I’ve been incarcerated over three decades now, and I can count the number of really close friends I’ve had on one hand. It’s not that I’m unapproachable or distant, not that I’m unlikable or unfriendly even, I just have a tendency to not let too many folks in the castle, so to speak. Three of the handful of friends shared the name ‘David’.
Dave One was a friend I made in the early nineties. I’ve written about him and his exploits in essays and my book – his nickname was Mongo. His full name was David Alexander Ortiz, he was of Mexican American/Samoan descent – and what I wouldn’t give to see him again, outside of these walls. He went home in 1995/96.
The second Dave was from a little town outside Dallas, Texas, Rockwall. His name was David Sartain. He did fifteen flat on a non-violent DWI charge and when he got home, he committed suicide. He had a family who supported him, but I suppose he was so traumatized by the system and maybe he felt overwhelmed by what lies on the outside. He took his own life with a shotgun.
The third and last Dave, but not the least, was my friend David Stewart. Dave was my heart. He was smart, understanding, empathetic, he loved life and he loved music. We’d sit for hours talking about our families, our friends, music, everything except prison. There were no talks about how ‘back in the day, it was better’. Every single conversation had meaning and substance, it all led back home.
David the Mouseketeer, as he was known in my writing, died in July of 2020 of complications due to his gallbladder. He had done eighteen years flat on a kidnapping charge. The Dave I knew couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight. He never lost his temper, never said anything hurtful or that he couldn’t take back. Dave was… Dave. And I miss him almost as much as I miss my Dad, who’s been gone for over thirty years.
If you look up the word advocate or friend in my dictionary, you’d see a group picture of my three Daves. This place isn’t full of gangsters, bad actors and socially unsophisticated people – there are some good people here who made some bad choices.
ABOUT THE WRITER. John Green has been writing for WITS from early on. He is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” In addition, John Green was a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration.
John is an insulin dependant diabetic, which has a unique set of obstacles, contributing to a loss of mobility, as well as impacting his vision, but he still finds the drive to be a part of this growing collection, for which I am very appreciative.
John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 Jester III Unit 3 Jester Road Richmond, Texas 77406
Incarcerated people should participate in government. In 2020, I co-authored a bill that will combat prison violence and promote rehabilitation by offering release to those serving life called The Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Legislators paid attention. The bill didn’t pass, but we fight on. Please, encourage all incarcerated people to explore their ideas for change. It will make a difference.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, across many genres, and the work he has done for WITS can be found here, but he has done much more. Phil is currently the Editor of The Nash News, a publication produced by residents of Nash Correctional facility, the archives of which can be found here. In addition to being an editor and writer, Phillip is also pursuing his education. If that were not enough, Phil is politically active. He is co-author of the above-mentioned Prison Resources Repurposing Act. Not only did he take the initiative to write a Bill – which I find phenomenal in itself – the bill is designed to give those who live in prison hope, a desire to better themselves, and to have a positive impact on a correctional system that is currently lacking hope and sufficient rehabilitative tools. Phil’s interview with Emancipate NC can be found here. He penned an article for Prison Journalism Project, was mentioned in the the Univerity of North Carolina’s UNC North Carolina Law Review – The Prison Resources Repurposing Act, authored The Cost of Incarceration, and also wrote the articleLong Distance Love And Its Benefits For Women. In addition, Phil was featured in NC Newsline in 2022, as well as June, 2023. Phillip Smith’s accomplishments are extensive and will continue to grow. As a matter of fact, I am absolutely certain I have not included them all here. What is clear is he is a hard-working individual, laser focused on positive endeavors. I am grateful to know him and to be able to share his work.
Mr. Smith can be contacted at: Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
It was never supposed to go as far as it did, but things get away from you sometimes – when you’ve just turned nine; when you don’t know any better. One minute you’re pranking your cousin – the next, you’re faking a traumatic brain injury to escape your mother’s infernal wrath. Just another day in the life, right?
It all started innocently enough. Aunt Kim and her daughter, my cousin Rachel, came to visit my mother and me at grandma’s house. Mom was between boyfriends, and we were staying there, once again, for ‘only a short time’. We just needed a little help while Mom saved up enough to get us a place of our own again, no more than a couple weeks, month tops.
We’d had many places of our own before, mom and me, but grandma’s house was way better than any of them. Grandma’s house was like a bear hug. Her fridge always had real food in it, like lunchmeat and cheese, and because grandma knew I liked ‘em, she kept lots of carrots. The only things mom and me always had in our fridge were a bottle of ketchup, about a half dozen grapefruits for whenever she was doing that diet again, and lined up like soldiers in formation on the rest of the shelves were as many sixteen-ounce cans of mom’s boyfriend-at-the-time’s favorite brand of beer. In the crisper, for some reason, we usually had an old head of lettuce or rubbery celery stalks rolling around, lending a slight odor of decay to waft about the kitchen and, depressingly, the entire apartment. Grandma’s house always smelled good. She put special powder on the carpet when she vacuumed, making it smell flowery and fresh whenever I’d lay on the floor watching cartoons. Our places rarely ever had carpet, and if they did, it never smelled flower-fresh, typically so dingy and stained you’d barely want to stand on it, let alone lay down.
Mom and me had an unspoken rule, whether at our place or grandma’s – the house would be kept quiet, which really just meant I had to be quiet at all times while inside. This rule didn’t apply to mom, who was a very loud, boisterous person herself. While watching TV in the basement, I could hear her all the way upstairs on the phone with Jo-Jo, her best friend, yapping about one thing or another, usually something boyfriend-at-the-time was doing that he shouldn’t or something those assholes at work were doing that they shouldn’t. I was cool, though, with our unspoken be-quiet rule. I enjoyed quiet activities anyway – drawing, watching cartoons, volume super low of course, building ridiculously elaborate Lego spaceships. I could go days in the house and barely say a word. One problem with the be-quiet rule, however, was that I couldn’t have friends in the house – too noisy. So we, mom and me, had a second unspoken rule. As long as there were no active tornadoes or biblical floods in the area, if I had any company whatsoever, said company and I must go outside and play.
Which is why and how Rachel and I found ourselves outside that particularly squinty-bright, sticky-hot summer day. We didn’t have many options since she hadn’t brought her bicycle, and I wasn’t about to bring my precious Legos outside where God only knows what might happen to them. They would likely get dirty or, more likely, Rachel might chew on one of them or, even more likely, start throwing them at me and lose some. I couldn’t take the risk, so instead, we went with a classic game of tag.
Now, Rachel was almost three years younger than me, and you might be tempted to think such an age gap would’ve made a difference. I’m embarrassed to admit, that was not the case. My cousin approached life with the focused seriousness found only in the very young or the very psychotic. She was an adorable, yet ferocious, little animal – a scabbed-kneed, pigtailed Tasmanian devil. She was absolutely ruthless in pursuit, and being a giggler by nature, her laughter would build with her excitement until it became maniacal – terrifying. The hysteria of her laugh was actually how I gauged when to let her catch me so her little head wouldn’t explode. I’m telling you, she could’ve gone pro.
