It’s been said a life is priceless, But freedom is not. You can purchase my life, But my freedom I can not?
Is a life that is tarnished, Still worth as much? If freedom is taken, Can a bunch be bought back?
Years of slavery, The Constitution says facts. We call them Amendments, The fourteenth is exact.
Modern day slavery, Combined with a life. Means no more time, For kids and a wife.
If my tarnished life Were no longer priceless, How much would it cost me, When to you nearly worthless?
How can I pay you, And still have mine? Still have life And still have time.
Could I be a soldier, And pay my debt overseas? Risk my life for my country, And buy back the deed?
Bathe in the glory, With sacrifice and pride. Live through the nightmares Of others who have died.
Wash off the tarnish, And come back anew. Knowing I paid with my life, It’s what I want to do.
There is no honor In dying a prisoner’s death. No parades or salutes, Praises in depth.
Only tears from a mother, Or whomever may be left. A cardboard box, a hole, and a number. Maybe some rain, but hardly the thunder.
Let me die with some honor, To further a cause. I’m still one of the Nation, And that’s under God.
I can’t sleep at night, Because I see a way, For me to wager my life At a price you can pay.
With nothing to lose And all to gain. You still will win, Even if I get slain.
You say a life is priceless, But freedom is not. Then you purchase my life, But my freedom I can not?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terome Porter found inspiration for this poem in his proposal, “Project Reform” – a prisoner’s push for redemption. He can be contacted at: Terome Porter #680067 Davis Correctional Facility DCF-CCA 6888 East 133rd Road Holdenville, OK 74848-9033
I knew Tommy for over 20 years. He was a friend – not as close as some, closer than others. He was usually upbeat, always working and often watching and betting on sports – mostly football. Like myself, he loved the Rockets, Texans and Astros. His only flaw, from my viewpoint, was that when they were losing, he lost faith in his teams. Maybe it was because he always bet his heart and not his head, causing him to take some losses, but we’d always laughed about it later.
I’d see him walking to work in the hallway and I’d call out, “Tommy!”
He’d answer, “How are you, John?” When he asked how I was, I knew he was
sincere – not just talking or going through the motions. He really cared.
I think Tommy was a good guy who got caught up in the moment. Whatever he did to get himself here, I never asked because whatever it was, it was long ago, and the person that did it didn’t exist anymore.
Tommy died of a sudden heart attack last night. I don’t know his exact age, probably
something close to mine. What I do know
is – I’m one friend short.
Rest in peace, brother.
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
Cruel. Heartless. Malicious and cold. That’s how the prosecutor described me to a jury during his pitch for a verdict of death. He argued that I was, “…just mean and unfit to live.” In the end, the jury agreed.
Four months after my arrival on Death Row, I stole money from an officer. Though inadvertent, it was theft nonetheless. It happened one morning during weekly ‘draw’, while one officer was training another. At that time, available funds withdrawn from inmate accounts were counted and stapled together.
The new guy – or Newbie – handed me a stack of bills in
fives and ones meant to total forty dollars.
With no prior incidents or errors, I tucked the bills in my pocket and walked
away. Within moments, a commotion stirred
as one inmate started shouting over missing funds. Others became disgruntled and offered up
chide remarks about the unfairness of the system. The senior officer tried to de-escalate the
ruckus, while the new guy searched frantically through the money bag. I sympathized with the perplexity strewn on
Newbie’s face. It was his first day on
the job.
After reassuring compensation, both officers exited the pod, as the ire amongst protesting inmates increased. With a prickly notion to count the money, I collected the bills from my pocket and discovered it wasn’t one stack, but two. The staples in each stack had snagged one another and pieced the money together. I called over the guy to which the funds belonged, explained the mix-up and offered him the money.
“Keep it,” he said, “Let the State pay for it, since they’re trying to kill us, anyway.” Tempers flared over systemic oppression, as the other inmates egged each other on. Reluctantly, I passed the money off to a friend – I was striking a blow to ‘the State’.
Not only was the meager blow ineffective to the State, it
was utterly deflected. I later found out
the replacement funds were deducted from Newbie’s salary. What a terrible feeling to know I was
responsible for a mark on his work record.
And by involving another party, I couldn’t return the money, though
keeping it cost me peace of mind.
Over the years, Newbie has gone on to become a well
respected officer. With an 18 year
tenure of working on Death Row, he has seniority over all other staff. He’s shown cordialness and consideration when
enforcing policy, while effectively performing his duties. A kind, hard working man, who seldom speaks,
but is eager to flash a grin. As I’ve
come to admire his professionalism, I’m reminded of my offense. Such a fine person deserves better from me –
I deserve better from myself.
