it is stale breath in chow lines crammed behind vikings who haven’t showered in months
or…racial divides like lawmakers fistfights over what to watch street outlaws vs love & hip hop MAGA vs #BLM acronyms of the violence we kill to view acronyms of the society we thought we once knew
in this zoo hallways twist in a maze leading past a monkey’s cage fronted by plexiglas that displays thieves = chimps rapists = orangutans killers = gorillas broken men who fall here only to be broken again
in a pool of blood from a shank’s puncture wound seeping out like the hope left in courtrooms
yet…it can be an awakening of the spirit and soul to encounter dickinson, hughes, angelou, emerson, and bukowski then to mimic them in my own gravely voice rubbed hoarse by decades of silent activism in my cell with a pen as a shovel digging me out of this hell
while staring at her face across the visitation table i repeat her question but more as a question to myself
i muse…before asking… what is prison really like?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, across many genres. He is a student, an advocate, author of NC HB 697, editor of The Nash News, and we love to see him here. His accomplishments are extensive, and he has no intention of slowing down. I am grateful 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
People are surprisingly hard to kill despite how fragile we are as human beings, and the fact that I was unfortunate enough to do so at the age of thirteen was horribly stunning. There were no bullets or knives. No bombs, or weapons employed of any kind. However, his blood is on my hands. The shame and the fault are mine. I’ll take them to my grave.
Willie Lee Lacey was a man who’d worn many hats in his short sixty-six years of life, lived many lives. At six years old he became a cattle rancher when his father told him to bring him a calf. It took little Willie all day, but with his brothers watching, he got it done – without a rope. He was a soldier in the U.S. Army in WWII, and fought overseas. “Not much different from living in the south as a black man,” he used to say. “Once you’ve seen your brother burned and hung as people from miles around party under his body, it’s all the same.” “Don’t ever volunteer!”
He was the father of six children who loved him, all by one woman who he abused. Not all of the hats he wore were pretty. He came home one day to find everyone and everything gone. A house, where once a home had stood. They never came back despite his efforts.
A part time Mr. Fix It and pimp, he once, as word had it, pulled a wooden plank from a six foot fence to beat a whore called ‘Classy May’. Brutal, tough and loved, Willie was also my grandpa.
He carried a huge folding buck knife, smoked a collection of pipes and rarely ever spoke. It was as if God had given him a sack full of words, and he was just about out of them.
His woman’s name was Beaulah Charle Moore, a five foot dynamo with all the sass and pop that the fates could fit into such a small space. She cooked everything from scratch. That was the Belzona, Mississippi, in her blood. She drove as if her name was Jeff Gorden just three points out of the lead, and had a name for all nine of her wigs! That woman could peel the bark from a man at twenty yards, just talking.
To see the rendering of people’s lives, their experiences, passions, defeats, their regrets, calls for a vision that I didn’t own as a thirteen year old. I also didn’t know that when people love you, they give you a part of their souls. I didn’t know what I had, to respect it, that I was standing on sacred ground. I was a simple kid who wanted to be somewhere and someone other than where and who I was, only to find that when I got there and put on those clothes, that it was cheaper to just be me. But who the hell was that – I? Foolish.
My grandparents lived 1½ blocks away from the beach in paradise – Pismo Beach, California – one of three black families within a thirty mile radius. It was as far away from Watts, California, or Compton, California, in every way and as on many levels, as it could be, only find a military base and you’ll find a black community. Close that base and we move on, like the Romany gypsies. But grandpa had anchored himself with a job in the city’s parks and recreation department. At sixty and with little education, it was far from ideal. However, after twenty-five years of service, he was forced to retire at the age of sixty-three, a legend in the area.
However deep the scars of life ran in the man, he seemed to have found a measure of peace, a way of shifting into a position that didn’t stress him to the point of snapping, with all but one of those searing brands – that being the murder of my mother, his daughter. I imagine that he saw my sister and I coming to live with him as a second bite into the apple of her life. A chance to rectify a measure of his pain, and close the wound by sacrificing for her children. A connection denied to the two of them in her lifetime. But hope blinds us to the fact that patches are but scars, and that new, only means that it’s new to us.
