Prison Conditions, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Phantom Souls

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Editors Note: Previously published elsewhere and revised to fit this site’s length preference after submission by the author.

We are an estimated two million, yet the sound of a pin hitting the ground makes a louder noise than our four million teardrops, entombed as we are in a purgatory state of existence inside correctional facilities across the United States.  It can be said that we deserve to be imprisoned – some of us for the rest of our lives – that we let people down.  Can it also be said that we are human beings?  We still bleed.  We still breathe.  Yet our presence is forgotten when the iron gates slam and the cell door closes.

No one can see or hear us anymore – much like an eyelash falling on your nose; hardly detectible and having no outside effect at all.  I’ve been locked here for over a decade and still have not gotten used to the burning sensation of hell’s fire at my feet, never ceasing – not even in sleep.

Animals at the shelter are morbidly euthanized, a bitter sweet luxury of quick escape from this nightmare.  We, phantom souls, serving life without parole sentences with no rehabilitation or educational reform available are rotting in supermax prisons.  Everyone eventually leaves your side – scattering like cockroaches when the light turns on.  No more visits or collect calls accepted.  No more photos or letters or financial assistance.  No more anything – a phantom soul cut off from its body and the hope of getting back to life and love.

That’s when mental illness, violence, murder and the suicide rate increases.  A phantom soul with no help, no education, no vocational training and no rehabilitation has nothing to lose and no hope for the future.  It’s better off dead.  Actually, that’s what a phantom soul truly is – a dead man walking.  It’s bone chilling to realize that.

When a phantom soul loses itself completely, it attaches to the prison lifestyle and culture for survival, like a leech to flesh, thirsty for blood.  We do not live in here.   We survive in a cold isolated world of pain, loneliness, anger, confusion and hate.  It’s a menagerie where big dog eats little dog. Kill or be killed.  Human snakes of all shapes and sizes roam with evil agendas, resorting to convict ingenuity to get by and survive. 

For many, pride is sealed with tattoos, for others they are shields. Respect, acceptance, loyalty, acknowledgement, reputation, honor and authority are earned by the degree of corrupt mercilessness displayed, and violent deeds against rival gangs, racial enemies and guards.  The guards can sometimes be the most ruthless, deceitful, dangerous, conniving, lying and cheating gang in the prison.

Hate is the only way emotion is expressed inside this concrete bed of barbed wire thorny roses that we reside in.  Positive activities are only available to a select few or non-existent, leaving the vast majority displaying acts of treachery and hate against one another from boredom, and lack of mental, emotional and physical stimulation and the absence of hope.  People wonder why prisons become rampant with gangs, violence, drug abuse, racism, hate and mass deterioration of what were once good natured souls…

Men die in here, physically and mentally, and it’s planned.  Reckless prison administrations and faulty judicial systems make the plans which provide laws, sentences, stipulations, restrictions, and little true rehabilitation, education, therapy, job training and recidivism prevention programs – creating the animals many of us unfortunately become.  The government planned this horrendous thing that is the greatest unknown atrocity in America – for not all men are created nor treated equal. 

It’s a struggle being a ghost-like soul between hell and a soulless cell.  Some people say, “They deserve it for what they’ve done.”  I feel sorry for those people, because their souls are more lost than ours.  Compassion and understanding are gifts.  There are minds of great intelligence in here that could put an end to issues that are deteriorating our beautiful world.  Imagine what we could accomplish with proper rehabilitative and educational reform provided to all of us while incarcerated – at all levels.

This is not a poor me story.  I deserve to be punished for my crimes that I take full responsibility for.  I also need help to better myself.  Most, if not all convicts, will not admit they need help, but there is no fault in that.  It’s sometimes hard to admit you are human, because then all the emotions rush in and it can be too much to bear.  Prison is not the answer for everything.  Punishment with no reform and no proper educational rehabilitation is not the answer. Life without parole, hopelessness with nothing to lose or gain, is not the answer.  Long term solitary confinement in draconian supermax prisons is not the answer.

