I am currently sitting in a thirty-day overflow cell meant to be a form of punishment, but it has unexpectedly inspired me to stop doing the worthless drugs on this unit and make better use of the gifts of money my family sends me. I mean, it really does feel great to feel what clean is again and to have commissary to eat as I please or to share. My mind is flowing with rhymes and words and thoughts that I thought I were lost in the depths of the abyss. Wow.
Thank you. I haven’t written on any piece of paper in so long, except for a recent grievance. I recently watched friends die from overdose and despair, and I thought I was being punished when I was placed in this dreaded cell, but no. I was rescued, saved, now I can see again. I can hear sounds, I can touch and taste like a newborn babe.
I’m 47 now, and I will see 50. I will see my freedom again. My hope is restored. I hope my words show others in this struggle that you don’t have to be put up somewhere to be tired of puttin’ up with the trash. Save your money, start eating your food, call your people on the phone, or write them, and watch how high in spirit you feel. Now, hit that!
ABOUT THE WRITER. Antoine Taylor has never submitted any work to WITS before, and what caught my attention about his writing was the sincerity and hope that I saw in his words. Although he did not share anything else about himself, I hope he continues to write on pieces of paper, whether he sends them to WITS or loved ones, or simply journals.
Antoine can be contacted at: Antoine Taylor #1816700 Michael Unit P.O. Box 660400 Dallas, TX 75266-0400
Imagine a life so darkened with despair, death feels like the only solution; a darkness that blots out your ability to rationalize that nothing bad lasts forever. Yours is a forever darkness, filling you with dread and pelting you with unrelenting regret. You are plagued by the spirits left broken in your wake from a horror you can never take back. You become desperate to end the pain, ingesting sharp objects that leave your insides wracked with blood, only to rouse days after surgery to discover death rejected you. What remains are the ills of living in pain, the aching darkness still looming. It pushes you beyond the realm of rationality until your escape is as dark as your mind. Medications don’t work and therapy proves but a pitiful attempt to make sense of the pain you feel. No – death is your answer and you will not be denied… so you try again.
That is the everyday darkness that confronts T.J. as he battles with mental illness. It is a deep depression that grows more ominous by the second and evermore self-destructive. T.J. is the latest man to be placed on NC Death Row. He is a tall brother with wandering eyes and a mellow disposition. It was a few months after his arrival that he and I talked for the first time, an exchange that started out casual enough but soon turned rather disturbing. T.J. revealed that he was suicidal and had already tried to kill himself twice. He then hiked up his t-shirt, revealing a scar from his sternum to under belly. I expected his next words to be dripping with regret, for surely he was grateful to be alive. Instead, T.J. sighed with an air of defiance and said, “It don’t matter, ‘cause I’mma do it again.”
The conviction in his words left nothing to doubt… T.J. would try to kill himself again. I opened my mouth but found my own words caged by an awful reminder. What T.J. didn’t know was that I’d lost a close friend to suicide right here on Death Row, and everyday I regretted not saying more to him when I had the chance. Now I spoke fast and fervently to T.J., grasping for anything to impart logic. It was my second chance, and I was determined to give T.J. a reason to live.
As it turned out, for all my determination, I was clueless as to how mental illness works. I tried to use rhetoric to shine light on T.J.’s darkness, but his was a vortex consuming all but one hope. Some months later, T.J. would make his third attempt to take his life when he climbed onto a stairway railing and fell backward to what he hoped was his peace at the bottom. The impact shattered his clavicle and left other bones mangled. His spine dislodged under the weight of the fall as ankles crashed against steel. T.J. laid crumbled at the bottom of the steps as the pain rendered him unconscious, a merciful darkness that spared him the agony but not the endless darkness he sought.
T.J. woke some time later in a prison infirmary to find, once again, the doctors had saved his life. He returned with a back brace and walking cane but still nothing to support his wayward thoughts. His latest suicide attempt gave me valuable insight on the effects of mental illness. For T.J., it is a corrosive disease that turns the rational state-of-mind into the urge to induce grave harm. Mental illness is a wellness deficiency that cannot simply be explained away but deserves heightened awareness, in one place more than any other – the criminal justice system.
