They take my kindness for weakness, My mean mug for a thug. My silence for speechless, Assuming I’m on drugs. They consider my uniqueness strange, While inflicting inhuman pain. Years of blood, sweat and tears, But still, I maintain. They call my language slang, My confidence conceited. My mistakes defeated, My anger parental mistreatment. To voice my concern is discontentment, When I stand up for myself, I’m defensive. I’m defiant if I don’t cooperate, I’m bombarded with modern day hate. My character under constant attack, They label me a maniac if I react or fight back. Who am I? A man, barefooted in black sand, Trying hard to be the best man I can…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Jayvon Bass submitted this piece for our spring contest, and although he did not win, we were impressed with his work, and hope he submits more. Jayvon can be contacted at: Jayvon Bass #1092697 Augusta Correctional Center 1821 Estaline Valley Road Craigsville, Virginia 24430
I’ve spent the last fifteen years in solitary confinement here in Texas. The ‘correctional model’ here is the punishment model. The school of thought being – by inflicting maximum suffering, maximum poverty, maximum humiliation, deprivation and pain, they can make the prison experience so shockingly traumatic and painful that the incarcerated individual will never want to return to this place and so alter their life to become an upright pillar of the community.
Rather – this correctional model creates monsters. Trust me – I know. This correctional model severely damages the weak
and vulnerable while exasperating mental illness. During my fifteen years in solitary,
I’ve seen numerous men lose their minds.
People who, when I met them, seemed relatively normal. A few years in the hole and they are ghosts –
shells of their former selves. There are those with such profound addiction
issues that they buy psych meds from prisoners who game the psych system and
consume them in toxic quantities to get ‘high’. After a few years of that, they are goners – never
the same again even if they quit the pills.
Meanwhile, the truly mentally ill, the schizophrenics who
are uncommunicative or simply talk to themselves, the manic depressives and
others, suffer in silence. As I write this, there is a schizophrenic a couple
cells away having an episode, shouting at apparitions, banging on the metal
table in his cell. It is 12:43 a.m. He takes no meds. The psych lady never visits him. Texas prisons are a wasteland for the mentally
ill. We’ve had three suicides in less than
three months in this building alone.
There exists a callous indifference to suffering here. Of
course, if you asked an official from the administrative side of things, they’d
lie to your face and tell you Texas doesn’t house mentally ill offenders in
solitary confinement. If you ask a guard
they’ll say, “Hell, they’re all crazy.”
Even inmates dismiss clear signs of mental illness, saying, “He ain’t crazy. If he’s got enough sense to get up for chow, he ain’t crazy.” Being hungry is a clear sign of sanity…
I once had a neighbor who smeared feces all over his hair – and worse. Trust me, you don’t want to know. We asked numerous times to have a psyche interview to get him out of here and to the psych unit. A lieutenant said, “He’ll just do the same thing there. What’s the difference?”
That kind of cynicism and indifference sums up many prison systems. Over the years I have come to believe that a large number of people are here as a result of either undiagnosed mental illness or poorly managed and self medicated mental illness. Some have behavioral, emotional or personality disorders that, while they don’t cross the threshold into mental illness, they nevertheless contribute to criminality.
The actual dynamic between mental illness and criminality is
a complex issue that is often fought over along ideological lines. It is made all the more complex by legal
issues, budget battles, a lack of political will, socio-cultural issues and a general
contempt for prisoners.
Each side of the conflict has valid positions, but what gets lost in the back and forth, I believe, is people’s humanity. As a long time prisoner with lots of time on my hands, I’ve thought of many ways prisons could be made into places of rehabilitation and healing. But the reality is daunting. People have to want to be rehabilitated and healed. They have to want to learn life skills, self reliance, and marketable job skills. They have to want to change for the better, while living in an environment that reinforces their belief that their life has no value. So… what do we do?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He only recently began submitting his work, and we are fortunate to be able to share his insight. Dalton can be contacted at: Dalton Collins #768733 Allred 2101 FM 369 N. Iowa Park, TX 76367
Friendships are pleasurable relationships that often stand the test of time. They are the sharing of ourselves and our innermost feelings with those whom we trust the most. Even cultivating them can be an everlasting treat, like a stroll down the candy aisle of life. However, just as sweets can be tasty yet terrible for our health, sometimes friends can do more harm than good.