Rehabilitation, love, education, understanding, hope and change are the answer.  How can it be properly applied so that it is not taken advantage of?  I don’t know, but I sure hope someone can find a solution to this problem before this phantom soul completely fades away…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Gerard is an artist and writer of essays and poetry serving a life sentence in Menard, Illinois. Although this piece was previously published on other sites, it has been revised here to fit our length preferences. Gerard can be contacted at:
Gerard G. Schultz, Jr. #R55165
Menard C.C.
P.O. Box 1000
Menard, Illinois 62259

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I Find Serendipitous Strength In Others

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I had a plethora of ‘special visits’ within the past week – four visitation days filled with two different people, for a total of sixteen hours.  Had I not been awarded such visits from caring friends, I would have spent those hours within a defeat filled prison cell.

During those four hours of conversation, topics range from favorite TV shows – they liked Mork & Mindy, I liked Punky Brewster – to cartoons like the Smurfs, Care Bears, Voltron, and Underdog – a classic.

We talk about food, although my guests are all vegans.  They talk about nuts and crackers, while I ask, “Where’s the beef?”  When they buy me snacks, they refuse to eat in front of me.  No one likes getting food stuck in their teeth around me – what’s up with that?

We discuss politics, books read, family issues and jobs.  We talk about their dealings just as much as mine, and we will cover a wide range of wild and mundane topics.  At some point the unavoidable will arise, though I try to avoid it – my pending execution/murder.  After all, it’s the reason we are ‘here’.  It’s why our sailing ships crossed paths within the massive sea of interactions.

My friend, Mary, is from England where they drive on the wrong side of the road, though she begs to differ.  It’s where they say ‘arse’ instead of ass.  Can you imagine Cardi B singing about her ‘arse’?  Just don’t sound right.  Mary comes from a land where Mary Poppins isn’t a myth – rather a legend.  When she told her family and friends that she was coming to America to visit a man on Texas death row they asked, “Have you gone mad (lost your mind)?”

People often ask me if I am mad.  Bitter.  I’m not pretentious by nature, and what you see is exactly what you get.  So – in the tone of my cussing pastor and actor, Samuel L. Jackson, “You damn right I get mad and bitter!”  Even though hardly anyone ever sees that in me. 

“Chucky, I have one more question.  I would like to know just as the people of England would like to know – how do you stay so strong?  How can you stay smiling and positive?”

It’s a fair question.  One I’m often asked.  And, bravado has it’s place – but not in my story.  To put on a brave face would make a mockery of the struggle of being isolated all day for decades without the touch of another human being’s skin.  It is written, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’  I guess my oppressors didn’t get that memo.  How do I stay strong?  I pointed to her through the glass, to her surprise.  “Me?”

“You and people like you.” 

It’s not lost on me that it’s not easy entering a prison to come visit me. I understand the money and time so freely given to afford me a few hours of comfort.  I’m always grateful for it.  We are all – literally – strangers from different cultures, with different likes and different social economic norms.  The thought that strangers come to my aid and show me what love is – is humbling.  Without my friends, I would be nothing…  Nothing.

I draw strength from the acts of others who display a courage and unmanacled devotion on a scale that I can never fully comprehend.  I think about how busy their lives are and how they still find the time to think about me and write me.  They visit me knowing they are going to be made uncomfortable by guards. 

I think about my friend, Debbie, who was diagnosed with brain cancer and lung cancer and has undergone multiple surgeries within the past year. She has been a constant in my life since 2004.  And when she was told I lost my final appeal she argued with the doctor to discharge her so she could fly to see me and offer comfort so I wouldn’t feel alone. 

I think about my play-daughter and her mom and how they have enriched my life by adopting me into their family.  They are two of the greatest humanitarians my eyes have ever witnessed – and they shed tears for me and the injustice that has befallen me for two decades.  Some people have seen Gandhi, Mandela, Sojourner Truth, Dr. King and so on – to them, they are heroes.  My play-daughter and her mother are my icons, my heros – my angels.  If I don’t live to see another day, I know I have been cared for by people that are greater than this life.

Then there’s Mary.  She’s laughter.  She’s Lucille Ball funny and one of the most non-judgmental people there is.  She’s a great religious orator and an advocate for children who have been abused or suffer mental illness. She is a fascinating person and a genuine friend, as well as her husband.

These people are the core of my support group and the source of the strength others see in me.  If I’m strong, it’s because I have been shown and taught what strength looks like and feels like.  I am strong because I have been loved freely by those who so freely love.  That’s strength. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.

He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

Writing By Charles Mamou

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Harsh Sentences, Views From The Inside

Feel My Pain

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This morning I woke up from a dream of being free – to the nightmare of being incarcerated.