What purpose does the death penalty serve for a person with T.J.’s mental instability? Where is the justice in executing someone who sees death not as a punishment but a goal? Such cases demonstrate a death penalty does not exact equal punishment. The death penalty exists to appease a sense of vengeance. True, there are bad people who do bad shit all the time, and they must be held accountable, but when the someone who is bad is suffering from mental illness, the flaw is a reflection of us, not them.
The criminal justice system of today has practically abandoned principles on corrective behavior and thrives on the intent to punish. It puts people like T.J. in hostile environments and expects to normalize him with medications. And while our very own state of NC has passed a number of laws excluding certain criminals from being eligible to receive the death penalty, still they readily punish the mentally ill, as in the case of T.J., instead of providing them with adequate treatment.
T.J. should be receiving round-the-clock treatment for the darkness trying to claim his life. He should be in a facility that specializes on his condition, not left to his own devices on Death Row. And of those cases where someone who is mentally ill does wind up in prison, it falls on the criminal justice system to treat these cases as such, yet the very people who may be in a position to help T.J. are the very ones who want to see him dead.
I spoke with T.J. yesterday while on the rec yard, and surprisingly, he was buzzing with life. He is on the mend, with friends and a local reverend dedicated to helping him heal his spiritual wounds. T.J. assured me that he indeed does want to live, but he doesn’t know how. And for as much as it pained me to hear that, still I didn’t try to rationalize life to him like I did before – this time, I just sat and listened.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson’s writing is consistently thought provoking. Terry writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He recently wrote an essay regarding that book club and what it means to the men involved at the request of a research group at the University of Texas, and he also recently contributed regarding the power of writing in self-care to a Social Work class at Virginia Commonwealth University. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was also recently published in JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Lastly, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion and is very hopeful that will be proven in the future.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
Lou Gherig called himself the “luckiest man on the face of the earth” during his farewell speech, recognizing the blessing of the love being poured out upon him by former teammates and fans despite being forced to retire from the game he loved. Gherig’s heroism in the face of impending death due to ALS provides inspiration for any who face difficulty. And while Gherig must have felt like the luckiest man, I think the title belongs to me.
I think myself the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth because God gave me a godly mother. My mother wanted, and still wants, only one thing from her three sons: that they love God with all their heart, soul, and mind. And no mother has ever loved her sons more, found more joy in her sons, or sacrificed more for her sons. My mother’s incredible example of godliness and sacrificial love makes me the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
My parents were told by multiple doctors that they could not have children. They found a doctor who shared their belief that all things are possible with God, adopted my older brother, and kept trying – because why not, right? They loved their first son with all their hearts. Ten years later, surprise, surprise, a Timothy came along. God made the impossible not just possible but actual. Two years later, another son joined the Johnson home, another miracle.
Throughout our lives, my brothers and I have been told how much we were desired, how our parents prayed for us to be conceived and born. I picture my mother, like Hannah, in the temple praying and crying out to God for Samuel, then dedicating him to the Lord. She desired to have children with all of her titanic heart and devoted us to the Lord from the very start of her prayers.
No mother has ever found more joy in her sons. Pictures exist of my family spanning across the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and through the early 20’s. All of them, even the ones taking sans pose, depict a family who played and laughed together, a family who enjoyed being together. This ‘together-joy’ flowed from my parents into and through their sons.
Even at 50, my Mom enjoyed playing on the beach or in the pool with her hyperactive children. A day of playing was often followed by a game of cards or bowling. During all of this play, we laughed and laughed and laughed. My mom taught us that “laughter is the medicine for the soul.” Laughter was not only our soul-medicine, but also our love-language. Love and joy intertwine in my mom’s heart, then flow out to ferry her sons along in an unsinkable raft on this river of life.
No mother has ever sacrificed more for her sons. My mom has given more, especially of herself, than most people can imagine. She gave us all of her time and money, and still does. When I left my girlfriend’s corsage in the refrigerator the day of her prom, my parents drove an hour and a half each way to make sure I did not let her down. My mom never had new clothes, but she made sure we did. She took us shopping to the outlet stores in Smithfield, taking us out to eat, and celebrated with us at each special item found.
