Man, I’m tired! I want to know better. Do better. Eventually be better. It’s hard when you’re paying for inflicted pain.
Today, my Father’s Day visit was great. I heard my son describe his joys and pains, his eyes lowered as he spoke in whispers, his hands becoming fidgety at times. He looked at me when he was done talking, but his eyes continued to speak. Unknowingly, his words stung me, as he described things I wished to shelter him from.
Have you ever had a child ask you a question you really didn’t
have the answer to? You don’t want to
lie because you know it would eat you up inside, and eventually they’ll see
that you lied to them. So, you decide to
toughen up and tell them you don’t know.
Then you hear them go into their own thoughts, as they help you know the
answer, like you are the child.
Today I felt like I could never be ready for
fatherhood. That’s something you have to
do and be physically. I wanted to swipe
away his surroundings, work with him, clean his room with him, have conversations
with him and help him with his strength.
I wanted to wipe the tears from his eyes, but thought I had better not –
let him search.
All these wishes and wants.
I’ve got to stop this shit, and find a way to stay on top of it. That’s my seed and Father’s Day will be over
shortly. He’ll be home sleeping, maybe
wondering, and me here – hoping. I
wonder how he felt when he left today. I
gave him a lot for his little mind to process.
He told me he understood, but I know that was his heart talking with his
pride. It’s me that doesn’t
understand. My lil’ homie is a champ,
and he’s indifferent to the difference.
He’ll make it better.
I just hope he never gets tired of reading my letters…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tedderick Batiste writes from his cell on Texas’ Death Row. He can be contacted at: Tedderick Batiste #999568 Polunsky Unit 3872 FM 350 South Livingston, TX 77351
Each solitary confinement pod here is made up of 84 cells – six
sections of fourteen, single man cells. Think of a pizza cut into six slices, a
pepper shaker placed dead center to represent the security picket. Each section of fourteen cells is divided,
seven cells along two-row and seven on one-row.
Fourteen men, for the most part, divided evenly amongst three races. Two ‘Bloods’,
one ‘Crip’ who is also a Muslim, two non affiliated, three ‘Mexican Mafia’, an ‘Aryan
Brotherhood’, three ‘Aryan Circle’ and two ‘Tango Blast’. There are guys that sleep at night and guys
that stay up all night and sleep all day. There are guys that have support and resources
and guys that have nothing.
There’s also a lot of tension, a lot of conflict, and the
almost constant presence of cell to cell yelling, arguing that we call ‘cell
warrioring’. So, I was not surprised to
be awakened in the very early morning hours… again. I rolled over, pointing my ears away from my
cell door and the noise. As I tried to
get back to sleep, I heard one guy on one-row yell to another, “It’s true! I just heard it!”
I tuned in without moving.
More yell-talking… and then an angry voice demanding respect for the late
hour. Someone else yell-talking over the
run, two or three guys, having been awakened by the noise, yelling expletives at
the few that had awakened them with the loud, middle of the night, discussion.
I don’t recall all the exact words used, but I do remember that the yell talkers spoke more, and the angry voices began to ask questions. I rolled toward my cell door and removed an earplug, several voices were now all trying to communicate. Though I may not remember the exact words, I will never forget the tone – a mixture of excitement and doubt, men yell-talking over the run and several talking through the ventilation system.
I got up and turned on my light.
Some kind of news was spreading from cell to cell, yet doubtfully. In the vent I heard one guy tell another, “I’m
telling you! That’s AM radio ‘koo-koo’ news.”
Protestations by another voice, “I heard it myself!”
“AM conspiracy news!” loud talking was evolving into
argument.
Then a guy downstairs, “HOLD UP!” It was not yell-talking but a demand for
silence. Knowing the silence would not
last long, he followed it up quickly. “I’m
getting it! I’m putting my speaker to the door!”
Silence. Then AM
radio over the run, monotone and loud. Again,
exact words escape me, but I do remember the following words being broadcast.
“State department”
“Special forces”
“Confirmed”
“Osama Bin Laden has been captured or killed”
One voice, “Holy Shit!”
