The holidays are right around the corner. Plans have started, options being considered, gift lists are being made.
Describe for readers what your favorite holiday looks like behind bars. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a winter holiday or Christmas. It can be a spring holiday. It can be any holiday you want. You might want to compare it to a holiday long gone, or one never had but dreamed of or observed from afar. It can be a description of what it looks like from your vantage point, start to finish. It can be a combination of past and present. It can be ways you’ve found to create a taste of what it means to you.
That’s the theme of this writing contest: What Does Your Favorite Holiday Look Like From There?
I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
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: November 30, 2020. Decisions will be posted on or before December 31, 2020.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
Sometimes the lines get blurred, and I don’t know which of us is saving the other. I have no idea what you’ve been through, where you’ve been, or where you are going, but when I met you, I knew it was my job to do the best I could for you. What you don’t know is, while I’m teaching you the skills to succeed, you are doing the same for me.
Thank you for having the patience to teach me patience and for never complaining, even though we all have bad days. Thank you for showing me that regardless of our flaws we can love and be loved. I’ve been known to put my life on the edge, self destruction the product of my decisions, but I cannot allow that while your precious life is in my hands.
You’ve never cared about my past, what I look like or what I have. You just look at me with those beautiful green eyes, your tail waggin’, simply happy with the moments we share together in our 6’ x 9’ home.
Thank you for training me Sugar Baby. I’ll miss you.
Josh
I am one of many trainers, and Sugar Baby is one of many dogs. The Colorado Prison Trained K-9 Companion Program has given many individuals the opportunity to see the change they can create. Just like us, some of these dogs have been hurt, abandoned, and lack the knowledge they need to succeed. Also like us, some of them are on their last chance. We invest ourselves, 24 hours a day, to provide them with the socialization skills, obedience training and love they need.
To take a scared, hurt, or distrustful being and teach them to become a fun, loving and playful part of someone’s family, sometimes in weeks, shows us what we are capable of. The dogs we get to care for are amazing and they teach us how amazing we are along the way. If they can turn out so wonderful, then we can too.
You can find out more about our program at www.coloradocelldogs.com
Joshua Kenyon with another dog he has worked with.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Kenyon is currently living behind bars, but as Sugar Baby would tell you, he is capable of positively impacting the world. Without question – there should be more programs like this. Joshua Kenyon can be contacted at:
Joshua Kenyon #150069 21000 Hwy 350 E Model, CO 81059
I’ve never thought of myself as extra ordinary. Like many born into a family of poverty, I desired more than I’d been shown in my life.
In my family the acme of success was my uncle who’d been hired by the state as a janitor in my grade school. The job came with benefits, union wages, and security. He helped two of his brothers get jobs as well – one of the rare times I’d seen the slow moving man smile.
When people discover I’ve been in prison more than thirty-two years on a ninety year non-homicide sentence – I was seventeen years old at the time – they assume I made some bad decisions. I point out people’s moves in life can only be judged by their options at the time, and their eyes climb their foreheads in shock, as if to say, “Surely, you had better options than to shoot someone!”
On a rare occasion, I’ll see a head tilt to the side, a body’s way of reflecting the brain’s strenuous attempt to see an issue, the world, me? from a different angle.
Sadly, if there is one thing visible in me, it’s my anger. Most people who live in a cage as long as I have come to a place where, for the sake of sanity, a balance has to be struck that allows reason. I’ve always rejected it, that tipping point between the retention of hope, the most valuable of things seen and unseen, on one side and the slow carving off of pieces of myself as I sit on the opposite scale.
Some give chunks of their souls away in an attempt to boost the economy. The more you have, the more you spend, right, hoping it may come back around… Call it karma, or simply planting different seeds in the hope of just a little rain, the effort and sacrifice no less noble because of its desperation or timing. Outside of either, few will lay so much of themselves on the alter for another.
Some toss pieces of self on the fiery blaze of their rage, seeking to stave off the icy bleakness of reality through violence, drugs, and homosexuality, anything to dodge being deprived of human touch and love, the ever thirsty phantoms of hope.
So, my little cousin paroled today with tears in his eyes and a very detailed business plan that I helped him with. I’ve studied for more than fifteen years now, connecting dots of knowledge to create plans that I may never touch myself. I pray I have done all I can to teach him how to do the same for himself. We fought three times before I had his attention, each blow given and received costing me another piece of myself.
I sent him back to a family of poverty, the same one that once set my options before me, but this kid had all the hope that I could give in his pocket. Don’t worry. I’ll find more somewhere… After all, what are any of us worth without it?
