Episode 4 was released today! Mumin and Chanton share their thoughts and experiences with visitation, discussing it’s value and impact on their lives and those around them. They are also joined by a relative for this one. This project consists of 10 episodes, and I encourage anyone wanting to learn from this community, which in good part is self-governed, to go back and listen to each one.
In their first episode, Mumin and Chanton talk about the impact of first impressions, their and other’s need to convey impressions, and how that is shaped while living in prison.
In The Cellar hopes to raise awareness regarding the psychological impact of living with the looming threat of lethal injection and give policy makers and up-and-coming policy makers a more rounded perspective.
Please follow this project on Spotify, and also leave your thoughts and comments, which will be shared with Mumin and Chanton.
I often think of myself as a sturdy, ancient oak, tucked away in the still quiet of the forest. I have many scars, but I believe each and every one is a part of the necessary affliction to be overcome and has gotten me to where I am today. Each scar, like the markings of an oak tree, is a measure of my inner growth displayed for the world to see.
Today, I did something I have never done. I stood naked from the waist up in front of the worn and cracked wall mirror of my prison cell. My reflection stared back as if to say, “I’ve waited for you to notice me for quite some time now, my friend.” All I could do was stare back. I was covered from neck to feet in prison tattoos, the fleshly billboard of places I’ve been and all the moments I wanted to capture beneath my skin through self-expression. My reflection resembled so many other men locked away within these cold walls. But, I knew the truth as I stood staring; I’d been hiding behind so many scars for so long, and I wanted to finally crawl out from behind them, once and for all.
I lifted my arms to see more and explored the ink of my torso. My fingers traced the now mature scars where breathing tubes had once been inserted into my chest, and I went immediately back to my childhood where I’d suffered abuse at the hands of a violent stepfather who nearly took my life at the age of eleven. I stood for a moment, reliving what it felt like to struggle for my last breath because my lungs had been collapsed by a vicious monster who had married my mother and beaten me often as a child. He was an addict who took his pain and suffering out on my brother and mother as well, and he left a scar I could not cover with a simple tattoo, no matter how hard I tried.
Reality began to set in, and I was back in the confines of my 13×13-foot man-made cage, realizing thirty-one years have gone by. I was incarcerated most of my life, as a juvenile and adult, and “time” has started to wear on me. I may not have been in this very cell, but I have been in countless replicas where I’ve awakened each morning for three decades – cold concrete walls that leak when it rains, and a mattress as worn as the folded up blanket at the end of my bed. I am getting older, undeniably.
Through it all, shines the illuminating shimmer of light from the window in the back of my cell, light that reflects on what I hold dearest, the faces of my beautiful wife and daughters taped to my wall. Their faces, despite all that I have gone through, remind me that I am still alive in spite of my scars. There is, in fact, life outside these walls, and I will see it again.
As I stood continuing to stare at my bare torso in the reflection, I thought, “I’ve come so far, and each scar has taught me a lesson, inching me closer and closer to freedom.” I’d run from many of my scars most of my life, and in that moment I was willing to face them. I stepped closer, lifting both my hands to my face as the tears began to fall. It was the first time in a long time I could remember actually crying. In that moment, I felt it. I felt it hard. The courage began to swell up inside my chest, my hands covered in the tears that fell effortlessly, and the voice inside spoke to me.
“Keith, you truly are like that of an oak tree, and your life is measured by the scars you have been running from for so long. You must stop and face them. Learn how to embrace them if you are ever going to reach your greatest potential because that, Keith, is where you will heal the most.”
My knees began to lower to the cold concrete floor as the words echoed over and over again in my mind. I started to understand just what my purpose had been all these years, seeing through the tattoos that I’d hidden behind for so long, and it was what every human is brought into this world for – to live; to love and be loved; to learn and fail when necessary in order to learn from mistakes; and forgive ourselves as much as we are willing to forgive others. I sat kneeling and broken, yet I could not feel more alive, stronger than I had ever been. I wiped away the tears, stood up in my reflection, and felt it. I felt like that of an oak in the forest, upright and standing tall for the world to see. These scars are mine, as yours are to you, but we are all like trees in the forest; we may become scarred, but growth is inevitable. Our measurement is not going to be by what caused our afflictions, but how we endure them, refusing to be torn down.