An eruption of noise. Chaos.
Men roaring, kicking their cell doors, pounding on walls. The vibration of the cement floor under my
bare feet. The volume was such that an officer
rushed from the security picket to investigate.
Joy. Happiness. UNITY.
I clapped and clapped and clapped, standing at my cell door,
tears leaking from my eyes.
At the time I attributed the depth of my feeling to the news
that we had caught the terrorist that had bloodied my country, OUR country… Later, I understood that while that was true,
I had also been deeply affected by the unexpected sense of brotherhood that had
smashed onto the section like a comet, that
my own happiness and hand clapping and tears were also for these men around
me that were revealed as patriots, as brothers.
Nothing in their circumstance had changed. They were still ‘criminals’, ‘gang
members’, ‘prisoners’. The change came from
within. Something that had been buried
deep inside had burst to the surface… almost
as if by accident. In that moment we stumbled
into an unexpected kinship. It was not
artifice. It was not motivated by
jealousy or selfishness. It was
beautiful, and it’s spontaneity demanded recognition of its purity. It was authentic decency in human beings that
had only ever been known and judged by their failures.
I think about this event from time to time. I’ve come to believe that each of those men surprised themselves that night. They discovered something within themselves they did not know they had, something of value, or maybe… a secret. Had they all been in a group rather than confined to a solitary cell, they would have danced around and high fived and hugged. This realization made me smile, still does to this day. I’m smiling right now…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson lives in a Texas prison. He has written for this blog once before, and is currently working on a revised version of his book, The Monster Factory. Jeremy was an entrant in our spring writing contest and received an Honorable Mention for the above essay. Jeremy can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
There is no shortage of horror stories from individuals
whose lives have been destroyed by wrongful conviction, or who are serving outrageous
sentences because of incompetent or indifferent representation, or who were
slammed by fanatical, win at all costs, prosecutors who are often little better
than criminals themselves.
My story isn’t one of those. I could list why’s and tell the back story – but none of it justifies taking a man’s life. My story is one of a million sad tragedies that fill the annals of newsrooms.
Sentenced to life, I’ve been incarcerated since 1994 and in
solitary confinement since 2004 after an escape attempt went very badly. Like my original crime, I could list the why’s
– the violence, the conditions, the prison sexual predators… but none of it
justifies hurting others. I don’t ask
for or expect sympathy. I did wrong and however painful it is, I have
to accept the consequences.
There are no policies against indefinite or permanent
solitary confinement in the State of Texas.
Chances are I will die in solitary, and I only say this to illustrate that
I know a thing or two about darkness. After
fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen a lot of it… Indeed, I’m currently housed
on the James V. Allred Unit – a unit known for having the highest suicide rate
in the state and one of the highest numbers of uses of force against inmates. There’s nothing I haven’t seen in solitary.
However, even in a place such as this there is light to be
found. Simple acts of kindness – sometimes
from guards, sometimes from inmates… hardened gang leaders, violent men, extending
kind gestures to strangers and acquaintances alike. I have been both the recipient and the one
offering, but the light I want to speak on is the light that shines from the outside
in…
The efforts – often in the face of scorn, ridicule and
personal sacrifice – by advocates, activists and family members who rally for change,
who visit the lonely and forgotten and work tirelessly to shine a light on
America’s Gulag Archipelago.
These people give the condemned hope – the activists fighting for criminal justice and sentencing reform, demanding improvements in mental health treatment, improvements in conditions, treatment and transparency. Those willing to simply share a little of their time by writing a letter or offering some small gesture for the woman or man who has no family, no hope for release, or terminal illness.
These people are rays of light that illuminate dark places. They make a difference and inspire change and
give hope to those of us in seemingly hopeless situations. I know this to be true because I’ve seen and
experienced it. Were it not for the kindness
of strangers, my world would be a much darker place. Were it not for the hope that activists may
one day force change in the solitary confinement policies across the country,
my outlook would be very bleak.