ABOUT THE WRITER. When a gifted writer submits their work to WITS, it is the fuel that keeps this going. Writing that shares the human heart is what we look for, which is exactly what Mr. Jones shared with us. Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old. He can be contacted at: DeLaine Jones #7623482 777 Stanton Blvd. Ontario, OR 97914
My name in high school was Rod T. Bridges. My buddies and I were frequently bored, living in our small East Idaho town, but it was the ‘70’s. We had our own little gang with our own little pseudonyms. Gas was cheap and our cars were fast. We had one stoplight and a decent movie theatre until the local proprietor burned it to the ground and collected the insurance money – or so the story went.
We grew up Mormon, but we still had our wild streaks. We discovered beer and girls just like every other red-blooded American boy. We shot at road signs and broke a few hearts, but we were mostly naïve. Our gang of six are all now pushing sixty, at least those of us who are left. Rick (Dicky P.) shot himself after two failed marriages. Danny (Lanny S.) hung himself, battling homosexual demons.
Muggy just retired from thirty years of FBI service. Lance (Vance C.) put in thirty years at the D.O.E. David (Dana Z.) spent thirty years flying tandem paragliders in Aspen. And I, Rod T., am nineteen years into a life sentence for premeditated murder.
Nobody could have predicted our fates. We went our separate ways after high school. I had to see the world and started to as a missionary in Japan. I guess the promise of small town stability with my high-school sweetheart just didn’t appeal to me. She married pick #2, and they are still together. Go figure.
Too bad I can’t go back and marry Laurie. But here I am. Prison has taught me a lot about myself I probably wouldn’t have learned any other place. Circumstances can make or break a person. I’ve chosen to befriend my situation. My incarceration has had its ups and downs, but I’m stable now. I have a job, a newfound faith in Christ, and a stringent exercise routine – my life is a balance of these three elements.
I’ve been compelled to share my story of my lifelong struggle with obesity. I continue to blame the ‘fat gene’, whether it exists or not. I had to hit rock bottom mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually before finally overpowering my demon. But here’s the thing – it never ends. The demon may lie dormant for a spell, we might temporarily subdue the dragon by sheer force of will. These battles can be won, but the war continues. We must be ever vigilant.
I lost a monumental 114 pounds over the course of fifteen months while trapped in a 6’x9’ cell. It happened accidentally and on purpose. I marvel still at the change which took place within me. I still have the excess skin to serve as a reminder. I still shudder with fear when my weight starts to creep upward. But I overcame. I am overcoming. And I will continue to overcome.
Hope is my story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Mr. Briggs wrote in to a writing contest not long ago, and what was apparent from that submission was the honesty and vulnerability in his writing. He has since shared with us a book project he is working on. The above piece is the introduction to that book, and I hope we get to share the final product when it is complete. Mr. Briggs can be contacted at:
Todd R. Briggs #66972 Idaho State Correctional Center, G Block P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
I wish there was a positive way to clear people’s distorted perceptions – without making enemies of them. I wish there was a way people could realize their own flaws and laugh at them, while inspiring change. Some roads just are bumpier than others, and some of us keep hitting the same bump over and over. And then, sometimes, we adjust our actions to prevent us from being on that same road and hitting that same bump – no job, no home, divorce, prison, whatever the personal ‘pothole’ seems to be.
I’m doing the best I can, given the circumstances. I’m a ‘master handler’ in the Prison Trained Canine Companion Program. I just completed an Entrepreneurial Operations course and got accepted to Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society.
Often the advice given is that which is best taken, and I’m following my best advice. I’m becoming who I want to be.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Kenyon is a first time writer here, and I’m very glad he has joined us. I hope we hear more from him, and I hope we get to hear more regarding the positive impact of the canine program he is a part of. Joshua Kenyon can be contacted at: Joshua Kenyon #150069 21000 Hwy 350 E Model, CO 81059
I was sixteen years old when I came to prison, and now I am forty. I was sentenced to two hundred forty one years for robbing a group of people while I was a teenager.
I still believe in justice. I read about it. I see wealthy people and those who have family connections get it. It just doesn’t apply to all of us in here. Some of us haven’t experienced it. She eludes us, this justice. The statue of the Lady of Justice furnished in the courtrooms is blindfolded… How is it then, that her scales are tipped for us?
Do we ever deserve a second chance?
“Bobby Bostic, you will die in the department of corrections. You do not go to see the parole board until 2201, nobody in this courtroom will be alive in the year 2201.” – Judge Evelyn Baker
ABOUT THE WRITER. Bobby Bostic was sentenced to die in prison for a crime commited when he was 16 years old. His co-defendant and the leader of the two was an adult and received thirty years. At sixteen years old, in a crime where no one was seriously injured – Bostic was given essentially – a death sentence. Mr. Bostic spends his time writing books and educating himself. If you would like to show your belief that his sentence is unjust, you can sign his petition here.