Push through whatever has or continues to cause you pain. You will find your way, it will come. Your reflection, when faced, will lead the way, just be ever willing to look closely in the mirror and see that tree in the forest.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Keith is a writer and artist, among his many other talents, and a frequent WITS contributor. He is also a tireless positive support in his community and consistently encourages and uplifts those around him.
Keith is currently working on two book projects and also acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter. He has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science and was the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith works during the day and facilitates programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future.
To hear more of Keith’s story in his words, you can hear him on the Prison POD podcast.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at:
Keith Erickson #E-74907
Pleasant Valley State Prison
D-5-225
Low
P.O. Box 8500
Coalinga, CA 93210
Keith can also be reached through GettingOut.com
On July 9, 2024, WITS will be sharing the first episode of In The Cellar, a podcast created by two WITS writers. In The Cellar features weekly table talk sessions from NC Death Row. The writers aim to explore the challenges, tragedies and triumphs of living with a death sentence. In The Cellar will be hosted by Jason Mumin Hurst & Terry Chanton Robinson, two men amongst the many Death Row residents who are pursuing constructive ways to effect change. As the podcast strives to remain balanced and bring awareness to those in and outside of prisons, I will occasionally join the two men, aiming to provide insight from the civilian point of view and experience.
In The Cellar will highlight the psychological impact of living with the looming threat of lethal injection. Chanton and Mumin will explore family connections, both broken and restored, community development, spiritual growth, and friendships founded on acts of decency. They will relive the heartbreak of having lost loved ones over the years and the difficulty of finding closure, as well as recount stories of exoneration, mental illness, past trauma, accountability, healing, and of course – executions.
Join us as we crack the door and shine light into one of prison’s darkest reaches and attempt to provide valuable insight on the practice of murdering murderers in the name of justice. The hope is to substantiate the redeeming qualities of those incarcerated, knowing that while they may be awaiting execution, according to Prison Policy Initiative, 610,000 others are being released back into society each year*. Their release plays a key role in society’s restoration, restoration that also takes place right here In The Cellar on NC Death Row.
The first episode of In The Cellar will also be shared on Spotify on July 9, 2024.
*Initiative, P. P. (2022, August 25). Since you asked: How many people are released from each state’s prisons and jails every year? Prison Policy Initiative. https://www.prisonpolicy.org/blog/2022/08/25/releasesbystate/
Author’s Note: I wrote this piece to honor my Aunt Linda, who has been placed in home hospice care. She never had children but spoiled lots of the family kids. Being loved by this special, beautiful person has blessed my life immeasurably.
My Aunt Linda never had children, but she had lots of kids, pouring herself into loving so many of us. She took us to special places, gave us countless gifts, cooked us favorite treats, and made us feel most special by lighting up around us. Her joy in us made us feel loved, special, and full of warm fuzzies inside. I’m sure we all felt like her favorite.
My brother Tony and I might have been the most fortunate benefactors of Aunt Linda’s great love though. Weekends often found us at her house, waking up to her scrumptious scrambled eggs with cheese. She was a wonderful cook. For my birthdays, I repeatedly asked for her lasagna. Christmas and beach trips brought her delicious fudge, haystacks, and lady fingers. One of the best things to happen to me in prison was getting food from Aunt Linda and my Mom. They found they could deliver food for a Church Christmas party. They cooked nonstop for two days, then had it driven to the mountains. Every bite tasted of freedom, of family, of love. They supplied a couple of dozen nearly starving prisoners, just so they could provide special treats to Tony and me. That’s a lot of love.
Aunt Linda loved to travel, especially to visit family. Our travels took us to Florida, Kentucky, D.C. and Maryland, many times. She was either the most patient person ever or a little crazy because she endured those trips in the backseat with two rambunctious boys. We never stopped moving, and she had to be counselor and referee. It was almost as bad as a prison transfer bus. Maybe she should have shackled us, but she loved us too much.
