Category Archives: Views From The Inside

Views From The Inside

The Hole

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Day One (Down I Go)

I wake to something crawling on my face, instinctively removing what feels like a very large cockroach as pain jolts through my shoulder and the part of my face I just touched.  One of my nostrils is clogged up making it hard to breathe.  As I exhale through my mouth, I feel the numbness of my lip.  Dried blood has partially sealed my mouth and nose shut.  My top lip is twice as large as normal.  I ignore the pain in my shoulder, which has now turned into a throbbing headache.  I place my hand on the part of my head that hurts the most.  My head also seems to have grown twice as large since I last touched it.  Now, I remember.  All that guard had to do was ask me to leave the chow hall, he didn’t have to put his hands on me.  In that moment when I pushed him away, I forgot the first prison rule I learned when I got here – never touch the correction officer.

Day Three

‘Does the light above my head ever go off?’  Over time, I learn it doesn’t, serving to assist the guards who pass my cell see inside.  They are able to view me through a small square window located on the only door to this hole. 

I hear familiar keys jangle and know a guard is in the hall making rounds.  Before I can debate with myself what kind of round it is, I hear a man announce, “Chow time!”  Shortly after that I hear the bean slot drop open.  The slot is located a few feet below the rectangular window and is where everything from food to mail is passed to a person in solitary confinement.  These items also come as a privilege.  Because I assaulted an officer, my mail is withheld, probably destroyed.  My food is also special.  I’m given ‘food loaf’, an all-in-one baked bundle of whatever is being served that day. 

As I listen to the bean slots open down the hall, I know they are near.  I wait in eager anticipation.  I’m hungry and food loaf is better than no loaf.  Like magic, my slot is opened and presto, food loaf and a paper plate with a plastic spork appear.  I quickly grab it and wait for the liquid beverage that will accompany my meal.  It too will be savored.  Just then, the guy in the next cell decides to ‘jack the slot’, which is sticking a body part out of the slot and refusing to remove it.  The guard delivering the food immediately asks the offender to remove his arm from the slot.  The offender responds with obscenities and an audible spit.  The officer radios for backup, who quickly arrive in a musical symphony of key jangles.  Commands are shouted to the offender, “Offender, remove your arm from the slot!”  I try to see through the square window what’s going on, but my efforts are vanquished by an officer who sees my face and abruptly closes the small square door mounted over the window.  Then I hear an audible ‘whap’, a scream from the offender, something about ‘you broke my arm’, followed by more obscenities.  And just as quickly as it all started, it was over.  Later that night, I hear the offender next to me whimpering about how the guard broke his arm, and how he’s going to sue them and their mothers. 

‘Good luck with that, pal.  This is Texas.’

Day Seven

I try talking to the guy next door through the wall and quickly determine he is mentally unstable.  He talks to himself or some imaginary being in his cell and makes strange noises with an unknown body part.  He laughs uncontrollably a lot. 

I, in my boredom, have managed to count all the cracks in the wall and floor of my cell.  I’ve even managed to make out imaginary images such as demons, women and what can only be described as mythical creatures, all derived from splotches on the wall.  I’ve asked for a book, but as of today – nothing.

Day Fourteen (Sanity Slip)

I’m given a book.  It is delivered by a very attractive female guard.  Her perfume reminds me of the companionship of a woman.  I speak to her, and she seems to still have some compassion left in her.  I won’t see her again.   

The book is 647 pages of kickass action.  The author is some guy named Greg Hurwitz who has written several books about some badass orphan.  I’ve never read a book as fast.  I consider reading it again, but what’s the point?  I already know the ending.  Still no word on when I’ll be getting out of here.  I workout and pray daily.  I also reflect on my actions and how I got stuck in this hole.  Simple things that so many take for granted are essential to maintain my sanity.  I crave a look at the night sky and glimpse of the moon and stars.  A breath of fresh air, even exhaust fumes, would be welcome in this new world.

I wonder how my mother is doing.  I know she must be worried sick about me, especially since I have not been able to call or write.  Maybe she will call the prison and inquire about my well-being.  

The laughter next door becomes contagious.  It’s not laughter of joy.