Recently, I was among several Death Row inmates selected for
a random urinalysis. I arrived to find Newbie
overseeing the process, as he went about his task with a grin. I’d often experienced discomfort whenever he
was present – a nagging guilt that pecked at my conscience and impeded the wholeness
of reform. Tonight’s discomfort was more
salient and intense, as I struggled with the idea of possible outcomes. What if Newbie had lost his job, or been accused
of theft and criminally charged? I
squeezed my eyes tightly as my inner voice gathered. Newbie deserved better. So did I.
Some idle chat was used to generate dialogue on
self-reform. Then, with no one else
around, my words spilled forth, “Yeah, man… many of us want to be better, but
to do better, we have to own our truths.
Just like the time when that forty dollar draw come up missing…” At that point, I had Newbie’s undivided
attention. While confessing my role in
the missing funds, I felt embarrassed, but liberated. I searched his eyes for a hint of anger. They stayed steady and unrevealing. I expressed my sincerity to return the funds
and the difficulty of having involved another. His fixed look filled me with shame – a shame
I well deserved.
Finally, Newbie settled his thoughts and said, “Thank you for telling me that.” For eighteen years Newbie had been puzzled by the events of that day. He was certain about the money count and grateful to finally know what happened. I was moved to witness such genuine forgiveness, given instantly and without effort. I expected reprimand for my wrong-doing, instead, Newbie seemed relieved. His forgiveness was validation in the courage to right our wrongs. It was more than I deserved – it was a lesson in the goodness of humanity.
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
I’m an addict in recovery.
For a long time I didn’t see it that way. As long
as I could stop using for a while I thought I was all right. I looked at the stopping, never the using.
As my addiction progressed, I thought of stopping less, and less. Only in desperation did I finally ask myself,
“Could it be the drugs?”
Addiction isolated me from people except when I was getting,
using and finding ways to get more. I
became hostile, resentful, self-centered and self-seeking. I cut myself off from the outside world. Anything not completely familiar became alien
and dangerous. My world shrank and
isolation became my life. I used in
order to survive. It was the only way of life that I knew.
Art by John A. Saenz
Even though I used, misused and abused drugs, I didn’t
consider myself an addict. I kept
telling myself, “I can handle it.”
Some of the highs felt great, but eventually the things I
had to do to continue using reflected desperation. I was caught in the grip of addiction, forced
to survive any way I could. I
manipulated people and tried to control everything around me. I had to have drugs, regardless of the
cost. Failure and fear began to invade
my life.
One of the aspects of my addiction was my inability to deal
with life on life’s terms. I tried drugs
and combinations of drugs to cope with a seemingly hostile world. I dreamed of
finding a magic formula that would solve my ultimate problem – ME.
I fell into a pattern of selective thinking. I only remembered the good experiences. I
justified and rationalized things that I did by telling myself it was to keep
from being sick or going crazy. I
ignored the times when life seemed to be a nightmare. I avoided the reality. The higher mental and emotional functions,
such as having a conscience and the ability to love, were sharply affected by
my drug use.
I became accustomed to a state of mind that is common to most
addicts. I forgot what it was like
before I started using. I forgot about
social graces. I acquired strange habits
and mannerisms. I forgot how to
work. I forgot how to play. I forgot how to express myself and how to
show concern for others. I forgot how to
feel.
While using, I lived in another world. I experienced only
periodic jolts of reality or self-awareness. At first, I was using in a manner
that seemed to be social or at least controllable. I had little indication of the disaster that
the future held for me. At some point my
using became uncontrollable and anti-social. This began when things were going
well, and I was in situations that allowed me to use frequently. This was usually the end of the good times,
and I always ended up doing time.
Knowing what my life can become if I use again isn’t what
stops me from using. It’s what I heard
at an AA meeting one day while in prison.
It went something like this:
“I know I still have
one more high in me. You know, one more
fix. That will be there until the day I
die. It’s real easy to get some dope if
I want it and get high. So, I know for
certain that there’s one more high in me. But what I do not know for sure is –
whether there’s one more recovery in me.”
That struck home with me because I just didn’t like drugs, I loved them. I’ve hit rock bottom this time, and I am fortunate to be alive, but with each passing day, the desire to use is less and less.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John Saenz is a talented writer and artist. He is serving a Life Sentence in Texas and can be contacted at: John A. Saenz #1113101 Ramsey Unit 1100 FM 655 Rosharon, TX 77583
Back in 1987 – ‘the Jamaicans’ hit. Not the whole of Jamaica – just a three-man posse of ruffians we town folk called ‘the Jamaicans’. It was during the crack epidemic of the 80’s, and I was thirteen.