It was a chilly Saturday morning in 1979 – I was five years old. The trailer we lived in was quiet, my mother buried beneath the covers after working a late shift. I poured a bowl of cereal and took my place before the television set, anticipating my favorite cartoons. Suddenly, familiar voices trickled in from outside – it was my older brother Ray, cousin Sam, and Kenny, a neighborhood friend. I dashed to the bedroom, slipped into some clothes and bolted out the door. The three of them were bunched together, walking steadily. Kenny spoke in a hushed tone while Sam and Ray listened. I eased into their group and kept quiet – they paid me little attention.
Their discussion was about the local tadpole pond, which
wasn’t much of a pond at all, but rather an abandoned foundation with busted
pipes that formed a humongous sinkhole.
We often passed by the vacant site on the way to the corner store, and
each time I guessed at the mysterious ripples in the water. Kenny let on that he and Sam were headed to
the pond to see a dog that drowned. Ray
was eight and impressionable – he would follow those two anywhere. After agreeing to join them, the trio set out
while I was tightly wound in their shadow.
We walked a short way before a voice called out and collared
me from behind, “Hey, ya’ll, wait up!”
It was Junior, a tubby, spirited kid from around the way who
had an enduring appetite for mischief. He
and I were friends, yet often turned rivals whenever my brother was around to
stir the competition. Only then did our
Big Wheel rides become fierce battles to the finish line or a game of marbles
end in a fight. Our spats never lasted long – Junior and I were usually back to
being pals before the turn of day. His
cheeks wobbled like cozy gelatin as he hustled to catch up to our party.
“Where ya’ll going?” he inquired.
“To the tadpole pond,” I answered.
We arrived at an enclosure and paused to take in the sights,
a quaint oasis of thriving vegetation at the edge of the trailer park. Incredibly dark waters swayed passively with the
morning breeze, glistening with the rising sun.
Kenny slipped through a breach in the fence, Sam and Ray soon followed. I was content to observe from beyond the
barrier until Junior squeezed through as well. I tucked my head and dipped past
the opening in the fence, fearful yet eerily excited.
We stood scattered around the water’s edge as the ever dreadful tadpole pond lay before us, polluted with trash and a sodden couch partially submerged at the center. Kenny pointed out a floating object that was fuzzy and swollen round. He then looked for something to fish out the carcass while Sam and Ray gathered rocks. Junior fixated on the water and began to inch forward – my curiosity willed me closer.
There were tadpole, tiny critters with long squirmy tails,
that flowed along the shallow end. I
squatted low until my reflection bounced back off the face of the water. It was the first time I’d ever seen a
tadpole.
“We need a can,” Junior proposed and disappeared behind me
to search for a container. Enthused by the idea of having a pet, I was toying around
with names when suddenly I was thrust forward and pitched into the water.
Like a phantom cutpurse, the chilling temperature stole my
breath away. I opened my mouth to yell,
but gurgled as the agony gushed in. My
head was a jumble of fear and confusion – frozen with the shocking reality that
I was cast beneath the mystery of the rippling pond – and I didn’t know how to
swim…
My jacket and denims became weighty with absorption, like
linen anchors wrapped around my limbs. Algae and other slush minerals surged down
my nostrils and set my lungs afire. I flailed about in a desperate fight against
the sinking madness until my wild kicks propelled me above the surface.
Water erupted from my mouth in a vicious spray as the scum fell away from my eyes. I saw my brother racing toward me.
“Help me, Ray!” I pleaded, splashing about to stay afloat until
the menacing hand of gravity pulled me under. I drew in a quick breath and held it tight
within as the world collapsed around me.
Slowly, I drifted down into the hazy unknown, kicking, screaming in my head for my mother. Again, my flapping elevated me, and I burst free from beneath the murky water. Ray shouted words, but they were lost in the frenzy. Kenny appeared and stretched out toward me.
“Ray!” I cried before my pleas were cut short by another
cruel descent into the black. Lashing
out in one final attempt to thwart my tragic end, I somehow grabbed a hold of
an object – it was a stick with Kenny holding the opposite end as he plucked me
from the horror.
I was drenched, shivering, and felt utterly defeated as I considered the dire possibilities. Sam peeled off my jacket and replaced it with his own while Kenny assured me that everything was okay. Ray held me tight, but said little as he busied himself with an explanation. And Junior – he was halfway up the block hightailing it for home.