Day Twenty-One

I’ve been given a blanket to cover up with, which does nothing to combat the cold temperatures.  The blanket is made of the exact same fabric used to cover speaker boxes or upholster the trunk of a car.  It’s getting rough in here.  I remember when I was a child and how I used a blanket as protection.  Protection from the boogyman.  Who was this boogyman, that mysterious monster-man who hid under children’s beds, in closets and in the dark shadowy corners of bedrooms?  Where did he go in the day?  Was it a place like this?  Was the man next door him, the one who rocks me to sleep with his screams and laughter?  Am I the boogyman?

Day Forty-Two (Suicidally Seduced)

I’ve started talking aloud to myself.  I remember what my mother used to say about talking to yourself.  “You’re not crazy if you talk to yourself, unless you start answering yourself.  I can’t remember if I’ve ever done that, have I?  No, I haven’t.”  

Thoughts of my wife and son out there in that cruel world eat at my heart.  I grasp at my chest to quench the pounding crunch of my need to know they’re okay.  All I can do is believe they are.  Then a thought from out of nowhere comes into my mind.  What if I end my life?  For sure all my troubles will be over…  

I start to devise a plan on how I can do it.  I can easily tie the blanket around my neck, tight enough to cut off my oxygen.  I attempt this by straightening the blanket out and twisting it into a rope.  I then wrap that around my neck and tie a knot.  When I’m done, I realize I’ve wrapped my nose and mouth in my attempt.  Death by suffocation, not strangulation.  Halfway through my desperate act, something inside my head tells me, ‘This is not the way.’  If I kill myself, what will they tell my son?  If I kill myself, the Texas Judicial System has won the game. 

The blanket soon starts to itch my face.  Torturing myself before I die is definitely not the way to go.  I unravel the blanket from around my head, ball it up and toss it in the corner.  Later on in the night, I retrieve the blanket from the corner and fold it into a makeshift pillow.  Despite the freezing temperature, I sleep and dream myself out of the hole.  

Day Forty-Three (Small Glimpse of Hope)

I awake discombobulated.  It takes me some time to realize my breakfast is sitting on the floor of my cell.  Someone has opened my cell door, and I was totally unaware.  I pick it up and place it on the sink, which also serves as a table.  I try to go back to sleep but it is impossible.  I get up and perform my daily routine of washing up and exercise.  After two hours of strenuous calisthenics, I sit on the floor and meditate, thinking about my time in the hole and all I’ve been going through, mentally and spiritually.  As I reflect on those things, I feel something crawl across my leg.  I then realize I am sitting in a line of marching ants.  ‘How did they get in here?’  

I follow their path to a small hole where the floor meets the wall.  It dawns on me.  This place that was designed to restrain and isolate me, could also be my way out in the form of convincing myself that if I can survive this environment, I can survive anything this prison throws at me…

ABOUT THE WRITER. I am always happy to have a new WITS writer win a writing contest, and this is exactly what Chiron Francis has done. It wasn’t only his way of sharing his experience in writing, but he also rose to the call of the prompt perfectly. It is not always that those two come together so well. Like many WITS writers, Chiron finds escape in writing, and I look forward to hearing from him again. He can be contacted at:

Chiron S. Francis #2178658
Wynne Unit
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77349

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Juvenile Justice, Views From The Inside

The Yellow Brick Road

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Becoming incarcerated at seventeen meant a few things for me. In the state of Virginia it meant I could be tried as an adult and given an adult sentence. It also meant I could not be housed with the adults until my eighteenth birthday. That didn’t stop them from sending me to the adult jail though. It just meant I had to stay in solitary confinement for three months.

At my jail, solitary confinement had a nickname: The Yellow Brick Road. I was told it was called this due to the mustard yellow concrete floor in each cell. I once asked a guard why it was yellow. His response still echoes in my mind – “‘Cause we can see the blood better.” As a 17-year-old girl with no previous incarceration experience, his statement and the callous way he said it was shocking to me. What did he mean, ‘blood’? Whose blood? Why would someone be bleeding? I later found out that people often tried to commit suicide in the isolation units. Apparently it happened often enough that they spent money to paint the floors.