As I went to the community bathroom to take care of my hygiene like every morning, I walked past a man named Morris Martin who has been incarcerated over forty years – forty-four to be exact. I first met him twenty years ago when I came to prison.  At the time I was nineteen and didn’t really understand the reality of what it meant to have life without the possibility of parole. 

Morris did, because he had been living it for twenty four years already. He took a liking to me and started working with me on appealing my case as well as teaching me about surviving in prison.  Morris and I have been together at several different facilities over the course of my twenty years, and he is one of the men who has borne witness to my transformation from a savage boy to a righteous man.  While he has seen my transformation, I have witnessed his physical deterioration.

This morning when I walked past Morris I saw the look of a man who is being tortured in the name of so called justice. I see how incarceration is slowly eating away at his soul. A once strong and vibrant man is now a feeble senior citizen.  The thing I love most about Morris is, he is always in good spirits and still fighting for freedom. Not just his, but also the freedom of others.

As I looked at him, tears formed in my eyes because I saw him losing the fight to father time. The worst fear of every prisoner is dying in prison, but in reality most of us with life or long indeterminate sentences will do just that – die in prison. The saddest part is, after decades in prison, one isn’t a threat to society like the ones who profit off our enslavement would like you to believe.

Often times I find myself questioning the real motive of this injustice system. At what point does this become torture? The daily dehumanization of incarceration takes a toll on the strongest person’s mind, so imagine what it does to those who are not mentally strong. Yes, it breaks them. I see it every day as I walk the yard filled with prisoners on psychotropic medication because the torture of incarceration has robbed them of their sanity.

I refuse to let it be me.  My body may be locked up, but my mind will forever be free. The days of me being mentally enslaved are over. TAKE THE CHAINS OFF!!! I just hope that one day we can take the chains off the minds of those in society who see death by incarceration as justice. There is no justice in torturing a person to death. To all my brothers and sisters who are trapped on these modern day slave plantations, I feel your pain.  Keep fighting – better days are coming! 

The race is not given to the swift nor the strong – but the one who can endure to the end.  Peace.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers.  He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”

Quentin can be contacted at:
Quentin Jones #302373
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 East Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221-3506

MYLIFEMATTERSTOO on Facebook.

All Posts By Quentin Jones.

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Bright Spot

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Death Row is a somberness that never quits and a psychological dismay that never stales, offering fleeting hope in the distance, while an unspeakable cruelty lurks from behind.  It is the veil of vengeance over the face of forgiveness and the dark that seldom brightens.   And it is a system designed to diminish one’s spirit by decades of prolonged executions.   

Enter Joe – a highly spirited, gentle soul and a bonafide hillbilly (his words, not mine).  Joe was amongst several death row inmates whom I met upon arrival.  Although he and I didn’t quite vibe at first, eventually we became good friends.  Our divide was mainly due to our backgrounds which were astronomically worlds apart. However, proximity and shared affliction pieced us together and our friendship was a perfect fit.

Joe was an avid watcher of daytime soaps, bounding around the pod enthusiastically while awaiting his favorite shows. I’d listen to him zestfully recount weekly episodes until he finally piqued my interest.  Before long I was bouncing alongside Joe; the soaps were our escape.

Joe was a tinker also, an essential figure in every inner prison’s workings. Tinkers improvise using commonplace items to effectively service their inmate community.  In need of a coffee brewer?  See Joe.  Stogie roller?  That was Joe too.  From radio repairs to holiday greeting cards, Joe lent a little of himself to everyone.  And when matters were somewhat trivial, still he was eager to help.

I became most endeared to Joe the day he tattooed my forearm. We sat and chatted up one another as he tagged me with his artistry.  Joe opened up to me about his spiritual ambitions and the difficulties in his past. It made me realize, though our differences were superficial our adversities were much the same. I watched as Joe embraced his vulnerability as a means to mend his spirit. It taught me that my own woes were much deeper than death row; I suffered a darkness within.

Afterwards, Joe became the bright spot to every waking day.  A stickler for cleanliness, he swept and mopped the pod each morning before dawn.  Joe then turned to cigarettes and coffee to crank out his lively mood and for hours on end he would laugh and joke – and death row never felt so good.

Joe was a jack-of-all trades, though hardly a master at all.  He was a joyful klutz at basketball, yet the first to laugh at himself. At poker, he was a heavy better and lost with his heart carefree.  He was deeply committed to the happiness of others – happiness gave Joe peace.

