In the free-world separating true worshippers from fake can be difficult. No doubt, some are true to what they believe, and for them, their faith defines their identity. In prison sorting the true worshippers from the fake is nearly impossible, many ‘in it’ only for what they can get in return.  In here we have little variety, so the little variety offered, multiplies in significance.

Prison-issue anything is homogenous, monotonous, bland, devoid of personality.  Even one’s personality can start to look prison-issued unless one actively strives to individuate – by getting sleeves of bad tattoos, for instance.  Religious affiliation also offers a chance to stylize and spice it up a bit since each religion gives access to exclusive privileges. 

If one registers as Jewish, he can receive a ‘special diet’ tray at meals, prepackaged Kosher food that’s fresh and edible, especially compared with typical prison-made grub, which is often congealed, stale, and wilted.

To prevent a choke hazard – think garrote – necklaces are prohibited.  However, if registered as Catholic, one may place an order with a vendor for a fancy rosary.  Nothing displays one’s piety (and class) like gold-fixtured, dried-blood-looking rosary beads made from compressed rose petals.

Muslims get access to Kuffs (knitted skullcaps) of various colors, and giving alms to the less-fortunate is obligatory.  For some guys the deciding factor is the stylish cap that highlights their eyes.  For the indigent, the guarantee of commissary items from their brethren is the appeal – plus they get a couple of annual feasts and can brag about (or sell) the lamb, fried chicken, hot sauce, and delicate flaky baklava they get to eat that we don’t.

Back in 2009, tobacco products were banned in state facilities, including prisons, but not for Native American practitioners, for whom tobacco is an essential element in praying.   Overnight the Native population exploded from two people to thirty. Death Row’s population is only about 140.  Each man lined up outside, stepped to the center of the sacred prayer circle, and the chaplain would hand him a medicine cup containing a teaspoon of pungent tobacco pressed into it’s bottom like a fat brown quarter.  They could smoke it in their pipe, burn it in their smudge pot, sprinkle shreds of it into the wind – or secretly smuggle it back to their cellblock and sell it for a dollar per hand-rolled cigarette at least.  They could easily get five bucks for that teaspoon – that’s 20 ramen soups or 25 coffee packets: that’s nine stamps or, for the druggies, five pills; or for the perverted, a blowjob from Randy.  The Natives also get an annual feast they can brag about or sell food items from.

We can register with only one faith group at a time, but are permitted to change faiths every 3-4 months.  That alone should tell you something about the waxing and waning of devotion in prison.  Often, when one changes religions, his former faith’s paraphernalia – now contraband in his hands – finds its way to the black market.  Headbands and Tupperware sacred-item boxes, prayer rugs, Kufis and Rasta caps, thick Bible dictionaries, prayer beads and shiny crucifixes. It’s all for sale.

Back when they banned tobacco, I registered as Native American so I could smoke and sell tobacco three days a week.  I did this for years, despite being a professing Christian.  Eventually, I felt so guilty that I left the prayer circle and re-registered as a Protestant.  That first Sunday rolled around and I had no intention of attending church services with some I knew were hypocrites.  Lying in bed, fiending for a cigarette, I heard a voice in my head that I attribute to God sounding like Charleton Heston in that old movie in which he played Moses.  It was a deep, authoritative voice, with a slightly ironic tone.  He said, “You went outside to smoke three times a week for an hour at a time for three years straight and missed not one day.  In the rain.  In the freeze.  In the scorch.  In the ants.  You skipped weekly movies.  You skipped recreation.  You went through the strip searches… And you can’t go to church twice a week because of the hypocrites?  So, there weren’t any hypocrites in the circle?   Well, maybe not now, not since you quit going.”  Of course I’m paraphrasing, not quoting verbatim, but you get the point.

I got out of bed and went to church.  And I haven’t missed a day since, even after we Christians lost our three annual feasts we used to humble-brag about.  I also no longer pass judgment on who’s real or who’s a hypocrite because I realize that despite being a sincere worshipper, I often do things to make this hard life a little softer, which from an outside perspective probably makes me look fake as hell.  Even so, I am a Christian… meaning I’m forgiven, not flawless.