Fortunately, I had plenty of room to run. Grandma’s backyard was a huge grassy expanse fenced in on three sides by the neighbor’s chain-links. There wasn’t much to it though – a large rose bush by the back porch, a sizable woodpile against one corner of the house, and off to the side, a clothesline with the poles offset and leaning opposite each other, giving the lines a pronounced twist. I used these as obstacles during evasive maneuvers, weaving figure-eight style between the clothesline poles, cutting close corners around the bush and woodpile – anything to get away from the holy terror on my tail. Occasionally, whenever I managed to put some decent space between us, I’d loop around and through the front yard, which was obstacle-free except for a single white elm in the center.
We’d been playing only a short time when, on one of my front yard loops, my toe caught one of the elm’s many exposed roots, and I stumbled. On silly instinct, I decided to go down in dramatic fashion, rolling and flailing about before coming to rest flat on my back in what I thought was the perfect dead man’s pose – arms out wide, one leg bent, head rolled to the side. I considered hanging my tongue out, but thought – too much. It would be fun to mess with Rachel a little bit, and I needed a breathing break anyway – two birds with one fall kind of thing. I heard the laughing stampede fast approaching and paid for her arrival when she plunged, knees first, into my ribcage. Being all too familiar with my antics, Rachel immediately began investigating my sudden and apparent death.
Leaning over me, peeling my eyes open with stubby fingers that, somehow, always smelled like dirt, “Uh, hello!” she giggled. “Time to wake up!”
I rolled my eyes back and kept my face completely relaxed, no flinching.
Next came the obligatory tickle test, but I was ready and had steeled myself against all attacks on my ribs and stomach. No movement. Solid rock.
The way the game goes, at just the right moment you explode to life with a shout that makes the other person jump. It’s funny; you both share a laugh – good times. We had played this scene many times before, Rachel and I, so in what I thought a brilliant play off expectations, I delayed my resurrection longer than usual.
She gripped my hand, shaking my rubbery arm up and down.
“I know you’re not dead, you know. Get up!” Impatience crept into her voice.
A hard push, she grabbed my head, rolling it back and forth. “Helloooooo!” This was going to be great. I remained still and, fighting laughter, waited just a moment longer.
“Geoff! Come on. This isn’t funny anymore!” Her voice broke. Hmm, what’s that about, I wondered, as she sprang up and shot inside the house.
Oh well, I thought, she’s a little spooked is all. Some people can’t take a joke. No big deal, she’d be fine once I went in and explained everything. Which I was just about to do when I heard mom call my name from inside the house – my full name – which everybody knows is bad. I should have gotten up immediately and faced my mother’s wrath. It wouldn’t have been as bad as I imagined, would it? This, looking back, was that moment when, after a thing happens, you clearly see every element involved and know exactly where and when you could have done or said something – anything – that would’ve changed everything. But, of course, I didn’t do the exact something, or anything, that would’ve changed everything. Instead, I panicked and continued laying there. Playing dead. Wishing I was.
I heard mom’s footsteps thud to the front door and stop. “Boy, what the hell you think you’re doing? Get your ass up. Right now!”
My mouth was suddenly dry, and I craved a nice, cool drink. My whole body tingled, and I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or exhilaration or both. Never before had I so blatantly defied my mother. I was scared to keep this charade going but even more scared to stop. I figured a fake death was better than a real one any day. So there I laid, unsure of what was to come, but determined to play it out.
Mom stomped over to me muttering threats, “You better not be playing, young man. This shit is funny? You’re some kind of comedian? Playing with me? We’ll see who laughs when I blister that ass!” My mom; the profane poet.
She nudged me with a flip-flopped foot and, a little softer this time, “Come on now, get up! Stop being ridiculous. You’re scaring your cousin.”
Absolutely nothing. I gave her nothing, yet knew, at any moment, she would smell fear oozing from my every pore and attack. Instead, she knelt and cupped my face, turning it toward hers. “Baby, stop this. Look at me. It’s mama.” This time, I recognized the tender voice, the one she used when I was sick or when she was explaining how boyfriend-at-the-time would be staying with us now.
Mom hollered for somebody to call an ambulance, and I heard my aunt rush inside. She grabbed my hand, raised it to her mouth and held it there. She pressed the back of her other hand to my forehead as if I were sick. She was whispering, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” Her voice sounded so… different, which confused me. Was she afraid? Was that even possible? A new kind of fear, ice-cold, shot through me as I realized that my mother was frightened, that I was causing my mother to be frightened. This whole thing was supposed to be a joke. What the hell was I doing?
I heard, faint and distant, a siren’s whine growing louder. There was no longer any doubt the tingling in my body was pure fear. I may have successfully fooled my cousin and mother with this whole ‘play-dead’ thing, but there was no way I could do the same with paramedics. They would see right through me. I didn’t know a heart could thump so hard; I thought it might break loose from my chest, escape my body, and flee far away. The siren was now coming down our street. The experts were here. It was all over but for the fear and trembling. Overwhelmed by it all, I crumbled and started to cry.
I thought tears would unmask my deception and be my instant demise. I was wrong. Mom interpreted my ‘coming to’ as the result of her comforting me, and the fresh-on-the-scene paramedics explained I was in shock, confused, and that it was, indeed, perfectly natural for me to be crying in her arms. They strapped me to a board, put the board on a gurney, loaded it all into the ambulance and off we sped to the hospital. There, friendly nurses and not-so-friendly doctors made quite a fuss, pinching and prodding me, sticking me with needles and shining lights in my eyes over and over. The doctors eventually determined I was concussed, but being so young, should fully recover. They instructed mom in hushed, serious, doctorly terms, to let them know if I had any lingering issues.
One morning about a week later, mom took me along to open the bar where she worked as a bartender. I would often hang out there for a couple of hours, playing video games or shooting pool, until grandma or Aunt Kim would get off work and pick me up. At some point, mom made me a coke. I loved the cokes at mom’s work because they came in big, heavy glasses packed with tiny ice cubes that I could eat with every sip, like a Sno-Cone. I drank-ate as many cokes at mom’s work as she would allow. When I went to get this coke, however, the bottom of the glass clipped the lip of the bar, toppled out of my hand, and shattered on the floor. I froze. There was really only one simple rule at mom’s work, this one spoken often, ‘dammit boy, pay attention to what you’re doing’, which meant, in this case, to use two hands on the glass. Those big, heavy glasses were expensive, and mom would have to pay for the one just broken. That meant I, too, would have to pay for breaking it. I expected fire and brimstone to strike. Instead her gentle voice assured me, “Oh, baby, it’s okay. The doctors said you’d have trouble with motor control. I’ll just make you another one.”
During the few days following my fall, a fierce battle raged in my mind over telling mom the truth. I struggled to work through the right and wrong of it all. I regretted how far things had gone and knew the longer I waited to come clean, the worse it would be when I finally did. But… I felt so loved that whole week. Please don’t misunderstand, as a child I never felt that mom didn’t love me, but ours was a complicated relationship where love, though assumed, was rarely demonstrated. Her love was like a foreign country I’d read about in school; I knew the place existed in a vague, abstract sense, but I had never been there and truly experienced it. That week I had, for the first time, toured the country of my mother’s heart – and I didn’t want the trip to end.
