Trash heaps of humanity – prisons are often thought of that way.  Yet when these sprawling sites become recycling centers, those considered disposable climb up from under the heap remade and repurposed.  These transformed individuals, ‘ambassadors of change’, provide a model for other recycling projects.  There was a line from A Bronx Tale – “The saddest thing in life is wasted talent.”  Prisons overflow with this distinct form of sadness – individuals with talent wasted by destructive choices.  

Although prisons teem with wasted talent, there is a segment that rises above the waste of their past and circumstances.  These individuals refuse to remain wasted, they dedicate themselves to radical change, and they build lives of impressive accomplishments and positive impact, inspiring others in prison to also dedicate themselves to this reclamation project.  These ambassadors often come from a prison subgroup, those serving life without parole.  Three of those lifers are Phil, Kwame, and Barry.

When Phil was first sentenced to life, he thought his life was over so change was pointless.  Yet, despite a lack of meaningful incentives, a love of writing motivated him to become self-educated as he studied and strived to hone his craft.  The writing pursuit and corresponding education produced a whole-person maturation.

Phil has since written dozens of books and numerous articles, been published in two legal journals and drafted a legislative mass incarceration reform proposal and bill for North Carolina that combats institutional violence.  While editor of the Nash News, he was featured on the Criminal Podcast in an episode about prison newspapers.  He spends his time writing to advocate for reform and positively influence his community.  The reform bill he drafted has motivated numerous lifers to live a changed life and inspired many in prison to be their own advocates for reform.

Kwame, another ambassador, became a writer and trailblazer while incarcerated.  Some would label him a product of his environment – a minority youth raised in an inner-city neighborhood plagued by poverty, drugs, and crime, who then ended up in prison.  But that episode is not the entire story; it’s just the opening scene.

Kwame wrote one of the pioneering books in the urban fiction genre.  Using stories of the streets familiar to him, he has written stories and created characters that helped others from a similar background feel understood and forced many who could not previously identify with the struggle of the inner-city better understand and empathize with the systemic challenges.  

Kwame has now become a screenplay writer and movie producer.  He also created and taught The Art of Storytelling, a creative writing class for the prison population, seemingly discernibly like the NYU professor he could have been.

Kwame – author, producer, ambassador of change – paved a path for others in prison to enter the urban fiction genre.  He has created a legacy of possibility and a culture of writing that has been a catalyst for numerous others to change.

Barry, yet another ambassador, overcame a struggle with alcohol and substance use through a 12-step program.  He was building a career as a project manager for a construction company – until he decided he had come far enough to have one drink.  One drink turned into a pitcher, into several pitchers.  A lot happened that night, a man lost his life and Barry was sentenced to LWOP.  

Barry could have become bitter.  Instead, he spent nearly twenty years helping others – a peer counselor in a substance abuse program, dog trainer, and now a Field Minister.  He spends most of his time doing one-on-one counseling, helping guys work through problematic emotions, substance abuse, and grief by applying cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) principles.  He also teaches Thinking for a Change.

Barry is fulfilling his talent by becoming the counselor his neighbors need.  The guys he has helped change then go on to convince others to change, to use CBT to face their troubles.  The counselees, who overcome explosive anger, addiction, depression, and anxiety, have become ambassadors themselves.  

These ambassadors prove the inherent potential for change within every person, including every incarcerated individual.  These ambassadors light the darkness of prisons as beacons of hope to the incarcerated and beacons of possibility to society, to the many who think a person who lands on the trash heap can be only waste. 

So, when people view the story of the young adult who robbed someone or even took a life, instead of thinking, ‘Throw them away’, remember these ambassadors.  These recycled and repurposed individuals have transformed themselves and their lives, and now they influence others to change.

De Niro, R. (1993). A Bronx Tale. Savoy Pictures.

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 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; he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review, Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act ; and he is currently leading the effort to build NC Prison News Today, a statewide prison publication.
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.
Just this month, Timothy as well as others were featured on a Tar Heel Traveler segment which can be seen here.

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

They are known to many as murderers, robbers, and rapists – to me, they are co-workers, neighbors and friends.  Officials have labeled them prisoners, convicts, inmates, offenders, but those labels fail to describe the real people in prison, including those convicted of violent crimes.