When my younger brother and I began this incarceration crossing, my parents decided to make supporting us a priority. They traveled to prisons around the state, week after week, for years on end to visit us. They gave up their dreams of retirement to provide money for canteen, packages, shoes, food sales, phone calls, books and the many other expenses of supporting a person in prison. My mother has never complained about the sacrifices. She rejoiced every time we received anything special – a Christmas package, new shoes, or pizza – happy to sacrifice to give us something.
And no mother has ever loved her sons more. Love cannot be precisely quantified but its presence can be detected, and my mother devotes herself to loving God and loving others. The ‘loving others’ reaches her family first, especially her three sons. Supporting a loved one in prison takes a financial toll, but the burden extends much further, especially when the incarcerated has an interminable sentence. My brother was sentenced to 30 years and I to life without parole. My mother did not just offer support, she shared our burden as her own.
She asked countless questions about our experiences and environment, and realizing that we live in a dark, drab world, she sent colorful cards, stationary, and bookmarks. My hologram dolphins and donuts bookmarks make me smile every time I open a book. The cards with affirmations like “Become the most enthusiastic person you know” and pictures like the frog who has the crane by the throat refusing to be swallowed and titled, “Don’t Ever Give Up,” hang on my cell wall and encourage me as I start each day. My mom, my Mama, loves her son as much as any mother ever could.
Outside support makes a difference impossible to explain. It is impossible for most to truly understand how much it means to an incarcerated person to receive money, visits and books. Having a little canteen money almost completely changes life. I am not saying it means as much as being born anew in the Spirit of Christ – not even close. That reconciliation changes eternity. But having money to buy a decent toothbrush, dental floss, a Dr. Pepper, a Little Debbie Fudge Round, or ice cream does completely alter a person’s quality of life in the prison setting. That money also makes it possible to purchase phone time, which is certainly not cheap, at $1.65 per fifteen-minute phone call. Contact with friends and family is a precious blessing. Whether good or bad, it makes it better to be able to share it with someone who cares.
Lincoln once expressed, “No man is poor who has had a godly mother.” I’m taking that further, I believe a man who has had a godly mother is the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth. I am that man, because God gave me a godly mother. Yes, it is true; the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth resides in a North Carolina prison serving life without parole.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless: The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/). Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Timothy Johnson #0778428 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com
Dominica Raggs and I spent both seventh and eighth grade in the same class. For two whole years she sat directly behind me. There was a mere three feet between us, yet we were worlds apart. Finding out this quiet, hazel-eyed girl was the only other person from my graduating class to attend the same high school as me was mildly shocking.
Freshman year was, honestly, more interesting than difficult. I didn’t think much of it the day Ms. Anderson canceled fourth period swim class due to a maintenance problem with the school’s pool. She left a notice on the door informing us to report to Coach Torian’s gym class immediately.
The change in scenery was ideal for me. I’d been wanting to ball in the school’s gym all semester and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. I chilled in the bleachers with some of my dawggs, assured I was running next.
As the game neared its end, I got up, anxious to play. It was then that I noticed a commotion at the side of the bleachers. From where I stood, all I could see was Walter Jones throwing what appeared to be hair to some dude I couldn’t really see. Then I realized a girl was running between Walter and his partner in crime, trying in vain to get the hair they were keeping from her.
I don’t recall what exactly drew me to this tasteless spectacle. What I do remember vividly is the moment I was close enough to see the tear stricken face of Dominica being laughed at as she begged Walter and his friend to give her wig back. Seeing the pain in her eyes and the absence of hair on her head, I suddenly realized that all the days she’d been absent in elementary school were probably because she was hiding how truly sick she was.
I felt a piece of my soul begin to decay as I stood there, and I knew if I continued standing there I’d never be whole again. A compulsion overtook me, and I found myself standing over Walter after I educated him on the seriousness of the situation. Walter’s accomplice dropped the wig and ran before we could discuss his participation.
I picked up the disheveled hair and tried to straighten it as I gave it back to Dominica. When she looked into my eyes, still crying, I knew I would never regret standing up for her.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office being suspended for fighting. Eleven days into my two week suspension I learned from a friend that Dominica died. She’d had leukemia.
When I attended the funeral, Dominica’s mom came over to personally thank me for my actions. Someone must have told her who I was. Then she asked me to speak a few words on Dominica’s behalf. I didn’t have it in my heart to say no, and the words I spoke that day came from a place in my soul I didn’t even know I had. In the three years I had known Dominica I learned absolutely nothing about her, but in the moment I stood up for her, our souls touched. I’ll never forget her.