To demonstrate my devotion, I own the most expensive Bible in our small congregation, ornate, leather-bound, handmade (in China).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am going to enjoy the read, and I am going 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. I am grateful he takes the time to share his voice here.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com

“Man, fuck Wilbert…  he can’t tell me what to do.  He ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ daddy.”

That was a recurring phrase I heard about the director at the local community center, kids fuming over rules and regulations and a man dead-set on enforcing them.

I first heard of Wilbert over monkey bar banter during recess at elementary school, dissenting conversations about fun and rules that turned into a tug-of-war of words.  I heard enough to know I wanted to know more about the man who could inspire such joy while rousing such fury.  The next day, I walked home from school, giddy with anticipation as we made our way to the Center.

The Reid Street Community Center was everything I had hoped for.  Everything I dreamed.  Their basketball courts were indoors and had polished wood.  In the projects where I lived, there was only dirt.  There were billiards in the game room, air hockey and puzzles.   A dance studio with full-length mirrors.  Vending machines and a playground.  A kitchen.  A pool.  Arts and crafts.  Oh, yeah… and Wilbert.

He came in well short of his reputation which was prominent enough to be a titan, though he towered over the heads of onrushing kids as they poured through the doors of the Center.  His skin tone was dark, rich and as appealing as cocoa on a winter morning.  He was clean-shaven with a trimmed moustache that made him approachable while his steady glare gave me pause.  His fitted tee showed off bulging biceps, his warm-ups and sneakers making him look the part of a bona fide athlete in search of the competition.  I held my breath along with my opinion as I breezed by him, seemingly unnoticed.  It would be my first day in a place that would become a second home.

Wilbert turned out to be a cool guy – not some half angel/demon to which I presumed.  He was laid back, even when he was engaging kids and their activities.  His voice was mellow and well composed. Sure, there were rules plastered on almost every wall throughout the Center, but it’s not like he used them to browbeat us into submission.  Wilbert was as stern as he needed to be to teach us kids discipline and self-respect; a purpose well-served since many of us had no one else. 

The Reid Street Community Center sat in one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in town, where lack of resources often included a lapse in effective parenting.  Kids from broken homes with single, working-class, mothers and absentee fathers were those who most frequented the Center.  Many of them were unruly by cause-and-effect and didn’t give a damn about following the rules.   But where some home-life offered negligence and abuse, the Center was a sanctuary.

Wilbert wasn’t just the activity coordinator, he was also a mentor to troubled kids. His goal was to tap into the potential of every kid there and draw out our self-worth.  Sometimes it meant giving someone the boot for flagrant or repeated offenses, though the ban seldom lasted more than a day since Wilbert was exceptionally forgiving.

There were other staff members that helped out around the Center, counseling and facilitating events and proving their devotion to the cause. As such, Wilbert could often be seen in his office toiling over paperwork as he figured out how to keep the place running, yet he left his door open, always willing to stop in the middle of budget cuts to make himself available to talk.

He was the Center’s little league football coach, the basketball referee and also the swimming instructor.  He hosted Friday night dances in an effort to raise money for the equipment.  He showed up on rainy days, worked long after hours and drove the kids home when they were running late for curfew.  And yeah… he caught some flak at times for being strict when enforcing the rules, but it was only because he held us to high standards.  Still, no matter how many times the kids cussed him out and spewed their harsh opinions about Wilbert, he was always there for them the next day.

Wilbert went on to effect many lives with his work at the Community Center, a feat that was sure to offer its share of challenges. The building was marred by paint chips and broken windows, the equipment was rickety and threadbare.  Bullies and other misfits came around at times and turned the grounds into a battle field.  And with the Center serving as a hub for every urban kid in the surrounding neighborhoods, too often it was understaffed.  Yet Wilbert was the driving spirit that kept that place alive, his devotion the keys to the door.  It was his very stance on the policies and his unwillingness to compromise that made many of us kids feel safe.  Sometimes I would wonder how much he would take before he up and left us, but as it turned out, Wilbert was already home.  And he was never out to try to be anyone’s ‘daddy’…  No, Wilbert was determined to do better.

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. His unique writing style is in a league of its own. He is gifted.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
He wrote this essay in response to our recent contest, which he couldn’t enter due to his position on the Board. He’s a man who goes the extra mile even when he doesn’t have to.

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