It was three years past when the news came down and Joe faced a darkness of his own. The courts rejected the last of his appeals and issued him an execution date. Suddenly there was aridness in the air that ached with sympathy and despair. Well-wishers barely spoke above whispers as they internalized with ‘what ifs’.  Joe put troubled minds at ease by insisting that he was fine – but on the day that his executioners  came, he said to me, “Man, I don’t wanna die.”

In that moment, I was stumped for words.  I had nothing to offer but sadness.  I wanted so much to give Joe absolution and shoo his killers away. I felt helpless and betrayed for the coming demise by an evil which met no resistance.  The terrible truth was – my fears were also selfish.  I didn’t know how to be on Death Row without Joe.

Joe and I embraced for the last time, his cheeks slicked with tears while his eyes held out hope for the governor’s stay. 

He then bid goodbye to others as the party of white shirts escorted him to Deathwatch where he faced his final adversity alone.  Joe was executed by lethal injection.  It was a harsh reality that pitched Death Row into darkness.

Death Row is an immoral chasm filled with broken spirits. It is insubstantial highs and demoralizing lows in the fight to stay alive. However, having Joe around was like a break in the action.  His kindness lit up the dark – and I’m grateful to have had his light shone on me, if only for a short while.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is the winner of Walk In Those Shoes’ first spring writing contest. He rose to the occasion, as did many. The goal of the contest was to share light people saw and experienced behind bars, and I think what has become apparent is that often times – it was the light in the writers’ themselves that was shared.
Terry writes for us often, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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Views From The Inside

Light In A Dark Place?

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I guess…

I always tell people if they’re capable of being the ‘glass half full’ type, I would advise them to do so for as long as possible in here.  It’s not so bad until you realize the fullness of where you are and what has happened.   But sooner or later, the bitter reality of prison settles in and changes who you are fundamentally.  You witness something so inhumane that when the shock wears off you realize you aren’t the same and may never be.  There is nothing more dreadful than to see a human’s capacity for hate.

About a week ago a very young and impressionable young man was almost beat to death by another impressionable young man at the direction of a bunch of cowards.  The last I knew for sure was the victim of the savage beating was in the ICU on life support. I have since heard that the young man died from his injuries, but that is only a rumor, and I pray it remains so.  The man who committed this horrible act will be held accountable, of that I am sure.  The cowards who directed the violence will probably not be held accountable at all, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Since I was very young, I was told to take heart when I witness this kind of injustice, for there is a God above who is just and will visit His vengeance upon those who are due it. I find myself hoping that this is true until I think about the fact that I too deserve God’s vengeance for my actions.  Then I’m a little more inclined to advocate for divine mercy.

Light in a dark place?  Maybe.

This is my eighteenth year in prison.  I took an innocent life when I was young and impressionable.  There were no cowards to direct me to do it.  I was the coward to blame.  I did the best I could to deal with the hurt I caused.  Ever hopeful, I have never stopped looking for the silver lining in the black cloud I cultivated and actively pull around with me, but I grow tired.  I’ve carried guilt and shame I never knew possible to carry and pray you never have to. The lies, deflection and denial that I created out of desperation to protect myself, ultimately infected me.  They crawled under my skin and made a bed down deep in my bones.  When I ask them to leave, they reason with me, “You can’t do this on your own.  You wouldn’t throw out old friends would ya?”

“I would if I could,” I whisper. 

“We can hear you…  Be careful, or we’ll expose you, coward!”  they cackle.

What are my choices?  I have to keep moving on.  The human spirit can be indomitable, and maybe that’s the light in a dark place.  If there is a God – and I really pray there is because even if that means judgment at least I know it will be righteous judgment – there’s a possibility for forgiveness…  Someday.

Light in a dark place?  Why not?

Anything is possible, and maybe that’s what life is about.  I’ve seen love in here.  It’s fleeting, but I have seen it.   Maybe all the love I can count on is the love I show, and that’s both sad and hopeful at the same time.  It’s like the Gandhi quote everyone rips off, “Be the change you want to see in the world.”  Sometimes quotes help, like at graduations and in presidential speeches, but they aren’t very inspirational when you feel like you’re dying.  That’s kind of a quote, I guess.