That yellow floor drove me crazy. I remember sitting at the door day-in-and-day-out peeling up the paint with my nails. By the time I left that cell there was a grey patch of concrete where I sat each day. I am sure they covered it with more disappointing yellow. I hope that the next person at least got to experience some relief in the concrete island I created.

Those first three months of my incarceration left a stain on my soul that I will never forget. I can recall the feelings of desperation, hopelessness, and loneliness anytime I summon up the memories. Being isolated at seventeen so suddenly and abruptly after being free just moments before left a mark on me that I think is unique to incarcerated juveniles. In that cell with the small slab of concrete and the covered window is where I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. I did decide to celebrate though. By this point I was indigent, but I had saved a Hostess cupcake and a bottle of Sprite from months before. I sang myself Happy Birthday and ate the last of my canteen.

Once I turned eighteen I thought I’d be able to move to general population. This wasn’t the case. Now they said they were keeping me in protective custody because my case was high profile. Well, as a teenager does, I listened to the advice of my peers, which in this case were other ladies in solitary. Through the doors they yelled and encouraged me to tell them I was having suicidal thoughts. They said I’d have to spend a few days in the strip cell but then they’d put me in population. Ashamedly, I followed their advice. Luckily, they were right. My foray into population was met with comments about everything from my body to my crime. I was so excited to have human contact again that it didn’t matter what they said. I was free.

Looking back, I believe that the true reason solitary confinement at the jail was called The Yellow Brick Road had little to do with the floor at all. More so I believe it was called that because of the psychological effect it left on those housed there. There’s really only one way to describe the thoughts that run through your mind while sitting alone and staring at that mustard stained floor. Click your heels hard Dorothy and stop thinking about how badly you want to go home.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  I am excited to say Ashleigh has placed second in our most recent writing contest regarding solitary confinement. I think what makes her stand out is her unique style of honest creativity. She is a natural writer. I hope we continue to hear from her. Ashleigh can be contacted at:

Ashleigh Dye #1454863
Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women
144 Prison Lane
Troy, VA 22974

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Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Who You Gonna Call?

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I find it hard to express what solitary confinement is, knowing what I explain may be totally different from another’s experience.  There are situations in solitary confinement that are less harsh than other situations, where someone might have TV, an in-cell shower, better food, phone access and other means to communicate daily.  Here in Texas, we don’t have shit.

I cannot begin to fathom where I would be mentally if I didn’t have the luxury of having caring family and friends to support me through this quarter-of-a-century’s incarceration.  No doubt those who are committed to being in my life are the glue of stability for me, but even I know it takes me… more of me… to maintain sanity.  

I’m often conflicted on whether or not to explain to my family and friends, being honest and raw, my existing conditions – if I told the nuts and bolts operations of solitary confinement, would it be mentally constructive for either of us?  

Early on in my unjust prison term, not being home during traditional celebrations, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, would be an indescribable emotional pain.  I used to hold myself with my own arms at night to go to sleep, craving the human comfort of another.  

I’ve been stabbed by a deranged inmate while I was escorted to the shower by an officer.  I’ve had roaches and insects crawling in the ‘food’ officers pass out.  When I complain I am greeted with a ‘human-disconnect’ by officers who feel I should be grateful to be given anything.  I’ve had to do things on my own while handcuffed behind my back, like put on my shoes or grab things to get to the shower, as if Texas DR inmates are Superhuman Inmates.  I’ve had to deal with racism on all levels by officers and inmates.  Yearly, we are promised additional activities to our daily existence, yet all they do is continue to take and take things from us, adding nothing.  Psychological games from their playbook on how to mentally abuse us are implemented daily.  In the summer time the heaters have been switched on.  In the winter the A/C has been at full blast.  I recall one winter putting on every piece of clothing I had, including two pairs of socks on my hands, and socks and boots on my feet.  

Bad press, truthful or not, adds to the mental anxiety we go through when an appeal is denied.  We have to then explain the situation to our loved ones, that we have inched closer to an execution date.  It’s like being resurrected, only to be killed all over again.