A murder in a family freezes people in a photograph of their pain. To toss away the photo and move on is to forget – to say that my love for you is too heavy. I must lay it down here so that I can survive. For some it’s doable, for other families… not so much.
I was just hitting my teens at the time, however, I had a full mustache like Carl Weathers, and I passed for much older if I didn’t smile. Once, while with my step-mom, the clerk asked me if it would be cash or credit?! I could buy beer, get into adult clubs – and adult trouble. About that time I also found I could charm (lie) the panties off an adult woman. Game over! You couldn’t tell me anything!
I’d stay gone for weeks. I hustled my way to an Interceptor 1100 motorcycle and could be found anywhere from the bay area to LA at thirteen years old. Fearless? No, too dumb to be afraid!
My G-pops would be out looking for me with tears in his heart, anger and confusion clouding his vision, embarrassed by my actions, yet trying.
I’d eventually slink home, and he’d put it on me something tough, trying to make me fear him more than I loved running the streets. My batteries spent, drained, out of love and respect, I’d take it. I had no other options, not in my mind at the time.
Okay – brass tacks, as they say. Women and girls have sway in the hearts and minds of men and boys. Facts! It’s how grown men find themselves dressed as princesses in wigs and full make-up, voguing like they are a star on AMC’s ‘Pose’. It’s how women find themselves giving their all to a man with zero ROI (return on investment). I was no longer at the wheel, but rather being driven physically, mentally, emotionally and even spiritually. Gone!
I came home that last time to find my grandpa had suffered a heart attack and a mild stroke. Bea also told me that all of his children were in town, and had been riding around looking for me, that my bags were packed and in the trunk of their car, and that currently they were all at the hospital, simply waiting on my return to hit the highway. My family was putting their foot down. Hard!
I showed up in the hospital room and Willie was sitting up smiling and laughing with all of his children, save mom. I hadn’t seen my aunts and uncles in years. They’d come together for the first time since my mother’s death to defend their father. But when they looked up and saw me, every face fell, my grandpa’s crumbling into tears as he pointed at me, stammering through his grief, “I tried to -”
“Just go!” they all yelled repeatedly at me. “You’re killing him DeLaine! You’re killing him!”
It was as if my mother had died all over again for him in that moment. If she had ever touched your life, you would know you could find her in my eyes. I’d ruined far more than a moment for them. Oddly, I never saw myself as a cause of so much pain, and I had never felt more alone, guilty, or so much shame in my young life.
Willie Lee Lacey would pass away eighty-three days later, asleep on the couch, at the age of sixty-six. We would never speak again. Every time someone spoke my name he’d cry. I was never able to apologize, or heal his heart.
It’s crazy the things you learn about yourself after the use for the information has seemingly passed. We all want and need to be loved, but to do so is to be trusted by another’s heart. It’s not the love you give that breaks your heart, it’s what you do with the love that you take – are given. It’s in that space that you make or break those you love, even unto yourself.
Now, I seek to invest in people through conversations that will last a lifetime, and I dedicate my pen to all of my mother’s people. I do this hoping I can give something I never recognized in my life, so that they will know it when they see it – hope. Give yourself a chance to win by not giving up now.
Always me… DeLaine Jones
ABOUT THE WRITER. What can I say? I LOVE DeLaine’s writing. There has not been one thing he has sent me that I have not used. He tells his stories in such a charming and honest fashion, I open his envelopes with confident expectation.
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
I felt alone today, by myself in a great big world, my mind and heart yearning for a familiar closeness that just wasn’t there.
I guess for the first time I faced the gravity of my reality. I am, in fact, alone, by myself, detached from the world at large – a barren island of sorts, surrounded by a sea of destitution and braving a storm of bereavement… all alone.
As do most, I too took for granted having a place of refuge amid adversity, finding truth in that bitter sentiment – ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until its gone’.
At one point in time, no matter where or what I faced, there was a place I could find solace and security, a harmonic vibration, a channel I could tune in that reassured comfort, confidence and completeness. It was a source of strength that superseded all anxiety, fortified fortitude and boosted morale.