ABOUT THE WRITER. The author writes under the pen name Resolute, and although he doesn’t write often, the work he has shared here has been nostalgic and genuine, though both have been pieces about loss. Both have also been little windows into his past, and he has a very charming way of opening them.
Any comments left on this page will be forwarded to the author.
My journey to become worthy is intertwined with penance, And with my penance understood, questions yet haunt me. Can a life wasted with decadence And egotism find absolution? Or is this simply an illusion I need to embrace For the strength to endure? Loved ones trivialized and marginalized Along my destructive path, A family left with hearts forever scarred by pain. My heart longs for love and forgiveness. Tragedy resurrected me a better man, But at a monumental cost to so many, Those that tried to love me. My journey is to become worthy of that love, Of such a price paid, And my journey is infinite.
I’ve met survivors in here, a small measure of people, resolute in their journey to a better life, a better way of living and to just be better people; a group not only on a quest to atone for their actions but to repair relationships broken during their time as broken men. They work hard to help others do the same. These survivors have become a light in this dark place, hope of a better way for some that may never have another chance to change. So, even in this place, there is a way to live. I choose to be better and surround myself with like-minded people, people who have changed their path and their very lives. You can do the same – seek out these people, these survivors. They will help you find your path to a better life. I am one of them now, and I know now that there is a life beyond prison.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Kenneth is new to WITS. This submission as well as his role as a mentor and peer support specialist are a reflection of his commitment to helping others find their own journey to forgiveness and peace through recovery and self-awareness. That is exactly what I see in his writing – self-reflection, a search for light, and finding a measure of it in reaching out to others in their pain.
Kenneth can be contacted at: Kenneth Edwards #383909 MacDougall Correctional Institution 1516 Old Gilliard Road Ridgeville, SC 29472
Last night I called my wife, something I do every night, and we went through our extensive prayer list together. Five minutes after we hung up, I was alarmed to see a message left from her on the prison tablet asking me to ‘call home again’…
I braced myself for the phone call.
“Please sit down, Keith.” Her next words pierced right through me as she read the Instagram post announcing the loss of David Inocencio, founder of The Beat Within. My heart tightened and the tears began to form. Our last telephone conversation had been just weeks prior. I had not spoken with David much this year, unaware he had been battling cancer, and hearing his voice was always uplifting. He described to me where he was when we spoke that day, sitting on his patio, his soulmate Lisa was cooking him breakfast, and the sunshine was especially beautiful that day. I never imagined it would be the last time we would talk, yet I look back now at that conversation and see it for what it may have been.
David, a man that came into my life as a stranger nearly ten years ago, became more than just a mentor to me during a time of soul searching and longing to be more than what I had been much of my life; he became like a brother to me, someone I admired for all he was in the community and the world around him. I wrote a letter to The Beat Within ten years ago after reading an issue, not expecting much in return. I merely wanted to give them a “shout out” for the outstanding work they do throughout California. David replied to my letter with personal recognition and praise for the work that I had shared with him regarding my own struggles and successes while incarcerated. I was touched by the fact that this man took the time to read my story, give me feedback and encouragement, and more importantly, see me as a human being who had experienced a tough life, rather than just someone who had lived life committing crimes and making poor choices.
I began sharing more of my story with David all those years ago, dedicating time and effort into providing artwork to TBW, and before long I became a recognized feature amongst the teens who would flip through the pages. David would tell me how they would ask about me when he would visit the juvenile facilities, wanting to know when I was going to do another drawing. It made me feel like what I was doing was bigger than just the time and effort of me putting my talents on paper.
“Keith,” he said, “your artwork inspires these kids to sit down and see possibilities they never considered before.”
I never saw the significance in what my art was doing until he said those words. I wanted to give others something from my heart, yet I was missing the bigger picture all along. David, my brother and friend, taught me how to see the bigger picture. I spent years of my life incarcerated in the local juvenile hall, and eventually the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen. I could relate to the teens that would write their stories, hopes and dreams in the pages of TBW publications. These young people, in every sense, were just like me and needed to be heard. David, with no hesitation whatsoever, gave them a voice.