Her reaction to the dropped and broken glass clarified everything. Regret went out the window. I no longer cared what was right or wrong. I only knew in that instant and with all certainty that I would never tell my mother the truth about that time she found me on the ground, lying.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Geoff Martin is clearly a thoughtful and talented writer. All of his writing for WITS can be found here. In addition to his writing, he has worked incredibly hard and is a 2023 graduate of North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he will use to counsel and mentor his incarcerated peers. What needs to be noted about service of that nature is that, not only is he choosing to serve and support others to flourish as human beings, but he is taking that on in an environment that is currently designed to be oppressive and dehumanizing. It is a daunting challenge that he is pursuing with grace.
Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and chooses to invest his time in positive endeavors. Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Any comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.
I was in the dayroom that day, taking up a tiny bit of necessary space when Moose walked by. It was medication call, and he walked with a pressing pace, a man on a mission. He had slimmed down a pound or ten, and his friendly countenance was gone. I must’ve commented on his shrinking waistline because someone blurted out, “Ya ain’t know Moose got stage four?”
Cancer. The killer that lives amongst the killers on Death Row. A parasite that looms around the turn of each year, slaying with impunity. It is an ominous disease, so widely suffered that it is recognized by several epithets. Stage Four. The Big C. Sick. And more infamously – The Cancer.
To some, this may be considered justice – anguish suffered in kind. But no one, not even a hardened killer, deserves the agony of a slow, wilting death. Even still, not all Death Row inmates are hardened killers. Some have slain in self-defense. Some, crimes of passion; some, drug fueled rages; and some haven’t killed at all. Still, there is no preference to a worldly killer that strikes without prejudice, affecting hospitals, schools, workplaces – even prisons; but a place where men were already slated to die?
The death penalty is the court’s swift, intolerant stance on heinousness, some actions dissolving our humanity. But when lengthy court appeals threaten to prolong executions by decades, cancer can become a welcome resolve. I was on Death Row for five months when Mr. Roper died of cancer, although he was well within its throes when we met; a frail man, surly at times and confined to his bunk most days, yet he adamantly refused to take his morphine pills. Then it was Gary, a mediocre gambler with a wishing-well for pockets who once summed up his terminal condition in poker slang, “I keep on catching the loser’s best.”
Then it was Ernie, who complained of stomach pangs and died weeks later, and J.W. who was found dead in his cell. Mr. Leroy. John. Another Gary and Eric, and some others whose names have been lost in the years past. And now it was Moose, a cheerful man who had befriended me often, that was said to have stage four cancer and likely preparing to die. An impossible task, one that I passed off as rumor – that way it was easier to dismiss.
A week later, I bumped into Moose while on the way to see a friend. We chatted briefly during which time he cracked a joke about his terminal condition. I was too caught off guard to respond. To laugh felt like I was downplaying the seriousness, yet my vacant response felt like pity; neither of which seemed appropriate for a guy who had just opened up to me about his struggles, so I thought to engage him instead. Moose was a talker, an enjoyable quality when he hosted role-playing games in the past, but that day he outdid himself. He jumped from one subject to the next, not saying much in the way of significance. It felt like he just needed someone with whom to talk. We covered sports and motorcycles, gossip and family – just thinking up random shit to say. I never made it to see that friend of mine but stayed hanging out with Moose and soaking up what could likely be one of our last talks together.
The topic of cancer came up, the word mentioned enough times to have been a person across the room, burly and menacing and marking his time to storm over and break up our bonding session for good. The more Moose let on about adjusting to his daily struggles, the more I admired his perseverance. It was a moving testament that I hoped would survive the cancer. On a whim I asked if I could interview him. I didn’t realize how insensitive it sounded until after the words left my mouth – but surprisingly enough, Moose said yes.
The next day he invited me into his room, a neatly kept area with gleaming white walls and folded sheets covering the floor. Any excess property he had accumulated over the years had been minimized to the barest essentials – a radio, cosmetics, and pictures on the wall were the only items in sight. There was an eeriness to the air that felt clustering and dark although sunlight poured into the room from the window. I wasn’t bothered by the cancer – I knew it wasn’t contagious, but death felt like something I could catch. Then Moose, ever the generous one, offered me a soda and some nabs and told me to have a seat. Suddenly, the eeriness was gone, replaced with compassion, and I remembered why I was there.
Chanton: Thanks for the soda, brother – man, but I would’ve brought something if I knew we were having a party.
Moose: Oh, naw – you keep your stuff, Chanton. My house, my treat.
Chanton: Your hospitality really isn’t all that surprising. You’ve always been a giver. In fact, I’ve still got the D-N-D handbook you gave me some years ago.
At this, Moose began to look around as though searching for something else to give away. To avoid my motives being mistaken, I dove into another subject.
Chanton: How’s that Washington football team of yours coming along?
Moose: They’re the worst. They should’ve kept Heinke in as the starter. That boy gooder than everybody think. I’ve done said if Riverboat Ron is still our head coach next year – I’m jumping ship.
We drank cola, ate knick-knacks and candy, and settled into the awkwardness of two men alone together who barely knew one another. I was nervous, but I wiped any trace of it from my face as the soda washed down the clump in my throat. There I was getting ready to delve into that man’s life while he was preparing for that very life to end. I figured I owed him every ounce of professionalism I could muster for the courtesy he was showing me.
Chanton: So, how’ve you been feeling, my man?
Moose: I’ve been doing good – ya know… except for that medication. It keeps me nauseated.
Chanton: What? The chemo?
Moose: Nah, I ain’t doing the chemo. All that’s gonna do is drag things out – ya know. I’mma let it do what it do. Let nature take its course.
Chanton: Don’t you wanna fight to live as long as you can?
Moose: What’s the use? Stage four cancer is terminal. Maybe if they’d caught it a few years ago, I might have a chance.
Chanton: How did you find out that you have cancer? Were there symptoms?
Moose: Hell, naw. I felt fine… a little tired every now and then. Funny – I was watching a story on Ron Rivera, the Washington head coach, and his recovery from cancer. So I’m fucking around and I checked my throat… and I found a damn lump.
Chanton: And your first diagnosis was stage four? Man, that’s fucked up.
Moose: Yep – stage four. They did that same shit to Ernie. And Eric, too.
Chanton: Oh, yeah, we know the State don’t got the best medical track record in early prevention. But here’s what I wanna do – let’s switch gears for a bit, Moose. Tell me a little about yourself.
Moose: Hmmm. Let me see. Well, I’m 56, and I grew up around Mount Airy.
Chanton: That’s in NC, right? I thought since you were a huge V-Tech Hokies fan that you were from around Blacksburg, VA.
Moose: Nah – I like V-Tech ‘cause their colors were the same as my high school team.
Chanton: You played football in high school?
Moose: Yep. I ran track, too, at Moss High. It’s a wonder how I graduated though, I was always the class clown.
Chanton: So what was going on with you before high school? What was your childhood like?