My quiet place silenced the chaotic chatter, providing a sense of still, and the much needed presence of peace. A stronghold, shielding against every advancement of the adversary, the cornerstone of an unwavering foundation.
Loving arms, listening ears, and a well of wisdom that shone like a beacon of light; giving guidance along my journey. If I veered off course or found myself lost and astray, that same light beckoned, correcting any misdirection. It was a luminous love that calmed every raging water, gently guiding me home.
No matter the distance, if I called, she’d come. Despite the odds, she stood tall, head high and proud… that I was her son. My mothership has sailed, leaving me behind… alone… by myself… another prisoner of time.
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first piece I have posted by Carter Cooper. WITS writers are all special and unique, and when I get a submission from someone new who has that ‘something’ it reminds me, once again, why we are here. I saved this for Mother’s Day. I look forward to seeing more from Mr. Cooper. If you would like to contact him, please reach out to me directly.
There’s a song I remember from years ago – “Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone”. No truer words…
Before I got sick, I lost two of my best friends. One, I’ll call him ‘The Mouseketeer’, to gall bladder disease and the other to my own selfish, egocentric stupidity. That one comes into view every once in a while, keeping their perfect distance but close enough to throw me a lifeline if I need one.
So, when I got sick in March of 2020, I had all but given up. I was drowning in a sea of self-pity. I had let my health deteriorate to a point that the smallest medical problem became one that could end my 60 year run. I had almost 50 pounds of water weight, and fluid had accumulated in my body to the point that the slightest scratch or infection could kill me. I’d had bouts of cellulites for the previous 12 years.
I lost my great toe on my right foot due to staph infection, and I caught Covid 19 coming back from the hospital. It felt like I had a really bad case of the flu – runny nose, fever, night sweats, cough, upset stomach. I survived it though.
Four months later, I contracted it again. This time it was different. It stopped me, I couldn’t breathe. TDCJ had to life flight me to a hospital half a state away.
As I lay in my hospital bed, I encountered a nurse who explained to me that they were going to have to ‘tube me’ so I could breathe – my oxygen level was around 60-70%. I was drowning above water. She told me not to worry, that she would be there when I woke up.
Ten days later, when I regained consciousness she was there by my bedside, holding my hand. I was strapped to a hospital bed with IV tubes and monitors sticking in me and on me, but I noticed her eyes were full of tears.
“We didn’t think you were going to make it. I promised you I’d be here when you came to, so here I am.”
She even hugged me. She brought me ice water and juice for the next five days. I’ve run into these angels in white over the years. They are few and far between in here, but they exist.
While I was ‘out’, I dreamed of my dad, my friends and my family – bittersweet memories brought to life by my subconscious mind. This two-year, hard journey has brought me to this page. Hope.
Despair isn’t the opposite of hope, it’s the conviction that hope doesn’t exist, and that it will never return in the future. That’s where I was before.
I’ve since lost 52 pounds of fluid. My blood sugar is now between 90-120, never above 200. I’m in a wheelchair still because I can’t maintain my balance enough to walk – yet. But I will. And if a higher power wills it, I’ll get another opportunity to show the world that I’m a force of good and not bad.
ABOUT THE WRITER. John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and 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.”
John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 Jester III Unit 14-18 3 Jester Road Richmond, Texas 77406
A lot has changed since I first arrived on Texas’ nefarious death row. I’ve met a lot of guys over the years, and many seem like decent men. They even gave me a nickname – Louisiana. The name was more about keeping the peace than seeking a new identity. Texas folks, inmates and officers, have a difficult time pronouncing my last name, which was irritating me ‘cause I assumed they were doing it out of ignorance and not because they couldn’t pronounce a name they had never heard before.
Some tried to say it like ’ma’am’ followed by ‘ooouuu’ or other variations. Then there was one redneck officer who called me ‘Moe-Moe’. I ignored him and wouldn’t answer. The convict population within Texas’ death row saw this would become a future altercation, so they simply agreed to call me Louisiana since that’s the state I was from. I settled with it.