“Thank you for everything that you have done all of these years, Keith,” he said that last morning we talked. “I love you my brother, and I am so happy that I got to hear your voice.”
Perhaps he knew something I didn’t know that day and wanted me to always know how much he loved and appreciated me. Despite all of our initial conversations, that one conversation felt more heartfelt and sentimentally sound than any other. David always talked of me coming home one day, attending TBW workshops with him and Lisa, and I promised him we would have a nice barbecue with his family and mine once I earned the freedom that I’ve been fighting so hard for.
“David,” I told him that morning, “you, too, have been a great part of my journey, and I love you and appreciate all the confidence you have in me.”
There is never enough time to say goodbye, and even had I known it would be our last conversation, I would have never said goodbye to a man that will forever be present in my life, despite his passing. I grew to love this man with the better parts of me that he helped bring out over the years.
Earlier this year I was referred back to the courts for ‘resentencing consideration’ based on my accomplishments and positive changes to my life; David wrote a letter of support to the judge who will be making the final decision on my case(s) on any given date. I do not know what the outcome will be; however, I do know that even in his final days he displayed yet another act of compassion for me, and I will forever be grateful. I will walk out of these gates one day soon, I believe this wholeheartedly; and in spirit, the man that gave me a voice all of those years ago, as he has thousands of others in his lifetime, will be watching over me as I embrace my freedom for the first time in over three decades. Until then, I will continue to be the man David taught me to be through his own life’s legacy.
My brother, my friend, I love you and will miss you…
For anyone who reads this – sometimes we don’t see the importance of others who are placed into our lives until they are no longer here. Please take a moment to reach out to those you love dearly, let them know their presence in your life is more valuable than words can express… – Keith
ABOUT THE WRITER. Keith is fairly new to WITS, but it didn’t take me long to realize, after working with him on a couple projects, that I simply can’t keep up with him. He is a change maker.
If his interaction with David Inocencio had something to do with creating that spark, David’s life will echo far beyond even his own reach in all those he touched who will carry on his spirit.
Keith Erickson is a writer, an artist, and a trail blazer, organizing and leading positive endeavors and initiatives. Keith has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith stays busy working during the day and facilitating programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future. To hear more of Keith’s story in his words, listen to his Prison POD podcast.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
I was always told beauty is only skin deep. It’s what’s inside a person that truly counts, so I’ve never been one to be critical of a person’s outward appearance. However, I also heard it preached that God don’t like ugly. And throughout my twenty odd years in the Department of Corrections, I must admit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly things. Perhaps some of the ugliest at the infamous Pasquotank Prison – more affectionately known as ‘Pass-a-shank’, just to give you an idea.
During my extended stay there, I recall there was one particular female officer, let’s just say, she had a peculiar way with the inmate population. Ms. CO wasn’t the most attractive woman, but she was a woman, and that’s worth a good five points on the scale in an all men’s facility. She kept her hair and nails done, and if you saw her from the back, you’d forget any of her shortcomings. And, like I said, I’m not one to be all judgemental, and I try to treat all God’s children the same. But, like I also said, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and Ms. CO must’ve been a little foul on the inside, because she sure spoke foul in abundance.
I, myself, never had any run-ins with Ms. CO, and we were no less than cordial when interacting. However, I did know she was a pit viper, always ready to strike. After witnessing one of her venomous attacks, I did my best to steer clear. She didn’t need much provoking, and she certainly wasn’t holding anything back.
I remember once, our TV had been inadvertently turned off by the control booth officer and some brave soul took it upon himself to ask Ms. CO about it.
“Hey, Ms. CO… tell ‘em to turn the TV back on,” the guy casually said.
Now, all Ms. CO had to do was simply radio the officer in the booth and correct the mishap, but nothing was ever simple with Ms. CO.
“Fuck that TV, I’m on my way home!” she snapped, spinning on her heels.
“Dumb bitch,” someone mumbled.
Instantly, Ms. CO spun back around. Her eyes narrowed into slits, as she honed in on her target. With unadulterated vitriol, she spewed her venomous rage, “Dumb bitch? No, you the dumb bitch, locked up in here on yo’ knees at night. I’m going home. Like I said, fuck that TV!”