Much of my days back then were spent goofing off with friends. On the weekends, we took our small allowances
and hoofed it to the inner city to buy marijuana. We were silly kids pretending to be
grown-ups, until times changed, and we could pretend no longer.
A time came when two of my friends began disappearing after
school, and by the week’s end they had extra money. When I asked their whereabouts, they replied,
“We sell rocks for ‘the Jamaicans’.” I
didn’t know rocks were in such high demand, but the incentive was worth
checking out, so we headed to New St. early the next day, to a neighborhood that
was a breeding ground for crime.
When we arrived there was a network of roguish teenagers
bustling to and fro. I watched as my friends
approached a man lounging in a luxury car.
He was short and dark complected, with even darker clothes, his voice rhythmic
and foreign. He handed them a package
and drove away as the three of us gathered curbside. Within moments, a scraggly man hastened our
way with a crumpled bill clutched in his fist.
He exchanged it with my friends for the contents inside a small plastic
bag – and that’s when it hit me. My
friends didn’t sell actual
rocks. They sold a drug called – rocks.
That’s when it all made sense. No longer were we simply standing in the
hood, it was more like the Promise Land – a bountiful mirage of tremendous
opportunity and it read, ‘see what you’ve
been missing?’ While I was home frying bologna and
watching cartoons, my friends had been out getting rich. Their success was equivalent to turkey with gravy
and man… I wanted to eat. The guy in the luxury car was called Roofus. We met the next day when I received my first
package of cocaine.
Life as a drug dealer began with invigoration, but soon became
hard work. I hopped in and out of cars all day haggling with strangers. My cup of judgment was neither half empty, nor
half full, but a lot of both – completely empty of experience, at the same
time, full of potential. Hustling drugs
day and night, I was fueled on by the idea of success. My motto was, “show me the money, and I’ll
show you commitment.” I wanted da ‘bling
to cast its illusion of wealth over poverty.
I wanted instant fame and glory, to shine amongst my peers. But stardom would come at a cost, and I
gradually became someone different. I
had walked across the bridge from innocence to inquisition, with something terrible
waiting at the bottom.
The first thing to go was my mother’s curfew. Next, I was a high school dropout. Courting girls began to occupy any time and
focus not spent dealing drugs. Then came
mischief, like vandalism and acts of violence. I was losing my grip on my values and drifting
on a sea of poor choices.
One day, I lost some drugs and had no way to pay Roofus. Frightened by the rumors of how ‘the jamaicans’ dealt with incompetence, I went into hiding. Imagine my surprise when Roofus called my house and threatened to harm my family. Suddenly, I was standing in a chilling darkness too great to conquer. Roofus demanded that I come to New St. to discuss payment. Along the way, I had a premonition of something horrible and decided to wait until I could come up with the money. A week later, Roofus skipped town after fatally shooting his girlfriend. I wondered if the bullet that killed her had my name on it.
The experience was a critical turning point in my life. While I did complete the journey across the bridge, my identity toppled over the edge. I gave my all to the dope game in hopes of something better. The price was my undying loyalty to streets – that gave nothing back.
There are 1,200 inmates here on the Ramsey Unit, and with
few exceptions, we are a well-behaved group.
For the most part, those with violent pasts have learned their lesson
and appreciate their civilized surroundings. Those who have spent their lives in prison have
finally found the best home. Many of
these career boys do not want to leave.
They are thoroughly institutionalized and cannot function on the
outside. A warm bed, three meals a day,
healthcare – how could they possibly top this on the streets?
I’m not implying this is a pleasant place. It is not. There are many men like me who never dreamed they would fall so hard and so many cruel twists in a long prison term. One of those twists is being slowly forgotten by the world and those you love and need. The mail, which arrived in bundles during the early months, gradually trickles down to one or two letters a week, until they stop altogether. The letters mean so much to us. They are a lifeline to the world.
How do you survive years in prison? You don’t think about years, or months, or
weeks. You think about today, how to get through it and survive
it. When you wake up tomorrow, another
day is behind you. The days add up. The weeks
run together. The months become years. You realize how tough you are, how you can function
and survive because you have no other choice.
I find the low levels of literacy among the prison
population depressing. Blacks, whites,
browns – it doesn’t matter. So many of these guys can barely read and write. It makes you wonder what’s happening in our
educational system – and is this the result?