I wasn’t the only guy with a nickname. Everyone seemed to have one. There was a Spanish guy named Casper (the ghost). There was a guy named Soultrain. There was a Youngblood and other names like, Freaky Frank, Oso Bear, Juke-box, Icy Red, Cash, B-Down, South Park, Third Ward, Sunshine (which he quickly changed to Youngsta), and on and on the list went. There was even a Ms. Good Pussy. And then there was Mookie.
I was still fighting off depression at the time, though I had become a little more optimistic. My mother had written me a powerful, religion-laced letter, and though I didn’t follow her instructions for praying to Mother Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Paul or any of the other Catholic saintly crew, I did however reread the line she wrote saying, “Talked to the lawyers today, and they told me in five years the system will correct the mistake they made and bring you back home…”
Five years? Granted, I didn’t want to hear that, at the time it seemed like a life sentence, but it did give me something to focus on. I mean, that was still 1,725 days away, but at least I had a benchmark to look to. That’s what I needed to keep hope alive.
I was allowed to go to group recreation which was a huge stress reliever. Just to be able to play basketball with other guys, bodies banging against other bodies, having locker room talk about ex-lovers. We were able to watch TV, Family Matters or ESPN, or play chess or dominoes at the tables back then. Camaraderie. I miss it.
The first day I was allowed to join the others in group recreation, I was the last one to be escorted out. I immediately went through the process of matching guys with voices I had heard from my cell. Okay, that’s Casper. That’s J-Dubb. On and on it went. Guys came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one guy that stood out. He was standing alone, arms folded, wrapped around himself. He was dark and handsome and stood a little over six foot tall. ‘That’s gotta be Mookie’, I thought. Everything I had assumed about him was wrong. I introduced myself, and our first meeting was very brief.
Days later I read about him in the newspaper. He had an upcoming execution date. Impregnated with the declaration my mother once made about my future, “Chucky will be a preacher one day,” I felt as if I was a shepherd and needed to tell my flock to follow me. I wrote Mookie a brief note, telling him to renounce his sin so he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven. You never know what kind of response you will get when you try to force your ideologies upon another, but I felt I had a duty to save this man’s soul.
He accepted my note, read it and told me he would get back with me later. Since his execution date was days away, he was allowed to spend commissary money on anything he wanted. He chose to buy everyone a pint of ice cream, which we all enjoyed and appreciated. Then he wrote me back, four pages, on yellow stationary. His handwriting was neat and artistic. He told me a parable.
The story was about a father and son. The son was asked to carry a pot full of water to a nearby town. What the boy didn’t know was that there was a hole in the pot, and by the time he arrived at his destination, all the water was lost. The boy was distraught, thinking he had let his father down, but his father told him not to blame himself. The two rewalked the path, and to the son’s amazement his father pointed out the beautiful flowers that grew along the side of the road where the water had been ‘wasted’.
Mookie went on to explain the story’s meaning. He taught me that I was in no position to judge any other, for I was not God. He taught me that every creation has its flaws, we all make mistakes. Some get public attention. Some don’t. Some people get caught. Some don’t. None of us are any better than the next. Mookie humbled me. He was executed/murdered days later.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time writer for WITS. He has also been the subject of WITS’ in depth look at how cases are sometimes mishandled.
Over the years, we have shared here how evidence was clearly kept from the defense in a death penalty case, information was manipulated and truth put on the back burner. For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware that physical evidence was collected from the victim and not only knew, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently located by an advocate. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. If you or I were to have knowledge of physical evidence and have it tested, not sharing that information with the opposing party, that would be an issue for the Courts. Why is this not an issue? 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
emerging from an ink-filled womb – that’s how it feels: the visitation
room is a quarter mile from death row down steep half-dark corridors
except the last chamber-locked hallway whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels
ablaze with light from outside. as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic
sallyport door shrieks and the guards and i flinch
and stumble down the hall. blinking rapidly i wonder,
as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes will be able to hold yours.