Redundancy is a constant, and too much can be the asphalt one walks on into the realm of insanity.  For me, doing the same thing as a way of programming myself to stay busy is a necessity, not a madness.  But I still must be creative.  I have a make-shift basketball goal that is nothing more than a small brown bag with its bottom cut out and taped to the top of the cell’s door.  I then construct a faux-basketball out of a sheet of paper that I crumple up in a ball, then wet it, and leave it to dry for a day until it is hard.  I then get encased in my own personal metaverse where I am a college star adored by screaming fans, or I will imitate NBA athletes who play games on their way to a championship.  I can get lost in this act for hours, hours that I am not mentally aware of my cell’s surroundings.  The draconian reality is absent for a while.  

I suppose the most brutal and chaotic experience in solitary confinement on Texas Death Row is finding yourself sitting.  Watching the walls.  Pacing the floor back and forth, five steps forward, four steps back – for hours, unaware of time, as one tends to converse with themselves, trying to rationalize the isolation, worries and stress.  People advise me not to worry, “Worrying will only lead to stress, which you do not need.”  

What they don’t realize is that isolation is the creator of worry and stress.  How can it not be?  It’s unavoidable.  You realize that – there’s no one to call.  No one to share a laugh or tear with.  No one who can understand what, for me, is understood.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time WITS writer, so I couldn’t be happier to say he came in third place in our most recent writing contest regarding solitary confinement. But there is more to his story.

Charles Mamou, Texas Death Row

Charles Mamou and his case inspired me, personally, to go back to school, become a private investigator and also pursue a degree in social work. What I learned from Charles Mamou, and what is abundantly clear and documented in his case – is that people can be sent to death row in cases where the prosecution does not share all of the relevant and available evidence with the defense.

For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware physical evidence was collected from the victim and the prosecution not only knew this, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently discovered. He should have been told that a quarter century ago. There are other issues as well. Phone records that were not shared with him. Those records contradict the testimony of key prosecution witnesses. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.

Charles Mamou can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Views From The Inside

A Piece of You

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Mom,

I was in art class the first time I was suspended from school.  Another kid said, “Your momma loves a coon,” so I colored him black and blue.  Got real creative with the crayons, turned the classroom into my playground.  Yeah, it was elementary, but that’s no excuse for defending a woman I never knew.

Now, here I am severed from a lifeline that goes back to Genesis, right before the apple fell not too from that tree and lay there another seed.  You thought I was a blessing, so why did I grow up thinking I was a curse?

House to house and far from home, too young to understand why I was deserted – why couldn’t you give me those hugs and kisses?

Teach me the woman to love and cherish?

Where was my dad?

Did he not think it was important to teach a boy how to be a man?  Or did you feel this system had a better plan?

Let me tell you, Mom, I had to fight to be ahead of my class, only to be graded with A-D-D and separated from my peers.  At least that is what my therapist said right before they disguised the drugs as Ritalin and gave me the whole prescription, like I’m not in a school of gymnasts.  I started flipping down the wrong path.  Nobody even noticed the importance of what was missing, until one day I showed up late for socialism, brought along with me the principle that there’s a knowledge in wisdom for the social misfits, understandings in suspension.

I’m learning from the same corner, the one you met my father on.  The only difference is that as I stand with my back to the world listening to the whispers while reading the writings on the wall, I was greeted by the hard knocks, where you’re either going to stand or fall.  The lesson above all, that those who choose to pave a way – rise, mastering the mind and strengthening those down on their knees, living as slaves to disease and weakness.

Mom, I’m still standing the test of time, but that’s the piece of you that you passed to me.  A heart that beats to its own beat.  Which is why my love for blood run’s soul deep, bridging the gap in my travail, building my family.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Once again – I have the privilege of sharing a new writer and their insightful work. There is so much to be learned through this piece by Robert Linton. The idea behind WITS is to share the entire story through writing, not just the aspects that have historically been a part of the conversation. Robert is determined to write and grow as a writer and person. He can be contacted at:

Robert M. Linton #0880370
Eastern CI
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

