Growing up, I looked forward to holidays and family reunions because they meant we were going to visit Grandma in West Virginia. She lived alone at the end of a long dirt road at the head of a holler. Her two-story house had shingle siding, a tin roof, and no neighbors in sight. It was where her in-laws lived before her and where she and my grandpa raised eleven kids.
Family gatherings there always began with the incessant slamming of car doors as uncles and aunts reached the end of a long drive and 29 grandkids scattered everywhere. Some of us ran to the barn, some the creek or the woods, others headed straight to the house and the ceramic duck cookie jar resting on Grandma’s deep freeze where she stashed 5th Avenue and Zero bars. Grandma watched us, smiling, as we ran every which way, and when one of our parents admonished us with a Slow down! or Stop being so loud!, Grandma would say, “Oh, let ’em play. They’re kids.” She would remind them that they were once loud, dirty kids running through the same house.
As far as I can remember, she rarely raised her voice and only swung a switch maybe twice and only when one of us grandkids back-talked our parents. That’s the one thing she didn’t tolerate… sass. She was slow moving but first on the scene when it came to setting things right. I remember her once telling my kindest uncle to cut a switch. When he returned with it, she switched the legs of his son for sassing him.
Most of us knew better than to misbehave around Grandma. We loved and respected her and knew the woods around her house were full of switches. I thought the world of her, and it helped that my dad and others frequently told me I was her favorite grandson. I’d do anything she asked and everything I found needed doing without her having to ask – chop and stack the wood, haul buckets of coal, cut brush, and pile rocks. Sometimes there were several months between our visits, but upon arrival I would immediately set about completing whatever chores I could find.
I felt I received extra hugs, and Grandma would whisper in my ear that there were Nutty Bars (my favorite) in the cabinet, and I should get some when my cousins weren’t around. Feeling I was her favorite, I didn’t want to disappoint her, while also feeling like nothing I could do would disappoint; a foolish mistake on my part. One fall when I was fourteen, my dad and I went to visit Grandma for the weekend to do some squirrel hunting. Grandma always beat the sun up when she had company, cooking as if all her children were home and hungry. This particular morning was no different, and the smell of bubbling gravy and sizzling sausage drew us downstairs to the table. As we ate with gusto, Grandma did as she always did, nibbled a biscuit and watched us enjoy her food with a smile on her face. When my dad finished, he stood, grabbed his shotgun and walked out. As I stood to follow, Grandma told me to put some sausage biscuits together. Knowing we would be in the woods all day, she wanted to make sure we had something to eat for later.
After whipping the biscuits together and tucking them into the large pocket on my hunting coat, I said, “I better go catch up with my old man.” She could’ve beaten me with a two-by-four and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the look she gave me. I felt I’d instantly become her least favorite. After a long pause, she scoldingly said, “He’s not your old man. He’s your daddy.”
Her words were evergreen, influencing how I treat elders and my father to this day. I muttered, “Yes ma’am,” lowered my head, and skulked out of the house and up the hill to catch up with my dad.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jason Hurst has a talent for writing and a desire to pursue productive and creative endeavors. He was recently one of the subjects of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, has worked with Prison Pod Productions, and is currently working on a podcast project to raise awareness regarding death row. Jason can be contacted at:
Jason Hurst #0509565 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
During the Christmas holiday here, residents are given a holiday bag filled with a variety of snacks. This bag is often the only thing many guys receive, other than a rough time, and it is looked forward to each year. After one such holiday, we were all in good spirits, having received our bags, and my friend slipped his under his bunk before leaving for his regular bible study. When he got back – the bag was gone. Stolen! It was heart-wrenching to see the devastation in my friend’s eyes, to hear the hurt in his voice, knowing this was all he had.
As word of the theft spread, our unit of about 128 guys became charged with an awe-inspiring energy. A few guys, some of the ‘worst haters’, went around and collected snacks and cook-up and sodas. One guy even gave his own holiday bag. Total collected that day was five times the amount that had been stolen.
I watched in gratitude as my friend, a sex-offender, was given a better replacement bag than the one stolen. It was a beautiful sight, seeing a broken heart being restored with hope, love, generosity and simple humanness. His holiday became much more than it would have been, because my friend was someone who never received mail, never used the phone, and who felt no one cared. He was a man who always had to hustle for everything he got, and he finally experienced being cared for.
It made my holiday that much better too. I received the gift of seeing the true spirit of giving in this environment. It was difficult to not look at these guys and realize that in spirit we are all the same, that our appearance, race, sexual orientation, gender, criminal history or anything else – doesn’t matter.
We are judged on all those things by society, considered unworthy, unredeemable, unlovable, the worst of the worst. But through our actions and the kindness shown to my friend, this community broke that stereotype.
Yes, we have all made some terrible decisions in our lives, decisions that we will continue to pay for beyond our time in this prison with the stigma of being ex-felons. I believe, given care, hope and love, these same men who are sons, fathers, brothers, husbands and friends will be seen more for their beautiful, generous hearts than the mistakes made in their past.