What’s truly beautiful is the human capacity to love, and there is nothing greater than that except the love of God, I guess.   So, if I am looking for the light in a dark place… why can’t it be me?

Light in a dark place?   I hope so.

I just heard the young man who was beaten mercilessly the other day may still be alive.  I hope with all hope and pray with all my heart to a God whom I really need to hear me that he is alive and that he makes a full recovery.  If he does make it, things will be a lot brighter for all of us.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King’s was the very last entry to arrive for the spring essay contest. Although he wasn’t the winner, he was one judge’s first choice, and everyone who read his entry was moved by it. I hope we hear from him again. Joshua can be contacted at:
Joshua King #69192
ISCC-F1-44A
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Mental Illness and Prison, Views From The Inside

The Idaho State Prison Mental Health Unit

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‘Medium Custody to Maximum Security’

Plucked from my comfort zone for the second time in two years, the state of Idaho once again practiced its ruthless punching power.  Wrist-cuffed and ankle-shackled, the medium custody transporters drove me to my new home, I.M.S.I. – Idaho Maximum Security Institution.  No forewarning – no explanation.  I knew I’d done nothing to warrant the move – nevertheless, I was moved. 

I’m an ‘old school lifer’ who has survived over three decades in an ever changing institutional gambit.  Old school lifer meaning – my mindset is that of the traditional ‘convict code’ method of doing time with a life sentence. The ‘convict code’ is holding oneself and others accountable without the assistance of prison guard intervention. 

I later learned my transfer was not based on any infraction. Rather, I was moved because of my exceptional behavior and work ethic and had been vetted by a certain Lieutenant.   The Lieutenant found me a worthy bargaining chip for their modest worker program, and there were incentives in place to keep manageable inmates interested in staying in the high security environment.  The inmate labor population was pretty small compared to the approximate five hundred captives held in the Maximum Security Facility.

My first work assignment at I.M.S.I. was in the kitchen as a food tray server and emptier. We did the dishes after every meal, and for me, it was my five hour Jane Fonda workout – six days out of the week. Our hours began t 4:00 a.m. and ended when the job was complete, usually a six hour shift.  I would have never done it if it weren’t for the exercise, the money being a deterrent at thirty cents an hour.

I learned of ‘C’ Block, by way of our prison barber.  Tucked away in the North end of ‘Max’ is what they call the ‘Acute Mental Health Unit’.   The barber was also a ‘mentor’, and he expressed an interest in me working and living with him on that unit. I fell for his recruiting spiel and became one of his two enlistees.   There was a pilot program in place that the prison administration had designed for interested inmates to be hired as ‘mentors’ and trained to work with the mental health inmates.

I was interviewed by the Mental Health Ward Committee which was comprised of the warden, the unit case manager and a sergeant.  The meeting reminded me of an interview one undergoes in society. I was not at all nervous, nor did I expect not to be hired.  My intentions, faith, and willingness to serve and learn were genuine.  Although I had never aspired to work in such a volatile environment, there was something very intriguing about the mental health inmates I was about to encounter.  The challenge would be worth every second I spent with them. I was hired that same day and moved that evening.

The first thirty days of training was mostly cleaning detail. The extreme security was something I had never imagined. Cameras were scattered throughout the facility. There were so many radio strapped officers, staff members, and social workers to deal with, I felt like they may consider giving me one too!  I soon learned, I was ill-prepared for the duties, responsibilities, and experiences I would endure while working with ‘cops’ and serving these particular prisoners.  While every facet of the job was demanding, the adversities and challenges turned out to be a great honor and introduced me to who I managed to become.

While working in C Block, I met Melvin, a man in his early seventies.  He was a Vietnam vet who had done much of the last two decades there.  Daily, Melvin would excrete on the cement floor under the sink in his cell.  I chose to clean it up, as he refused to do so. In some strange way, it felt like it was a privilege as his condition unraveled.  He was highly unpredictable with a multitude of behavior swings – angry, shaky, intimidating, and at times somewhat evil, but we eventually saw eye to eye.

There were many mentally distraught prisoners there. The most intriguing man I encountered was Mohamed, an immigrant gaining political asylum from the middle-east.  When I arrived, no one could reason with him.  He was exceedingly disruptive in every way imaginable, and eventually he helped me find an inner-patience I never thought I had.  Mohamed was a highly strung ex-military soldier, driven to the edge of insanity, while also intelligent and manipulative.  He continually harassed guards and people he didn’t trust.