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Views From The Inside

Footprints

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It’s the winter of ’05. Christmas Eve.
With a pillowcase full of Kudos bars
and a half-eaten birthday cake, we run.
Time escapes with us. We follow the half-
frozen creek, the winds whipping through the trees
cracking our cheeks and burning our banished
faces. Dawn finds us first: her sun shining
like a search light. Hunger, regret, fatigue
and fear quickly follow. One slow stumble-
step at a time, we argue and cry through
the thigh-high snow. Refuge comes as a small
cobble-stone bridge curved over the crooked
creek. Finding a tiny alcove below,
we pack in side-by-side and back-to-back.
Too exhausted to eat, we fall asleep:
a bunched-up bundle of lost boys. Men are
laughing in my dreams. Dogs bark. We awake
to state troopers and staff on ATV’s.
Once back at our cottage, I ask a nurse
how they found us. She smiles and says that
they just followed the footprints in the snow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and I’ve enjoyed everything he has sent us over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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Views From The Inside

Thought Is My Existence

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As I entered the county jail, a C.O. in intake recognized me as a local tattoo artist. Mine was a high profile case, and I was segregated from inmates with lesser charges. Holding back emotions and the regret that came with the initial realization of what I had done, where I was and all those I had failed, I steeled myself in an effort to make resolve with my guilt and ultimately grow.

Within 24 hours, I was moved to the top floor of the jail where inmates with mainly violent crimes were housed. The pod was on lockdown for a fight. My name was called as I walked to my newly assigned living quarters. “Who dat?” I responded, recognizing the voice as a client of mine from tattoo parties I had done in his neighborhood.

My cell door opened, and I entered. Single-man cell. I cried. Looking at myself in the warped mirror, I decided then that I would come out better than I was in that moment. I was unstable mentally, angry at life, financially uneducated and a flawed character, failing to accept accountability for my reality. I laid down, visualizing the moment of my crime and sorry for the pain I know I caused my two sons, my mother and my family.

I began writing poetry, expressing my regrets and acknowledging the pain I caused so many. So many! I hurt people who also have children, mothers and other family members. There is no reason good enough, no justification for what I did. I turned myself in because I felt the guilt that I did not expect to feel. The guilt and desire to make amends with those I hurt settled in my core like an anchor. How do I grow from this?

I listened to my victims at my preliminary hearing, speaking on what I did and expressing the trauma I caused them. I am a naturally empathetic person, so their pain resonated with me. I hurt people. I realized then that I must be who I am and accept myself with that truth. I don’t enjoy, nor do I desire to hurt people.

At my sentencing, at which I took a plea deal, I apologized to my victims. I don’t know if they felt my sincerity, my disgust with myself, or even my desire to be the best version of myself going forward. I am certain that none of those things really resonated with them for the sight of me must have brought to mind how my actions brought us to that point.

I was fortunate, I think, to be sent to the prison I am currently serving my sentence at. It’s no different than any other prison in regard to the treatment by staff, violence, intoxicants and many other distractions on the path to rehabilitation, but there are many programs that have helped me in my evolution towards a better me.

This time is mine, and I know that I am fortunate for having a foundation of principles guiding me in self-improvement and growth for myself and my family, and a future as a contributing member of society. My thoughts and desires are aligned, and my reality is more tangible because of what I have done with my time within the parameters of my freedom.

Knowledge and acceptance of my own self was the first step, acknowledging my wrong, acknowledging how deeply I hurt my victims, children, family and friends, and knowing what I can do from within these walls to accept and change my reality.

This knowledge made me accept accountability and responsibility for my emotions and character development. I utilize the library to obtain a healthier understanding of all things pertaining to my growth. I have assumed healthier habits and practices in my daily life and deal with freedom in realistic degrees and expectations. I no longer accept powerlesseness over self and have developed the ability to see the value in all things and people, major and minor.

Today I am better than I have ever been because my intentions and actions are clear. I choose to add value to all I encounter in an effort to bring forth a greater good. I know the true test is out in society, and I look forward to the day I am afforded that degree of freedom. I continue and will continue to do those things I know have the beneficial quality of contributing to the greater good.

I now think outside this box and have created books, art, youth programs and other endeavors. And I write this to inspire others in the same situation to change your perception of where you are and what you can do – and what your time means to you.

T.hought I.s M.y E.xistence.

“The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago, the next best time is now.”

Chinese Proverb

ABOUT THE WRITER. Jerrod Buford is a first time WITS writer, and he did not share much about himself with this submission, but I think the piece itself says a lot about where he is today. I am glad he has chosen to use writing to share his experience. Jerrod can be contacted at:

Smart Communications/PA DOC
Jerrod Buford #ME 9775
SCI Forest
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Entries From My Journal #4

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Note: This is fourth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.