II. churning
my heart feels like my eyes, hot and bloodshot with nerves and excitement. it’s been a long time
since I’ve been anything more than a foggy thought or disembodied voice
on the phone to those i love. i marvel at my callused hands, how blurry they are speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the booth.
Kat, there’s so much i want to show you! (like the symbol i designed by combining the marks beside our signatures: your paw print, my peace sign)
but first i need you to see me perform a magic trick to reconcile the illusive conflict
between Fate and Free Will: how it’s possible that privilege and poverty marked us early enough to make our past lives
and the paths we chose from there seem almost completely other to each other – yet both our souls
and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible power of agapé and poetry seeming to churn and turn
the very earth and stars beneath our feet, to bring us here, as kindreds.
III. luminosity
and there you are, pushing the door shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation. we greet each other from feet away. you take your seat and frown
at the plexiglas between us, the bars, squinting and muttering something like, “It’s a little hard to see your face – the light coming in behind me
is making me see my own reflection.” having been down here before, this hindrance isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration, to witness your shifting and determination, the poet
in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment of empathy, the effort it takes to see past ourselves to an other. the moment your gaze clicks into mine
i feel my blood thrum and body harden into a real human being. “There you are!” you say, sounding so delighted to see me, i struggle not to cry.
IV. luminaries
i think, fuck my trick for a minute as we start sharing skin and ink. i unbutton this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist. i remove my shirt to show you LOVE NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters across my chest. you lift up your shirt sleeve to show me the plump sugar skull on your upper arm. we compare sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots on our bodies: forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close to the glass our breath smokes against it. by the time i remember the cards there’s no real need for tricks or explanations, and it feels irreverent to use magic to describe the miraculous – that we met; that you drove for hours to spend minutes with me in a suffocating prison visitation booth; that throaty laugh – how when we speak it feels like freedom in my mouth, how with you i feel i’m home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Comfortable and hated all the same, this cocoon, constructed of past transgressions, with hopes of more to come. Meant to be a house of transformation, like tossing a coin in a well with the expectation your wish will come to fruition by a coin sitting at the bottom of a well waiting to be collected by a drunk for beer money paid for by hopes of change, dreams of a brighter future, the wish for the transformation of an offering into something greater. Change comes natural with time, everything changes, every day a day closer to death, a day closer to change. Has my concrete cocoon changed me? Or is it just the aging process that has given me my beautiful wings, colored with life’s highs and lows? Am I now a butterfly, transformed by my concrete cocoon or time? Will my wings carry me to something greater? Or do concrete cocoons produce cement butterflies, grounded for life, a beautiful exterior, a hardened interior. Cement wings don’t beat, and concrete butterflies don’t fly, but fortunate fields do call.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Robert Neibler is a poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I am happy to share his work here. It is exciting to watch someone grow and push themselves as a writer, and Robert hopes to one day compile a book of poetry. Mr. Neibler can be contacted at:
Robert Neibler #399870 Baraga Correctional Facility 13924 Wadaga Road Baraga, MI 49908
Writing this letter is harder than I thought, but for you – it is worth trying. I’ve never known anyone to write a dog before. Maybe that’s because no dog has ever meant so much to someone. It’s crazy to think where we both ended up – you buried somewhere in an unmarked grave and me worse off than dead. That’s what Death Row is, Bear – a place between life and death. It’s where people are deliberately kept alive long enough to anguish over the fear of being executed, tormented until all peace of mind is used up. Only then are we ripe for slaughter. How I got here on Death Row is too long a story and too depressing for the details – but, do you remember the guy next door whom I was cool with? …turns out he wasn’t so cool. I may never know why, but he accused me of taking another man’s life during a robbery. Can you believe that? That’s why I couldn’t get home.
Anyway, getting back to the purpose of this letter. Bear, I had a dream about you just now. Hold on! Before you start bouncing around with those lofty cartwheels of yours, you should know it wasn’t a good dream. In fact, it was probably the saddest thing I’ve ever dreamt, even though part of me wishes I could’ve stayed under. I woke feeling unfulfilled, like when waiting your whole life for something to happen, then realizing five seconds too late that it’s gone. But I believe the dream was necessary, it put things in perspective. I now realize that in life, I left a lot of people behind.