ABOUT THE WRITER. James Pruitt is new to WITS, having submitted this essay for a past writing contest. As always, WITS receives contest submissions that, though they may not place, need to be published. This essay was read by a board member at our 2024 Annual Board Meeting, and is also included in the the June, 2024, newsletter. It speaks to much of what WITS is about, recognizing that growth is experienced through love and grace, not perpetual punishment, and that happens in all populations when given a chance. I am grateful for Mr. Pruitt’s contribution and he can be contacted at:
James Pruitt #16364-040 Federal Correctional Institution Elkton P.O. Box 10 Lisbon, Ohio 44432
I arrived at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institute in May, 2010, and after the intake sergeant assigned me a housing unit and handed me a bedroll, I was directed to my new block. A correctional officer greeted me, “You’re in cell 51, top tier, top bunk,” he said, pointing in the direction. I followed his finger with my eyes and slowly began walking toward the ominous metal stairwell. Forcing myself to ascend, a metallic ‘ping‘ ringing out with each footstep, the climb felt like hours as anxiety crept through my veins and my stomach did backflips. I feared my cellie would be a violent Goliath who would rip my head off and eat it for dinner the minute I walked in. Or the maniacal psychopath might rather tie me up and torture me at night, maybe just murder me in my sleep, or worse, try to rape me!
Finally reaching the top, I glanced at the number of the first cell I saw, 33. I turned left and took the first step toward my certain demise. And then a miracle happened… From somewhere, I regained my courage, pushed aside my fears and got a hold of myself. I am a grown man, and there’s not a soul on this planet who can rape or pillage me without a fight! I lifted my head, puffed out my chest, and picked up my pace, exuding confidence with each step. Arriving at my cell, I put my bedroll beside the slightly ajar door and opened it further, stepping in…
I was immediately taken aback. My cellie was no Goliath. He was an extremely thin, older white man – not wiry-strong thin, but fragile, weak-thin, so debilitated that I feared he might easily break should he take a wrong step. The frailness of his body accentuated his large head, reminding me of an animated character from the film, A Nightmare Before Christmas, and had he stood erect, he could’ve passed for an upside down exclamation point, with a full head of gray hair and a scraggly, unkempt beard. Those features were not the only things shocking about his appearance though. No, what really shocked me was his bright yellow complexion. My new cellie was Homer-Simpson-yellow, and the darkness in the cell actually exacerbated the tone to the point that he literally appeared to glow in the dark.
As he stood to greet me, he extended his hand and said with a slight Southern twang, “How ya doin’, young buck? My name’s Gary.”
I reluctantly shook his hand, asking him to call me J.J. Of all the fears that had haunted me, never could I have guessed this, and had the intake sergeant told me I was going to cell up with Homer Simpson, I would have laughed in his face.
Seeing it was safe to move in, I brought in my property. Gary pointed out my locker, and in one fell swoop I stowed away my pathetic belongings. I undid my bedroll, and started to make up my bunk, slipping the pillowcase onto my pancake-thin pillow, adjusting the sheets on my equally thin mattress, and spreading an itchy wool blanket over everything before jumping down. Sitting on the seatless toilet, my mind full of questions I had been formulating while making up my bunk, I finally looked at Homer/Gary as he watched ESPN and ventured, “So… uh… Gary, I don’t want to pry, man… but… uh… why are you like… yellow?”
He looked at me and chuckled, “Well, young’un, my liver ain’t workin’ too keen no more. I gotta liver disease that causes jaundice.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, before asking, “Is it like… contagious or anything?”
Gary chuckled again, “Naw, man, not unless you got some dope and a syringe you wanna share.”
“Oh,” I managed to blurt before asking if his ailment hurt.
He looked at me for a few seconds, eyebrows lifted in thought, “Yeah, kiddo, it hurts, but not as much as you probably think.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. I sat quietly, before I decided to change the subject. “You gotta lot of time to do, Gary?”
He took a deep breath before responding, “Well, kid, that’s a tricky question. I don’t believe I do, anymore. I got ten to twenty, but I got eleven years in. I seen parole last year, but they denied me, said I was a threat to society and gave me another year hit. I seen ‘em again three weeks ago though, and I think it went pretty darn well. Now, I’m just waitin’ on my green sheet. It should come any day.”
“Oh,” I said before asking, “What’s a green sheet?”
Homer/Gary raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. “Why, it’s the Parole Board’s decision, along with the reason for their decision. For some reason, it’s printed on ugly green paper.”
“Why did they think you’re a threat to society? Did you get into trouble in prison or something?” It didn’t make any sense to me. Anybody who took one look at this guy would know he wasn’t a threat to anything.
“Nope, not had so much as a reprimand in eleven years. I had a bad heroin habit, and was convicted of robbery – stealin’ a laptop from a warehouse. I pled guilty, hopin’ the judge would show me mercy, maybe get help for my drug problem. But the judge didn’t see it my way. Said that since I was a repeat offender, she wanted to teach me somethin’, and hit me with the maximum.”
“So, they’ll definitely give you parole this time, right?”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ll put it like this – because of my condition, I asked a doctor to speak on my behalf. He told the board I need twenty-four-hour medical care, and if I don’t get it, I’ll die sooner rather than later. The State hates being responsible for stuff like that. The doc also told ‘em good ‘n proper that if they didn’t pay for my treatment or release me to my own devices, my liver is gonna fail one way or the other.” His country twang increased with his growing excitement.