February 3, 2015 (Tuesday, 11:14 pm)

I’m praying, God. I heard it said that you know our hearts. Don’t do me like everybody else has done.

Entries From My Journal #1

Entries From My Journal #2

Entries From My Journal #3

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Juvenile Justice, Views From The Inside

Ripples In Life

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My Grandma Bea – short for Beaulah – taught us how to fish.  She’d kick back in an armed beach chair with a big floppy hat and appear to be asleep.  Every so often she’d give the line a tug.  When asked why she’d come all the way out to the lake to take a nap, she’d respond, “The wind causes ripples on the lake that distort how you see the fish, and how the fish see you.  Only by closing your eyes can you see and be seen clearly enough to catch their attention.  Everybody knows that!”

I’d been dreaming of the moment all my life – the day my Dad would show up to get me and my life, my world, would change.  Such dreams are made up of layer upon layer of desire, memory and imagination.  They make no pacts with reality.  Only plans have the power to connect the two.

My sister and I were playing a video game when Grandma Bea answered the knock at the door that afternoon with a shriek of joyful surprise, “Hey, boy!  Come on in here!”

“How are ya doing, Bea?  It’s been too long.”  

The man’s voice was unfamiliar.  The timber, the basso, the speech pattern were all new to my sister and me.  After he followed Bea into the living room, she announced in her boombastic fashion, “Boy, this is your daddy!”

Now let me pump my brakes here for a moment and cloud the water.  My sister and I had, for as long as I could remember, played the ‘I Wish Momma Was Alive’ game.  It’s a game played by all motherless children, but we only ever played it with each other.  It was our most sacred time, our most private pact, a connection all our own.

However, it was her father who had killed our mother and left us without.  Motherless.  So, when I’d express dreams of my dad coming back, it was to get us – not me.  The first thing of value I’d ever shared.  He took us both for ice cream and we all hung out on the beach.  It was cool!

Now, I’d never met my dad.  We’d traded pictures when I was about six or so, but that was it.  At twelve years old, I looked so much like him that family and friends who saw us together for the first time did a double take.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of me!  Looking back, it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one who had been dreaming.

What I didn’t know was that the emotion of such long awaited events can place blinders on the most experienced adults and blind children altogether.  Not just for a moment, but for years.   Ignorance has no shelf life, and while dreams are oft powerful, wonderful, magical things, I never thought they could be dangerous too.

My little sister, whom I‘d shared a bed with for half of my twelve years, must have seen and felt the way my dad looked at me and remembered the excuse we’d been told he’d used to leave me behind in Compton – it had been her.

My grandmother wasn’t going to allow her murdered daughter’s only childen to be raised apart at the time.  She also wasn’t going to deny a man who she had known his entire life the chance to raise his son. So, she told him that he had to take us both or he couldn’t have me. It was biblical and the excuse he needed to avoid an obligation he’d felt boxed into showing up for.  He ran from the house as if his hair was on fire!

The only reason he was here now, all these years later, was because he had fallen on hard times and had to move his three children and pregnant wife back into his mother’s three-bedroom with my aunt.  They were only 24 miles away.  But kids avoid the ‘whys’ of their rejection.  Such is the danger of dreams.  Distortions.  Ripples.

My sister must have seen how the love in his eyes excluded her from the dream, the promise I’d made in the dark, sealed with our tears and our motherless wants.  

The next week we went to visit my pregnant step-mom, my two younger brothers and my step-sister, who was about nine years old.  A ready made family.  While the adults were away on a shopping trip, I was left with all of my siblings.  My little sister locked my stepsister out of the house until she was in tears.  I scolded her for it.  I was embarrassed that she would do something like that on a visit.  

What made it worse was that, caught up in my own emotions, I never stopped to ask why she would do it.  She’d rarely ever been aggressive or mean.  But I missed it!  And it’s possibly one of the biggest mistakes in a life full of mistakes.  I was angry and I must have been cruel and unloving, rejecting the sister I’d shared a life with for the sister I’d just met – not my intent at all.

