Sitting in a chapel with a fresh fifty year sentence, I remember thinking – ‘I can do that.’ The man behind the pulpit was sharing his story of redemption, a story I had heard repeated in one form or another countless times in this very chapel. Yet somehow, his story was different. He spoke of religious conversion and renewal of the mind as expected, but he also shared his pursuit of higher education, a pursuit he had started when he was incarcerated. I remember first thinking, ‘I can do that?’ Then, ‘I can do that!’ In that chapel I was learning simultaneously that college in prison was available, and college in prison was how I wanted to spend my time.
I left that service and immediately began to research how I was going to attend college in prison. I was quickly disappointed. My unit did not offer college and because of the length of my sentence it would be next to impossible to get transferred to a unit that did. But I refused to give up, I would not quit so easily. I had quit school, quit my family, and most every other thing I had done. Now, I would quit quitting.
I had dropped out of high school in the ninth grade and later earned a GED, but I knew nothing about college. I eventually found a correspondence program but later learned that its accreditation was worthless, the school was a diploma mill. I was back at square one, all the desire in the world, but no opportunity.
In 2011 opportunity finally presented itself, or so I thought. Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary was starting a fully accredited 4-year Bachelor of Science in biblical studies program. I was excited, then crushed. Once again, the length of my sentence made me ineligible. However, the criterion later changed, and in 2014 I was accepted into the Bachelor program. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done. Five classes a week for 4½ years, I read thousands of pages and wrote hundreds of others. I loved it! I graduated in 2018. My mom and sister watched me walk the stage. At that point, I believed my college days were behind me. I was at square one again, desire, but no opportunity. Texas had one Master Program, and guess what? I wasn’t eligible.
When I learned that the Pell Grant program would be expanded I grew optimistic. I obtained a Pell application, filled it out, and was granted Federal aid; however, once again, I learned that I wouldn’t be going to college. My prison did not have a Pell approved program, but I refused to quit. I located an accredited Master program, it was exactly what I wanted but affordable, and my family was agreeing to help. So once again, I am a college student.
It has been almost eighteen years since I sat in that chapel, and soon I will have earned a Master’s degree, though I have had to fight every step of the way. I believe one day I will earn my PhD. All I have to do is keep telling myself, ‘I can do that!’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. This is the first time that Michael Nobles has written for WITS. Michael is interested in prisoner advocacy as well as reform and wrote this essay to reflect the experience of residents within the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, often desiring educational opportunities but not being able to access them. Michael points out that the majority of people incarcerated in Texas will eventually be released, and the the higher their education level, the less likely they will return to prison. “It would seem to be in the best interests of public safety to provide more educational opportunities. Until those opportunities arrive, continue to tell yourselves, “I can do that.“
Michael can be contacted at: Michael Nobles #1372765 Coffield Unit P.O. Box 660400 Dallas, TX 75266-0400
NOTE: It has been the experience of WITS that since Texas began having all mail sent to Dallas for distribution that our mail is not always delivered, or it has taken several months for delivery. For that reason, we recommend Securus for contacting residents of Texas prisons.
Growing up, I never had a birthday party; a few gifts here and there, yes, but no festive gatherings over music and treats. The closest I’ve come to a birthday wish was helping my baby sister blow out the candles on her cake. To be clear, my mom celebrated me daily with her sacrifices. She was always buying us kids the things we wanted that she couldn’t afford. But when money is scarce and you’re a ‘December’ baby like me, birthday parties often come in close second to an abundant Christmas.
So, I would attend the party events of others with gift in hand, eager to dance, and with a tiny sparkle of envy in my eyes. Though they say, ‘you don’t miss what you never had,’ part of me still wanted people to eat, drink, and dance solely because I existed, but it just wasn’t in the cards for me to have a birthday party back then. It is also said, ‘things happen for a reason’, and for some reason my birthday party was meant to happen now.
It would be 49 years of trite birthdays before my fiftieth offered a time to remember. The morning began with well wishes from my fellow Death Row inmates, each showing up at my cell door with fist bumps and canteen treats. Then came what I thought was the surprise of the day posted on the wall, my name slotted for an 8:30 a.m. visit. I headed to visitation on the heels of suspicion with roving eyes leading the way.
Once there, I sat down in the booth, ecstatic about the pop-up surprise visit. It wasn’t long before I was greeted by two familiar faces, though I was surprised to see them together for the first time. It was my mother, along with a very close friend; women who, throughout the years, have carried me over the threshold of surviving Death Row with unending love and support. They arrived with a festive gleam in their eyes, their energy bursting like fireworks, bright and exciting. Their hearty voices were music pouring through the speaker box to which I danced away to the melodies in my head. Their smiles were sweet as icing on the most lavish birthday cake, glistening with a thousand candles; way too many for my fifty years, but they were making up for lost time. And, they’d brought with them yet another surprise, gifting me the invitation to reach out to another supporter of mine, the one and only Jason Flom, through a phone call. I’d come to know about Jason from a previous interview he’d given regarding his stance on Criminal Justice Reform. Since then, he’d contributed in the fight against my own wrongful conviction – and now I was given the chance to thank him.
Visitation ended, and I scurried back to Death Row, excited to make the call. The phone rang on one end while I stilled my nerves on the other, fighting back the anxiety that would make my voice quiver. Jason answered with the poise of someone born to greet people, “Hello.”