So, while there’s no shortage of horror stories about prison
conditions and treatment of prisoners, there is also no shortage of light, no
shortage of individuals willing to try and make a difference and be a voice for
the voiceless.
To all of you who care, I think I speak for every prisoner in saying a heartfelt – Thank You!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He was an entrant in our recent writing contest that was only supposed to have one prize winner, but there were three writers that caught our eye and are deserving of an Honorable Mention. Dalton is one of those three, and I hope we hear from him again. Dalton can be contacted at: Dalton Collins #768733 Allred 2101 FM 369 N. Iowa Park, TX 76367
I was almost eleven years old and had lived in Lake Tahoe for under a year, a beautiful place and my personal favorite city. My mother brought the three of us there after fleeing the big pink house in Oak Park, a house full of anger and physical abuse. The abuse had risen to a new high. My stepfather, her husband, had previously restricted the physical violence to just my mother and I, leaving both of his ‘real’ children alone. When, for the first time, he beat my little brother and broke his arm, it seemed to be the final straw for my mother and she fled.
For years, my mom and I had been the focus of anger and frustration, and I had several trips to the E.R. under my belt by the time I was ten. There was the time I was pushed from the top of the house for ‘playing on the roof’, dislocating my hip and cracking my tailbone. When my face was shoved through a dresser, I’d broken the bone in the orbit of my eye and had some facial lacerations. One time, after being punched and force fed jalapenos, I received a concussion and damage to my lips and throat – it was punishment for lying.
While I had not escaped my mother’s beatings with the move, I had escaped the worst of the violence, and for two months stayed with her ‘friend’, a man named Steve Jones. He was kind and generous, and my life improved.
I was out one afternoon, running through the trees and collecting tree seeds. I had discovered them one day when one landed on my face. Looking up, I saw that every couple of minutes, they would fall from the trees, spiraling down slowly and landing on the ground. They reminded me of the little toy army men with parachutes on four thin strings, the ones meant to be thrown into the air so the parachute would deploy, and the little man would float to the ground. They never seemed to work well, not like the seeds that floated in their super thin leaf like covering. These would spin and spin, floating safely to the ground. I took to throwing rocks into the trees to shake the limbs and dislodge them in hopes of seeing them fall. The seeds themselves were encased in a bean like shell that, once cracked open, offered up the meat much like a sunflower seed. I loved to collect and eat them.
Steve’s apartment was on the end of the building, and when I got back to his apartment that day I was not visible to him and my mother when I approached. As I got close to turning the corner, I heard what sounded like an argument and slowed. It was always wise to measure my mother’s mood before entering a room, and I could hear that she was angry.
“I have enough to move, but you said ten! You still owe me seven!”
“I know, and I will pay you, Sue. It’s just
taking longer than I thought.”
“You keep saying that, but if you don’t have
it before I move, I’m taking him with me!”
“I’ll have it.”
They were still talking loudly when I walked away. They both smoked, and it was as gross to me then as it is now. He smoked Camels, no filter, and she the Salem ultra light something or other. When they finished talking, they went back inside the apartment, and I came in a few minutes later. They seemed happy to see me.
My mother moved about a month later. She took my brother and sister to wherever she went and left me with Steve. It wasn’t until much later and after much pain that I understood that my mother had sold me to her ‘friend’ – a pedophile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: The above is an excerpt from Jeremy Robinson’s, The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Jeremy can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
Forgiveness was something I had to learn in order to move forward. It took me a while to realize, I also had to forgive myself. For too long, I kept punishing myself for my failure, for my loss, and for not being a better man. Unfortunately, the more I punished myself the more I messed up my life. I was stuck in a self-destructive cycle that kept me from being a better person.
I’ve forgiven myself, and I’m working to become a better
person – someone deserving of the forgiveness and trust of my loved ones and
the people I’ve hurt. There’s no way I
can change my past, nor erase my misdeeds, but I can work towards a better
future and keep my lessons in mind so I don’t fall back into that
self-destructive mentality. I know it
won’t be easy and it has not been easy, but I can only take it a day at a time
and pray I’m strong enough to not stumble.
