, I ain’t gonna cry!
I’ve been through worse
Shot 3 times with a 9.
Laid in the hospital bed 6 days
Almost dead,
IV’s and nose tubes.
The first 4 days I didn’t have a clue
Who was you.
So come on
Walk in my shoes for only 1 day.
I wish you would.
Nah, young Homie,
I don’t think you could!
Let me tell you
Growin’ up in the hood
Ain’t all good.
Forget about dat shit
Your favorite rapper say in his song.
For this right here is a REAL LIFE POEM!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Mr. La Caze – A.K.A. PrimeTime – was moved off Death Row not long ago, and he continues to maintain his innocence. His writing feels deeply genuine to this reader, and I hope to see more. Rogers LaCaze can be contacted at:
Rogers LaCaze, Sr. #356705
CBB L/L L.S.P.
Angola, La. 70712

Loading

Views From The Inside

Oh, To Have A White Picket Fence…

8 Comments

Most of my life I tried to rationalize my circumstances, believing things would be different if I had been given the ‘White Picket Fence’ dream.  Instead – I’m a product of my environment.  I grew up in a community plagued by gangs, violence, drugs, and HIV/AIDS.  It wasn’t until I met my friend, Scott Moore, I was able to accept the path I carved out for myself.

Scott literally had a white picket fence around his home, a home fully paid for by his thirtieth birthday. He married a preacher’s daughter, and they have three beautiful children.  His grandparents owned a farm, and his eyes light up when he shows me photos of riding horses with his big brother.  He lived a life I wish I had, and yet he’s two cells away in this hellhole we call prison.  I didn’t understand why.

It wasn’t until the day I sat listening to one of his stories about being a cable guy in East St. Louis that I found the courage to ask how he ended up in this place.

“Well, Alex,” he said, “Heroin is how I got here.”

It all started when he was just a kid, and his parents got divorced.  His older brother processed the divorce with great difficulty.  Scott was able to bury his feelings, but his brother turned to drugs, and it led to an opiate addiction.  While his brother was entering in and out of prison, Scott was able to finish high school and found a high-paying job.  He kept it together on the surface, believing he had overcome his parents’ divorce, and he couldn’t empathize with his brother.  He would even go out of his way to put him down, hoping it would help him get his act together.

Things were fine in Scott’s life until one day when he went to visit his mom at her home.  He found her severely wounded and his brother dead in the basement.  It’s easy to see when Scott talks of this storm in his life, that it haunts him.  After he dialed 911 he grabbed his brother’s pills, and his own addiction began. 

He watched his mother have three surgeries on her brain and steel plates inserted to support the damage to her skull. The pills had a numbing effect, and he took them to keep his heart from continuing to ache. When his mother came out of that first surgery, he was the one who had to explain to her that her oldest child was no longer alive.

The pills led to abusing heroin because it was easier and cheaper to score, and his life spiraled out of control. He alienated himself from his family, and the relationship he had with his wife and kids suffered.  He lost his job.  Eventually, he was arrested for first degree murder in Madison County.

I’ve been around plenty of heroin addicts, but Scott is not a person who fits the criteria of the average addict.  Instead, I see someone who did not know how to deal with a crisis and sought to remedy it the way his brother did, a brother he could no longer turn to.  I see someone trying to sweep up the remaining pieces of his life by righting his wrongs.  I see someone who longs to be with what’s left of his family.  I see a man truly sorry for the choices he made. 

Scott is not only a brother to me and our close knit group of friends, he’s also a mentor in the beloved community we are building within these walls.  When any of us are down, he’s able to lift us up with his light-hearted nature and wealth of pop culture knowledge. When any of us need consultation, he’s available and ready to offer his advice. He gets up every morning using his past as a driving force to make himself and others around him better.

If I had the power and resources to give someone a second chance – this person would receive it.  Without knowing Scott, my own personal growth would be stagnant and incomplete. His story and how he’s endured and overcome his addiction is helping to transform the lives of those around him. No one knows the storms we’ve each been through until we take the time to get to know each other, and if you encounter someone suffering from addiction, I pray you remember Scott’s story. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I’m happy to say Alex Negron is the winner of our first writing contest of 2020. This prompt brought out the advocate in many, and it was heartwarming. If we could all take on the practice of looking out for and speaking up for each other – the world would be a better place. Mr. Negron can be contacted at:
Alex Negron R17084
Stateville Correctional Center
P.O. Box 112
Joliet, IL 60434

Loading