Moose: I dunno… great parents. My mama used to model for the clothing stores. Daddy was a salesman. He done been a bunch of other stuff too. I used to slop hogs and bale hay with him before school.
Chanton: So, your pops was a farmer?
Moose: For a while – yep. He owned a bit of land in Mount Airy. But then daddy became a preacher and everybody loved him. He never had to pay for shit.
Chanton: What? I never knew you were a preacher’s kid, Moose. Is it true what they say about all the restrictions?
Moose: Daddy was strict when he needed to be – but mama would tear our asses up too. I stole some bubble gum when I was three ‘cause she wouldn’t buy it for me. She whooped me all the way to the car.
Chanton: Spare the rod, spoil the child, huh?
Moose: That’s the thing though – mama and daddy did spoil us. They taught me and my sister to work hard but they still gave us anything we wanted.
Chanton: How many siblings do you have?
Moose: Just that one. Debbie. She’s older than me by six years. Overprotective too. One time when I was riding my bike I just got for Christmas and this older boy her age kept making me let him ride on it, Debbie caught that boy and –
Suddenly Moose’s face was a twisted mask of anguish, and his muttered words were drenched in tears. The memory had taken him back to a time in his life when death row and cancer wasn’t real. I felt so fucking guilty to ask a dying man to recount his life and not expect it to crash into an emotional wall. Yet, it was an emotional turnaround I didn’t see coming, and I was thinking of an excuse to terminate the interview when Moose smeared away his grief on a handkerchief and pulled himself together.
Moose: My bad, Chanton. I didn’t mean to get emotional.
Chanton: Aw, hell, man – you’re okay. I appreciate you feeling comfortable enough to let go in front of me. What was it that made you so emotional?
Moose: Just thinking about my sister. That girl always had my back. Even now. She ‘bout all the family I got. Like I was saying – she caught that older boy riding my bike and pulled him off it by his shirt and was beating on that head of his good.
Chanton: As well she should’ve. I’ve got an older brother who had to stick up for me when I was getting picked on. So, where’s the rest of your family?
Moose: Well – mama and daddy is gone. My grandparents passed years ago. I’ve got an uncle I was named after, but he lives way down in Florida. And my son – I don’t know much about him though. He don’t have nothing to do with me.
Chanton: Yeah, I know what you mean. Kids can be resentful to parents who weren’t around. I’ve got to imagine he does love you though… at least cares about you. You’re his dad… the only one he’s got.
Moose: Yeah. I do really love my son. If I could change things for him – I would.
Chanton: What are some things you would change about yourself? Any regrets?
Moose: I was headed to the military after high school, the Marine Corp. But daddy offered me a job working with him, so I stayed. I wish I would’ve went on. And – when I was a kid, I found a love for motorcycles from watching Chips. I wanted to own a shop someday.
Chanton: What kept that dream from happening.
Moose: I started running with the wrong crowds. Drinking and smoking weed. Getting into trouble.
Chanton: Tell me more about those motorcycles.
Moose: Shit, what’cha wanna know? Motorcycles is my thing. I started riding ‘em when I was 18. Later, I bought an old panhead and fixed it up. I was green as hell when it came to motorcycle gangs, but I loved riding with them. I got offered to be a prospect in the Sonny Barger gang before – but I ain’t never hold no colors. After that, I just started fixing ‘em up, trading parts – until I knew everything there was about a bike.
Chanton: Did you work on motorcycles for a living?
Moose: Oh man, I’ve done some of everything. Picked cherries. Chopped trees. I was a sprayer, mower, skating rink DJ, school bus driver, and salesman, like my daddy. When I took a machine out to sell, I never brought it back.
Chanton: Damn! With all those jobs, it’s a wonder if you were ever broke.
Moose: Shoot! I kept money. But I was a giver, just like daddy. I helped a lot of people.
Chanton: Ok, so you being a white guy and me, a black guy, I’m interested to know what were some of your experiences in race relations.
Moose: I’ve tried not to get into that stuff ‘cause daddy said, ‘we’re all God’s children’. But I’ve been around some Whites who didn’t like Blacks, and Blacks who didn’t like Whites. As soon as they show that’s who they are and how they think – I’m gone. Nope. I don’t play that. Don’t bring that stuff around me.
Chanton: Have you ever felt pressured to stay in a group of friends after they’ve shown racist tendencies?
Moose: Nope. I’ve had guys say racist stuff around me ‘cause they thought it was cool. But ya know what – I stopped messing with them after that.
Chanton: Good for you, bro. I always find it interesting how cultural and environmental backgrounds shape our views on race. I didn’t always speak out against my social peers for trashing other races. I’ve tried not to join them – though I’m sure I’ve crossed the line once or twice.
Moose: It happens… don’t mean you’re a bad person. Daddy said one time, ‘don’t judge no man by the color of his skin – judge ‘em by the color of his heart’.
Chanton: That’s deep. Your pops said that?
Moose: Yep. Daddy treated everybody fair.
Chanton: If your mom and dad were here right now, what would you say?
Moose: Tell ‘em how much I love them, and thank ‘em for all the stuff they put up with me.
Chanton: How old were you when you came to Death Row?
Moose: I got here October 1, 1992. I was 26.
Chanton: And what was it like, coming to Death Row?
Moose: I was a little scared – but it wasn’t nothing to me. I was on safekeeping down the hall from Death Row before I got the death penalty, so I knew some of the guys already. My first day on Death Row, the Sgt. pulled me in the office and there were a bunch of shanks laid out on the desk. He told me to pick one ‘cause I was gonna need it. When I did – they all burst out laughing at me. They were bull-shitting. He told me to put that shit back down and that I would be fine.
Chanton: And were you fine? Any trouble over the years?
Moose: I mean – I’ve gotten into a fight or two over shit that could’ve been avoided. But sometimes people need to know that you will fight before they’ll leave you alone.
Chanton: What’s your days like now, waking up with the cancer and all? Are you scared?
Moose: Not really. A little bit. I guess – but I don’t want to waste my last days worrying about something I can’t change.
Chanton: Did they say how long you’ve got left to live?
Moose: They said probably six months… could be a year. But I won’t last that long. My body is already shutting down.
Chanton: How so?
Moose: I wake up sleepy as hell. I can’t keep no food down, except the peaches. And my stomach be in knots all the time.
Chanton: And you’ve decided against the medications?
Moose: Oh, no – I take the meds. I just ain’t doing the chemo. I’ve gotta take the pain meds; it’s the only way I can make it through the day.
Chanton: I feel ya – in fact, it’s med call right now, so we should wrap it up for today. I’ve got a few more questions for another time. But even after this interview is over I’d love to swing by every now and then to hang out with you – if you don’t mind. You and I have played lots of D-N-D games together in the past. You’ve always been cool to me.
Moose: Thanks for saying that, Chanton. And sure – swing on by when you get the chance. Remind me to tell you about the dragon I’ve seen in real life.
Chanton: Dragon? In real life? This I’ve got to hear. Stay up Moose – and keep pushing on ‘til the wheels fall off.
Moose: I will. But wait, before you go – I want you to have this. They’re pictures of a panhead, shovelhead and knucklehead. Get you some tape, and you can make a bookmark out of them.