So, the dream – it started out with me finally being released from Death Row. I was given some clothes and a severance package, but when I got outside, no one was at the gate. No family. No friends. No news cameras covering the story. It was as though any relevance I had owned had succumbed to my absence, and the world had moved on without me. I headed home, but when I got there, it wasn’t the same house I remembered. The place was trashy and run-down with neglect, nothing left of the garden but wilted stems. The barn where we held so many of our family outings was now a crumbling derelict, trying to weather the times. All the holiday memories we made in that barn, and now it was no more than a safety hazard. Then I noticed a strange-looking structure. It looked like an igloo made of wood. And who do I see hobbling out from this dog house… yep. Bear – it was you.
You looked so mangy, worn-out and pitiful. Your eyes drooped with the age of years past. You looked like a dog that had been to hell and back with one foot still on the other side. The chain around your neck whined and creaked with the rust of twenty years. Your semblance, I hardly recognized. Then you looked at me and wagged your tail, and something in it spoke of you. I wouldn’t have guessed that any feeling could amount to walking off Death Row after twenty years, but seeing you was an unspeakable joy. And to think you’d waited for me all that time. The gratefulness brought me to my knees. You then bound into my arms with your incessant tongue laps and tail thrashing. No homecoming reception was ever more welcoming.
I was struck with the fact that you had been tethered on a chain for more than two decades. Blame set in on me like a scolding tongue for my leaving you to suffer so. Then I remembered… we never kept you on a chain. My eyes stung with the indecency. It seemed you were also unjustly serving time. I stormed off towards the house, ready to spit fire at the new tenants and demand the key to let my dog loose, but when I burst through the door, spraying glass shards and splinters, I unintentionally shattered the dream.
There is no ache like waking up to the longing of a friend who has never let me down. I kept trying to get back to sleep to rescue you and discovered that the most meaningful things in life are the most elusive. So, you see – it wasn’t a good dream at all, except for the joy of seeing you again. It made me realize what my sudden absence must’ve been like for you, how you must’ve felt abandoned by me.
Did you know the first time I saw you waiting inside the fence, I was reluctant and afraid. I was just dropped off by a parole officer, fresh out of prison that day. I wasn’t aware we even had a dog. I guess my fears stemmed from learning of the era when White supremacists set upon Black people with their dogs. I mistook your panting, pouncing, and acting so unafraid of me as a clear sign of your aggression. But then you settled down and let me pet you, and I realized that all you wanted to do was play. My first impression of you was so unfair. Maybe that is the real source of my guilt.
Needless to say, I was wrong about you, Bear. You just didn’t have it in you to hurt anyone. Well – there was that time when you snagged ahold the pants of that sheriff, but hell, you were only trying to get him off top of me. I remember thinking, ‘this crazy dog gonna get hisself killed’. Nobody had ever risked their life for me like that. I was so freaking proud of you.
I guess I should talk a little more about whatever since this will probably be the last time. It’s not really considered normal behavior for people to write to their deceased pets. I don’t mind coming off as weird; that’s just another word for unique, and sometimes it’s the most abnormal approach that is the only path to closure.
Often enough, there are times when I felt that you were the only one I could talk to, when I could do without anyone’s judgment or advice – I just needed somebody to listen. So many late nights I came home with my pockets heavy from all the dirt I’d done and my conscience weighing on my shoulders. I thought I had to wrong people to survive in the streets, when really I was just trying to be seen. My coming home to you was the only time when I felt normal. With you I could be my ugly self. I would unload all the day’s baggage at the doorstep while you lay curled at my feet, listening as my silent resolve. Bear – I can’t tell you how much having your ear meant to me. Hell, I’ve told you shit I ain’t told no one else. And on those rare nights when I didn’t drop by to unlatch your kennel and chat… well, on those nights my shame was a bit too heavy.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you, Bear, in both the dream and reality. I just didn’t know that my doing so much dirt would get other people’s dirt on me. I know you waited for me, and that must’ve sucked – wondering why all the late night walks around the neighborhood ended without reason, why all our fun just stopped. I want you to know that it wasn’t because I abandoned you, Bear – not intentionally. No. I didn’t come back because I, myself, am tethered by a red jumpsuit and Death Row has a really short reach. I keep on seeing that chain around your neck. I hope that wherever you are – somebody there will take it off. If not, I don’t know how the spirit world works, but I promise to take care of it when I get there.