“Yup, Doc staked his reputation by swearing I wasn’t a threat to a fly, so based on that alone, I would say – Hell, yeah! They oughta be droppin’ that good ol’ green sheet off any day now, along with my eviction notice from this hellhole!” Gary said, cracking up at his own wit.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I hope they let you out so you can get the medical treatment that you need, Gary.”
“Yeah, at least they can’t use that ‘threat to society’ excuse no more,” he laughed, punctuating his statement with air quotes.
We spoke for a few more hours that evening before I fell asleep. The next morning after six a.m. headcount, I went to chow at seven. When I came back, Homer/Gary was still sleeping, but he started to stir about ten minutes before I left for my eight a.m. orientation call-out. I jokingly asked if he needed anything from the corner store, and between chuckles, he said, “I’ll give you one thing, young buck – you’re a funny kid, for sure.”
When I returned from orientation at ten, Gary wasn’t there, and I went to morning yard where I met a few guys who joked that I was ‘Homer Simpson’s new cellie’. When I came back, Gary was gone, and I figured he was on a call-out. When Gary didn’t later return for lunch or twelve-thirty count, I thought he had made parole and decided to leave all his stuff behind, which is what I would do.
Afternoon rec was called at one-thirty, and after I came back at three-thirty, I took a shower and returned to my cell. Gary wasn’t there and didn’t appear for four-thirty count or five o’clock dinner.
When I came back from chow, the block sergeant was waiting by my door. He handed me two clear plastic garbage bags and told me to pack Gary’s belongings. “Lemme know when you’re done, and I’ll find a cart to take his stuff to intake.”
As he turned to walk away, I asked, “So, he made parole?”
The sergeant looked at me as if I were crazy, “I wouldn’t call it that. You just got here last night, right?”
I nodded.
“This your first rodeo?”
I nodded again, “If he didn’t make parole, where is he?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Un-freaking-believable! Listen, kid, your cellie wasn’t feeling well this morning, and the first shift C.O. sent him to medical. He needed special care, so they took him to the hospital in town where he died an hour later. Look, I need you to hurry up because another guy is moving in. They shoulda had you do this earlier.”
“Oh,” was all I could say.
Absent-mindedly, I started to pack Gary’s stuff. There wasn’t much, and as I worked, I experienced mixed emotions. On one hand, I barely knew the guy, and on the other, I felt the system had handed him a raw deal. As I was finishing up, I heard a C.O. slide mail into my cell. When I picked it up, I saw a green sheet protruding from an envelope. Suspecting what it was and needing to know, I withdrew Gary’s long-awaited green sheet.
“The Parole Board will NOT grant you parole at this time. You will remain in the D.O.C. for an additional period of SIX (6) months until you are re-evaluated. The Board has deemed you a high threat/risk to society at this time.”
I slipped the folded-up decision back into the envelope and inserted it into Gary’s property bag, put the bags on the cart and pushed them to intake to be delivered to Gary’s family. The intake sergeant looked up as I came in asking, “Back already?”
I shook my head ‘no’ and explained that I was delivering the property of my cellie who had died that very morning.
For a guy in prison, last night I felt oddly like a kid on Christmas morning, having waited sixteen long years for the present I spread out before me. It wasn’t a toy or bike or even an Xbox – it was my first set of books from the Blackstone paralegal course.
Someone introduced me to Blackstone in late 2008, four years into this prison journey. I was interested because I wanted to learn about the law and also return to some sort of formal education, having been a college senior before incarceration. My older brother and sister-in-law then agreed to pay for the course. That was before the housing market crashed and my older brother, who sold log homes and waterfront real estate, lost everything. I quickly forgot about the Blackstone course.
Later, people in prison became eligible for stimulus money. I thought about using the funds to pay for the course myself but was in college at the time, a senior in the Field Minister program. The timing was off again.
Then, in 2023 I learned the top prize in the Walk In Those Shoes fall writing contest was sponsorship in the Blackstone course. I had competed in each of their contests for about two years, but wanted to win this one much more than any of the others. I worked on the essay with complete focus, the coveted prize always in my thoughts, and after submission, I found myself thinking about the possibility of winning multiple times a day.
In January 2024 I received the message – I had won. Thankfully, I have a single room, or they might have locked me in a padded cell. I cheered and laughed, jumped and danced, waved my arms and fist pumped. I might have even high-fived myself. Blackstone here I come! I can finally take the course.
The timing is ideal because of how the experiences of the ensuing years have impacted me. I have become a proficient learner, studier, reader and writer. I earned a bachelor’s degree with honors, and I work for a college, teaching writing and also training writing consultants. I have read 1,500 books, written plenty, and I have been published in two legal journals (wonder how many paralegal students have been published in a legal journal). These experiences have prepared me to be a significantly better student than when I first wanted to take the course. God’s Providence and His perfect timing can be seen here.
My goal is to learn as much as possible and to excel in all aspects of the course. My love to learn, study, read, and write will make this endeavor interesting, and my personal creed drives me – excellence in all things unto the Lord. I hope to use this training to work for change. I will combine a deeper understanding of the law with my writing proficiency to support reform and help dismantle mass incarceration. Maybe working as a paralegal will be my first job when I one day make it out of here.