If I do, I hope to have the fortitude to stand back up. This journey has not been easy, but I have
learned and have been blessed to have many good people on the way that have
shown me that I can earn the trust and respect of people by my actions without
being judged solely for my past.
Though I have many regrets, my faith and hope in a better future help me stay strong and not give up. There’s a long road ahead of me, and I can only keep going and learning. Forgiving myself and forgiving the people who have wronged me has prepared me to start on this road to redemption.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jorge Garcia is a poet and currently working on his first book. He can be contacted at: Jorge Garcia #1372972 McConnell Unit 3001 S. Emily Drive Beeville, TX 78102
Prison is not only tough on a man physically, it also damages him emotionally and mentally. Being all packed in together the way we are, it’s hard to miss anything happening in your assigned living area, and in my time here, I’ve seen three men commit suicide.
I once watched as a man leaned out his door and slit his wrists. He died before medical arrived.
Another time, I was in a dayroom watching TV when a man
jumped head first off three row. That’s about forty feet onto cement. He survived the initial jump, but later
died.
The most haunting suicide was a hanging… I’ve actually been near for two hangings, but
in one I prevented a death, and in the other I was just a bystander. In 2006 my celly hung himself on the Ellis
unit. I happened to arrive back at the
cell while he was suffocating, lifted him up and called for help. He was
hospitalized and then placed into mental health care. I have to laugh when I write the word ‘care’ –
that’s a misnomer for sure.
The man that hung himself and died did so with a day room
full of people. He walked out of his
cell on two row, walked onto three row, tied a sheet around the rail and
climbed up to perch on it. He was
making demands. There was something wrong
at his family’s place, and he wanted access to a phone. At that time, there were no phones in TDCJ. They have since installed some phones for some
of the inmates. The officer on the pod responded and tried to tell him that he would
help. They argued, and the officer got angry before saying, “You aren’t going to
jump anyway.”
…and the inmate jumped.
He dropped about fifteen feet and began choking. The staff panicked and ran to three row to
untie the sheet, which would have dropped him twenty-five more feet to the
cement, but they couldn’t untie the knot.
His weight had tightened it. Inmates on two row were trying to hold the
hanging inmate but they couldn’t. He
suffocated and died while hanging. Officers cleared the living area.
My last look at the inmate was seeing him still hanging from
the rail twenty minutes after he had jumped.
TDCJ sanitizes a scene like that by shipping most of the inmates off the
unit immediately, a few here and a few there, so no reporters or investigators
can chase down the facts.
I’ve seen two life ending heart attacks. I watched a man choke to death in the chow hall. I’ve been housed near, but not actually witnessed, several other suicides and attempts. I’ve seen so many stabbings I’ve lost count. An inmate that gets stabbed finds himself in real trouble. Medical care here is slow to respond and poorly trained. There are two doctors on staff that work 8 am to 4 pm, and the fact that these doctors are employed by the system allows them to be considered for medical licensing. All the rest of the medical staff are nurse’s or physician’s assistants. They are able to take vitals and talk to you about chronic pain, but when a man has been stabbed fourteen times in the chest and stomach, they are ill trained to treat him. These injuries tend to end in death. Usually, medical tries to stabilize the victim while an ambulance is called, and by the time it arrives the inmate is beyond care. I’ve seen officers stabbed and inmates assaulted by officers.
Simply put – violence is a way of life in here in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory and is currently working on several projects. He can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
You might want to sit down for this. Being as you’re so young, my intention is to be delicate, but there are some troubling things that need to be disclosed about the path down which you are headed.
Who am I, you ask? Oh, I’m nobody in particular, though I could’ve been. It’s just that I’ve made some really poor choices in life – kinda like what you’re doing. Should you continue, well… eventually you may become nobody in particular too.
The things you’re going through that you think no one else understands – I do. However, I’ve come to learn that other people’s shortcomings are not my excuses, and there’s self-accountability in most blame. We are all responsible for creating the lives we want for ourselves. None of us are exempt from that obligation, Duck. No one else determines how you live.