During twenty years of incarceration I have witnessed incredible acts of kindness and compassion performed by people convicted of crimes, many by lifers convicted of murder.  This story is just one of thousands I can share.  

For many people the support of family and community is essential to the grieving process when you lose someone.  The death of a loved one is typically followed by gathering at the home, visitation, viewing, a funeral service, and family meals because mourning together provides comfort and facilitates the grieving process.  

In prison, the pain and grief of working through this process can be even worse.  Grieving alone in a place that already has people at the limits of their coping ability each day can be devastating, like an atomic bomb laying waste from the core outward.

My dad died in 2022.  He visited me for the last time on a Saturday.  We had no idea we would never see or speak to each other again.  Thankfully, every visit ended with hands held in prayer, big hugs, and a kiss on the cheek.  Our last words to each other were, “I love you.”  I waved as he walked out the door.  He went to the hospital the next day due to intense intestinal pain and the inability to keep down any food or liquids.  Three days later a surgeon worked for nine hours to untangle his intestines from a hernia mesh.

He never woke up after that surgery, spending the next several weeks in ICU on a ventilator.  Complications repeatedly developed, several infections, pneumonia, kidneys shutting down, heart problems.  It was just too much.

Returning from my job in the school area, I checked my tablet messages and had a message that my dad was being placed in palliative care, and he was being kept alive long enough for family to gather and say goodbye.  I wrote the words I wanted to say to him, because I knew that writing them was the only way to keep it together when I attempted to speak them.  Then I called my mom and had her place her phone by his ear on speakerphone.  He died the next morning at 5:56 am, ironically, the exact time he would normally be walking into work.  No more working a hard job in a plant to take care of others at the age of 78.  His work here was done.

My father was a great man, great father, great husband, and a great friend.  My parents were married for almost 57 years, and my mom’s life is entirely different now. His life was intertwined with ours.  I have been doing well, mostly.  Sometimes I am fine, then the grief crashes into me like a tsunami.  Grief is like that.  It surprises and overwhelms, then releases for a while, only to repeat the process.  My prison community has given me unsurpassed compassion and support.

The day before the funeral, I worked on a speech to be read in honor of my father.  While writing, my heart felt like it was in an ever-tightening vise, tears running onto the page, smearing the blue words.  A hand squeezed my shoulder.  I looked up to see a friend joining me in tears.  No words were needed to profess his brotherly love.

On the day my father died a co-worker knocked on my battleship gray cell door.  He had bought and prepared lunch for me – a Big AZ Angus Cheeseburger and french fries with Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ sauce for the burger and ranch dressing for the fries.  That may not seem like much to a person who drives by twenty fast food places every day, but in here, that act of kindness is enormous.  An apt comparison is paying someone’s mortgage or rent for a month.

Another friend drew a picture of Snoopy and his pal Woodsctock, then had guys write messages of condolence on it.  A large group signed a card full of kind words to send to my mom.  Other friends gave me ice cream, sodas, bags of cereal, cookies and a variety of snacks.  The cookies made me think of a maxim from Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster, “I live in the moment when things go good.  When things go bad, I eat a cookie.”

The cookies and other gifts did not change anything monumental, but these things reminded me how much I am loved and how blessed I am to be in a dorm where I have a community, a brotherhood.

The guy who brought me lunch is serving time for multiple armed robberies and an attempted murder.  The friend who cried with me is serving time for murder.  The Snoopy and Woodstock artist has a rape conviction.  The others are serving time for violent crimes, several of them lifers convicted of murder.  But those crimes are not who they are now. Those inexcusable crimes are things they did, not the people who have learned from their mistakes, who want to help others and who make the world a better place through kindness, giving and compassion.

Despite living in a prison, surrounded by people convicted of violent crimes, I could not have been in a better place while mourning the death of my father.  Nowhere else could have provided me a better support system.  Nowhere else would have given me the outpouring of love offered here.  My co-workers, neighbors, and friends, known to some as murderers, robbers, and rapists, literally and figuratively wrapped their arms around me in empathy and love.  

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 .
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