You can contact Mr. Bostic at: Bobby Bostic #526795 Jefferson City Correctional Center 8200 No More Victims Road Jefferson City, MO 65101
A few years ago here on Death Row, a handful of men were summoned to our unit manager’s office. They didn’t return for weeks. Prison administrators accused the men of plotting… something that was never explained. All we knew was that the guys, our friends, were put in segregation while being ‘investigated’. They returned a couple weeks later after nothing turned up, a few pounds lighter physically and also in terms of their property.
Putting a prisoner ‘under investigation’ is the prison’s way of segregating him without charging him, without writing him up for an infraction, without due process. It’s a way to punish in advance while searching for a legitimate reason to justify a formal write-up. It’s a discretionary tool administered in response to rumors or suspicion of a rule violation, vengeance, say, for pissing off a duty lieutenant.
Prisons are highly structured, highly controlled environments, governed by routine, every day much the same as the food – bland, monotonous, repetitive. You’d think being permanently imprisoned would mean where a person lays their head would be set in stone, right? Despite control mechanisms shaping nearly every facet of daily life, being incarcerated means shit can happen at any second. No one can be sure where they will sleep at night – their current cell, bandaged on a hospital bed, shivering in a psyche ward, handcuffed in a holding tank, waiting for a cell assignment in solitary. And anytime someone is forced to move off the unit, their personal property is searched and held to the strictest standard. Extra anything equals contraband.
Every time we get sent to the hole, we lose our personal property. Our jailers, tasked with packing our belongings for these moves, say much of our property is ‘contraband’ because it ‘exceeds space limitations’.
Right before I came here in ’06, someone wrote an anonymous note on one of the guys already here. The staff despised him, and he was accused of bullying the men on his pod. Though no one ever came forward with evidence or testimony to substantiate this claim, he was placed ‘under investigation’ and didn’t return for years.
Once you are in solitary confinement, if you violate even the most trivial policy – having an extra pair of socks, things that typically go ignored or at worst elicit a verbal warning – you earn additional write-ups. Fifteen days. Thirty days. Forty-five days. Days pile onto your stay. Receiving a series of write-ups in quick succession can get you recommended for long-term isolation, a minimum of six months but usually at least a year.
Another time, while awaiting my trial, officers raided the cell next to mine. Through an interconnected air vent, I heard the officers informing the irate and disbelieving occupant that they had to take all of his property, including the clothes he had on, because he was being put on suicide watch. I never found out whom he’d offended, but somebody – a prisoner or staff member – had filled out a sick-call in his name, posing as him and threatening to kill himself. He was forcefully stripped naked and dragged to an observation cell on the psych ward, where he spent the next two weeks.
Incarcerated people accumulate a ton of attachments, possessions, sentiments, activities, etc. We latch onto them, make them a part of us, become dependent on them. They make us heavy. For that reason, many guys in here walk around high-strung and hyper vigilant about their interaction with staff, “Man, I won’t even speak to that officer. He’s too spiteful. I don’t want him searching my cell – I’ve got too many books.” Or photos. Or art supplies. Or food. Any time I’m called to the office for an appointment or to pick up legal mail, my heart races. I question whether I’ve pissed off anyone, I wonder if I’ll return.
Before officers enter our area to search cells or arrest someone, they stop in the hall at the guard booth and start putting on blue latex gloves like nurses wear. We watch through the Plexiglas wall. Someone will holler, “MAN DOWN!” and during the fifteen seconds prior to the guards’ entrance, we ask ourselves, “Who are they coming to get? Did they glance up at my cell?”
Several toilets will flush, swallowing…. whatever. Most of us prop ourselves in doorways, or continue what we were doing in the dayroom, watching but not watching TV, playing but not playing chess, stiff but nonchalant, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves in case the guards are undecided about who they are coming for.
Some guys are sentimental hoarders, their cells thick with excesses of everything. Others keep nothing. Other than a cup, toothbrush, toothpaste, bar of soap, and neatly made bunk, their cells hardly look occupied. They give the guards nothing to hurt them with, no leverage. They’re nearly invisible and are impervious to prison life.
Incarceration has a transient quality, akin to homelessness, forcing us to continually determine which of our possessions are extra baggage. And, how do I avoid the unavoidable and unpredictable? I don’t. I simply prepare for it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and is undeniably talented. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson sometimes share his writing with us, 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
There is no way you will believe what I am about to tell you, no way you will believe me when I tell you who I am – unless I prove it.