I know that you’re experiencing some household issues that compel you to find acceptance outside your home. Your older brother, Ray, whom you idolize, doesn’t want you tagging along with him anymore. And while you wait enthusiastically around the house for his return, still, he doesn’t notice you. I know between your mother’s day job and night school, quality time has given way to fatigue. And while everyone dotes on your cute kid sister, your presence feels passed over. It makes you envious, and you question your worth. You feel invisible, as though you don’t matter. You prioritize making friends for the sake of their opinions to validate your importance. You assume a person’s reputation is the measure of their worth; that fear is ascribed to weakness. So you smoke, deal drugs, and have unprotected sex simply to gain approval. But real friends needn’t prove themselves to one another, and fearfulness touches us all. Even the stony looks on the faces of those you so desperately hope to impress, they too have known fear. We’ve all been afraid, though not everyone has the courage to admit it. Owning up to our fears is not weak but strong.
Open your eyes, Duck. You could have a rich, joyous life, if only you would seize it and realize that nothing worth having comes free, it takes dedication and hard work. And yes – having to take ownership over your life at thirteen can be scary, but being a better person is a decision that can only be made by you. Should you continue to travel down such a callous road of indignities, well… you’ll find yourself one night staring down the barrel of a shotgun while fumbling in your socks for what you hope is enough money to trade for your life. You’ll have kids who will grow to adults and have no idea who you are. You’ll suffer scorching lead bore through your flesh as you are left in the street for dead. You will become a slave to your addictions, contract STDs, and erroneously learn to settle domestic disputes with your fist. You will hold a man’s life in your hands while wielding a powerful sense of judgment at the price of your humanity. You’ll spend 20 years in a prison cell crying yourself to sleep at night with shame. Your life will be plagued with regrets, and you’ll find that behind closed eyelids, your demons await.
There’s lots of hurt coming your way, Duck. Trust me – I know. But there’s also the chance for you to make things different. The life you want – your dreams and aspirations – they begin and end with you. Don’t let the pain of your poor choices diminish your goodness and exact its toll on your family. Don’t let the expectations of others determine who you will become. You’re a wonderfully smart and gifted young man with unworldly potential for greatness, so be someone to be proud of… don’t be another me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work.
He can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Whether a prisoner of concrete walls, iron bars and razor wire fences, or economic woes, or mental insecurities – everyone is hungry for a ‘why’ to get through one more day.
My name is Charles “Chucky” Mamou, Jr., and I have been a prisoner on Texas Death Row since 1999. It is here that I found myself a student of my own self, a man whose mental incarceration has been pardoned. I now see things with clarity, without bias. I am not the same man I was a decade or so ago. Now, don’t get it twisted – my imprisonment and death sentence did not bring about such change. For any person to fully attempt to start the process of change, it has to start with the changing or reforming of one’s own mind. I took a liking to the cliché, ‘You are what you think yourself to be’.
A robber doesn’t walk around thinking what sermon he’s going to preach on Sunday, nor is he singing Amazing Grace to express the joys of his heart. He’s thinking about his next heist. But, I’ve come to accept what many deem unthinkable – humans do change! Some from good to bad. Many from bad to good. It all begins with a thought toward a different approach that hasn’t been tried before.
Life finds meaning through ‘why’ and cautious hindsight that allows us to decipher what is important to each one of us. For me, such sanity comes from my devotion to my mother, children, family and sincere friends. More importantly, the devotion they have for me that sustains me. It keeps me smiling when my face should be caked with frowns. They help levee my eyes so that my tears do not cause my heart to flood in misery. They are my ‘whys’ and continue to give me hope for a brighter future.
My family has allowed me to see the other victims that don’t
get much attention in a death penalty system.
The victims who go unnoticed, uncounted, unheard and not spoken enough
about. As much as I understand that it
is because of me that the ones I love have become victims, I see an incredible resiliency
in them, a beacon that no longer allows my own ignorance to be the master of my
mental chaos.