Chanton: Wow – thanks bro. This is pretty cool. Alright, Moose… I’ll see you tomorrow.
Moose: See ya, Chanton.
And with that, me and Moose dapped it up and officially concluded this leg of the interview.
The next day proved more challenging than we anticipated when we were hit with a COVID outbreak. The prison went into the red zone protocol and locked down all the dorms. We agreed to postpone the interview, but the cancer never let up. Moose was vomiting and losing sleep. He had to be hospitalized. I was trying to be optimistic of his return – screw the interview, I just wanted him to live. But on February 17, 2022 we got the news from the prison chaplain – Moose was dead.
Not a day has gone by that I don’t think about my friend and what his last moments were like. Maybe he wasn’t all that scared of dying, but I was scared for him. I wanted it to be one of those things where he could apologize to the cancer and everything would be okay. I wanted him to change his mind about the chemo and fight a little longer to live. What I hadn’t realized was that by not taking the chemo – Moose was fighting in his own way. He fought to keep cancer from depriving him of a death worthy of faith. Even his agreeing to do the interview was a challenge that he embraced because even though he knew he couldn’t beat the cancer – he fought for his words to survive.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson’s writing is consistently thought provoking. This is the first time he has done an interview for WITS, and it was not an easy topic, but he handled it skillfully, as he does everything. Terry Robinson 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. 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.
The mind amazes me – how it can be the only power we have over attitude; how, though we can’t change our circumstances, our attitude can change the way we experience events. It brings to mind the way we experience a roller coaster ride – choosing between an attitude of faith or doubt. If I doubt the safety of the harness, question if it will hold, it will be a terrifying ride, hands clenched to the lap bar, feet dug into the floor, eyes closed and likely feeling miserable.
But if I choose to live in faith that the safety harness is strong enough to hold me, then I can focus on enjoying the ride. I can open my eyes, lean into every turn, throw my hands in the air and surrender to the thrill of it. Nothing on the ride has changed, the trajectory of the ride was already determined, every curve, every loop, the length. But inwardly, my experience was drastically different – faith felt like heaven, doubt felt like hell.
It’s pretty obvious the metaphor for spiritually and life itself; and, admittedly, the rollercoaster is a little cliche. Still… I am convinced that God has laid out a track for each of our lives, and while we can make certain choices – keep our hands on the bar or throw them skyward – much of our lives are beyond our control. Who knows? Only thing I do know is that God commands us to love our fellow man, which, if applied as a life principle, leads to a way of life – a track. So, once I committed to this way, it locked in the basic trajectory of my life, the circumstances I would find myself in, the people I’d encounter along the way, the trials and storms and temptations I’d face.
So, now all I can change is my attitude toward those events. When I doubt God, I find myself afraid to love others, afraid that my kindness will be mistaken for weakness, afraid I’ll be rejected or disappointed, afraid I’ll be taken advantage of. Prison is hard enough, and I sometimes fear that trying to love my fellow prisoners will turn me into prey.
Yet, when I’ve chosen to trust in God, I’ve felt an explosion of joy in my soul when I surrender to the love, let it shine forth. God says, “When the Lord takes pleasure in anyone’s way, He causes even their enemies to make peace with them.” (Proverbs 16:7) God takes pleasure in our ways when we love one another, forgive, show mercy, etc. And He keeps His people safe. Granted, there are times God asks us to sacrifice and suffer for a higher purpose, but generally, a lot of our suffering is avoidable – if we’ll just trust and obey.
So, often, my fears are unfounded because God is the X-factor. Sure, without God, people may treat me a certain way, or when I do things for my own purposes people may prey on any vulnerable area, but when I am sincerely trying to do God’s will, the normal laws of human nature don’t apply. Rather, God is involved because God is love, and so unexpected things occur – a cruel person suddenly is kindly toward me, the bully finds someone else to pick on, the thief decides not to steal from my cell.
Like I said, it amazes me how powerful our attitudes can be. Though the outward reality of being in prison has not changed for me, my attitude of faith has changed the way I experience prison life – I’m not afraid. Rather, I’m filled with joy. I have thrown my hands in the air, surrendered to the will of God, and now I just enjoy the ride.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am grateful to share his work. He isn’t just inspirational as a writer, but also as a person. George lives on Death Row in NC, and is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion. In addition, he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Scars keep stalking me, No matter how hard I run. I hide behind doors That become obstacles. Blanketed in the darkness, Having cold sweats, But these are old regrets. Blood, sweat and tears drip. Shhh! You hear that? I know my ego tripping. Pride keeps screaming, Fear won’t stop manipulating The things I hear. Shackles cling and clang, Crutches, slowing me down, Controlling how you think, Caring more about the wrong, Missed the right in front of me. Why do I care what anybody thinks! Another door slams, A bottle of pain, Fading in and out of confusion. The horror reminds me to look back! There’s another way, A life yet to explore! A happiness yet to discover! A love to be seen True as Corinthians Chapter 13! Am I dying? Been so far lost Chasing excuses to avoid a chance. Who will look me in my eyes Before our time runs out? BEFORE MY TIME RUNS OUT? Can you understand how to navigate past the blackness? Can you see the person in the mirror? Past that mask they gave me, The mask that hides me?
ABOUT THE WRITER. Although Robert is new to writing for WITS, he had an interest in writing since early childhood. In middle-school, he challenged himself, submitting an essay for a writing contest about courage and what it means to you. He entered anonymously. I’m glad he has continued to write, and today, when he is inspired to write, he likes free-style poetry and personal essays.
Robert is pursuing a Bachelor of Arts degree with a focus on Psychology and has also recently earned certificates in Behavior Science, Human Resources Development and Digital Design. He was also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers, A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Robert can be contacted at:
Robert M. Linton #0880370 Eastern CI P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Everyplace has a code of conduct, a pre-established format on how to behave, especially Death Row, where violating communal norms can have fatal consequences. And although I was surprised to learn when I arrived how clueless the men were to the accused crimes of one another, I soon learned it was a naivete woven from a thread of doubt that was necessary for us to coexist. Here on Death Row, we never discuss the crimes of others. Our spats are never armed with accusations. We share living space with men who have committed heinous acts and the courtesy between us is doubt. But what happens when the media airs coverage that shatters that doubt? What happens to courtesy when a vicious murderer is unveiled by his own admission? How do we come to terms with the visions of horror when there is no naivete behind which to hide? And what is the code of conduct when learning the person who is responsible is someone I’ve called a friend?
I first heard the rumor during my orientation to Death Row by a CO escorting me to the pod. He motioned toward a dark skinned man sitting alone at a table as we passed by a murky window. “See him? Watch out for that one there – he’s a serial killer.”
With questionable motives himself, I brushed off the warning as though it was merely a scare tactic. Either that or the CO was harboring a cold, vindictive grudge since his comment was dripping ice. I did, however, take notice of said ‘serial killer’, but I didn’t see a killer at all. No beady red eyes, twisted grin or drawing on the wall in his own blood – at least, that’s how I imagined a serial killer to look. This guy wore schoolboy glasses and had a quiet demeanor. He was husky and out-of-shape. It was not the infamous costume of a serial killer, but I decided to avoid him just in case.