After my first Blackstone shipment arrived, I carefully spread my presents out on my mat, a Cheshire cat smile across my face. Included were the Student Handbook, Law Glossary, and Volume I: Law – Its Origin, Nature and Development & Contracts. There was also paperwork welcoming me to the program and other information. Volume 1 contains the first four lessons out of a total of 31. The time for celebrating has ended. Time to get to work. But I’m still as happy as a kid playing with his brand new toys on Christmas.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless: The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/). Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Timothy Johnson #0778428 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com
You hear your name called over the intercom with instructions to report to the chaplain’s office. If you’ve not requested to speak with a chaplain, nor been involved in a discussion with them after one of the many religious services, the summons can only mean bad news. Losing a loved one is difficult to deal with, and how that news is presented when incarcerated can have a huge impact on how it is processed.
After weeks of not hearing from my mother, I was dispassionately informed by a chaplain that she had been diagnosed with late stage cancer and required immediate surgery. In his presence, I was allowed a few minutes on the phone with her. During those few minutes, I learned she’d called the prison weeks prior and asked that I be notified so I wouldn’t worry. Another chaplain had once waited days to tell me my son had been struck by a car and was in a coma.
Most of my fellow prisoners have had similar experiences, notified days or even weeks after a death by people with no bedside manner. We’ve criticized their shoddy delivery tactics over the years, discussing how they could better do their job, but never would I have imagined being responsible for delivering a death notice myself.
During a phone call with my cousin, Teresa, I learned that the father of one of her son’s friends is here on death row. She asked if I knew him. The death row population is relatively small, so we’re all familiar with one another. I told her yes.
I knew the father, I’ll call him Adam, to be a very unassuming, gentle man. Someone without many friends because he didn’t engage in the foolishness of the masses, while also seeming eager for friendship. In a restorative justice class we’d participated in, he spoke about his two sons and how his ex-wife prevented them from contacting him since being arrested and sent to death row. Now they were young men, and I was excited to share the connection between his son and my cousin. Hopefully a line of communication could form, maybe he could be a dad again.
He lived on the bottom floor of the death row unit while I was upstairs, making it difficult to find opportunities to speak with him. Long, anxious days dragged by till, finally, we were amidst a group of prisoners called to pick up our medication at the nurses’ office. In the little time we had, I told him about his son, Steven, being a regular visitor to my cousin’s house. His hangdog look was replaced by the joy of a parent finding their child after a decades long search. I offered to pass along a message and cautiously, he asked that his son be told that he loves him. Adam explained that he didn’t want to scare Steven away, and through experience with my own sons, I understood Adam may not have known what words to choose. After a long drought of no communication, he wanted his words to be perfect… when there are no perfect words.
Sometime after passing along his message, Teresa told me that Steven didn’t seem ready to talk with his father, but didn’t mind if she sent his dad some pictures. The next time Adam and I crossed paths, he immediately pulled out some pics of his son, thrusting them at me like a proud poppa showing off a newborn. He explained that Teresa promised to send pics and share pieces of Steven’s life. Seeing the positive impact the pics and promises of more were having, I was happy and hoped things would grow between them.
Over the following months I would occasionally see Adam. He would share a recent pic or letter he’d received from Teresa, but mostly, I shelved it to the back of my mind. Much of my mental space was occupied clinging to the safety bar of my own rollercoaster relationship with family.
And then Teresa answered the phone crying. She told me Steven had died from a suspected overdose and asked whether I knew if anyone had notified Adam. Having no other connection to family, I felt sure no one would’ve. She asked if I would tell him. She didn’t want to break his heart through a letter, and I wouldn’t have felt right to pretend everything was okay upon seeing him and then feign shock when he ‘broke’ the news to me. I had no experience delivering terrible news, only receiving it, and had no idea how he would react.
The death row unit manager had begun allowing guys who played Dungeons & Dragons the use of an empty, downstairs cellblock on the weekends. Adam would be there. Though I wasn’t a player, sneaking down with the group would give me more time to talk with him as opposed to bumping into him in the hallway, shattering his day, maybe his life, and being rushed along.
A guard’s voice crackled over the intercom, “Anyone going to D&D, now’s the time.” I fell in line as smiling guys filed out of the four cellblocks upstairs. The long hallway and set of stairs gave me a little time to steel my nerves and replay everything I disliked about the chaplains’ delivery while trying to formulate my own.
Entering the block, I noticed Adam and his fellow players gathered at a nearby table. I caught his attention and motioned him to where I stood by a water fountain. He was smiling as he walked toward me. No one expects bad news about home from a fellow prisoner, and I realized that was an advantage in the chaplains’ favor; everyone they summoned arrived prepared for the worst. I felt terrible, knowing his smile would disappear with my message.
When he reached me, I told him I had to speak with him about something that wasn’t good and asked if there was somewhere else he would rather go. The water fountain was about as far away from everyone in the block as we could get, so he said no.