The situation had so angered my grandma Bea that she threatened to beat me over it, but all I heard was her angry attack.  So I sought to defend what I never intended in the first place, eyes wide open, I thought my vision clear at the time.

Adults do not have it in them to not think about what comes next – that is the breath catching province of children.  Adults have experienced too many consequences for that ‘next’ to be ‘the’ factor.  Their minds have been trained, much like a dog with a newspaper is taught to sit, roll over, or to play dead.

But at twelve years old, adults would yell, and I would just shut down and defend.  I didn’t know how to think my way through being wrong.  It’s vital because the best lies ever told happen in the vacuum of your mind, simply because there’s no one there to call ‘Bullshit!’  

I went to live with my father and didn’t see my sister again for more than 18 months, the longest we had ever been apart in our young lives.  We’ve never spoken of that day, that time, the things that I said and did, or the rift between us that has been growing for more than 37 years.  I  never told her how sorry I am, for all of it was my fault.  That sorrow eats away at my bones, one of the worst things I’ve ever done.

I haven’t spoken to my mother’s only other child in more than 22 years.  Still waters run deep.  Doing ninety years in prison, I get reports on the activities of her life from family even as my life stands still.  The irony of that balance is not lost on me.

I recently met her son as he came through the system, a man that I didn’t know who had only heard rumors of an uncle he never thought was real.  She still doesn’t accept my call.  Family has ever been like eating spaghetti with a spoon.  Doable, but only if you are very hungry.  Love and efforts simply are not enough at times, yet they are the only bait worthy of fishing with.

So, I’ll cast again, for life, until my arm gives out.  Then I’ll switch hands.  What I won’t do is act as if the reflections cast by the ripples on the surface of the water are real.  The pain of our casting, in reality, causes a splash and sinks much deeper than we know.  It’s the ripples of our dreams that distort our vision.  So, I’ve been resting my eyes when I fish and hoping that my little sister remembers to do the same.  Who knows, maybe then we can see each other again, or at least more clearly.  But fishin’ ain’t catchin’.

ABOUT THE WRITER.   DeLaine’s descriptive way of writing always paints pictures in my mind. He has a way of taking you back in time with him, to places you have never been. I’m hoping one day he will put together a book, and I will be first in line to purchase it. I simply love his writing.

Mr. Jones has served over three decades for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:

DeLaine Jones #7623482
Snake River Correctional Institution
777 Stanton Blvd 
Ontario, Oregon 97914-8335

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dance Muse

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Over the 22 years I’ve been on Death Row, the days have become progressively more difficult.  The physical toll it exacts is unabating; the mental toll, too strenuous to bare.  Incarceration is like starting off every morning at the bottom and laboriously scaling up the ladder to morale.  Nobody wakes up in prison feeling good about themselves, and feeling worthy comes with effort.  For many, being incarcerated will be our greatest challenge in life, shaping us in the best or worst way.  It’s adversity come to declare war on our peace of mind and the price of defeat is our mental wellness.  It should come as no surprise, the drawbacks of this system that devalues human rights, which is why it takes a special kind of resilience to get through the day.

Over the years, I have relied on several mechanics to stave off the despondence of daily restrictions.  I’ve put in long hours at the poker table.  I’ve watched enough TV to go blind.  I’ve swapped war stories, read tons of books, and even meditated to fill the void.  I’ve sang and written and turned to prayer when singing and writing didn’t work.  But the one thing that has been a constant relief for me is dance.  Yep, you read that right… dance.  Dancing has gotten me through the toughest moments, not just on Death Row but throughout my life.

I came up in a time when family and friends frequently expressed their love for one another through dance.  Drunks slow grinding.  Church folks stomping.  And those non-dancing head boppers who just couldn’t help themselves.  I started dancing myself when I was around four, merely twisting and shaking to the music while the grown-ups chuckled and pitched me coins, showering me with a feeling of acceptance.  By thirteen, I was plagued with insecurities and too ashamed to dance.  I envied the other teens during Friday night dance battles at the community center as they performed, seemingly without fear or reservations.  Envy gave way to passion, and I began practicing dance in private, choreographing routines with the help of my kid sister.  Then one day I danced before a crowd, and all my insecurities slipped away.  I knew right then I would never stop dancing again.