The cell block went deathly silent. You could practically hear the shattering of her victim’s face, as it hit the floor. There was momentary shock, before the spread of hushed murmurs and snickering.
These weren’t the types of words you spoke to a man, especially not a man in prison. Adding insult to injury, the words not only came from an officer, but a female officer, an absolute challenge to his manhood and integrity. I prayed for the man’s restraint, and praised him for it. I’m not even certain Ms. CO had the right culprit.
This was but one of her many vicious verbal assaults, and some were a lot more vulgar and degrading. It was a common occurrence. Ms. CO was known to pepper at least two or three people with her spicy speech every time she stepped in the building. Another such incident occurred while we were in the canteen line. A young brother came out of the block be-bopping, talking loud, saluting all the homies; just being young. However, he hadn’t yet met Ms. CO, wasn’t even aware she’d set her sights on him.
Once he did take notice of her icy stare, the young man froze in his tracks. First, giving himself a lookover, he turned to Ms. CO and asked, “What?”
Ms. CO’s neck and eyes rolled slowly, like an uncoiling serpent.
“What?” she hissed, taken aback by the perceived insolence. “Boy, you know the rules!” she added with a snap.
“First of all, I ain’t no boy, and…”
Before he could finish, Ms. CO lit into him. “Boy, you whatever I say you is. Now, go back to the block. No canteen for you…” Ms. CO said with a dismissive wave before adding, “And if another mutha’ fucka’ come out here with their shirt untucked, I’m shutting this shit down, and won’t nobody be getting canteen!”
The young man took a very quick and aggressive step toward Ms. CO, but an “O.G.” stepped in front of him.
“Chill, cuz… Just go on back; I got you.”
Ms. CO eyed the intervening man and slightly snarled. Then, to the young man, “Bye! Go!” emphasized by bulging eyes.
The young man looked from Ms. CO to his, or maybe her, savior and shook his head in frustration. The O.G. gave him a knowing and appreciative nod.
Once the scene had died down and the line resumed, the O.G. finally spoke.
“Ms. CO,” he thoughtfully began.
She appeared to be listening, but also looked very uninterested.
“You know… you got to mind how you speak to people.”
“I ain’t got to do sh…” she attempted, but the O.G. silenced her with the subtle raise of his hand.
“You right. You ain’t got to do shit, but it would be in all our best interests if you considered how you talk to people. You just can’t go around lighting any and everybody up… Some niggaz’ ain’t going home and ain’t got shit to lose.”
Ms. CO looked to be halfheartedly listening, but before she could interject, he added, “If that ain’t enough… just remember, God don’t like ugly.”
With that, the man turned to leave, without going to canteen.
I don’t know if Ms. CO took heed to anything the good brother said, but things did seem to quiet down, at least for a little while. That is, until they paired Ms. CO with another young lady, who also bore an equally burdensome chip on her shoulder. The young sister felt she had something to prove to all ‘the bros’ on the yard.
Once united, this deranged duo clicked tight and unleashed a wicked wrath. There were shakedowns, lockdowns, and plenty verbal beatdowns. They hated the strong and stomped out the weak. You did good if you were able to stay clear and stay quiet, as myself and a few others managed, becoming the proverbial fly on the wall. It was from that very vantage point I witnessed the most gruesome attack I’d ever seen.
One day, while I was on the phone, I noticed a ruckus stirring in the next block. I couldn’t quite see what was going on, but I was accustomed to steering clear. It wasn’t until later I would find out Ms. CO’s cohort was being viciously beaten in an area known as ‘no man’s land’, far from help and obscure from view.
Though I couldn’t see what was happening while I was on the phone, I could see a friend of mine also talking on the phone. He calmly carried on his conversation, watching the melee from the angle he had as if it were another dull ballgame. From the outside looking in, you would have never imagined the drama unfolding before his eyes; nor the drama to which his life had just succumbed. After recently finishing a ten year stretch, he was back in less than a year. This time, sadly, leaving behind not only his family, but exchanging his newly gained freedom for a fresh thirty-seven year sentence. Another ruined recidivist.
It was about then, Ms. CO made her way into the block. D.O.C. so valued their loyal and faithful minions that these two female officers were the only officers on duty, expected to monitor and control ninety-six grown men. The admin-instructor had pumped their head full of, “I think I can!”