And she loved spoiling us. She could have bought a BMW with the quarters she gave us at the arcade, but she found loving others the most valuable possession. She gave us money for ice cream, movies, putt-putt, go-karts and the waterslides. When we went to Disney World for the first time, she bought us numerous souvenirs and extras. My favorite was a Disney signature book. She helped us get signatures from all of the stars – Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Cinderella and Prince Charming, Donald Duck and Goofy. So much fun.
Life is measured by the quality of our relationships. Aunt Linda’s life was rich and full because she gave all of her self to building quality relationships. She gave herself to blessing others and helping others. She wanted only two things, and she wanted them every day – Bojangles and a Cappuccino Blast. Ask her what she wants to eat. Bojangles and a Cappuccino Blast. Baskin Robbins should rename it the Aunt Linda Blast.
Aunt Linda, thank you for loving me so much. Thank you for choosing me as one of your kids. Your love and the many happy memories made with you have been a lighthouse for me on this voyage. You shine light by which I find my way, and by helping me find my way, you share in everything I accomplish. Every person I help is touched by you and by your love.
Being my Aunt Linda’s kid has been one of the greatest treasures of my life. I love, love, love you!
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless: The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on YouTube.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com
Growing up, I looked forward to holidays and family reunions because they meant we were going to visit Grandma in West Virginia. She lived alone at the end of a long dirt road at the head of a holler. Her two-story house had shingle siding, a tin roof, and no neighbors in sight. It was where her in-laws lived before her and where she and my grandpa raised eleven kids.
Family gatherings there always began with the incessant slamming of car doors as uncles and aunts reached the end of a long drive and 29 grandkids scattered everywhere. Some of us ran to the barn, some the creek or the woods, others headed straight to the house and the ceramic duck cookie jar resting on Grandma’s deep freeze where she stashed 5th Avenue and Zero bars. Grandma watched us, smiling, as we ran every which way, and when one of our parents admonished us with a Slow down! or Stop being so loud!, Grandma would say, “Oh, let ’em play. They’re kids.” She would remind them that they were once loud, dirty kids running through the same house.
As far as I can remember, she rarely raised her voice and only swung a switch maybe twice and only when one of us grandkids back-talked our parents. That’s the one thing she didn’t tolerate… sass. She was slow moving but first on the scene when it came to setting things right. I remember her once telling my kindest uncle to cut a switch. When he returned with it, she switched the legs of his son for sassing him.
Most of us knew better than to misbehave around Grandma. We loved and respected her and knew the woods around her house were full of switches. I thought the world of her, and it helped that my dad and others frequently told me I was her favorite grandson. I’d do anything she asked and everything I found needed doing without her having to ask – chop and stack the wood, haul buckets of coal, cut brush, and pile rocks. Sometimes there were several months between our visits, but upon arrival I would immediately set about completing whatever chores I could find.
I felt I received extra hugs, and Grandma would whisper in my ear that there were Nutty Bars (my favorite) in the cabinet, and I should get some when my cousins weren’t around. Feeling I was her favorite, I didn’t want to disappoint her, while also feeling like nothing I could do would disappoint; a foolish mistake on my part. One fall when I was fourteen, my dad and I went to visit Grandma for the weekend to do some squirrel hunting. Grandma always beat the sun up when she had company, cooking as if all her children were home and hungry. This particular morning was no different, and the smell of bubbling gravy and sizzling sausage drew us downstairs to the table. As we ate with gusto, Grandma did as she always did, nibbled a biscuit and watched us enjoy her food with a smile on her face. When my dad finished, he stood, grabbed his shotgun and walked out. As I stood to follow, Grandma told me to put some sausage biscuits together. Knowing we would be in the woods all day, she wanted to make sure we had something to eat for later.
After whipping the biscuits together and tucking them into the large pocket on my hunting coat, I said, “I better go catch up with my old man.” She could’ve beaten me with a two-by-four and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the look she gave me. I felt I’d instantly become her least favorite. After a long pause, she scoldingly said, “He’s not your old man. He’s your daddy.”
