Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went 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. This is the first in this series.These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)
Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here. Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not? Am I destined to die here regardless? Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with. The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this. Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony? To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity. Constantly engulfed in darkness. Always alone, even when others are present. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death. I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father. To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count. The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’. If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things. My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?
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. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
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
Note: The following prompt was contributed by Terry Robinson, a long-time WITS writer, board member, author and innocent man on death row.
Life can be a struggle, a challenge to get through the hardships and dilemmas of each day. No one understands that more than those who are incarcerated. Sure, life is not all struggle, there are those moments of joy, but for men and women behind bars, we can assume that the struggle outweighs the joy. Prison isn’t meant to be a place for one to thrive, but instead for behaviors to worsen because a cultivated mind is a hindrance to recidivism, which is bad for business, and prison itself is a business.
So, in a place where the joys are minimal, the struggles are constant, it’s a wonder how prisoners make it through the day. Theirs is a resilience worthy of showcasing.
Walk In Those Shoes wants to know – what is your muse? What is the source of inspiration that you draw from in order to get through each day in prison? It can be family, books, dreams of a better life, positive change, education, religion – whatever you choose.
Incarcerated men and women hold phenomenal value. Share what it is that gives you what it takes to overcome your adversities in prison.
Only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered, as long as it is inspired by the prompt.
Submissions can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: April 30, 2022. Decisions will be posted on or before May 31, 2022.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.
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
Walking into the prison felt like walking into a medieval castle at the height of the dark ages. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever leave.
The humiliation of ‘processing in’ was surpassed only by my fear of the unknown. I had never been to prison, and now not only was I going to prison, I was going to death row, the home of men like John Wayne Gacy and the so-called ‘I-57 Killer’, among others.
Up until then, I had only read about such men in newspapers or saw them on television. I never, even in my worst nightmare, thought I would be counted among them, considered one of them. It was then that the reality of the situation smacked me in the face so hard I could almost feel the sting followed by the bruise. This was worse than when I came to grips with the fact that I was in a life and death situation. These men were hardened killers, and I was now among them and meant nothing to them.
At that moment, right then and there, I decided they wouldn’t mean anything to me either. I was ready to do whatever I needed to do in order to survive. I hardened my heart and dismissed all thought of the outside world. My only reference material was movies I had seen, and in all the movies, the convict-guy acted as though the outside world didn’t exist. It sounds funny now, but when you’re twenty-one and have never been to prison, you cling to whatever works for you, and that worked for me.
I took a deep breath, lifted my head a little higher and walked to the cell that would be my new home. I was expecting to hear all kinds of prison noises. You know, the names and calls that always seem to happen on television when the new guy gets to prison. To my surprise (and relief), there was none of that.
I arrived at my cell, and as I was watching the key being put into the lock it all seemed to be happening in slow motion… the door sliding open… my bedroll being placed on the bunk… the door sliding shut… and the worst sound of all… the door being locked behind me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I never stop being touched by the writing we share here. Tony Enis is our second place contest winner for the last contest of 2021. Sometimes there is grace found in the darkest of places and Tony captured the grace in the silence of those around him. He has only shared his work with us once before. I really hope he continues to work with us. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-four years, and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Anthony Enis #N82931 P.O. Box 1000 Menard, IL 02259
Caged creatures Growl at one another. Youth, primed for life, Placing first one foot… Then another Into the cesspool of a culture Where they don’t belong. Dreams faded, jaded and defined By the moldy smell of dirty money. Old, wrinkled white men Making laws, standing judgment Over black, yellow, red, brown And poor white folks, Just wanting to live the promised dream. Spirited women searching for Lives without being chastised or despised, Pedestals unattainable. Razor topped walls shred sunlight, Wrought iron doors closet sins that never die, But compound, like interest, In a social bank account That doesn’t exist for the cardholders, Just like investors whose credit lines Are governed by dreams deferred. Ruined bodies, broken minds, The mangled souls of families that no longer exist. Friends once had, Moving on without a care Or backward glance. Behind locked doors, Cries can be heard, Young men gone bad, Ruined further, Lost manhood. Unsure women, Afraid to shower. Both taken by the legacy of decades, Years, weeks, days, hours of rotten time, Breeding wadded genocide of generations gone, By the way of soulfully flushed toilets Into the wombs of bloated sewers, After count, at the stroke of midnight…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Preston Shepherd is new to WITS, and I am glad he chose to contact us. Mr. Shepherd is a poet, striving to share the experience of being incarcerated with the younger generation, in the hope that they might avoid that path. Mr. Shepherd can be contacted at: Preston J. Shepherd BP7188 4B-1A-107 P.O. Box 1906 Tehachapi, CA 93581
Hey, I’m not sure how much love you get through the mail, brah, so I thought I’d push some your way. It’s free, so why on earth wouldn’t I give it away? You only have to pay for it, if you refuse to pass it on. Funny the truths that you’ll trip over in these little cages, right?