With no reason to put it off any longer, I gently told him Steven had passed away. He leaned onto the water fountain and was quiet for a while as a few tears made their escape. Then he asked how. I said it looked like an overdose. I shifted my focus to the floor to give him some privacy, and a beat later he leaned over and gave me a hug. I hugged him back, and through sobs he thanked me. He then returned to the table where his group was waiting while I stood in place reflecting – how could a man in the midst of receiving such terrible news find within himself the means to console me.
I wondered at the impact such compassion could have between staff and prisoner upon being summoned to the chaplain’s office. I reevaluated their position as I headed back upstairs… delivering bad news can be as difficult as receiving it.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jason Hurst only recently began sharing his work here, and his contributions are so well written, I look forward to reading his submissions. He is a natural writer, and this is a subject that deserves talking about. Two WITS writers lost parents this week alone. Jason can be contacted at:
Jason Hurst #0509565 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
It was an early Saturday morning along our town’s main street, a brisk chill in the air carrying discordant chatter. Revelers gathered shoulder to shoulder in heavy jackets and mittens, braving the joyous winter air of Christmas. Popcorns, candies, grilled franks, and 10¢ soda in paper cups pleased tongues and tummies alike, and hearty smiles reflected on the faces of people from all walks of life, differences put aside for another day. Utility trucks crept along at a snail’s pace, bearing floats decorated with scenes of the Nativity, and community volunteers put their talents on display, from dance troops to horseback riders. Everyone had come out for the arrival of Santa, but my anticipation lay elsewhere.
I was nine and hardly interested in the frills and cotton generated snow that day. It was the first time I was going to see my big cousin in a parade, marching in the high school band, a moment sure to put our family on the map. Before then, there hadn’t been anything noteworthy about our family, nothing in the history books to mark our plight.
We were the typical fishing trips, backyard cookouts, and holiday get-together family, with the occasional in-house drama kept to a whisper. But that day, I felt like we were a noble clan in a swell of common folks giving praise to the man of the hour in his bloated red suit, while we celebrated the achievement of one of our own.
Santa cruised by in a decked out jeep loaded with knapsacks marked ‘Salvation Army’; the star attraction, he was, with his cherry stained cheeks and grin that promised to fulfill Christmas wishes. Workshop elves and other parade hopefuls poured through in the unfortunate shadow left by Santa’s star power. Then it came, the thundering percussion and blaring notes stretched gloriously around the corner – the Beddingfield marching band was on the move.
I craned my neck and stood tiptoed, but the crowd was thick and blinding. Taking the steps three at a time, I found the greatest shoulders on which to stand to be the top landing of the Superior Court building. From on high, I watched the drum major appear with his juking dance moves, the middle of the street his stage. He was flanked by darling majorettes in spandex and twirling batons, and behind them came the marching band in their swanky blue uniforms and bedazzling gloves glinting golden in the morning sun. They swayed with synchronicity, the woodwinds flittering their fingers while the brass raised their horns to the sky in devotion. Lastly were the percussionists, their booming sounds causing windows to shudder as the sidewalks threatened to crumble under dancing foot soles. I recognized the confidence of one drummer as his wooden sticks rapped on with fluidity, passion, and wonder; it was my big cousin – the drummer boy.
A lover of music for as long as I can remember, Big Cuz fostered an inner relationship with beats that ran deeper than any 3-minute song track. Everything from pencils, pens, and twigs transformed to drumsticks in his hands as he conjured up sounds that were funky and raw. I was there when he was gifted his first drum set on Christmas morning when I was five, and he woke me up early to watch him play. He was a one-man band, convinced that he would someday make a living off the drum beating in his head. He sat me down at his station that day and taught me a 4-count combination, one that would evolve into my own fondness for the craft. And now, there he was, drumming in the Christmas parade with a flare that riveted the crowd and a spirit that stole the show.
The marching band fanned out for a halting performance as I waved exuberantly from my courthouse perch. Big Cuz drummed like it was nobody’s business, except ours… his song was an anthem of our family. He beat his drums with a fierceness that was nothing short of a statement to the world that said he had finally arrived. The band commenced playing medleys of current hit songs until the exhilaration in the crowd was spent, then the drum major carried on with his marching cadence, grooving on down the street with majorettes and marching band in tow. I watched as Big Cuz faded from view with his sound so distinguishable that everything else was background noise. His was an extraordinary talent that nestled in the hearts of listeners. Soon the parade was over, the streets swept clean as the crowds returned to life as normal…
Normal until 17 years later. This time, the spectacle would play out inside the courthouse. There would be no drum major that day, only a judge with a strict reputation and a lone majorette to his right, wearing a tweed jacket and plucking keys on a stenograph. The band included the raging prosecutor, spewing accusations on the woodwinds, and the sub par defense attorneys blowing smoke on the brass. And the crowd, twelve faithfuls hand-picked from the jury pool, their perspectives would scream the loudest. I was the star attraction this time, sitting at the defense table, charged with 1st degree murder. The stage was set. One by one the witnesses paraded before the jury, a prelude to the main event as the door opened behind the judge’s bench and in walked the State’s star witness – the drummer boy.
Big Cuz must’ve shed his confidence somewhere, along with his uniform, because he spent much of his walk looking down trying to find it. His eyes swung low like pendulums with a razor’s edge, ready to slice my character to pieces. He climbed the steps to the witness stand where he could see me from up high, his passion now gone, replaced by desperation. He then placed his hand on the Bible, this wooden stick stained and hollow, as he swore to play a song of truth.