I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. I can only concern myself in the now. What I learn in the now will allow me to be a
better person in the tomorrows that lay ahead – should any tomorrows come to
pass. And, I can smile in this moment,
because I am mentally alive. Indeed, I
am stronger and wiser in mind, if nothing else.
Stronger today than I in my yesteryears.
Life isn’t how you see it, it’s how you make it. We’re here for a reason. To learn from lessons that are unseen. We are here for more than McDonalds and the
mall. We are here to love those who
adopt hate. We are here to understand
each other without the divide that ignorantly sees some as lesser beings due to
the color of their skin, when it’s the content of their character that should
be sought. We are here to rehabilitate the
rehabilitatable. We are here to forgive,
even if redemption isn’t feasible. We
are here to seek our meanings, our whys, and make a difference.
This is what I have observed. If we completely understand self first – then we can understand others. We are all designed in the same likeness, with the same capacity for peace, love, and respect of ourselves and our fellow brothers and sisters. This is my understanding.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
I got outta solitary confinement – Yay! They weren’t through with me though. I expected nothing less…
On the 9th of May I was placed in a modified
general population housing unit. This
means more privileges – limited, but a tad bit better than the barbaric
isolation I endured for over 700 days. I
pray that my comrades back there are keeping the fight alive and manufacturing
hope in a hopeless situation.
On Saturday, June 3rd, I received a fifteen
minute phone call. This was my second in
less than thirty days, and I was ecstatic.
As you can imagine, we cherish this time no matter how short or long. It’s a lifeline, a buoy that keeps us afloat
in a sea of endless blue. Without it, we
feel hopeless and fall into despair because of the loneliness. At least, I do.
The person on the other end of the line and I had some
catching up to do. I’m nearly deaf in my
right ear, so I was holding the receiver to my left ear to hear over all the
yelling in the wing. I was on the phone
no longer than ten minutes. I know it wasn’t near the end because after fourteen
minutes we’re prompted by the operator to hurry up, “You have sixty seconds remaining.”
Mid-convo, I looked over my left shoulder because I felt as
if my personal space was being invaded or I was being watched. I stared into a face that was sun burnt,
weathered and covered with liver spots.
“Wrap it up,” the face demanded, filling the small area between us with
the acrid smell of a wet ashtray.
I complied and hung up. Mind you, well short of my fifteen minutes. Yet, who cares? I was elated to have heard my comrade’s voice and learn of his accomplishments.
“You!”
‘I have a name,’ I
thought.
“Give me your I.D.”
I handed him my
identification card and went to my cell.
I was oblivious to why he needed my I.D.
The young guy that was walking back to our cages with me stated matter-of-factly,
“He’s goin’ to write you up.”
‘For what?’ I thought.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
A few hours later, my cellmate and I were in an intense battle for position. I flanked, he thwarted. He sacrificed, I capitalized. I attacked, he parried. Pop! We nearly knocked the chess board over.
I peeked my head out of my door, and the loud speaker
garbled something unintelligible. I was confused, so I looked to my cellmate
for help, but he was still studying the board in confusion.
I struggled into my state issued orange jumpsuit that we
have to wear in the unit. When I went to the bubble, I was told to go back and
see the housing unit Sergeant. The
general population wings were open and in full swing. I was bombarded with
questions, handshakes and hugs. After
nearly thirty days out of isolation, I was still catching up with people every
day. It felt good to still be celebrated
and relevant after over two years in a box.
After forty-five minutes of waiting, I grew restless. I
walked into the back and saw a conduct violation on the desk. I snuck a peek, ‘Refused to get off of the phone’.
‘What?’ I had to catch myself from saying or doing
something uncalled for. One thing I’ve
learned is self-control. I know
impulsive decisions can have grave consequences, so I did the best thing
possible. I exercised my right not to participate and walked back to my
cell.