Her words were evergreen, influencing how I treat elders and my father to this day. I muttered, “Yes ma’am,” lowered my head, and skulked out of the house and up the hill to catch up with my dad.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jason Hurst has a talent for writing and a desire to pursue productive and creative endeavors. He was recently one of the subjects of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, has worked with Prison Pod Productions, and is currently working on a podcast project to raise awareness regarding death row.
Jason can be contacted at:
Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com
During the Christmas holiday here, residents are given a holiday bag filled with a variety of snacks. This bag is often the only thing many guys receive, other than a rough time, and it is looked forward to each year. After one such holiday, we were all in good spirits, having received our bags, and my friend slipped his under his bunk before leaving for his regular bible study. When he got back – the bag was gone. Stolen! It was heart-wrenching to see the devastation in my friend’s eyes, to hear the hurt in his voice, knowing this was all he had.
As word of the theft spread, our unit of about 128 guys became charged with an awe-inspiring energy. A few guys, some of the ‘worst haters’, went around and collected snacks and cook-up and sodas. One guy even gave his own holiday bag. Total collected that day was five times the amount that had been stolen.
I watched in gratitude as my friend, a sex-offender, was given a better replacement bag than the one stolen. It was a beautiful sight, seeing a broken heart being restored with hope, love, generosity and simple humanness. His holiday became much more than it would have been, because my friend was someone who never received mail, never used the phone, and who felt no one cared. He was a man who always had to hustle for everything he got, and he finally experienced being cared for.
It made my holiday that much better too. I received the gift of seeing the true spirit of giving in this environment. It was difficult to not look at these guys and realize that in spirit we are all the same, that our appearance, race, sexual orientation, gender, criminal history or anything else – doesn’t matter.
We are judged on all those things by society, considered unworthy, unredeemable, unlovable, the worst of the worst. But through our actions and the kindness shown to my friend, this community broke that stereotype.
Yes, we have all made some terrible decisions in our lives, decisions that we will continue to pay for beyond our time in this prison with the stigma of being ex-felons. I believe, given care, hope and love, these same men who are sons, fathers, brothers, husbands and friends will be seen more for their beautiful, generous hearts than the mistakes made in their past.
ABOUT THE WRITER. James Pruitt is new to WITS, having submitted this essay for a past writing contest. As always, WITS receives contest submissions that, though they may not place, need to be published. This essay was read by a board member at our 2024 Annual Board Meeting, and is also included in the the June, 2024, newsletter. It speaks to much of what WITS is about, recognizing that growth is experienced through love and grace, not perpetual punishment, and that happens in all populations when given a chance. I am grateful for Mr. Pruitt’s contribution and he can be contacted at:
James Pruitt #16364-040
Federal Correctional Institution Elkton
P.O. Box 10
Lisbon, Ohio 44432
I arrived at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institute in May, 2010, and after the intake sergeant assigned me a housing unit and handed me a bedroll, I was directed to my new block. A correctional officer greeted me, “You’re in cell 51, top tier, top bunk,” he said, pointing in the direction. I followed his finger with my eyes and slowly began walking toward the ominous metal stairwell. Forcing myself to ascend, a metallic ‘ping‘ ringing out with each footstep, the climb felt like hours as anxiety crept through my veins and my stomach did backflips. I feared my cellie would be a violent Goliath who would rip my head off and eat it for dinner the minute I walked in. Or the maniacal psychopath might rather tie me up and torture me at night, maybe just murder me in my sleep, or worse, try to rape me!