I know that I can’t fix the educational system, nor the legal, judicial or prison systems. But I can dream my contribution to the fight will one day make a change. In the meantime, I survive one day at a time, and in doing so, maintain as much self-respect and dignity as possible because I will never become institutionalized.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John Saenz is a talented writer with a smooth, honest style, and I hope to share more of his work. He is serving a Life Sentence in Texas and can be contacted at: John A. Saenz #1113101 Ramsey Unit 1100 FM 655 Rosharon, TX 77583
I hear talk the death penalty is becoming ‘unpopular’, and before long it won’t exist. It’s just a matter of time before Texas and the rest of the country come to this conclusion.
But from what I can see here on death row, this thing we call the death penalty – legalized killing – is here to stay. It’s economics. People don’t invest money in something that isn’t going to be around for long.
It wasn’t so long ago, I don’t know how much money was spent on putting video cameras all over this building to upgrade security.
Next – the roof was taken up and completely redone.
A couple months ago every shower door was removed and replaced with solid stainless steel doors that were professionally installed. At seventy-two doors, I can’t even imagine what the cost came to.
A few weeks ago, every food slot was removed and replaced with a new one to use a key lock instead of a bar. That’s 504 slots just for this building.
Next, I hear they plan to repaint all the cells – one by
one.
So, you see, it’s hard to see this kind of investment in death row housing unless the death penalty is here to stay in Texas. Actions speak a lot louder than actual words…
An expression of ‘self’, The definition of you. Thoughts and feelings, Your point of view. A reflection of opinion, Your lies become true. Tickled pink, mad, red, Or down and blue. An escape for your emotion, Way to organize your mental commotion. Describe feelings deeper than the ocean, Never use words that exploit erosion. Real, pure and raw, No photos, just what you saw. The needle in a stack of hay straw. Dreams become reality, Reality seems surreal. Don’t just speak, Let your heart spill. The letters of a word express how you feel, Death comes to life, Broken hearts heal. The colorful art of expression, Release of charity and aggression. An opinion or suggestion, Engulfed in confession.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reggie West is serving life without the possibility of parole. ‘Poetry’ is an excerpt from the book he is currently working on. Reggie can be reached at: Reggie West #FE-6643 P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
My dad often said, “You do not bite the hand that feeds you.” As a diabetic, I’ve tweaked that to read, “You
do not bite the hand that heals you.”
Anyone who lives in a correctional facility for long will
likely cross paths with a nurse or three before going home. Knowing which hands not to bite could mean
the difference between good health care and, I don’t want to frighten anyone,
but death. Being objective hasn’t always
been easy, but objectivity has kept me from harm for twenty-five years.
The health care system in the world is stressed, and I’m not
going to debate universal health care. I
merely want to weigh in on the people that have – literally – kept me alive and
upright all these years.
Nurses are the backbone, the foundation of a prison unit like mine, and they are overworked, understaffed, underpaid, underappreciated, overlooked and finally – abused too often by the very clients that they are sworn and paid to protect, treat and keep healthy.
As a diabetic, I get to see the prison nursing staff at least twice a day, every day, and have for nearly half my life. I get to see the details, and I get to see both sides of the coin. I’ve been locked away for twenty-five years, and I know who is on my side.
Prison isn’t easy on a good day, but inmates tend to take medical
for granted. Many feel medical care is a
given if they get a scrape or a cold. It
is their ‘right’ to fill out a sick call request, have someone wave a magic wand
over their head and presto – problem solved. I want it now – no, I want it yesterday.
But, for a small measure of patience…
Inmates parade in front of the infirmary all day long, and what they see are nurses and doctors. Some are sitting drinking coffee, some are eating lunch, some are typing on their computers. An impatient inmate only sees the surface, “All they do is sit around and talk, eat and play on the computers.”
Wrong.
What most are doing is taking a break from changing IV’s, filing
nurses notes, answering sick call requests, and dealing with unruly inmates who
actually believe that nurses are overpaid.
During my stay here, I’ve spent time receiving treatment from nurses, requiring antibiotics and IV’s for hours at a time. In those long hours of treatment, I’ve seen them constantly moving and constantly vigilant, trying to figure out who’s sick and who’s crying wolf – trying to deal with the constant mental process of taking care of over a thousand inmates, some really sick, some dying and some just craving attention.
Most of them probably don’t get paid near enough for
that.
In the 25 years I’ve been treated, I’ve never cried wolf. I want these warriors to take me seriously when
I call 911, I want them there to help me.
I don’t want anyone doubting I need their help. I’ve taken the doubt out of the
equation.
The double standard that often drives inmates to insanity –
also goes the other way. Nurses are
people too. Not all good, and certainly
not all bad. They suffer from the same
problems we all do. They have ups and downs and families to support, bills to
pay, relationship to nurture. They’re
human. And, thank God, some of them have
chosen to work in a prison infirmary.