So long, old friend, and thanks for all the times when your company gave me solace. There is no loyalty like a dog’s love. And, yep… I learned that from you.
Always, your trusted friend and spirit brother,
Chanton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘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. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
I was about fifteen years old when we moved into a yellow, three-story country home in an upper-middle-class community in Georgia. It was a new house in the type of neighborhood where good southern people waved as they drove or walked past. Lots of teenagers lived in the neighborhood, and there were times when it didn’t matter that I was the only black kid around… and then there were times when it did.
My mom had been married for a few years by then. The success of her and my stepfather’s careers as computer engineers was beginning to show. They drove nice cars and wore business suits to work. They spoke the speech of the successful, not the patois of the impoverished black communities that spawned them, and our new home was the first sign that my parents were living the Black-American dream.
I was living the Black-American dream, too, for the most part. I loved that house. It had a wraparound porch with an old-style swing, a basement, and a two-car garage. The front and back yards seemed endless. Across the street lay a pond where people sat in lawn chairs, with fishing lines slung into the water when the sky was blue and the clouds were few. Some nights I swung on the porch watching the sun set over the shimmering pond, a whisper of wind chimes clanking on the peaceful breeze from a far off house serenading me.
It was the early nineties, the golden age of the Super Nintendo, Trapper Keeper, and America Online. It was an era of societal reconstruction, and most of the country thought of racism and prejudice as ancient relics, only worthy of a few paragraphs of study during Black History Month, not a current in-your-face injustice. Most white people considered African-Americans equal because we had gained the right to live where we wanted, as long as we could afford it. Some would say it was true, and my parents were living proof.
Their success didn’t make my social life easy, although I didn’t have the problems a lot of black children had. Our refrigerator was always stocked full, our lights were never cut off, and my parents’ cars were never repossessed. Drug addicts in my area were privileged, white teenagers who smoked joints or rifled through their medicine cabinets for pain killers, not the stereotypical black crack heads depicted in the media as lazy midnight burglars hoisting themselves into unlocked windows in the dark of night.
Growing up around kids that didn’t look like me, added to my fragile, teenage insecurities, as did the way some of those kids felt about me. All of them weren’t heinous bullies. A few kids in my neighborhood made me feel welcomed and accepted… most of the time, but not always.
Our school bus picked up many kids from other housing complexes, and those other kids became my problem. By the middle of the first semester I had been called nigger so often that the bus driver didn’t know my real name. When he wanted to speak to me, he would say, “Hey, you.” My tormentors sat in the back and shouted up at me in the front. “I bet you want some fried chicken and watermelon, huh? You black-ass, pucker-lipped mule. Come on back here, and we got some grape soda to wash down your chitterlings. Nigger! I know you hear me, Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! NIG-GER!” Sniggering hissed all around me, even from some kids I considered my friends.
I sat straight with my eyes forward, determined to look dignified, as if what they said didn’t bother me and I was above it, but my bullies were bloodhounds, tracking timidity like fresh game. They never interpreted silence for strength. They rode me, and the bus, to and from school for months, until finally, I could take no more. One day I stood up, ready to confront a boy who regularly addressed me as Tarbaby. Four of his friends stood up to challenge me along with him. I plopped back down and rode home, holding back tears puddled in my eyes as they whooped and laughed at my cowardice.
It didn’t matter if I cried, or fought them, or shouted at the top of my lungs – none of it would have done any good. If those boys dished out brutal beatings, battering my body instead of splashing acidic insults burning me to my core, I wouldn’t have stopped them. I felt too weak.
