Category Archives: Views From The Inside

Mental Illness and Prison, Views From The Inside

The Idaho State Prison Mental Health Unit

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‘Medium Custody to Maximum Security’

Plucked from my comfort zone for the second time in two years, the state of Idaho once again practiced its ruthless punching power.  Wrist-cuffed and ankle-shackled, the medium custody transporters drove me to my new home, I.M.S.I. – Idaho Maximum Security Institution.  No forewarning – no explanation.  I knew I’d done nothing to warrant the move – nevertheless, I was moved. 

I’m an ‘old school lifer’ who has survived over three decades in an ever changing institutional gambit.  Old school lifer meaning – my mindset is that of the traditional ‘convict code’ method of doing time with a life sentence. The ‘convict code’ is holding oneself and others accountable without the assistance of prison guard intervention. 

I later learned my transfer was not based on any infraction. Rather, I was moved because of my exceptional behavior and work ethic and had been vetted by a certain Lieutenant.   The Lieutenant found me a worthy bargaining chip for their modest worker program, and there were incentives in place to keep manageable inmates interested in staying in the high security environment.  The inmate labor population was pretty small compared to the approximate five hundred captives held in the Maximum Security Facility.

My first work assignment at I.M.S.I. was in the kitchen as a food tray server and emptier. We did the dishes after every meal, and for me, it was my five hour Jane Fonda workout – six days out of the week. Our hours began t 4:00 a.m. and ended when the job was complete, usually a six hour shift.  I would have never done it if it weren’t for the exercise, the money being a deterrent at thirty cents an hour.

I learned of ‘C’ Block, by way of our prison barber.  Tucked away in the North end of ‘Max’ is what they call the ‘Acute Mental Health Unit’.   The barber was also a ‘mentor’, and he expressed an interest in me working and living with him on that unit. I fell for his recruiting spiel and became one of his two enlistees.   There was a pilot program in place that the prison administration had designed for interested inmates to be hired as ‘mentors’ and trained to work with the mental health inmates.

I was interviewed by the Mental Health Ward Committee which was comprised of the warden, the unit case manager and a sergeant.  The meeting reminded me of an interview one undergoes in society. I was not at all nervous, nor did I expect not to be hired.  My intentions, faith, and willingness to serve and learn were genuine.  Although I had never aspired to work in such a volatile environment, there was something very intriguing about the mental health inmates I was about to encounter.  The challenge would be worth every second I spent with them. I was hired that same day and moved that evening.

The first thirty days of training was mostly cleaning detail. The extreme security was something I had never imagined. Cameras were scattered throughout the facility. There were so many radio strapped officers, staff members, and social workers to deal with, I felt like they may consider giving me one too!  I soon learned, I was ill-prepared for the duties, responsibilities, and experiences I would endure while working with ‘cops’ and serving these particular prisoners.  While every facet of the job was demanding, the adversities and challenges turned out to be a great honor and introduced me to who I managed to become.

While working in C Block, I met Melvin, a man in his early seventies.  He was a Vietnam vet who had done much of the last two decades there.  Daily, Melvin would excrete on the cement floor under the sink in his cell.  I chose to clean it up, as he refused to do so. In some strange way, it felt like it was a privilege as his condition unraveled.  He was highly unpredictable with a multitude of behavior swings – angry, shaky, intimidating, and at times somewhat evil, but we eventually saw eye to eye.

There were many mentally distraught prisoners there. The most intriguing man I encountered was Mohamed, an immigrant gaining political asylum from the middle-east.  When I arrived, no one could reason with him.  He was exceedingly disruptive in every way imaginable, and eventually he helped me find an inner-patience I never thought I had.  Mohamed was a highly strung ex-military soldier, driven to the edge of insanity, while also intelligent and manipulative.  He continually harassed guards and people he didn’t trust.

The stories Mohamed shared with me in his heavy middle-eastern accent were of some of the most shocking atrocities I could have imagined – war stories from Iraq and his family’s slaughter by Saddam Hussein.  Not only did I believe him, but I witnessed firsthand the cause and effect of human misery. He displayed constant irritation by ‘corrupt authority’, and spoke often about being mentally and physically tortured.  Fortunately, after many days of necessary communication, we became friends. 

Mentoring and serving the men on C Block brought my soul to a place of genuine conformity. From their experiences, I began to realize how fortunate I was to still have a sane mind after thirty years in prison.  I also felt the immense capacity for compassion in my soul for those who struggle deeply with emotional and mental difficulties. I began to feel  pure benevolence toward others for the first time in my life.

My experience in the Acute Mental Health Unit was the most rewarding and eye opening undertaking I’ve ever encountered. It gave me an opportunity to experience both hell and also my purpose on earth. Something very profound transformed inside of me, ending my search for a pearl of great price. 

ABOUT THE WRITER. Samuel Pacheco submitted this entry for the spring writing contest. The winner of the contest was chosen based on a point system from two judges, but each of the two judges was also given an opportunity to award a ‘Judge’s Choice’ writer, and Mr. Pacheco was one of those two writers. I hope we hear from him again in the future. He can be contacted at:

SAMUEL M. PACHECO
56645 E3-36A
Idaho St. Correctional Center
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Views From The Inside

I’m Just Saying

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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

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Views From The Inside

The Section

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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

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Views From The Inside

The Light Outside

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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

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Views From The Inside

Look Hands, No Mom

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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

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Views From The Inside

Forgiveness

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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

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Prison Conditions, Views From The Inside

Violence Is A Way Of Life Here – From TDCJ

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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

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self

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Dear Duck,

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

All Posts By Chanton

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Finding ‘Why’ On Texas Death Row

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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

Writing By Charles Mamou

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Out Of Isolation

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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

ALL POSTS BY TRACY GREER.

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