The stories Mohamed shared with me in his heavy middle-eastern accent were of some of the most shocking atrocities I could have imagined – war stories from Iraq and his family’s slaughter by Saddam Hussein.  Not only did I believe him, but I witnessed firsthand the cause and effect of human misery. He displayed constant irritation by ‘corrupt authority’, and spoke often about being mentally and physically tortured.  Fortunately, after many days of necessary communication, we became friends. 

Mentoring and serving the men on C Block brought my soul to a place of genuine conformity. From their experiences, I began to realize how fortunate I was to still have a sane mind after thirty years in prison.  I also felt the immense capacity for compassion in my soul for those who struggle deeply with emotional and mental difficulties. I began to feel  pure benevolence toward others for the first time in my life.

My experience in the Acute Mental Health Unit was the most rewarding and eye opening undertaking I’ve ever encountered. It gave me an opportunity to experience both hell and also my purpose on earth. Something very profound transformed inside of me, ending my search for a pearl of great price. 

ABOUT THE WRITER. Samuel Pacheco submitted this entry for the spring writing contest. The winner of the contest was chosen based on a point system from two judges, but each of the two judges was also given an opportunity to award a ‘Judge’s Choice’ writer, and Mr. Pacheco was one of those two writers. I hope we hear from him again in the future. He can be contacted at:

SAMUEL M. PACHECO
56645 E3-36A
Idaho St. Correctional Center
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Views From The Inside

I’m Just Saying

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Man, I’m tired!  I want to know better.   Do better.  Eventually be better.   It’s hard when you’re paying for inflicted pain. 

Today, my Father’s Day visit was great.  I heard my son describe his joys and pains, his eyes lowered as he spoke in whispers, his hands becoming fidgety at times.  He looked at me when he was done talking, but his eyes continued to speak.  Unknowingly, his words stung me, as he described things I wished to shelter him from. 

Have you ever had a child ask you a question you really didn’t have the answer to?  You don’t want to lie because you know it would eat you up inside, and eventually they’ll see that you lied to them.  So, you decide to toughen up and tell them you don’t know.  Then you hear them go into their own thoughts, as they help you know the answer, like you are the child. 

Today I felt like I could never be ready for fatherhood.  That’s something you have to do and be physically.  I wanted to swipe away his surroundings, work with him, clean his room with him, have conversations with him and help him with his strength.  I wanted to wipe the tears from his eyes, but thought I had better not – let him search. 

All these wishes and wants.  I’ve got to stop this shit, and find a way to stay on top of it.  That’s my seed and Father’s Day will be over shortly.   He’ll be home sleeping, maybe wondering, and me here – hoping.  I wonder how he felt when he left today.  I gave him a lot for his little mind to process.  He told me he understood, but I know that was his heart talking with his pride.  It’s me that doesn’t understand.  My lil’ homie is a champ, and he’s indifferent to the difference.  He’ll make it better. 

I just hope he never gets tired of reading my letters…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tedderick Batiste writes from his cell on Texas’ Death Row. He can be contacted at:
Tedderick Batiste #999568
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

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Views From The Inside

The Section

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Each solitary confinement pod here is made up of 84 cells – six sections of fourteen, single man cells. Think of a pizza cut into six slices, a pepper shaker placed dead center to represent the security picket.  Each section of fourteen cells is divided, seven cells along two-row and seven on one-row.  Fourteen men, for the most part, divided evenly amongst three races.   Two ‘Bloods’, one ‘Crip’ who is also a Muslim, two non affiliated, three ‘Mexican Mafia’, an ‘Aryan Brotherhood’, three ‘Aryan Circle’ and two ‘Tango Blast’.  There are guys that sleep at night and guys that stay up all night and sleep all day. There are guys that have support and resources and guys that have nothing.

There’s also a lot of tension, a lot of conflict, and the almost constant presence of cell to cell yelling, arguing that we call ‘cell warrioring’.  So, I was not surprised to be awakened in the very early morning hours… again.  I rolled over, pointing my ears away from my cell door and the noise.  As I tried to get back to sleep, I heard one guy on one-row yell to another, “It’s true!  I just heard it!”

I tuned in without moving.  More yell-talking… and then an angry voice demanding respect for the late hour.  Someone else yell-talking over the run, two or three guys, having been awakened by the noise, yelling expletives at the few that had awakened them with the loud, middle of the night, discussion.