Unfortunately, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about the bullying. I didn’t think my parents could stop it, and I knew they wouldn’t try. They were too concerned with their careers and rocky relationship to worry about me being picked on by a few rednecks.
I heard my parents’ arguments, muffled accusations and skirmishes escaping the crack beneath their bedroom door most every night. I sensed their pain like a wild animal senses a hurricane, and like a wild animal, I headed for the hills, fleeing as far away from their storm clouds as possible. I rarely spoke to my mother, and she sought me out only when she received a copy of my failing report card in the mail or if I did something wrong. Because I didn’t think telling them would do any good, I kept my pain concealed behind the outgoing façade of an obedient teenager who was quiet and always did his chores.
In a way, it didn’t matter. Once the school year ended, I didn’t have to worry about those kids anymore. I was free from their torture for a few months, the wounds they had inflicted becoming faint scars, the sting of which I no longer had to endure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, and the above is an excerpt from his autobiography. I hope to be able to share more of it here. Phillip Smith is a student, an advocate, author of NC HB 697, and also editor of The Nash News. His accomplishments are extensive, and he has no intention of slowing down. I am grateful 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
I’ve been shipped to a deeper cranny of hell, and I have very little of my former property. I have no idea why I was shipped, but it is common. Texas has over a hundred prisons, and they ship us back and forth like ballast.
Like everything in life, there are pros and cons to my new digs. It’s a newer style unit, built less than thirty years ago, and that is a pro in that the cages are much larger – and much to my shock, the sinks have hot water, relatively speaking. For the first time in a quarter of a century, I got to wash my hands with warm water. There are, no doubt, other pros just waiting for my discovery, but I’ve been in the hole for a month and that remains my only experience of this place. The first major ‘con’ I came across was staff apathy. Maybe it’s the low pay, the low morale, the lack of structure, or the fact that Texas prisons have been critically short of staff for twenty years. Or maybe it’s simply the subculture.
I was put in the hole upon arrival. Not for punishment, but because I’m waiting for a cage to open up in population. Off the chain-bus, I was thrown in this place. It was so dark, I could only find the toilet and ‘bed’ by feel. The floor was a water puddle – or maybe piss. Probably a mixture because it was so deep. The odor was awful. There were no shelves, or lockers, so the small bag of property I came with stayed on the bunk, which literally became my island. I wasn’t happy but I’ve been through worse. At first I even welcomed the darkness. Privacy is at a premium in prison. But after a couple days, the darkness got me.
As a rule, I avoid hope of any kind. I believe hope is a poison. I have sub-conscious hope, obviously, or I wouldn’t still be alive, but consciously? I don’t do hope. But, whatever hope I don’t do was being leached by the darkness. I had read that cloudy days do have a psychological effect on people. Stimulates the blues, so to speak. That felt true, but again, there’s a difference between knowing something and experiencing it. After a few days, I felt the despair creeping closer. Positive thoughts became impossible. Again, I realized how little value I have, how the world has abandoned me and blah, blah. I had a feeling I was going to die and the feeling kept growing until it seemed certain. Then I welcomed it. I’ve had a horrible life by any standard, why prolong it?
So, why did the state inflict this darkness on me? Well, it wasn’t intentional. It was guard apathy. I couldn’t persuade a guard to bring me a light bulb. Then, on my fifth day, an officer, still new and on-the-job training who perhaps didn’t realize yet that prisoners aren’t human beings, brought me a light bulb. The effect of light on my psyche was instantaneous. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. Suddenly everything seemed… you guessed it – brighter. And it gave me a new piece of wisdom or knowledge – the effect of light not just on consciousness, but perhaps even on a cellular level. People need light to survive. I find that very interesting.
ABOUT THE WRITER. John Adams is one of my favorite writers. I have quite a few ‘favorites’, but in addition to John’s amazing writing, we often don’t see eye to eye when it comes to matters of writing for WITS. That’s not a bad thing, because if I can post his amazing work every now and then in spite of that, it’s a win. John is the first place winner of our final writing contest of 2021. John Adams has served twenty-five years of a life sentence and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
John Adams #768543 3060 FM 3514 Beaumont, TX 77703