Who among us would choose to talk to, medically review, and treat
inmates – many of whom are assholes – for twelve hour shifts and not develop an
attitude?
Are there bad nurses?
Yes. And there are also nurses who used to be a lot kinder and compassionate before coming to work in a prison. We as inmates have a way of grinding down the very people responsible for our well being, objectivity be damned.
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. His book has been recognized by Terry LeClerc who said, “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
The guard walked me to the elevator where we joined other inmates and were handcuffed, shackled, and told to stand facing the back – as if we were so hideous our faces shouldn’t be seen. We were then taken to a garage and put in a transport van. It took only five minutes to reach the unloading area of the courthouse.
I was one of the first prisoners led out, handcuffed to three other inmates and taken to the courtroom. I could only hope my attorney had told me the truth…
“All rise!”
Everyone in the room stood, and then sat in unison as the judge said, “You may be seated. Will the defendant please come forward?”
A guard tapped my shoulder, I was uncuffed and walked to the bench. My court appointed attorney met me there, smiled and nodded.
“Sir, do you know why you are here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“And why are we here?”
“My capital murder indictment has been dismissed.”
“That’s correct. Now, I’ve spoken to the DA, and I’ve also spoken to your attorney. From what I understand, you have not been in any trouble in jail. I don’t see any contact with the jail staff.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Sir, the District Attorney has filed a motion to dismiss
the indictment against you for capital murder.
Based on the information I have here, I am going to grant the
dismissal. What this means is that once
the paperwork is processed, you will be released.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” I was so relieved I almost fell down.
“Now, don’t get too excited,” the judge took off her glasses and held them in her left hand. She paused. “I want to make something perfectly clear. You are getting a second chance. There will not be a third,” she said, emphasizing each important word with her glasses.
“If you come before me with any trouble at all, and I mean any at all, you will go to prison for the maximum amount of time allowed by law. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” This time I knew there would be no more trouble. This was going to be the last time I appeared before this judge or any other.
“You are excused,” she said, dismissing me before signing some papers and handing them to one of the guards.
With that, I was on my way out. I didn’t know how long it would take for the paperwork to process, but I knew I would not wake up in jail tomorrow. I was escorted back to the other prisoners and handcuffed at the end of the line. When all of us were taken back to the jail, I was left in the holding area.
‘I can’t believe it! I’m really getting out of here!’ All I could think about was taking a real shower, sleeping in a real bed, and eating real food. I couldn’t wait to get the stench of jail off me. I sat in the holding area for some time, and as each guard passed the window, I was certain it would be the one to bring my street clothes and take me to processing. But each time they kept walking.
Another inmate was brought in. I had seen him in the jail, but I didn’t know who he was.
“Getting out?” asked the stranger.
“Yeah, just as soon as they process my papers.”
“Don’t be in too big a hurry. Probably won’t be till after midnight.”
My heart dropped. How was I going to last till midnight? The other inmate stretched out on a bench and fell asleep almost immediately. Dinner came. I let my new cellmate eat my portion. Even if I did get released after midnight, I could eat then. I couldn’t stand the thought of another bologna sandwich. I dozed off and woke up to the sound of the cell door – sliding open.
A guard walked in and called my name, “Time to go.”
I shook off sleep, walked out of the cell and made my way to the processing area. Another guard handed me a plastic bag that held all the belongings I’d arrived with – my wallet, some loose change, and the keys to Mom’s house. It also had the ticket for speeding and no seat belt. I signed a sheet of paper stating I had received it all. Another guard handed me my street clothes. I changed and made my way down the hall. I came to a stop at a metal door, and someone watching through a camera triggered the door to open. I followed the corridor around to the main desk.
I showed the guard at the desk my paperwork. He nodded, motioned for me to come forward and grabbed my left hand. He marked it with a rubber stamp. I looked down. The mark said ‘Released’.
I smiled and walked the few feet to the front door before taking the final step outside. I wasn’t the person I had been when I got locked up, and I’d never been as excited about anything as I was about starting my new life.
That’s when the banging began. “Offender, are you eating breakfast?!” a guard barked as he hit my cell door with his nightstick.
I glanced at my clock and it read 3:55 a.m. ‘Fuck! It was just a damn dream.’
“No, get away from my door!”
But, it was so real…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Roderick Newton spent years on death row, but is now serving life in a Texas Prison. He has been working on his memoirs and can be contacted at: Roderick Newton #1690483 Telford Unit 3899 State Highway 98 New Boston, TX 75570