My name is DeLaine Jones, and I’ve been on lockdown for the last thirty-three years. I’m also a writer for WITS. I’ve been reading about you for awhile now, meaning to get at you, but only now making the time. I’m not sure if you’ve read any of my work, but I’d like to write a piece to you.
I’m not looking to gain from the war you’re fighting to take your next breath. But I don’t just look like this, I’m really black! I speak, read, watch and write through these bars, into and about a struggle that I can’t physically take part in. But even as I gasp and choke my way to hope… I see you, brah!
Back in the dayz when we were in chains on the other side of these bars, we as black people used to speak to other black people whom we had never met. Not simply as a courtesy, but from a genuine concern, a want to help someone who’s chains, pains and scars resembled our own. I personally believe that if I can in any small way, shape, or fashion, help you be heard – it is the reason for my ‘hood card’. As I started out, you’ve got to give it away to keep it coming in, brah.
I’m serving ninety years for crimes I committed when I was seventeen years old. Though I don’t have a date to die, I too know the value of hope, how being touched can alter the quality of the air you breath. That at times it’s easier to let go rather than fight to hold on for another day. That at times, we need to be held on to. Today, I’ve got ya, brah!
So, this is us passing on an old dirt road in the deep South… “What’s up blood, you good?” – meaning, if you need me so you can hide for a awhile and rest till you are able to run again – I’ve got you. I’ve got a scrap or two of food that’ll tide you over too! “You good, cuzz-in?”
I’ve only ever written about my life and the people who’ve passed through it. It’s crazy how I can hear their voices at times when I write. Has that ever happened to you? For me, it comes when people encourage me. It’s then that I hear my granny say, “We are all that we’ve got.” Only the encouragement comes from some place other than my blood. So I expect the givers of those words to give up at some point, to wake up tomorrow and they too will have ‘passed through.’
No family, I’m not in the same part of the river, but I can see you being drowned from where I’m being held down. Those words are needed, welcomed even, but as we both know this is way too much water for either of us to be tryin’ to drink!
People will try to rob you of your anger, telling you to be ‘be calm’. But as a black man in the system, ‘be calm’ is code for ‘stop struggling so that I can kill you!’
Charles, I’m not sure if I’ve ever met an innocent man before. But I do know that they hand out far too many of these sentences without revealing every bit of information that they can get their hands on, laying it out for all to see, rather than allowing the D.A. to decide what it suits his case to present. Who knows a diamond’s worth until it’s seen? Under magnification at that!
It’s the systemic contradictions and racist collusions that gall. To be willing to seek a mans’ life as payment for a life – but to be negligent in that you don’t turn over every single stone in your quest, this in respect of the very priceless substance you claim to hold so dear.
Life!
Charles, I call the collusion systemic and racist because its not an accident that you’re black nor how you’ve come to be on death row. Your legal counsel never bothered to ask basic and obvious questions that would have lead to the truth. How does anyone who’s passed the bar in this country allow testimony about a sexual assault without the challenge of a rape kit? Evidence? Examination? Something!
Your counsel stood by and let that become part of what the jury heard and a fact, agreed to but not supported by evidence. The D.A. knew it and your counsel had to know it. But it gets better!
The medical examiner shows up without the physical evidence he gathered! Doesn’t even mention it. The D.A. shows up without the only physical evidence that can suggest that you didn’t, in fact, commit the crime. The Judge allows it all to happen, and your counsel, none of the sworn officers of the Court, think that it is note-worthy? Each of their perspectives center on the same physical evidence, which happens to have been collected in a rape kit, and none of them bother to produce the only existing physical evidence? And we ‘the public’ are to simply ignore the obviously choreographed farce?! Allow you to kill a man based on the above?!
A lone woman from Virginia went to Texas and found the rape kit twenty years later. It was never lost.
Charles, I have no idea at what temperature the naiveté of white people is burned away. Many seem baffled as to why black men would be so desperate to escape the mere presence of police if they were not guilty – as if guilt justifies murder.
For some, it’s the walk on the sun that has fried the brain’s ability to believe what it’s seeing, a quick flicker of a thing that is banished in a single blink of the eye. In that glint, they reach for justification that makes them okay with themselves and cools their soul. They can then dismiss and pardon and excuse themselves.
In that flicker, they find themselves on an old dirt road in the deep South, passing a person who’s breathing hard from running. They see the pain of the other’s soul reflected in eyes they quickly turn away from, denying them to be like their own. They don’t offer the other a place to rest until they can run again, a scrap of food to tide them over. “You good, bro?” only crosses their minds.