Finally reaching the top, I glanced at the number of the first cell I saw, 33. I turned left and took the first step toward my certain demise. And then a miracle happened… From somewhere, I regained my courage, pushed aside my fears and got a hold of myself. I am a grown man, and there’s not a soul on this planet who can rape or pillage me without a fight! I lifted my head, puffed out my chest, and picked up my pace, exuding confidence with each step. Arriving at my cell, I put my bedroll beside the slightly ajar door and opened it further, stepping in…
I was immediately taken aback. My cellie was no Goliath. He was an extremely thin, older white man – not wiry-strong thin, but fragile, weak-thin, so debilitated that I feared he might easily break should he take a wrong step. The frailness of his body accentuated his large head, reminding me of an animated character from the film, A Nightmare Before Christmas, and had he stood erect, he could’ve passed for an upside down exclamation point, with a full head of gray hair and a scraggly, unkempt beard. Those features were not the only things shocking about his appearance though. No, what really shocked me was his bright yellow complexion. My new cellie was Homer-Simpson-yellow, and the darkness in the cell actually exacerbated the tone to the point that he literally appeared to glow in the dark.
As he stood to greet me, he extended his hand and said with a slight Southern twang, “How ya doin’, young buck? My name’s Gary.”
I reluctantly shook his hand, asking him to call me J.J. Of all the fears that had haunted me, never could I have guessed this, and had the intake sergeant told me I was going to cell up with Homer Simpson, I would have laughed in his face.
Seeing it was safe to move in, I brought in my property. Gary pointed out my locker, and in one fell swoop I stowed away my pathetic belongings. I undid my bedroll, and started to make up my bunk, slipping the pillowcase onto my pancake-thin pillow, adjusting the sheets on my equally thin mattress, and spreading an itchy wool blanket over everything before jumping down. Sitting on the seatless toilet, my mind full of questions I had been formulating while making up my bunk, I finally looked at Homer/Gary as he watched ESPN and ventured, “So… uh… Gary, I don’t want to pry, man… but… uh… why are you like… yellow?”
He looked at me and chuckled, “Well, young’un, my liver ain’t workin’ too keen no more. I gotta liver disease that causes jaundice.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, before asking, “Is it like… contagious or anything?”
Gary chuckled again, “Naw, man, not unless you got some dope and a syringe you wanna share.”
“Oh,” I managed to blurt before asking if his ailment hurt.
He looked at me for a few seconds, eyebrows lifted in thought, “Yeah, kiddo, it hurts, but not as much as you probably think.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. I sat quietly, before I decided to change the subject. “You gotta lot of time to do, Gary?”
He took a deep breath before responding, “Well, kid, that’s a tricky question. I don’t believe I do, anymore. I got ten to twenty, but I got eleven years in. I seen parole last year, but they denied me, said I was a threat to society and gave me another year hit. I seen ‘em again three weeks ago though, and I think it went pretty darn well. Now, I’m just waitin’ on my green sheet. It should come any day.”
“Oh,” I said before asking, “What’s a green sheet?”
Homer/Gary raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. “Why, it’s the Parole Board’s decision, along with the reason for their decision. For some reason, it’s printed on ugly green paper.”
“Why did they think you’re a threat to society? Did you get into trouble in prison or something?” It didn’t make any sense to me. Anybody who took one look at this guy would know he wasn’t a threat to anything.
“Nope, not had so much as a reprimand in eleven years. I had a bad heroin habit, and was convicted of robbery – stealin’ a laptop from a warehouse. I pled guilty, hopin’ the judge would show me mercy, maybe get help for my drug problem. But the judge didn’t see it my way. Said that since I was a repeat offender, she wanted to teach me somethin’, and hit me with the maximum.”
“So, they’ll definitely give you parole this time, right?”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ll put it like this – because of my condition, I asked a doctor to speak on my behalf. He told the board I need twenty-four-hour medical care, and if I don’t get it, I’ll die sooner rather than later. The State hates being responsible for stuff like that. The doc also told ‘em good ‘n proper that if they didn’t pay for my treatment or release me to my own devices, my liver is gonna fail one way or the other.” His country twang increased with his growing excitement.
“Yup, Doc staked his reputation by swearing I wasn’t a threat to a fly, so based on that alone, I would say – Hell, yeah! They oughta be droppin’ that good ol’ green sheet off any day now, along with my eviction notice from this hellhole!” Gary said, cracking up at his own wit.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I hope they let you out so you can get the medical treatment that you need, Gary.”