Today, I saw Junior for the first time in twenty years. It was a thrilling moment to see how much he had changed, yet concerning for the troubles he faced. His thick, woolly dreadlocks dangled like tassels over eyes that drooped with sadness, while casting aside his ill-predicament to sympathize for my own. Junior’s trouble was life in prison, mine was the death penalty. It’s ironic how parallel our lives felt to that day at the tadpole pond. Still, the quiet agony was short lived and our jaded smiles reciprocated as we stared at one another through a Plexiglas divider and worked to repress our misery. I realized that Junior was my oldest of friends despite our childhood quarrels. It had been forty years since the tadpole pond, and even now we hurt for one another. For all the rivaling we did as kids, our friendship survived the chaos – even though he almost killed me, we’re friends all the same.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Robert Booker isn’t just any author of seven urban fiction novels. He’s bigger than that. He’s a symbol what can happen if we acknowledge the justice system is flawed, and we can do better.
I wrote about Booker in February, 2016, because he once had a life sentence with no possibility of parole – for a nonviolent crime. I sent him a copy of what I posted. He wrote back. The next thing I knew, he was publishing novels – six in the short time I’ve known him, with countless others yet to be published. He accomplished what many writers dream about with only a pencil and paper. And he did it, not expecting to get out any time soon.
Robert Booker isn’t an incarcerated author anymore. He’s a free author. He once inspired me to write about his unjust sentence – he now inspires me to write about what can happen when wrongs are made right. There is only one Robert Booker, as he would tell you, but there are others like him who deserve this same kind of chance.
Robert Booker went to prison June 29, 1994, but this week – he’s the picture of righting wrongs. He’s the picture of a man who is free thanks in good part to a commutation from President Obama and also the First Step Act.
I can’t wait to see what he does next, and I know I will return to this page often – just to watch this and remember what we’re doing right.
My Best Friends Are Behind Bars – that’s going to be the title of my book someday. And some of them are innocent…
I’m not naïve. I work
with a lot of people who have done a lot of bad things. They live with regret. Most of them did ‘something’. People get exonerated all the time though,
and statistically, it was bound to happen – I would find myself working with
some innocent people. What’s fascinating
– my innocent friends didn’t tell me
they were innocent. Our writing
relationships were the focus, but when my instincts tell me something doesn’t add
up, I want to know more.
This week I heard the federal government was going to resume
executing people. That news hurt my heart.
An attorney once told me during a discussion about the flaws in the
system, justice is like the highway.
People want to have highways even if they result in lives lost in auto
accidents. She explained it’s the same with
justice. People are willing to have our
system of control, even if we lose some people to the ‘mistakes’. Collateral damage.
I don’t see it that way – there’s no arguable need for the death
penalty. Every state, every country,
that executes – executes the innocent as well as the guilty. That’s just a fact. Is a ‘tough on crime’ stance worth the
mistakes when the mistakes are human lives?
One of my favorite writers, Terry Robinson, lives on Death Row. He’s never written about being innocent. After I came to realize he wasn’t capable of
what he was there for, I asked him why he didn’t openly speak of it. He told me he felt it would be disrespectful
to the victim of the crime he was incarcerated for to write about that. That’s the type of man he is. He has such a quiet dignity and respect for
others, I can think of no one who compares.
It’s because of that character I asked to see his transcripts. I got some clarity as I read. He was no angel, and he has never claimed to be. But the core of who he is was always there. The night of the crime, Mr. Robinson was ‘in the area’. He was black. Another individual who was arrested in connection to the murder said Mr. Robinson did it. That’s all it took. That individual is now living a free life.
When it came time for Mr. Robinson to present his defense, I was anxious to read that portion of the transcripts. I had read everything the prosecution laid out, and I thought there was a lot left unknown – not to mention DNA that wasn’t tied to anyone. I was anxious to hear what would be revealed during the next portion of the trial. I pictured myself, facing a death sentence, and how I would present everything possible, how I could call into question so many things that had been shared. He would surely tell of where he was and who he was with. He would contradict the key witness. After all – it was a trial that could result in a death sentence.
What I read next, stunned me. “Judge, we have consulted with the defendant,
and it’s his choice not to present evidence at this time.”
I had to reread it…
What?
The next time I spoke to Mr. Robinson, I asked, “So… You didn’t present any defense. Am I to understand that correctly? Why?”
He explained to me how his attorneys told him that if he
defended himself it would make him look guilty – so the defense presented
nothing.
What has me scratching my head in confusion will have him executed.