In that encounter they find themselves face to face with themselves. Their guilt isn’t about Jim Crow or slavery or things of the past, but what happened this morning. The modern day lynching of a black man that took place in a courtroom in Texas. But hold tight, brah! Charles, be encouraged! If you need me so you can hide for a awhile and rest till you are able to run again – I’ve got you. I’ve got a scrap or two of food that’ll tide you over too!
ABOUT THE WRITER. DeLaine Jones is not only an amazing and thoughtful writer – he displayed his heart and compassion in this piece. He was never asked to write this, simply sent it in with no prompt at all.
As a WITS writer, he receives pieces from other WITS writers when possible. In that way he came to know Charles Mamou’s story, also a WITS writer. I can’t think of a better piece to post this holiday season. As always – I look forward to hearing from him again. Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 82911 Beach Access Road Umatilla, OR 97882
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
Tell me, Sis, How we supposed to get past this? I’ll never be content Talkin’ about in the past tense. And I gotta ask this… Was it my fault? Should I have kept it all in and masked it? I mean… I called you Angel, but it was only metaphorically! I didn’t mean for you to go and get a halo and wings! Ups! Down! But we never meant to say those things! I was only mad… and ignorant… I didn’t know how to act! I didn’t know how to be – a brother. I was too busy tryna be a ‘G’, Something I wasn’t! But see, I don’t wanna go get this tattoo saying R.I.P.! And I know how you felt about Ma and Kareem, But did you miss ‘em that much? That you had to leave so early, Just to feel they touch? Damn, Sis! What about us? (what about us?) What about Rob? What about T.J.? He didn’t even get enough… of you. Was it all just too much… for you? Backbone to a family? Mother and father to a son, Yet, you weren’t manly! And what about, Mama? She raised her own four, And here’s another two. Okay, more like three, we all know how Rob can be! And I don’t mean to sound selfish, But fuck that! What about ME? Do I accept this? Take it in stride? Or do I come with you? To spend a little bit of time, Standing in line? ‘Cause you know everyone makes it to the gates, But not everyone makes it inside. So, when you make it in… Vouch for me, Let God know I’m not that bad! Or at least ask for a weekend pass! So when I’m in Hell, it won’t feel like it The way I make the memories from those three days last! I just wanna come kick it with you and Beamer. I know she there! All dogs go to Heaven, They’re innocent creatures. Now, back to the subject, How do you want me to deal with this pain? Guess I’m happy to have it, ‘Cause if I would’ve went before you, Lord only knows what that would’ve done to your brain. Brain? Well, there’s some screws loose, But I would give you mine in a heartbeat. Now I wish I could just give you a heartbeat! My heartbeat! I’m feeling kinda dead inside, There’s a lot of lead inside. I would sink if I went swimmin’. I’d rather go feet first into the flames, Then to have this feeling! And what’s the correct way to mourn an Angel? I don’t know! But why the fuck did you have to be the one to teach me! You were the only one who could reach me, The only one to feed me… All that love that God blessed you with! I’m sorry for all the shit I ever stressed you with. Remember, you told me about Kareem? And I was asking, ‘Who goin’ to be next and ‘ish? I knew it wouldn’t be you! You didn’t even make the list. I coulda never guessed this ‘ish! Yeah! Yeah! I hear you now, tellin’ me not to stress the ‘ish, But that’s easier to say. My puzzle been missing pieces,
and another one just went away…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jarod Wesenberg has shared his poetry here before. He wrote this piece for someone special who he was not able to say goodbye to. Jarod doesn’t write for us often, but when he does, it is a pleasure to share his writing.
Jarod can be contacted at:
Jarod L. Wesenberg, Sr. #1830643 Michael Unit 2664 FM 2054 Tennessee Colony, TX 75886
“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
my father told me a story once it was only one of a few… you see he was a stranger a deadbeat i barely knew… anyway he ran me out the front door into a ghetto summer outside his little duplex was a waste of space on chicago’s black southside he pointed up forest avenue like a man waving a gun squinting at some invisible foe escaping on the run “your grandpa stood right here,” he said “in a wife beater stained with paint “he shouted to that midnight burglar “I may be drunk, but I sho’ shoot straight” he laughed and slapped my back he doubled over to wheeze then he stood up clutching his belly reminiscing his fond memory the ghetto sun faded to a dark, blackish hue my grandpa died a dirty drunk and so will the father i barely knew the inheritance
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I am forever impressed by the people who contact WITS. Phillip Smith is no exception, and that is because after reading about his many accomplishments, and listening to him on youtube regarding a bill he has authored, NC HB 697, advocating for others, I know I would be hard pressed to do all he has done with so few resources. I hope we get to hear more from him, and I am excited to see all he accomplishes.
Mr. Smith can be contacted at: Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