“Yeah, at least they can’t use that ‘threat to society’ excuse no more,” he laughed, punctuating his statement with air quotes.
We spoke for a few more hours that evening before I fell asleep. The next morning after six a.m. headcount, I went to chow at seven. When I came back, Homer/Gary was still sleeping, but he started to stir about ten minutes before I left for my eight a.m. orientation call-out. I jokingly asked if he needed anything from the corner store, and between chuckles, he said, “I’ll give you one thing, young buck – you’re a funny kid, for sure.”
When I returned from orientation at ten, Gary wasn’t there, and I went to morning yard where I met a few guys who joked that I was ‘Homer Simpson’s new cellie’. When I came back, Gary was gone, and I figured he was on a call-out. When Gary didn’t later return for lunch or twelve-thirty count, I thought he had made parole and decided to leave all his stuff behind, which is what I would do.
Afternoon rec was called at one-thirty, and after I came back at three-thirty, I took a shower and returned to my cell. Gary wasn’t there and didn’t appear for four-thirty count or five o’clock dinner.
When I came back from chow, the block sergeant was waiting by my door. He handed me two clear plastic garbage bags and told me to pack Gary’s belongings. “Lemme know when you’re done, and I’ll find a cart to take his stuff to intake.”
As he turned to walk away, I asked, “So, he made parole?”
The sergeant looked at me as if I were crazy, “I wouldn’t call it that. You just got here last night, right?”
I nodded.
“This your first rodeo?”
I nodded again, “If he didn’t make parole, where is he?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Un-freaking-believable! Listen, kid, your cellie wasn’t feeling well this morning, and the first shift C.O. sent him to medical. He needed special care, so they took him to the hospital in town where he died an hour later. Look, I need you to hurry up because another guy is moving in. They shoulda had you do this earlier.”
“Oh,” was all I could say.
Absent-mindedly, I started to pack Gary’s stuff. There wasn’t much, and as I worked, I experienced mixed emotions. On one hand, I barely knew the guy, and on the other, I felt the system had handed him a raw deal. As I was finishing up, I heard a C.O. slide mail into my cell. When I picked it up, I saw a green sheet protruding from an envelope. Suspecting what it was and needing to know, I withdrew Gary’s long-awaited green sheet.
“The Parole Board will NOT grant you parole at this time. You will remain in the D.O.C. for an additional period of SIX (6) months until you are re-evaluated. The Board has deemed you a high threat/risk to society at this time.”
I slipped the folded-up decision back into the envelope and inserted it into Gary’s property bag, put the bags on the cart and pushed them to intake to be delivered to Gary’s family. The intake sergeant looked up as I came in asking, “Back already?”
I shook my head ‘no’ and explained that I was delivering the property of my cellie who had died that very morning.
“Oh,” he replied, looking down at his paperwork.
ABOUT THE WRITER. J.J. is new to WITS, although he has been a creative writer and poet for several years now. We are grateful not only for the writing, but also the subject matter of healthcare and aging in a time of mass incarceration, not to mention staff shortages. According to the U.S. Department of Justice in statistical tables dated November, 2023 – at year end 2022, 16% of the population sentenced to a year or more are over the age of 55. That number will grow, as those same tables indicate that 65% of incarcerated population are aged 30-54.
You can contact the writer at:
Johnathan James Perez #JM5282
SCI – Albion
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733
As shared in the March Newsletter, it is time for the Spring Writing Contest.
There is a depth of resilience and strength that exists within the incarcerated community. Ingenuity; creativity; insight; individuals
adapting and even supporting one another to adjust to incarceration and everything that means.
PROMPT: Describe an act you have witnessed that reflected inner strength. That might be in the form of self-control, forgiveness, or community building. It could look like someone spending decades pursuing education and becoming a PhD student and professor while living in prison, like Leo Hylton who was also featured in the newsletter. Or it could look like Benito Rios who is now a Companion Sitter in Texas, supporting those who are in crisis, also in the newsletter. Or it could be someone who shared their extra commissary with his or her neighbor.