I don’t recall all the exact words used, but I do remember that the yell talkers spoke more, and the angry voices began to ask questions.  I rolled toward my cell door and removed an earplug, several voices were now all trying to communicate.  Though I may not remember the exact words, I will never forget the tone – a mixture of excitement and doubt, men yell-talking over the run and several talking through the ventilation system.

I got up and turned on my light.

Some kind of news was spreading from cell to cell, yet doubtfully.  In the vent I heard one guy tell another, “I’m telling you!  That’s AM radio ‘koo-koo’ news.” 

Protestations by another voice, “I heard it myself!”

“AM conspiracy news!” loud talking was evolving into argument.  

Then a guy downstairs, “HOLD UP!”  It was not yell-talking but a demand for silence.  Knowing the silence would not last long, he followed it up quickly.  “I’m getting it! I’m putting my speaker to the door!”

Silence.  Then AM radio over the run, monotone and loud.  Again, exact words escape me, but I do remember the following words being broadcast.

“State department”

“Special forces”

“Confirmed”

“Osama Bin Laden has been captured or killed”

One voice, “Holy Shit!”

An eruption of noise.  Chaos.  Men roaring, kicking their cell doors, pounding on walls.  The vibration of the cement floor under my bare feet.  The volume was such that an officer rushed from the security picket to investigate.

Joy.  Happiness.  UNITY.

I clapped and clapped and clapped, standing at my cell door, tears leaking from my eyes.

At the time I attributed the depth of my feeling to the news that we had caught the terrorist that had bloodied my country, OUR country…  Later, I understood that while that was true, I had also been deeply affected by the unexpected sense of brotherhood that had smashed onto the section like a comet, that  my own happiness and hand clapping and tears were also for these men around me that were revealed as patriots, as brothers.  Nothing in their circumstance had changed. They were still ‘criminals’, ‘gang members’, ‘prisoners’.  The change came from within.  Something that had been buried deep inside had burst to the surface…   almost as if by accident.    In that moment we stumbled into an unexpected kinship.   It was not artifice.  It was not motivated by jealousy or selfishness.  It was beautiful, and it’s spontaneity demanded recognition of its purity.  It was authentic decency in human beings that had only ever been known and judged by their failures.

I think about this event from time to time. I’ve come to believe that each of those men surprised themselves that night.  They discovered something within themselves they did not know they had, something of value, or maybe…  a secret. Had they all been in a group rather than confined to a solitary cell, they would have danced around and high fived and hugged.  This realization made me smile, still does to this day.  I’m smiling right now…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Jeremy Robinson lives in a Texas prison. He has written for this blog once before, and is currently working on a revised version of his book, The Monster Factory. Jeremy was an entrant in our spring writing contest and received an Honorable Mention for the above essay.  Jeremy can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Views From The Inside

The Light Outside

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There is no shortage of horror stories from individuals whose lives have been destroyed by wrongful conviction, or who are serving outrageous sentences because of incompetent or indifferent representation, or who were slammed by fanatical, win at all costs, prosecutors who are often little better than criminals themselves.

My story isn’t one of those.  I could list why’s and tell the back story – but none of it justifies taking a man’s life.  My story is one of a million sad tragedies that fill the annals of newsrooms.

Sentenced to life, I’ve been incarcerated since 1994 and in solitary confinement since 2004 after an escape attempt went very badly.  Like my original crime, I could list the why’s – the violence, the conditions, the prison sexual predators… but none of it justifies hurting others.  I don’t ask for or expect sympathy.   I did wrong and however painful it is, I have to accept the consequences.

There are no policies against indefinite or permanent solitary confinement in the State of Texas.  Chances are I will die in solitary, and I only say this to illustrate that I know a thing or two about darkness.  After fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen a lot of it… Indeed, I’m currently housed on the James V. Allred Unit – a unit known for having the highest suicide rate in the state and one of the highest numbers of uses of force against inmates.  There’s nothing I haven’t seen in solitary.

However, even in a place such as this there is light to be found.  Simple acts of kindness – sometimes from guards, sometimes from inmates… hardened gang leaders, violent men, extending kind gestures to strangers and acquaintances alike.  I have been both the recipient and the one offering, but the light I want to speak on is the light that shines from the outside in…

The efforts – often in the face of scorn, ridicule and personal sacrifice – by advocates, activists and family members who rally for change, who visit the lonely and forgotten and work tirelessly to shine a light on America’s Gulag Archipelago.