Years passed before I ever said a word to the man and even then, it was mostly brief exchanges in passing. My observation of him was that he seemed knowledgeable about the world, well-respected, and typically kept to himself. The first time we ever had a greater interaction than that it was over a bet and got a bit tense.
“R. Kelly sings that shit!”
“I’m telling you man – it’s Aaron Hall.”
“Put $5 on it then.”
“Bet then mutha-fucka!”
We shouted opposing truths back and forth until he upped the bet to ten. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone, so I agreed. I lost and paid the debt, but I felt manipulated by him raising the stakes. We didn’t speak again for over a year.
But one thing about proximity on Death Row, it forges bonds out of shared affliction. Many a friendship here is founded on empathy alone; some on familiarity. We began having casual talks, and over time, I found he was quite pleasurable to be around. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, easy to engage, and never lost his temper. I felt petty for griping over a bet that I agreed to, and I discussed with him my point-of-view. He apologized and said he, too, was caught up in the moment. He’d bet to save face with the others. We were both trying to be liked in a place where likeability is relative to survival. We made our peace, shook hands with one another, and the two of us were friends ever since.
My friend, like myself, received visits frequently, and our loved ones became acquainted as well. My mother often asked about him, and I’d have great things to say. Occasionally, he stopped by the booth to wave hello. His name was mentioned regularly during conversations with my mom, but not once did we discuss the crime that brought him here. I told myself I didn’t care whether he was a serial killer – but maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.
Then came the Friday night that 20/20 aired its special coverage on his case. I felt like I was betraying my friendship simply by watching the episode. Did I even want to know? Was the element of doubt that was the glue to our friendship about to be dissolved? I decided that a friendship that hasn’t been tested is hardly a friendship at all.
From the moment the face of the first victim was shown, I was struck by the horrible reality. Such a sweet face and promising life snuffed out by a pair of hands wrapped around her throat. Then there was the girl’s mother whose tears and pleas made my own eyes blur with sympathy. I wasn’t thinking about forgiveness or reform for the killer – I was thinking somebody should pay.
Then came the face of another young woman that riddled me with guilt, her image penetrating me in a way that accused me of excusing her death. Then there was another face; and another, until the victim count was more than ten – all of them had been raped before having their lives squeezed from their bodies. The police had no leads, except the still-shot image of a man hunched over an ATM machine. It was grainy and distorted, but I’d recognize that hulking figure anywhere – it was my friend.
After his arrest, he confessed to the murders and gave a detailed account of his slaughter. The person sounded like my friend and looked like him, but it couldn’t be the man I knew. He was too thoughtful a person to want to hurt anybody, while the guy on TV was a monster. I kept trying to remind myself that people can change – but how does someone come back from that? Is there redemption after tying up the neck of a baby and leaving him for dead? If not, and we are forever judged by our past, then what would be the motivation to change?
Long after the show was off the air, the episode kept replaying in my head. I saw the women’s faces, heard their names, and re-lived hearing their families’ grief. Eleven women strangled, stabbed, even burned to death for no other reason than knowing the person I knew. Callous hands would cut down their future, choke away their dreams and desecrate a mother’s pride. And to think that I’d shaken those very same hands without consideration of the hurt they’d caused. I couldn’t help but feel I was committing a disservice to victims by befriending their murderer.
Suddenly, I was faced with two grappling concepts – justice and forgiveness. Many are taught to believe that by withholding forgiveness, we are perpetuating justice. But the perpetuation of anything is the opposite of justice, and forgiveness is a self-serving device. Different concepts that sit on the same end of the moral spectrum because there is not one without the other. I was taught that salvation comes after the worst thing we’ve ever done. I’m a believer in forgiveness, and no one is more deserving of justice than my friend’s victims.
There were two of the victims’ mothers and one sister who all said they’d forgiven him. However, one male cousin seemed consumed by the need for vengeance, vowed to petition for execution. Strength and resolve. Persistent anguish. How I admired one and pitied the other. Those women from whom everything had been taken were determined to take something of their own. Perpetuating the hate is a transfer of their power – by forgiving him, they took it back. It was the one defining moment throughout the entire segment in which justice felt truly served.
Now I know that I, too, must forgive the horrible things that were done. Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing the wrong, but allowing him to pay. And allowing him to live to pay – that is the only justice.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a writer who is consistently thought provoking. In this essay he gives us a look into an experience most of us haven’t had, and will leave some readers questioning their own self-understanding. Terry Robinson 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 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. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion.
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.
I’ve often wondered why prisoners are some of the most creative people I know. Granted, I may have a distorted perspective because I’ve been incarcerated since I was seventeen years old, and I’m now forty-three. So most of the people I’ve ever known are prisoners, but it seems like a disproportionate percentage of them are highly creative compared to the general population. Prisons are full of extremely talented artists, musicians, singers, poets, writers, inventors, tinkerers, incredible chess players, legal minds, and a multitude of other skilled and talented people. Why? Why do so many highly creative people end up in prison?
I, myself, was an extremely independent and inquisitive child, always needing to know why, always needing to know how things worked, dismantling and reassembling things. I needed a reason for everything and could be excessively obstinate if told to just believe or do something without good reason.
I was nine when we moved to a small town in East Texas with more cows than people. I didn’t fit in and almost immediately became an outsider, a non-conformist, a rule-breaker.
“Welcome to parent-teacher night at ______ ______ school, where we want to encourage our students to be creative and independent thinkers.”
Oh, really? When my mother was repeatedly called because I was always drawing in class, she didn’t understand why it was such a problem.
“Is he doing his assignments?”
“Yes, ma’am, but it is distracting.”
“How is it distracting if he is sitting there quietly drawing?”
“It is distracting to the teacher.”
“How is it distracting the teacher?”
“Because he is not paying attention to her.”
“But if he is completing his assignments, then he must be paying attention!”
“It’s disrespectful to the teacher.”
“Why are you always so hard on my son if he’s not disrupting class or bothering anyone?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard on him if you sent him to my Sunday school class at my church.”
The outsider kid who is a little different winds up in a few fights with ‘the good kids’ who go to church and bully others, gaining a ‘reputation’ as a trouble-maker amongst teachers and school officials. Those teachers and officials all attend the same churches and local functions as local police who naturally view outsiders with suspicion… and now need to keep an eye on that kid with a reputation as he is a trouble-maker in school. That same kid is then labeled as defiant and disrespectful of authority when he refuses to submit to corporal punishment at school because: one, ‘you’re not gonna hit me and get away with it‘; two, the blatant hypocrisy of ‘I’m gonna hit you to teach you a lesson that fighting is unacceptable’; and three, even at that age I found it supremely creepy for a grown man to bend pubescent boys over a chair and spank them with a giant wooden paddle. You’re refusing swats? Okay, you’re staying after school for detention.
“Why are you drawing in detention? You’re supposed to be doing homework!”
“I don’t have any homework.”
“Don’t lie to me! Everyone has homework!”