Who else but you knows that you broke into a church last year? You were alone, walking, the snow was a couple feet deep everywhere except the roads where the plows had been through and salted. You cut through the corner lot, saw the empty room at the back and broke in through the window. We ate some food that was in a break room. We also stole the money that was in the small wooden box on the stairwell. Later we spent the money at McDonalds.
I am sure you remember this because it’s only been a year for you. You have not told anyone, Jeremy. I know this – because I am you, and this is just one of the terrible things we’ve done that we have never told anyone.
I am you in 2020. I’m writing to you from my cell at a maximum security prison in Texas. I’ve been here over sixteen years. When I say ‘I’, of course, I mean ‘we’. You don’t want to end up here, so I’m writing, hoping to help you.
I know there is not a lot you can do right now. You can’t go back to living with Steve and you don’t know where mom moved to so you’re doing your best finding places to sleep where you can and eating whatever you can find. But this will be the beginning of the end for us. Every time you break into a place to sleep or to find money or food, you commit a crime. You believe it’s a crime of necessity, and it is, but it’s still a crime. The truth is, if you continue on this path, your – our – life will be full of failures and shame. A hundred small failures will end in one terrible failure that will leave one man dead and two family’s destroyed. You will kill a man, Jeremy. You won’t do it on purpose, it’ll be completely unintentional, but he will be dead none the less. His two young sons will be forced to grow up without him. His wife, his mother, his family will grieve for the rest of their lives. Jeremy, you will lose your own family also, they will turn away from you, ashamed and angry at you. I know you, and I know how lonely you are and how much it hurts you that you do not have a family. If you continue on this path, man, you will never have a family.
Turn yourself in to the police. You will not go to jail or juvy, I promise. They will put you in a foster home, and you will have a real chance to succeed. Educate yourself, you are intelligent and you deserve an opportunity to go to school. Don’t lie, be yourself, be proud and represent it by being honest. Cherish your friends, man, and work hard. If you do these things, you will succeed, but more importantly you’ll save countless people from pain.
And you know us, there’s no way I’d write to me in 1985 from 2020 without telling you that when a small internet company called Amazon starts up in 1995, you need to invest in it, as much as you can for as long as you can. If you do all these things, you’ll be a much better ‘us’ in 2020 and rather than having lived a shameful life, you’ll be in position to help others that need help. I love you, man. Please don’t let us down.
Jeremy…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I’m happy to say, Jeremy Robinson is the winner of our summer writing contest. He continues to write, and I hope we hear more from him here. Mr. Robinson lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Michael Unit 2664 FM 2054 Tennessee Colony, TX 75886
You do not know me, but I know you well. I used to be you. I say used to, because I am no longer just you. I am the combined product of your sheltered, formative years and my introduction to reality, an amalgamation of our early childhood and adolescent life lessons – the bumps, bruises and growing pains – and the harsh reality of adulthood.
As the evolved you, what I need to impart is vital to our impending maturation process and our overall view of – not what life is supposed to be, but what it actually is. Nothing about life is static. At some point, everything changes. There will be some good changes, some bad, and sometimes you will be powerless to do anything about them. How you learn to deal with the effects of change will be key in determining where you go in life. The real world doesn’t give handouts or love you just because you think it’s what you deserve.
These times are the best you’ll ever experience. Some kids couldn’t imagine living as you do – a loving home with a mother and a father, plenty of food, toys, and not just clothes and shoes, but the latest styles. It’s blissful being given mostly everything you desire and having no real boundaries. You’ve been blessed to enjoy stress-free living in the way that all kids should, but many – if not most – do not. And obviously, at this point, you cannot imagine anything evil enough to step in and destroy this life.
I, however, must warn you about and prepare you for something so catastrophic that it will implode the comfortable and safe bubble in which we exist. Without warning, the leisurely, carefree life that our loving, yet enabling, parents – who love us more than anything but fail at “tough love” – work so hard to provide will suddenly be gone. Unfortunately, this “life of Riley” existence is lacking in discipline and creating an air of entitlement, though you cannot currently comprehend it, that makes you lazy, unappreciative, and irresponsible – character flaws that often obscure rational decisions.
There’s an epidemic on the horizon. Within five years these little, white cracked up pieces of what appears to be soap will not only destroy your life and the lives of most of the people you know, but it’ll also destroy millions of other lives – entire cities even.
Yes, it’s hard to imagine your parents choosing anything over their love for you, and even with all that I now know, I still cannot find the words to explain how it happens. It gets no tougher or more painful than when your first experience what betrayal is at the hands of the people you trust most.