I then listened as Big Cuz wove a tale of robbery, murder, and confession, drumming up lie after lie to the amusement of the jury. They rewarded him with their steadfast concentration, it was a sound they hadn’t heard before. The questions poured in from the prosecutor who proved masterful at conducting testimony, while my brass tongue attorneys sowed woeful discord with their blaring objections. The encore fell to the prosecutor when he asked Big Cuz, “Is the defendant there the man who told you he killed someone?”
“Yes”
“And who is he to you?”
“My cousin. Terry Robinson.”
With that, Big Cuz drummed his final note and scurried out the door, his beats reverberating throughout the courtroom long after he was gone. The jury found him credible and applauded him with their guilty votes; it didn’t matter that I was innocent, to them I was background noise. Once again, I was impacted by the drummer boy’s performance, except this time in the very worst way, costing me more than a biting chill, 10¢ sodas and spent legs laboring up the courthouse steps – this time it cost me my life.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven, and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
Prison reform begins with those who are incarcerated, men and women who have found themselves behind these fences, men and women who are more than the crime committed and the number they were branded. And for prison reform to be successful, we must begin to change our perspectives. Yes, we have done distasteful and degrading things to ourselves as well as our communities; however, our focus should be that we still have breath in our bodies and in that breath is opportunity to right our wrongs. First for ourselves and then for our community.
There is power in changing perspective – where others see prison and punishment, we can see opportunity, the opportunity to correct the belief system that drove our previous thinking! When we reflect on what landed us in prison, we can connect the dots backwards to misguided beliefs that have been governing our lives. When we start that process and begin making ground, we transform into reformers. The reformer does not see a prison, they see a spiritual retreat. They don’t see punishment, they see vindication. They don’t see a prison yard, they see a college campus. The reformer doesn’t see ‘bottom of the barrel’, they see a community full of untapped potential. It is what we choose to see that offers us the opportunity to walk in reformed ways.
The reformer uses their new way of walking in their immediate environment. They begin to implement their newfound gifts and talents right where they are. A true reformer sees everywhere they are as their community, and the time is now to work and gain the experience needed for the future. The strongest reformers are those serving life sentences, life reformers. A life reformer is one who has made their change and accepted their vital role in this movement. They are the ones that society can trust to assist the reformers that are returning to their communities, equipping them with sound knowledge and being an example of what it means to be an asset to their community, no matter the circumstance. Life reformers are the inside team!
On the outside, there are those like Mr. Keidrain ‘Bossman’ Brewster. He is the face of big reform, making the movement manifest in big ways, ensuring it isn’t for a moment! He has sacrificed much, countless hours on the road visiting prisons across America. He has sat at tables with prison administrators, using his personal finances to willingly fund his mission, humbly and whole-heartedly. Now the fruit of his labor is ripe for the picking, his presence requested all over the country! It will not surprise us reformers when he walks in the White House because of his genuine heart for change and sincerity of action.
Mr. Brewster has made the Texas Department of Criminal Justice his home base, where he served thirteen calendar years of his life going through his own personal reformation. He has endured what he asks of us. It was while incarcerated he found his why, one that would lead him to success in his freedom, in marriage, in fatherhood and a trucking business, success as a published author, and most of all – success in touching and changing culture.
Brewster is coming behind these fences telling us face-to-face we are offered the same opportunities and more. Who we were in society is what landed us in prison, and who we become in prison is how we return to our communities. Most of us were ignorant of this thing called societal trust, a trust between a person and society that says we will build and add as we can for the greater good of the whole. This trust is placed upon each human, whether they are aware of it or not. Our prerogative is to take accountability and do our part to the fullest!
Mr. Brewster has made great strides in pushing the big reform movement, going back into prisons across the country, appearing on radio, offering jobs for felons upon release, even doing a Ted Talk. The message is always the same… change is possible, and this is only the beginning!
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jarod Wesenberg is a poet, writer, DJ, and reformer. He doesn’t have time to write for us often, but we appreciate it when he does. He is a changemaker in his own right, and you can find a recent interview he did here.
Jarod can be contacted at:
Jarod L. Wesenberg, Sr. #1830643 Michael Unit P.O. Box 660400 Dallas, TX 75266-0400
NOTE: It has been the experience of WITS that our mail sent to the Dallas distribution center is not always delivered, or it has taken several months for delivery. For that reason, we recommend Securus for contacting residents of Texas prisons.
Sitting in a chapel with a fresh fifty year sentence, I remember thinking – ‘I can do that.’ The man behind the pulpit was sharing his story of redemption, a story I had heard repeated in one form or another countless times in this very chapel. Yet somehow, his story was different. He spoke of religious conversion and renewal of the mind as expected, but he also shared his pursuit of higher education, a pursuit he had started when he was incarcerated. I remember first thinking, ‘I can do that?’ Then, ‘I can do that!’ In that chapel I was learning simultaneously that college in prison was available, and college in prison was how I wanted to spend my time.