These people give the condemned hope – the activists fighting for criminal justice and sentencing reform, demanding improvements in mental health treatment, improvements in conditions, treatment and transparency.  Those willing to simply share a little of their time by writing a letter or offering some small gesture for the woman or man who has no family, no hope for release, or terminal illness.

These people are rays of light that illuminate dark places.  They make a difference and inspire change and give hope to those of us in seemingly hopeless situations.  I know this to be true because I’ve seen and experienced it.  Were it not for the kindness of strangers, my world would be a much darker place.  Were it not for the hope that activists may one day force change in the solitary confinement policies across the country, my outlook would be very bleak.

So, while there’s no shortage of horror stories about prison conditions and treatment of prisoners, there is also no shortage of light, no shortage of individuals willing to try and make a difference and be a voice for the voiceless.

To all of you who care, I think I speak for every prisoner in saying a heartfelt – Thank You!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He was an entrant in our recent writing contest that was only supposed to have one prize winner, but there were three writers that caught our eye and are deserving of an Honorable Mention. Dalton is one of those three, and I hope we hear from him again. Dalton can be contacted at:
Dalton Collins
#768733 Allred
2101 FM 369 N.
Iowa Park, TX 76367

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Views From The Inside

Look Hands, No Mom

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I was almost eleven years old and had lived in Lake Tahoe for under a year, a beautiful place and my personal favorite city.  My mother brought the three of us there after fleeing the big pink house in Oak Park, a house full of anger and physical abuse.  The abuse had risen to a new high.  My stepfather, her husband, had previously restricted the physical violence to just my mother and I, leaving both of his ‘real’ children alone.  When, for the first time, he beat my little brother and broke his arm, it seemed to be the final straw for my mother and she fled. 

For years, my mom and I had been the focus of anger and frustration, and I had several trips to the E.R. under my belt by the time I was ten.  There was the time I was pushed from the top of the house for ‘playing on the roof’, dislocating my hip and cracking my tailbone.  When my face was shoved through a dresser, I’d broken the bone in the orbit of my eye and had some facial lacerations.  One time, after being punched and force fed jalapenos, I received a concussion and damage to my lips and throat – it was punishment for lying. 

While I had not escaped my mother’s beatings with the move, I had escaped the worst of the violence, and for two months stayed with her ‘friend’, a man named Steve Jones.  He was kind and generous, and my life improved. 

I was out one afternoon, running through the trees and collecting tree seeds. I had discovered them one day when one landed on my face.  Looking up, I saw that every couple of minutes, they would fall from the trees, spiraling down slowly and landing on the ground. They reminded me of the little toy army men with parachutes on four thin strings, the ones meant to be thrown into the air so the parachute would deploy, and the little man would float to the ground.  They never seemed to work well, not like the seeds that floated in their super thin leaf like covering.  These would spin and spin, floating safely to the ground.  I took to throwing rocks into the trees to shake the limbs and dislodge them in hopes of seeing them fall. The seeds themselves were encased in a bean like shell that, once cracked open, offered up the meat much like a sunflower seed.  I loved to collect and eat them.

Steve’s apartment was on the end of the building, and when I got back to his apartment that day I was not visible to him and my mother when I approached.  As I got close to turning the corner, I heard what sounded like an argument and slowed. It was always wise to measure my mother’s mood before entering a room, and I could hear that she was angry.

“I have enough to move, but you said ten!  You still owe me seven!”

“I know, and I will pay you, Sue. It’s just taking longer than I thought.”

“You keep saying that, but if you don’t have it before I move, I’m taking him with me!”

“I’ll have it.”

They were still talking loudly when I walked away. They both smoked, and it was as gross to me then as it is now.  He smoked Camels, no filter, and she the Salem ultra light something or other. When they finished talking, they went back inside the apartment, and I came in a few minutes later.  They seemed happy to see me.

My mother moved about a month later.  She took my brother and sister to wherever she went and left me with Steve.  It wasn’t until much later and after much pain that I understood that my mother had sold me to her ‘friend’ – a pedophile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  The above is an excerpt from Jeremy Robinson’s, The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Jeremy can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Prison Writing and Expression