“I finished it in class.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, or I’ll give you more detention for insubordination!”
“What? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
More detention – which I refuse to attend on principle. It gets doubled… tripled… quadrupled. Which I find amusing… and get suspended… then assigned to alternative school for the remainder of the semester… where I breeze through my assignments and get into more trouble for drawing in class.
I finally return to regular school where an English teacher tells me, “You’re so smart and talented, but you’re not applying yourself.” So, I apply myself on a creative writing project only to be accused of plagiarism because, well, there’s just no way that rebellious little turd wrote that! More detention… for ‘cheating’ on an assignment. Seriously. For doing my assignment too well? Why bother anymore? More detention for refusing to do assignments. Lah-de-fucking-dah. More alternative school for refusing to attend detention. More problems at home because I’m ‘getting in trouble at school’. I come to hate school and start skipping it.
At some point Mom gets exasperated with all of it. “Why can’t you just be like other kids?! Why can’t you just do what they tell you to do?”
“Because it’s dumb. It serves no purpose, and I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I know. But it will make things so much easier for you if you just go along with it and do as you’re told.”
“Why is that a good reason to do something I disagree with?”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you so stubborn?”
Eventually they convince her that there might be something wrong with me. “What is wrong with you?” I stare at the floor and mumble that I don’t know. “If you don’t know, then who does?!” I continue to stare at the floor and shrug. “Look at me!” But no matter how hard I try, my burning eyes quickly resume studying the pattern weave of the carpet. “Why can’t you look at me? What is wrong with you?”
At some point I’m convinced that there is something wrong with me. I ponder this confusing question incessantly until it is internalized among all the other confusions I cannot yet unravel at that age.
“Are you even listening to me?”
How do I explain that my mind often wanders and pieces things together on its own while my attention remains captivated by something as simple as the gleam of light on the metal sleeve that joins pencil and eraser, studying how to recreate that metallic effect in a drawing? Do you really expect an eleven or twelve year old to understand how their mind works or be able to explain it?
“There is something wrong with you. You must be crazy or on drugs.” (Not yet!) “Why did you do that?!”
“Because I was…”
“Did you do it or not? Yes or no? I don’t want excuses!”
“I’m trying to explain!”
“Don’t talk back to me! What is wrong with you? Do as I say, not as I do. Because I said so. Don’t you dare look at me that way!”
I silently wonder – what way? Is it the confusion that bothers you? The pain? Or the contempt?
“What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?!”
What is wrong with me? Why am I so different? Why do I always feel alone even among friends? Why is it that the only time I’m at peace is when I’m drawing or writing? Except now my drawings grow increasingly disturbing, and I often destroy them. The same with my writing. I destroy it before anyone reads my innermost thoughts, the ones preoccupied with despair and misery. I destroy it before they have evidence that something truly is wrong with me. Destroy it all. Destroy everything and withdraw farther into myself.
“Ma’am, have you considered taking him to a psychologist?”
“Ma’am, I think our son has ADHD and needs to be on medication.”
Hey, kid, take your meds. Take your drugs. Take drugs so people will like you, so they will accept you, because there is something wrong with you that drugs will fix. People don’t like you unless you take your drugs because who you are is unacceptable, not good enough.
“Doctor, the Ritalin isn’t working!”
People fear what they don’t understand. Now my own parents are afraid of me. “Son, you can’t live here anymore, we don’t want you here. We’re going to put you somewhere where you can get the help you need…” somewhere that you’ll be beaten and hospitalized twice, sexually abused, and placed on Thorazine because nothing transforms a confused thirteen-year-old boy into a drooling obedient little zombie like horse tranquilizers! At least until insurance runs out and stops paying for the institutionalization. (Yes, my thirteenth birthday was a suicidal tendencies song.)
Nowhere else to go but home (if you can call it that), even though they don’t want me there. But if I run away, they report me to the police. Now the police are always looking for me because I’m a ‘troubled kid’.
“Take your meds! Why aren’t you taking your meds?” Why do I need to be on drugs for people to like me? Or to like myself? Is that even me? Hmmm… I wonder what those drugs are like? The drugs don’t fill the void, I simply no longer care about it, no longer care about all the confusion in my head from all the fears, shame, and self-doubt I‘ve internalized; numb that pain; it’s easier to be numb, to shut off all my emotions and pretend I don’t care about anything. It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a bus anyhow. At least I’m accepted by others, even if I can’t accept myself. I can at least tolerate myself from one day to the next.
I find myself drawn toward music and imagery that explores the angry dark depths within. It is safer and more cathartic than opening a vein. And less of a mess. And I haven’t quite succumbed to that demon yet, but it’s breathing down my neck. I no longer bother to conceal my drawings or writings; maybe it is a subtle cry for help or to be understood?
“Son, why are you drawing such vile things? You used to draw such beautiful things… now it is all darkness, death, pain, and depressing drawings. Stop drawing that stuff! Why are you listening to that kind of music? You’re not allowed to listen to that! You’re not allowed to draw that! You’re not allowed to express that! You’re not allowed to think that!” Yeah… because trying to control a highly creative but very confused and depressed nonconformist by dictating what they are allowed to think or how to express themselves is really going to work out well. Hmmm… maybe if you beat him into a bloody mess that will cure the anger and resentment, make him more submissive? And when the local cops see the bloody results and laugh about it, or a teacher tells that kid he probably deserved it, that won’t result in any further resentment or rage or lack of respect for authority, will it? Nahhh…
“Son, why are you so full of rage and self-destructive nihilism? Why don’t you care about anything? Why are you on drugs? What is wrong with you?!”
Is it really so difficult to figure out why so many highly creative people self-destruct and end up in prison? Does our culture really value highly creative kids who have difficulty conforming with the other ninety percent?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Aaron Striz is a first time writer for WITS, and he also won the most recent writing contest asking people to share what they felt was a significant factor in their incarceration. Aaron was a juvenile when he was first incarcerated and he is now in his forties – which gives him incredible insight. His ability to express that should go further than this creative writing platform, and would be beneficial in the field of social work as well as criminal justice. Aaron Striz has also used his gifts to advocate for himself and those he lives with regarding issues such as solitary confinement. I feel it is important to note that Aaron was originally incarcerated at the age of 17, which would not be long after the experiences shared in this essay. Not long after his incarceration, he did try to escape and he has spent a great deal of his time in solitary confinement. He was sentenced to life, he won’t be eligible for parole until he has served thirty years, and although I am not familiar with his case, a quick search indicates there was no loss of life.
Aaron Striz can be contacted at: Aaron Striz #838215 Wynne Unit 810 FM 2821 Huntsville, TX 77320
I am in prison because of my downward spiral of compromise, the gradual degeneration of my character and consequent choices. One compromise led to the next which led to the next, each one increasing the momentum of travel to and the probability of the next compromise.
My story is a tragedy, but not one of tragic beginnings. I was tremendously blessed to have wonderful parents and the advantages of academic gifting and opportunity, yet I still ended up in prison with a life sentence. How? Why?