Terry Robinson was sentenced to death.
The individuals who had a hand in restarting the federal death machine would obtain the best legal representation available in a criminal case – because they have the means to do that. But – what about those who are a minority? What about those who are black and convicted in a southern state with all that we know goes hand in hand with that? What about those whose attorneys are appointed by the Court? There is an enormous difference between an attorney that is shopped for and one that is operating under a set fee by the courts while also carrying paying clients. If an attorney has paying clients – the court appointed cases go to the bottom of the stack. That’s reality.
Terry Robinson has so much character it can’t be covered up with a red Death Row jumpsuit. Mr. Robinson writes under the pen name Chanton. His essay, ‘Being Better’, which he wrote earlier this year, speaks of accidentally stealing forty dollars nearly two decades ago – and how he was driven to confess that mistake. ‘Duck’, Chanton, Terry, Mr. Robinson – is ‘collateral damage’.
It’s okay to say it – you are innocent. You have every right to say it. You are not the first person to be incarcerated for something you didn’t do. You are not the first person on Death Row to know you don’t belong there. There are other people who know you don’t belong there. Your previous mistakes in life don’t make you deserving of this. The loss that is the reason for this discussion is not diminished by you speaking truth. Truth is never a mistake. And the truth is – some innocent people live on death row, and may very well die there.
Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Anybody with information related to his case can contact me
at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be
confidential.
My house is one of heartache, A place of steel and stone. A barren cell, a home of Hell, And here I stand alone. When I rage, I pace my cage That no man Wants to own. Memories of free life Chill me to the bone. I hear them sling their giant keys Which crank the iron locks. Booted feet upon concrete, Guards patrol the blocks. Criminal’s knives take human lives, No jungle holds more danger. Each day that comes my way, I meet a new stranger. I watch my back, because there’s lack Of those who can be trusted. In this world of steel and stone, Bars that are all rusted. Home of men who are downtrodden, The world I live in now, The world of the forgotten…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Tom Landers sent this poem into our spring writing contest. Although it didn’t quite match the writing prompt for the contest – we still enjoyed his work and wanted to share it. Mr. Landers can be contacted at: Thomas Landers #124529 Housing Unit E3-10A Idaho St. Correctional Center P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
In Harris County, Texas, 1999, Charles Mamou was sentenced to death in a trial primarily focused on the testimony of a handful of drug dealers involved in the same drug deal, the strongest testimony coming from Mamou’s own cousin who testified Mamou confessed to him.
There were several factors the jury never heard regarding the
alleged ‘confession’.
When Terrence Dodson first heard police had contacted one of his relatives looking for him in connection to a capital murder case, he quickly told police his cousin, Chucky, had confessed to murdering and sexually assaulting the victim. Charles Mamou was arrested for kidnapping and murder.
Nearly a year later at trial, what the case lacked in physical evidence, it made up for in the ‘confession’, at times focusing on the sexual assault Terrence Dodson had described to police. The jury was never presented all the contradictions between Mr. Dodson’s original statement to police and his actual testimony at trial, including the location of Mamou when he supposedly confessed and also how he confessed. Those contradictions would have brought into question Dodson’s credibility and can be seen HERE.
The jury was also not shown the letter Dodson wrote to his cousin a month after he told police about the ‘confession’. In the letter Dodson said, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”
There was one more thing the jury never heard. Charles Mamou was never charged with rape, but it had a significant impact in his trial, so much so that several articles written about the crime indicate that Mamou raped or sexually assaulted the victim. The sexual assault was one facet of Terrence Dodson’s hour long video statement. Dodson described how Mamou confessed to a sexual assault several times and also testified to that during the trial. During Dodson’s testimony, Charles Mamou’s court appointed attorney and the prosecution never informed the jury that a rape kit was completed on the victim, including oral swabs.
When the prosecution was presenting their closing arguments, hoping to convince the jury of Mamou’s guilt and secure an execution, the jury was told, “He marches her to the back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis. Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen.” At the time they made this argument, they were aware of Terrence Dodson’s questionable credibility. They also knew the results from the rape kit, which stated, “No semen was detected on any items analyzed.”
Mamou’s own attorney never mentioned the results of the rape kit to the jury that was to decide his client’s fate.
Harris County, Texas, has sentenced more people to death than anyplace else in the country. Charles Mamou is one of those people. He maintains his innocence and is out of appeals and awaiting an execution date.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
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
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
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