Flying to the rescue, Ms. CO whipped out her retractable baton, the metal stick locking in place. Barking commands, she parted the sea of rowdy bystanders, headed to aid her fallen co-worker. I’ll spare you the gory details, but Ms. CO never made it beyond the wall phone. I watched as that friend who’d been on the phone calmly cradled the receiver and just as calmly grabbed Ms. CO by the wrist. Snatching the baton from her hand, he commenced with a brutal beating. In the end, the baton was broken as well as one of his hands. I’m not sure what happened, but the jovial jokester I once knew was no more. This enraged man was exorcizing every demon that tormented him, both within and without.
The cavalry’s clumsy arrival was far too late. The damage was done and the needed repair immeasurable. Ms. CO and her partner were carted out and never seen again. The two men who carried out the savage sacrifice also met an impending fate. My heart goes out to them all, the sisters who were pawns in a grander scheme; the brothers who fell victim to yet another of the system’s treacherous traps. I will never condone violence against anyone, neither am I a fan of the merciless abuse of authority.
Days later, while watching the evening news, there was a report on the attack. Allegedly, Ms. CO sustained a fractured orbital socket, a broken jaw, twenty staples and numerous stitches. Shaking my head, I said a silent prayer and thought, ‘God don’t like ugly.’
ABOUT THE WRITER. I have a lot of favorite writers, and Carter is one of them. He has a natural talent and relatable style. And, honestly, there is so much to think about in this essay, it is hard subject matter to tackle, and I think he did it very well. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, but those opportunities are close to none where he is currently at and in his current situation. But that doesn’t stop him, he is still driven and motivated to take positive steps, and I’m so grateful that he shares his writing here. Carter is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.
Pleasant Valley State Prison – Coalinga California
I am a resident of Pleasant Valley State Prison, and we are hosting an event at the institution. We are in dire need of guest speakers who are willing to volunteer their time and attend and share their personal insight and experience in the following areas:
Violence Awareness. Someone personally impacted by violence or works with those who have suffered violence.
Domestic Violence. Someone personally impacted by domestic violence or works with those who have suffered domestic violence.
Victims Impact. Someone who has lost a loved one at the hands of either gun violence or domestic violence, who is now advocating for and promoting nonviolence.
Suicide Awareness. Someone who can share personal experience concerning, knowledge of or insight into suicide.
We hope to host this event in September, however, the process of getting guests cleared to enter the prison is something that we need to address as soon as possible. If you are in the California area or know of anyone in this location, please reach out and help us make this happen. The men at Pleasant Valley State Prison D-Facility have been on a mission to bring more awareness, healing, and intervention/prevention to these very real issues… WE NEED YOU!
TO RESPOND TO KEITH, you can message WITS through the comments or the CONTACT US page, any messages will be forwarded to him. If you would like him to call you to discuss, please send me your phone number, as well as a good time for him to reach you and what time zone you are in.
You can also directly reach Keith at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
A cell within a prison, a closet within an asylum. The Can, The Bing, The Box. Separation from a society that is locked away from a society. For some it’s hell, for others – just a room.
The walls don’t respond, sometimes closing in along with claustrophobic anxiety. Emotions trapped safely away for a person’s mental stability pound on the walls of a mind, searching for a way in. Guilt can seep through, unwanted reflections, as well as thoughts of all those things never done. The hurt, pain, anger, deception and humiliation caused can be haunting, just as are thoughts of family and friends lost. The questions sometimes arise – ‘What am I even here for? What more do I have to live for?’
I would go crazy if not for my radio, a few magazines and an ink pen. I hoard at least one item off each tray so I don’t go hungry at night and develop daily physical and spiritual routines to survive. It doesn’t help that the guy on my left won’t stop banging on his toilet with a battery, or the guy on the right is busy making a concoction to melt your soul if he decides to toss it on you the first chance he gets. More than likely, an officer denied him an extra breakfast tray or wrote him up for fishing kill shots on a line from his neighbor.
