In 2012, at the recommendation of a chief psychologist tasked with addressing the declining mental health and cognitive deficiency on Death Row, prison administrators implemented a pilot program. The first of its kind, the project proved to be a success, stanching the oozing misery of decades of meaningless activities while igniting an air of motivation throughout Death Row that would not be extinguished by tabletop turnabouts and legal letdowns. Finally, there was a glimmer of behavior both rehabilitative and restorative from men eager to not only divest but defy the stereotypical personas indicative of our status. Further programs were in order, and over the next few years several classes were offered that would challenge our decision making while enhancing our social skills by affording us merit in the Death Row community.
One such class was Drama, a weekly therapy group in which we convened over play scripts and films while educing our various perspectives. Though some viewed the course unfavorably in the prison setting, others were undeterred as we embraced the colloquial demands of Drama, where we first met Ms. Dee, a psychologist in the prison’s mental health department. Ms. Dee was passionate about helping others and answered the call for volunteers. She was well-spoken and witty, often engaging us in prison jargon and disarming our leeriness by showing off her ability to adapt. It was through her willingness to surround herself with convicted murderers without reservation, many of us were reminded what it felt like to be trustworthy again.
Ms. Dee had come from an artistic background, and in college she minored in Drama, therefore she signed on to teach two programs. The Art class was thought to be an hour long period of doodling or guys making off with supplies to barter for other desirables. However, Ms. Dee wasn’t having it – she expected more. She assigned us projects, lent her assistance and held us to such high standards that we found ourselves working diligently for her affirmation. Soon we were delving into visual graphics, dimensions and the terminology of Art. Ms. Dee even invited her mother, a working class artist, to join us and impart her wisdom on the subject. What an honorable gesture and show of trust and respect. It made her more to us than just some quirky prison staffer whose goodness was infectious, Ms. Dee was like family.
The Drama program, however, didn’t start out as promising because of the stigma of weakness in the penal system. Many were unwilling to compromise their image, so instead they shunned the idea. But then there were those who leapt at the opportunity to add another layer of refinement and reform, and although it wasn’t the most popular choice, still we were committed to Ms. Dee.
We covered plays like Antigone, the Crucible and Shakespeare’s Hamlet with elaborate group discussions to follow, sometimes peeling the words off the very pages and attaching them to our own personal experiences. Then we watched televised renditions of each play and absorbed the onscreen nuances, while all along Ms. Dee had a vision of her own to host a Death Row play.
At the mention of performing a play, I thought not only was this woman bold and overly optimistic but also a bit nutty. Who in their right mind would put their reputation on the line for a bunch of condemned souls? Who had that amount of confidence and trust in men so untrustworthy? Apparently, Ms. Dee did, and as it turned out, her confidence would not waiver.
We did what’s called a dry read. Then she assigned roles. Afterwards, we began rehearsals. We transitioned from on-script reading to off-script memorization until our roles became as much a part of our identity as the red jumpsuits we wore. Ms. Dee also gave us pointers to hone our acting chops. “Do not break the plane of the invisible wall,” she’d say, or, “Always… always face the audience.”
Most days she could be seen seated atop a steel dayroom table in casual clothes and slides with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a steady glare behind her fitted fames as she yelled, “Enunciate! Enunciate!!!” which was quite frustrating since most of us didn’t know what the word meant. Yet Ms. Dee was relentless, tapping into our potential and pushing us to the brink as she often stayed late after work and scheduled rehearsals on her days off.
On the day of the performance, we actors were still experiencing miscues. I begged Ms. Dee to postpone the production.
“But whyyy?” she chimed, her accent flush with reassurance as she added, “You guys are so ready. You just don’t know how good you all are. Trust me. You’ll do great.”
And as the crowds rolled in and the seats filled, still she was unfazed, believing so much in our capabilities that soon we believed in ourselves.
For forty-five minutes we performed Reginald Rose’s Twelve Angry Men, a play about the woeful indifference and tangled injustice of jury deliberation. Audience members sat transfixed as they soaked in our exchange. Fellow inmates nodded with admiration. And when the play was over and the last actor exited the stage, the room erupted in applause. What a tremendous feeling of validation to have others acknowledge our worth. What a sense of accomplishment to face our fears and prevail. But the ultimate reward was seeing Ms. Dee teary-eyed with pride. She never stopped believing in us.
Unfortunately, Ms. Dee experienced some challenges in the work-place and was later relieved of her position. Shortly after, all Death Row programs, including Drama, were discontinued. It seems that in the great scheme of things, Death Row inmates are undeserving of redemption and any who should dare to restore in us dignity and value shall meet removal. Ms. Dee was impacted by a disease that seeks to morally corrupt, a tainted prison structure that rejects good will and blatantly lends itself to recidivism. She was inadequately cared for by those who failed to nourish her efforts, casting votes instead for candidates who offer nothing to effect policies on prison reform.
Ms. Dee once said, ‘Everybody needs somebody to believe in them’. In believing in us, Ms. Dee did what most never have, making true reform a reality for a short time, and for that, we will forever believe in Ms. Dee.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