Addiction is the unimaginable evil. It swoops in and destroys everything good about life. Because of it, your life will never be the same. You will trade a modest three bedroom home in the suburbs for the housing projects. You’ll see the woman you love more than anything on this earth – who nurtured you, cared for you when you were sick, sewed costumes for your school plays, and would die a thousand miserable deaths to protect you – sell her body for drugs, which will eventually lead to you having to hurt someone to protect her because she’s the only mother you will ever have. You will barely see your father, the man who took you on fishing trips and to your Saturday morning little league football games (and in a couple years will awkwardly and uncomfortably attempt to explain “the birds and the bees”). You’ll lose regular contact with your extended family, the people who you’ve spent almost every weekend of your life alternating visits between. You’ll lose what identity you thought you had and embark on journeys without safety nets, just brutal, unforgiving streets, to discover who we are and could’ve been.
Fortunately, as you grow into us, God provides a guardian angel for guidance, and we make it through the assumed biggest challenge of our short life and never lose our ability to dream. Then, we make the 3,000 mile cross-country trek to pursue our dreams. Unfortunately, in that pursuit, enraptured by the glitzy, glamorous facade that is Hollywood, I get us lost – misguided by my character flaws – and make the worst decision possible for us.
In a few years many of our Hollywood ‘friends’ will laud us for our exceptional talents, the same ego stroking we’ve encountered since childhood, which encourages us to regress to our old ways of expecting to be given instead of working. But don’t get sucked into a lifestyle of partying and drugs – remember how drugs destroyed our entire world just a few years ago. Don’t forget that! Only by working can you earn what you deserve.
You’ll be offered a great job – take it. Don’t let your ‘friends’ and your ego convince you that you’re too talented to work for someone else. Not only will it be a great opportunity to build bridges and your reputation within the industry, but it will also lead you away from a situation that will lead to the biggest challenge we’ll ever face.
The sole purpose of this letter, written by me to me, is to forewarn you of the perils of being a spoiled and lazy dreamer. Give us a chance to do better and to be better.
Had I taken that job, I wouldn’t be here now writing this letter to myself from the bowels of American society – Florida’s death row. It’s here where I’ve spent almost three decades – more time than all my years in society – regretting nothing more than that one misguided decision.
Wish I didn’t have to wish we could go back knowing what we now know.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reshi Yenot is a talented writer who uses his words thoughtfully and purposefully. He puts his heart into his work, and is also very talented musically. I’m glad he entered our recent contest and happy to say he came in second place. Mr. Yenot writes under a pen name and can be contacted at: Reshi Yenot P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, VA 23255
Had I a pen, that could send message to self, I’d pour out my heart, there’d be nothing left.
Given a chance to change my path, I’d speak these words to detour my past.
I know life is already hard, You’ve seen so much.
I know the pain you hold inside, The nights in bed when you cry.
I know momma is strung out on drugs, That’s why the tears, ‘cause you feel no love.
I know you steal, ‘cause there’s no food. No money for clothes, so you steal those too.
Oh, there will be beatings, but you will survive. There’s always a chance when you are alive.
But pretty soon they will take you away, To live with an aunt, where you wish you could stay.
I think that’s enough, of telling your past. Now you must listen, so you can last.
Your future is bright, but there’s darkness ahead, Choices to make that weigh just like lead.
There are roads to travel and one you must not. Crime is no future, so you must stop.
I know you get hungry, when times are hard, But miss a few meals and you will not starve.
The clothes on your back will last for years, Don’t worry about trying to get new gear.
You have no idea what is ahead, Even though you think you’re better off dead.
Let me tell of the ill chosen road, Where life is hell, there’s sorrow of soul.
Where doing what’s wrong, is accepted as right, And there’s fights in the day and screams at night.
Being in prison, is living in hell, Your entire life crammed in a cell.
Sun up, sun down, you’re told what to do. Does all this sound appealing to you?
Yes, I know the things you will see, But you must be strong if you want to be free.
Pay attention in class, and don’t be a fool. Play basketball, get a job after school.
Stay away from the drugs, don’t pick up the gun. One pull of the trigger, your life will be done.
The chance you were given will be taken away, And as you look back, there is nothing to say.
So, listen to me and have a good life. Be a father to kids and a husband to wife.
Now be successful and have much wealth. I hope that you listen, to this letter to self.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Mann is a third place winner in our most recent writing contest. I’m always excited to share a new voice here, and I hope he continues to pursue writing and shares his work with us again. Mark Mann can be contacted at:
Mark Mann J06393/K11335 Tomoka C.I. 3950 Tiger Bay Road Daytona Beach, FL 32124