But, my heart was beating rapidly, so hard that I felt it in
my mouth and heard it in my ears. In short,
I was enraged. Why did he lie on
me? Maybe it was a mistake. He must have something against me or he’s
making some type of weekly conduct violation quota. And, YES, some do this more often than you would
think. You can never be too hard on ‘us
here pris’ners’.
After I calmed and accepted that I would be found guilty and
stripped of all phone privileges for two to three weeks, I made a cup of
steaming hot java – John Wayne style. I
had no sugar, creamer, or butterscotch candies, so I enjoyed every sip of the
bitter fluid just the way it was. It distracted me for the time being.
My cellmate knew what occurred. We’ve all experienced the same bull. We resumed our game. Of course, I took out my anger on the board. I probably shouldn’t have because I – ahem – caught bloody murder in the middle of my cell floor. On the board, of course! Checkmate!!! Come on, you know me better than that, doncha?
On the 17th of June I knew I might get out on the general population yard on the 3rd day of July. I began safeguarding myself by complaining to medical to obtain a ‘lay-in’. If they aided me, it would stop them from giving me a conduct violation for something I couldn’t control – I was sleeping through institution counts. We should be standing, but again, I cannot hear. Sorry, watchu say??? If I got a ‘lay-in’, they’d knock on my door or open it if they needed me.
If medical knows that I suffer from hearing loss, why is it they don’t tell administration that I need to be prompted, and I’m not just being purposely defiant? My apologies for rambling. This had to be expressed. I live in a place that sees me only as a number. Property. Free labor. Not human.
They have a ‘dog program’ now. I love puppies and kittens, no doubt about it. But, the animals sent to be trained by incarcerated persons have more freedom and rights than the very men that nurture them and are advocates for their care. Is this not odd?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D. is a writer, poet, spoken word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor. He can be contacted at:
Tracy E. Greer #1153032 SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32 Licking, MO 65542 Email: Jpay.com
From 1983 to 1988, the year my dad passed away, I lived on a
farm of sorts. My dad’s property – forty
acres in the middle of East Texas. He
called it The Pine Curtain. He raised
pigs, goats, chickens, pheasant and quail.
Geese and ducks lived on the pond.
I accused him of having a petting zoo, because it seemed like the
animals considered themselves tenants – not a possible food source.
My dad would let them out, and they’d follow him around,
like interns following the lead doctor in a hospital. Most people would think it was an illusion or
trick, but the animals just knew my dad loved them, even though some of them did
eventually end up on the menu.
The goats didn’t think of themselves as goats. They were guests. They were Nubian goats. The female, Gracie, was black and white, and the male, Homer, was brown and orange. When dad first brought them home, they were just kids. They’d follow him and eat the grass, meandering around like foreign tourists, “No, thank you, we’re just visiting.”
When they matured, they mated and had little goats. Two at a time. The little ones would follow
my son around when he was four or five, and if anything got near Mike, they’d
chase them off. It wasn’t unusual to
see my son digging in the backyard, playing like little boys will, with two
small goats standing guard like unpaid babysitters.
When my dad passed away, my mom had me sell the larger
animals, the pigs and goats, because she couldn’t handle the workload. An older man down the road had goats on his
farm and agreed to buy Homer and Gracie.
I warned him Homer was better suited to be penned in or tied so he didn’t
cause any damage. Even though Homer was
a goat, he was like a bull in a china shop.
The man assured me that he’d been raising goats all his life
and could handle anything Homer had up his sleeve (or hoof).
After about a week, I ran into the man at the local feed
store. He told me he was sorry he didn’t
believe me. He had let Homer roam the
house grounds, unsupervised. The goat had
apparently climbed on top of his wife’s car and beat the hood up, kicking in
the windshield and eating the vinyl roof.
I asked if he’d done anything to the goat, and he told me he
tied Homer up. He thought about shooting
him but admitted that I had warned him, so he didn’t have the heart.
I made Homer’s bail!
Goats are pretty smart if you raise them from babies, but once in a awhile you get one who is just plain ornery. But much like people, even goats deserve a chance…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration. He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 C.T. Terrell Unit A150 1300 FM655 Rosharon, TX 77583