The Hole is designed for mental destruction and more often than not – succeeds. But me, I found freedom in The Hole. I discovered a talent I never knew I had and learned who I am as a person and a man. I learned how to master my strengths and acknowledge my flaws. I learned knowledge of ‘self’ and how to accept all of me and what I’ve become without the negativity of anyone’s opinions. For many, The Hole can be Hell, to others, it’s just a room.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terrell Williams is new to WITS and contacted us because of his love of writing and a desire to share his thoughts with us and the world. His hope is that his writing will reach one person, touch one path, and do a measure of good. That is a common goal here.
You can contact Terrell at: Terrell Williams #1000054 307 Craft Drive Winston Salem, NC 27105
NOTE TO READERS. I count myself fortunate – blessed – to have the opportunity to hear from writers. This essay was not originally intended as a submission, but was taken from a message, Keith reaching out to WITS looking for resources for the people who live around him. This letter led to a conversation – which I then started recording, with Keith’s permission.
A Conversation With Keith Erickson.
I am an ex prison gang member. I’m proud to say I am a total contradiction of who I once was, or thought I was, and have worked hard the past twelve years to change my life completely. As a result God has blessed me with so much.
I’ve been incarcerated this term since July, 1994. I was arrested and convicted along with my biological mother at the age of twenty-two for shooting and killing my mother’s then abusive boyfriend at the urging of my mother. We were both arrested, and I was later sentenced to life… Unfortunately, I was also sentenced under the three strikes law, and in the years following, I accumulated additional three strike cases while in prison.
That was then. Today, I am ever-determined to get more tools and resources brought to this prison, and the administration has been very supportive in allowing me to do that. I run numerous programs here, including the Youth Adult Awareness Program where local high-schools bring in at-risk youth for mentoring and to hear our personal stories. This is not a scared-straight program, and we feel its success comes from actually sitting and listening to our teens rather than trying to tell them what to do and not to do.
I run other groups as well – Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Criminals & Gangs Anonymous, the Peer Mentorship Program, Parenting Classes in both English and Spanish, Domestic Violence Classes. I ran the New Life Canine Dog Program for three years before they lost the funding to continue. We raised and trained canines, Labradors and Retrievers, to be certified service dogs in the community where they would be gifted to veterans and first responders who were suffering PTSD. The experience was a blessing and taught me more about myself than any other group/program ever could. They plan on rebooting another Rescue/Shelter Dog program in October, which I will again oversee. Working with canines is an awesome experience, and I would not pass this opportunity up for anything.
This year alone we have also done fundraisers for children with autism, Valley Children’s Hospital, and a local horse program where we donated canvas paintings, painted baseball caps, and other hobby crafts to these outside nonprofits. The opportunities to do selfless things are countless, you just gotta want to do them and that’s what we do. I spent so much of my life carrying pain with me, early trauma, and that pain influenced my life in a tremendous way…
My biological parents divorced when I was three, and my mother eventually remarried my stepfather when I was five. My stepfather was an alcoholic turned heroin addict. He would beat on my mother, brother and I, and at the age of eleven he almost killed me with his bare hands. I suffered collapsed lungs, broken ribs, and a fractured skull. He was arrested and later sent to prison for what he did to me, and I was removed from the care of my mother and placed into the foster care system by CPS. I spent years running away from dozens of foster homes, group homes, boys ranches, in and out of juvenile hall, and eventually sent to the California Youth Authority at the age of fifteen, housed amongst other teens and men up to the age of twenty five. Needless to say, I was exposed to the gang subculture and greater levels of violence.
At the age of eighteen I was well on my way to the Department Of Corrections and gravitated to everything I had in the youth authority as a means of survival. I was a documented gang member and housed in the SHU (Segregated Housing Unit) before I was twenty-five. The night my mother called me and pleaded with me to get rid of her boyfriend, I knew right from wrong and still made the decision to carry out her wishes. I spent so much of my life resenting my mother for putting my brother and I into harm’s way since childhood, and yet I could not say no to her the night she put the gun into my hand as I walked into his bedroom where her then boyfriend lay passed out in his bed.
So you see, I have lived a very checkered life, and I know what it means to suffer. But, I also know that the human spirit is a lot stronger than we often accredit ourselves for. “I” am a walking testimony to that…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Clearly, I have a lot more to learn about Keith Erickson. He is a writer, an artist, and a trail blazer, organizing and leading positive endeavors and initiatives. Keith has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith stays busy working during the day and facilitating programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210 Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