I left that service and immediately began to research how I was going to attend college in prison. I was quickly disappointed. My unit did not offer college and because of the length of my sentence it would be next to impossible to get transferred to a unit that did. But I refused to give up, I would not quit so easily. I had quit school, quit my family, and most every other thing I had done. Now, I would quit quitting.
I had dropped out of high school in the ninth grade and later earned a GED, but I knew nothing about college. I eventually found a correspondence program but later learned that its accreditation was worthless, the school was a diploma mill. I was back at square one, all the desire in the world, but no opportunity.
In 2011 opportunity finally presented itself, or so I thought. Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary was starting a fully accredited 4-year Bachelor of Science in biblical studies program. I was excited, then crushed. Once again, the length of my sentence made me ineligible. However, the criterion later changed, and in 2014 I was accepted into the Bachelor program. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done. Five classes a week for 4½ years, I read thousands of pages and wrote hundreds of others. I loved it! I graduated in 2018. My mom and sister watched me walk the stage. At that point, I believed my college days were behind me. I was at square one again, desire, but no opportunity. Texas had one Master Program, and guess what? I wasn’t eligible.
When I learned that the Pell Grant program would be expanded I grew optimistic. I obtained a Pell application, filled it out, and was granted Federal aid; however, once again, I learned that I wouldn’t be going to college. My prison did not have a Pell approved program, but I refused to quit. I located an accredited Master program, it was exactly what I wanted but affordable, and my family was agreeing to help. So once again, I am a college student.
It has been almost eighteen years since I sat in that chapel, and soon I will have earned a Master’s degree, though I have had to fight every step of the way. I believe one day I will earn my PhD. All I have to do is keep telling myself, ‘I can do that!’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. This is the first time that Michael Nobles has written for WITS. Michael is interested in prisoner advocacy as well as reform and wrote this essay to reflect the experience of residents within the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, often desiring educational opportunities but not being able to access them. Michael points out that the majority of people incarcerated in Texas will eventually be released, and the the higher their education level, the less likely they will return to prison. “It would seem to be in the best interests of public safety to provide more educational opportunities. Until those opportunities arrive, continue to tell yourselves, “I can do that.“
Michael can be contacted at: Michael Nobles #1372765 Coffield Unit P.O. Box 660400 Dallas, TX 75266-0400
NOTE: It has been the experience of WITS that since Texas began having all mail sent to Dallas for distribution that our mail is not always delivered, or it has taken several months for delivery. For that reason, we recommend Securus for contacting residents of Texas prisons.
Growing up, I never had a birthday party; a few gifts here and there, yes, but no festive gatherings over music and treats. The closest I’ve come to a birthday wish was helping my baby sister blow out the candles on her cake. To be clear, my mom celebrated me daily with her sacrifices. She was always buying us kids the things we wanted that she couldn’t afford. But when money is scarce and you’re a ‘December’ baby like me, birthday parties often come in close second to an abundant Christmas.
So, I would attend the party events of others with gift in hand, eager to dance, and with a tiny sparkle of envy in my eyes. Though they say, ‘you don’t miss what you never had,’ part of me still wanted people to eat, drink, and dance solely because I existed, but it just wasn’t in the cards for me to have a birthday party back then. It is also said, ‘things happen for a reason’, and for some reason my birthday party was meant to happen now.
It would be 49 years of trite birthdays before my fiftieth offered a time to remember. The morning began with well wishes from my fellow Death Row inmates, each showing up at my cell door with fist bumps and canteen treats. Then came what I thought was the surprise of the day posted on the wall, my name slotted for an 8:30 a.m. visit. I headed to visitation on the heels of suspicion with roving eyes leading the way.
Once there, I sat down in the booth, ecstatic about the pop-up surprise visit. It wasn’t long before I was greeted by two familiar faces, though I was surprised to see them together for the first time. It was my mother, along with a very close friend; women who, throughout the years, have carried me over the threshold of surviving Death Row with unending love and support. They arrived with a festive gleam in their eyes, their energy bursting like fireworks, bright and exciting. Their hearty voices were music pouring through the speaker box to which I danced away to the melodies in my head. Their smiles were sweet as icing on the most lavish birthday cake, glistening with a thousand candles; way too many for my fifty years, but they were making up for lost time. And, they’d brought with them yet another surprise, gifting me the invitation to reach out to another supporter of mine, the one and only Jason Flom, through a phone call. I’d come to know about Jason from a previous interview he’d given regarding his stance on Criminal Justice Reform. Since then, he’d contributed in the fight against my own wrongful conviction – and now I was given the chance to thank him.
Visitation ended, and I scurried back to Death Row, excited to make the call. The phone rang on one end while I stilled my nerves on the other, fighting back the anxiety that would make my voice quiver. Jason answered with the poise of someone born to greet people, “Hello.”
It was all I could do not to shrink at the thought of his status; he was Jason Flom, music extraordinaire, but I was somebody too. I began talking without much thought, the gratitude bursting from my mouth like party confetti. It was more than his contributions to my case alone but his passion for systemic change that earned my admiration. I was just revving up the praise when Jason let on that he wasn’t alone and was in the company of another person.
“Her father made a name for himself in the boxing world. You might’ve heard of him… Muhammad Ali?” He then introduced me to Khalia Ali over the phone and told her of my special day.