I didn’t set out in life to be a great dancer, just one who wasn’t ashamed.  It didn’t seem right to quit doing something I loved for the sake of others’ opinions.  Too often we buy into the narrative of dance with words like rhythm, grace, and beauty.  Yet we lose sight of the most important attribute of dance – its potential for healing.  I dance whenever the C/O’s piss me off.  I dance when I’m locked in the cell.  I dance to prevent shit talking inmates from provoking me to fight.  I dance around the dayroom, the rec yard and throughout the hallways – wherever I’m in the mood; and what’s validating is when the other inmates not only encourage me – but are themselves inspired to dance.

Dancing isn’t meant to be taken too seriously, unless you’re a serious dancer.  It’s okay to clown around if it helps us to feel better about ourselves.  I, myself, am a fan of crumping, a dance style that consists of hard-hitting, chest popping versatility, except I’m forty-eight with bad knees, self-taught, and mediocre at best.  But do I let that stop me from reaching my happy place… hell no.  I man up and go for mine.  And when the dance ends and the euphoria fades away, I find that prison is a little more bearable.

Dance doesn’t belong to the rhythmic and the graceful – it’s a force that’s driven by emotions, the therapeutic resolve of our inner conflict when words otherwise fail.  Dance has been not only a confidence builder for me, but also my source of inspiration allowing me the spontaneity to express myself in a place where emotional expression is generally discouraged.  It is a spiritual catalyst that transcends incarceration and brings me closer to peace of mind, therefore I dance to get through the days in prison because dancing sets me free. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Views From The Inside

Hate Inspired Education

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I have been called young, dumb and uneducated.  I use those words to prove insults ignite my efflorescence.  I view my mind as a seed, so I water it daily.  There are not enough resources for incarcerated citizens to further their education.  It’s also not probable in the eyes of those who keep us that ‘criminals’ want to propel positively.  Most of them deem rotting in a cell as our final destination.  They see us as one-dimensional; our minds not liberal.  We aren’t fit to have wit.

Arriving to prison in my juvenescence, I had no major objective.  I was a die-hard, savage, gang-banging, jokester.  They say prison is not a joking matter.  I had to learn the hard way.  Prison is very similar to a Love and Hip Hop episode to me.  The facility I’m in consists of sex, drugs, drama and fighting that never ceases.  The grounds for saying this is, if you aren’t trying to change, the prison won’t make you.  The day I saw this for myself, I made a decision to educate myself.  It was a mental release from my physical shackles.  

The shake-off alone was a huge eye-opener for me.  I spent my entire adolescence playing Russian roulette.  I am 24 and in prison, so what did I do?  I got cracking on my road to edifying by reaching out to any and every organization whose mission was to help the incarcerated.  I expanded my library, replacing the entertainment with all self-help and educational books.  I began reading, studying and teaching myself the subjects from high-school that I didn’t pay attention to.  I buckled down on my purpose in life using the aversion as a flame.  I had to choose to elevate my means of brainpower, because I could not give my haters any satisfaction.

It seemed as though I was possessed by a supernatural determination.  I was radically looking toward my future.  The mere thought of returning to this depressing digression put my determination on one hundred percent.  The slight use of hostile insults from TDOC staff pushed me to follow my dreams.  The more I allocate my energy towards proficiency – the less energy the staff inhibits.

Every night when I sit on my bunk, I smile a proud, prodigious grin.  I am proud of my prospering cerebration.  All of the arrogant insults gave me inspiration to prove that prisoners are clever, resourceful and intelligent.  If it was not for my current circumstances, I wouldn’t have pushed my ability to learn and understand the importance of my own brain.  I truly appreciate the garbage that was tossed my way – it shocked my blossom in an awesome way.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quineshia Townsel is only our second female writer, so I was excited before I even had a chance to read the submission. Of course, I was even happier once I read her piece. Education, books, reading, and access to things of those nature has, throughout history, been withheld, subtly or not so subtly, to keep people in a ‘box’. I am glad Quineshia sent this in, I’m glad she is inpired, and I hope she keeps writing and reaching. She can be contacted at:

Quineshia Townsel #597032
West Tennessee State Penitentiary
480 Green Chapel Road
P.O. Box 1150
Henning, TN 38041

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