My parents were incredible – loving, caring, kind, gentle, giving and honest. They taught and lived by their Christian beliefs of loving God and loving others. They prioritized the needs of others, supported without being overbearing, disciplined firmly yet without harshness, provided while instilling appreciation, and emphasized character, integrity, and respect for all.
I was academically gifted. Teachers frequently told my parents I was the smartest child they had taught. I won math contests and Science Olympiad events, participated in numerous opportunities reserved for top students, attended the prestigious North Carolina School of Science & Mathematics (NCSSM), and received several college academic scholarships.
I did not nose dive from the apex of the values my parents taught down into a cesspit of selling cocaine and carrying a gun. I descended one selfish, unprincipled choice at a time over several years. I entered the downward spiral by compromising with alcohol and marijuana. I drank alcohol for the first time while spending a week at the beach with a friend’s family. We went to a condo where more than a dozen people, all older, were hanging out. Drinking with the older crowd made me feel accepted and cool. Although I threw up and passed out, looking like a fool, I liked being part of the ‘cool’ crowd, naive with the dangerous desire to be accepted as part of the ‘in’ crowd.
The next year, the same ‘friend’ introduced me to marijuana, or pot. I did not want to smoke but did not have the courage to say ‘no’. My cowardice caused me to open a proverbial Pandora’s box of drug use. I liked being high on pot because it settled my mind, which was normally like an extreme laser light show, constantly on hyper-drive. Pot slowed the pace, allowing me to relax and feel normal for the first time. I eventually developed a daily habit.
My junior year began at NCSSM. Graduating from the residence high school for academically stellar students was my dream, but I traded it for nothing. Compromising by drinking and smoking pot cost me that valuable opportunity – it would not be the last one I wasted. Preparing to leave for college, I made another pivotal compromise, purchasing pot to sell.
For a while I could smoke pot and function well and still excel in school, even winning a math contest (Calculus) while very high. Selling pot allowed me to smoke every day, but smoking pot that much bore a critical side effect – it stole my drive. The exceedingly driven person with big plans, goals, and dreams, as well as the dedicated effort to accomplish them, was replaced by a distracted slacker.
As a freshman, I attended far more parties than classes, did more drinking and smoking pot than studying and learning, and added experimentation with other drugs (ecstasy, LSD, hallucinogenic mushrooms). I forfeited the academic scholarship due to terrible grades, having to attend summer classes to maintain eligibility.
I regained my academic focus and made the Dean’s List the next two semesters. Although the frequency of partying, drinking, and using drugs decreased (mostly on weekends), continuing to use at all was complete compromise. Two years later, I made another pivotal compromise, the terrible choice to sell cocaine. Quickly, I became addicted to the money, and began to view myself as a drug dealer. Adopting that identity led me to accept violence as a necessary part of the drug business.
Eight months later, my apartment was broken into and ransacked, drugs and cash stolen. My little beagle puppy, Bruiser, was left hiding under my bed, shaking uncontrollably. The break-in shattered my sense of security. I hated feeling afraid, violated, helpless. I wish I had responded by quitting the selling and using of drugs – forever. Instead, I responded by seeking revenge. Thinking I had determined the culprit, I organized a late-night armed robbery, however, the people we accosted were not involved in the break-in.
I thought striking out at someone, anyone, would make me feel less afraid and more in control, but the fear increased. I started carrying a gun everywhere, even to class. I always reentered my apartment with the gun at the ready, afraid.
Two weeks later my long, ever-worsening series of bad choices caused irreparable harm. Killing other human beings and being arrested for murder awakened me to how far down I had descended. I had the gun because for two weeks I carried a gun everywhere, because guns and violence are part of being a drug dealer, because using drugs can easily transition into selling drugs, because one compromise leads to the next. The overall direction of the compromises I made was steeply downward, but the incremental drop from one compromised choice to the next was so small as to be indistinguishable.
My parents and my gifts gave me the foundation for success, but I wasted both. The mistakes I have made are my own. I am solely, wholly responsible for my impulsive, immoral choices. I failed to learn from my mistakes, not only repeating them but making worse and worse choices. Smoking marijuana took my drive, selling drugs took my direction, identifying myself as a drug dealer destroyed my boundaries.
Now, I refuse to compromise on my values of honesty, integrity, compassion, diversity, and social responsibility. I know it takes only one compromise to enter the downward spiral, and I will never again re-enter the downward spiral of compromise.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson placed second in our most recent writing contest. Timothy has been incarcerated for nineteen years and 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/).
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
I am easily able to account for numerous contributing factors to my incarceration. My mind and heart begrudgingly possess a bevy of reasons, explanations and excuses. However, after further consideration, I concede they are just that… excuses; meager attempts to justify my being incarcerated, enchained and entombed.
As do many, I too find myself quickly casting blame upon the most frequently attributed afflictions – a broken and fatherless home; the lack of proper guidance and structure; a dysfunctional judicial system that levies unfair sentencing; misrepresentation by an ineffective counsel; the coercion of corrupt law enforcement; or perhaps, simply, the implication of a very ‘talkative’ acquaintance. This list could go on, and each reason would appear quite significant in the eyes of its beholder, but truth be told, these are merely the fruit of a much more poisonous tree.
While contemplating similar causes in my own incarceration, I discover they undoubtedly share one common root. Although each merits its own truth, these stigma are the culmination of a far greater woe. This generational genocide, reinforced by blind belief in errant statistical data, flawed reiterations and environmental influence while balanced on the crutches of racial prejudice is but the surface of this deeply embedded spur.
By no means am I attempting to discredit the validity of such factors, or reduce their weight in regard to anyone’s bout with this carceral beast, my own included, but there is one simple answer to this question. What do I consider the most significant factor in my incarceration? ‘Absence’… Yes, absence.
In my humble opinion, absence is the root cause of any and everyone’s incarceration. No matter which surface truth we choose to blame, ultimately, there was an underlying lack that led to its burgeoning. Whether it was the absence of a father figure, a strong support system or a void of values, there was a lack. Maybe there was an unfair trial, insufficient legal assistance, or the ploy of discriminatory incrimination, but the fact still remains – we were without something, and the absence of that something created a vulnerability.
In an absence of awareness, we lose focus and forget all instruction and forewarning, then act with clouded judgment, in total disregard to consequence. In an absence of direction, we are left to our own demise, inept at navigating the hostile and often imbalanced terrain of our society. In the absence of maturation, we have become trapped in a race, running from responsibility, hoping to be rewarded with the avoidance of accountability. And, in the absence of knowledge, we are unable to defend our rights or freedom on the battlefield of ‘law and order’, thus we are captured, sold, and enslaved.
So, you see then, regardless of how one may attempt to rationalize the cause of their incarceration, a single truth prevails – there has been an absence in our lives – an absence resulting in ignorance, an absence that has become a perpetual deviant, an absence that led to bad choices and poor decisions, an absence that has left us absent.
ABOUT THE WRITER. It is no surprise that Carter has placed third in our recent writing contest. He has placed here before, and he is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers. His writing style is always reflective, sometimes nostalgic, and completely charming. WITS really appreciates the insight that writers like Carter bring to important conversations.
If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.