I heard her voice chime, “Hi Terry. Happy Birthday.”
I gasped when I realized I was on the phone with the daughter of my hero, Muhammad Ali. I’d read countless books on him and seen several documentaries on his plight throughout America’s racial disparity. And now his daughter was wishing me a happy birthday, although all I heard was, “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. Rumble young man, rumble…aahh!”
My spirit abandoned my body long enough to race through the prison halls yelling, “Muhammad Ali’s daughter just wished me a happy birthday!”
On the phone however, I gathered my composure and thanked her for the shout out; it was more of a birthday gift than I could’ve hoped for. Jason then pitched the notion to visit me here on Death Row. I knew the possibility was unlikely with the visitation approval process here slow and meticulous, but I didn’t have the nerve to disappoint him, so I didn’t express my certainty that it likely could not happen.
I had not fully accounted for the tenacity of those supporting me though, and by the end of the week and after all of the prison’s policies and procedures were followed, Jason and Khalia were approved. I was up that Saturday morning early enough to rouse the sun awake. I paced wall-to-wall in the quiet of my cell. Today was the big day. Though it was approved, my visit with Jason and Khalia was still in limbo – yet nothing could smother my excitement. It was nerve wracking all the same, as I watched other Death Row men escorted to visitation without me.
Suddenly, my name was called, and I pressed on to visitation taking two steps to the C/O ‘s one. I kept sorting through the validation of my own worth along the way, that two such notable people would come to visit me. Once there, I waited in the excruciating seconds as my confidence began to falter. I chanted reggae songs to keep me company while soothing the raging doubt. Before long, the elevator opened and two visitors stepped out enveloped in the air of excellence. I recognized the height, glasses, and salt & pepper hair of Jason from his interview; Khalia bore the striking resemblance of her father. They swept through the door into the booth where I waited like titans in designer threads, yet with the humility about them to dismiss the tight quarters, dismal lighting, the grit and grime. Khalia waved affectionately before taking a seat with a smile that brightened the room as Jason plopped down on the stool next to her, weary from the rush of a last minute drive.
We exchanged pleasantries as though seemingly unbothered by having to talk to one another through reinforced glass. When we spoke, Jason’s every word was teeming with genuine concern for the injustice I’d suffered for so long. I spoke about the events that led to my false imprisonment and my struggle on Death Row while Jason occasionally coursed his fingers through his hair, adjusted his glasses but said nothing – he was a good listener. Khalia peered on with the keenness of her legendary father, her eyes trained to study every movement, whether friend or foe. Together they would make a formidable pair for whatever cause they championed. I was just glad they were on my side. At times, they asked poignant questions about my case, other times they wanted to know about my family. I soon saw them no longer as A-listers but merely influential people who cared enough to want to right wrongs.
Jason slid on his jacket when the visit was over, gearing up to fight injustice elsewhere. They were off to attend a rally for another wrongfully convicted man; yep, injustice, too, is an epidemic. Jason popped up from the stool, pressed his fist to the glass, and said, “I’ll see you on this side of the glass soon.”
Somehow it made it more real when he said it, and for a brief second I was free. Khalia rose with the gusto of someone who was a champion in her own right. I realized then I hadn’t mentioned her dad’s name once. I didn’t have to… her exploits were equally as impressive. The two of them made for the elevator as Jason pumped his fist and Khalia blew kisses goodbye. Afterwards I sat alone again, except now I felt accompanied by the spirit of a wonderful experience.
Later, while in my cell, I replayed such an eventful week, comparing it to birthdays of the past. People had gathered in my honor. There was music and gifts and the dancing of my own soul. And though my time with Jason and Khalia happened unexpectedly, still it was a wish come true as I’ve now realized the best wishes are sometimes those we never wished for at all.
It would take fifty years, but I’ve had that birthday party. It wasn’t a traditional celebration, but mine was unique and fulfilling. Not to discount my other forty-nine birthdays, because they were special in their own way, but this year’s party was a long time coming and well worth the wait.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful that Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven in the not too distant future and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This literally came to me in a dream – I feel like God told me to write this song.
When I heard about Jesus, God’s promise of a new start, I found the joy I had hunted could be a sun in my heart.
I heard this song in a dream, got up in the middle of night, and wept as I started writing because I knew it was right.
When I found out about Jesus something leapt inside my heart; I found the joy I was hunting had hunted me from the start!
I had looked for joy at parties, but it wasn’t found in music, neither did I find joy’s secret when I searched all of my friends.
But then I found my Savior, unlocking the Source in my heart, and learned the joy I’d hunted had been calling out from the start!
I used to think joy was dollars, but greed is never content, so I worked harder and harder – thank God, we know how this ends!
I finally accepted Jesus, it wasn’t too late to start; now joy is blinding inside me, now I have a sun for a heart!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson never stops creating. He is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am always grateful to share his work. George is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion, and he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Not too long ago, George reached out to share this song with me, having it shared with him in a dream. In his dream, George was sitting at a table writing in a composition notebook when he was visited by an angel who shared with him the title, I Was Looking For Joy. When he woke, George knew he was meant to write the song he had sang with the angel who had visited in his dreams.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