ENTRY DETAILS: Only those who live in prison are eligible to participate, & we don’t accept anything that has been previously published. Submission is also permission to edit & post in future WITS projects.
Submission is free.
Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered if it is inspired by the prompt.
Submissions can be handwritten.
PRIZES: First Place: $75 | Second Place: $50 | Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: June 30, 2024. Decisions will be posted by approximately July 31, 2024.
MAILING ADDRESS: Walk In Those Shoes, Writing Contest Entry, P.O. Box 70092, Henrico, Virginia 23255
PROMPT HINTS: There is strength throughout this community. Benito Rios, featured in the March Newsletter, is an example of someone displaying strength through compassion and empathy for others in crisis as he acts as a Companion Sitter in TX prisons.
Benito, who received $25 for being featured in the WITS newsletter, instructed WITS to send the funds to someone he felt needed it more, again displaying strength through empathy and generosity.
Today, Benito Rios spent his morning helping others in his unit, older residents with disabilities. He will be participating in facilitating a Wheelchair Olympics Relay that will include racing, basketball shotput, basketball free throw, weight lifting and a pull-up competition.
Writing about someone like Benito Rios or Leo Hylton, also featured in the March Newsletter, would be fulfilling the prompt. While Benito did not want to receive funds, he did make the following request:
“I won’t sugar coat anything. I myself am without financially, but I find it fulfilling to help others. But if you know anybody who can stand in the gap with me in prayer, please pass along my info. Keep us in prayer.”
– Benito Rios, Jester III Unit, Texas
For a guy in prison, last night I felt oddly like a kid on Christmas morning, having waited sixteen long years for the present I spread out before me. It wasn’t a toy or bike or even an Xbox – it was my first set of books from the Blackstone paralegal course.
Someone introduced me to Blackstone in late 2008, four years into this prison journey. I was interested because I wanted to learn about the law and also return to some sort of formal education, having been a college senior before incarceration. My older brother and sister-in-law then agreed to pay for the course. That was before the housing market crashed and my older brother, who sold log homes and waterfront real estate, lost everything. I quickly forgot about the Blackstone course.
Later, people in prison became eligible for stimulus money. I thought about using the funds to pay for the course myself but was in college at the time, a senior in the Field Minister program. The timing was off again.
Then, in 2023 I learned the top prize in the Walk In Those Shoes fall writing contest was sponsorship in the Blackstone course. I had competed in each of their contests for about two years, but wanted to win this one much more than any of the others. I worked on the essay with complete focus, the coveted prize always in my thoughts, and after submission, I found myself thinking about the possibility of winning multiple times a day.
In January 2024 I received the message – I had won. Thankfully, I have a single room, or they might have locked me in a padded cell. I cheered and laughed, jumped and danced, waved my arms and fist pumped. I might have even high-fived myself. Blackstone here I come! I can finally take the course.
The timing is ideal because of how the experiences of the ensuing years have impacted me. I have become a proficient learner, studier, reader and writer. I earned a bachelor’s degree with honors, and I work for a college, teaching writing and also training writing consultants. I have read 1,500 books, written plenty, and I have been published in two legal journals (wonder how many paralegal students have been published in a legal journal). These experiences have prepared me to be a significantly better student than when I first wanted to take the course. God’s Providence and His perfect timing can be seen here.
My goal is to learn as much as possible and to excel in all aspects of the course. My love to learn, study, read, and write will make this endeavor interesting, and my personal creed drives me – excellence in all things unto the Lord. I hope to use this training to work for change. I will combine a deeper understanding of the law with my writing proficiency to support reform and help dismantle mass incarceration. Maybe working as a paralegal will be my first job when I one day make it out of here.
After my first Blackstone shipment arrived, I carefully spread my presents out on my mat, a Cheshire cat smile across my face. Included were the Student Handbook, Law Glossary, and Volume I: Law – Its Origin, Nature and Development & Contracts. There was also paperwork welcoming me to the program and other information. Volume 1 contains the first four lessons out of a total of 31. The time for celebrating has ended. Time to get to work. But I’m still as happy as a kid playing with his brand new toys on Christmas.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless: The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com