It was all I could do not to shrink at the thought of his status; he was Jason Flom, music extraordinaire, but I was somebody too. I began talking without much thought, the gratitude bursting from my mouth like party confetti. It was more than his contributions to my case alone but his passion for systemic change that earned my admiration. I was just revving up the praise when Jason let on that he wasn’t alone and was in the company of another person.
“Her father made a name for himself in the boxing world. You might’ve heard of him… Muhammad Ali?” He then introduced me to Khalia Ali over the phone and told her of my special day.
I heard her voice chime, “Hi Terry. Happy Birthday.”
I gasped when I realized I was on the phone with the daughter of my hero, Muhammad Ali. I’d read countless books on him and seen several documentaries on his plight throughout America’s racial disparity. And now his daughter was wishing me a happy birthday, although all I heard was, “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. Rumble young man, rumble…aahh!”
My spirit abandoned my body long enough to race through the prison halls yelling, “Muhammad Ali’s daughter just wished me a happy birthday!”
On the phone however, I gathered my composure and thanked her for the shout out; it was more of a birthday gift than I could’ve hoped for. Jason then pitched the notion to visit me here on Death Row. I knew the possibility was unlikely with the visitation approval process here slow and meticulous, but I didn’t have the nerve to disappoint him, so I didn’t express my certainty that it likely could not happen.
I had not fully accounted for the tenacity of those supporting me though, and by the end of the week and after all of the prison’s policies and procedures were followed, Jason and Khalia were approved. I was up that Saturday morning early enough to rouse the sun awake. I paced wall-to-wall in the quiet of my cell. Today was the big day. Though it was approved, my visit with Jason and Khalia was still in limbo – yet nothing could smother my excitement. It was nerve wracking all the same, as I watched other Death Row men escorted to visitation without me.
Suddenly, my name was called, and I pressed on to visitation taking two steps to the C/O ‘s one. I kept sorting through the validation of my own worth along the way, that two such notable people would come to visit me. Once there, I waited in the excruciating seconds as my confidence began to falter. I chanted reggae songs to keep me company while soothing the raging doubt. Before long, the elevator opened and two visitors stepped out enveloped in the air of excellence. I recognized the height, glasses, and salt & pepper hair of Jason from his interview; Khalia bore the striking resemblance of her father. They swept through the door into the booth where I waited like titans in designer threads, yet with the humility about them to dismiss the tight quarters, dismal lighting, the grit and grime. Khalia waved affectionately before taking a seat with a smile that brightened the room as Jason plopped down on the stool next to her, weary from the rush of a last minute drive.
We exchanged pleasantries as though seemingly unbothered by having to talk to one another through reinforced glass. When we spoke, Jason’s every word was teeming with genuine concern for the injustice I’d suffered for so long. I spoke about the events that led to my false imprisonment and my struggle on Death Row while Jason occasionally coursed his fingers through his hair, adjusted his glasses but said nothing – he was a good listener. Khalia peered on with the keenness of her legendary father, her eyes trained to study every movement, whether friend or foe. Together they would make a formidable pair for whatever cause they championed. I was just glad they were on my side. At times, they asked poignant questions about my case, other times they wanted to know about my family. I soon saw them no longer as A-listers but merely influential people who cared enough to want to right wrongs.
Jason slid on his jacket when the visit was over, gearing up to fight injustice elsewhere. They were off to attend a rally for another wrongfully convicted man; yep, injustice, too, is an epidemic. Jason popped up from the stool, pressed his fist to the glass, and said, “I’ll see you on this side of the glass soon.”
Somehow it made it more real when he said it, and for a brief second I was free. Khalia rose with the gusto of someone who was a champion in her own right. I realized then I hadn’t mentioned her dad’s name once. I didn’t have to… her exploits were equally as impressive. The two of them made for the elevator as Jason pumped his fist and Khalia blew kisses goodbye. Afterwards I sat alone again, except now I felt accompanied by the spirit of a wonderful experience.
Later, while in my cell, I replayed such an eventful week, comparing it to birthdays of the past. People had gathered in my honor. There was music and gifts and the dancing of my own soul. And though my time with Jason and Khalia happened unexpectedly, still it was a wish come true as I’ve now realized the best wishes are sometimes those we never wished for at all.
It would take fifty years, but I’ve had that birthday party. It wasn’t a traditional celebration, but mine was unique and fulfilling. Not to discount my other forty-nine birthdays, because they were special in their own way, but this year’s party was a long time coming and well worth the wait.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful that Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven in the not too distant future and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This literally came to me in a dream – I feel like God told me to write this song.
When I heard about Jesus, God’s promise of a new start, I found the joy I had hunted could be a sun in my heart.
I heard this song in a dream, got up in the middle of night, and wept as I started writing because I knew it was right.
When I found out about Jesus something leapt inside my heart; I found the joy I was hunting had hunted me from the start!
I had looked for joy at parties, but it wasn’t found in music, neither did I find joy’s secret when I searched all of my friends.
But then I found my Savior, unlocking the Source in my heart, and learned the joy I’d hunted had been calling out from the start!
I used to think joy was dollars, but greed is never content, so I worked harder and harder – thank God, we know how this ends!
I finally accepted Jesus, it wasn’t too late to start; now joy is blinding inside me, now I have a sun for a heart!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson never stops creating. He is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am always grateful to share his work. George is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion, and he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Not too long ago, George reached out to share this song with me, having it shared with him in a dream. In his dream, George was sitting at a table writing in a composition notebook when he was visited by an angel who shared with him the title, I Was Looking For Joy. When he woke, George knew he was meant to write the song he had sang with the angel who had visited in his dreams.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
This is the club’s first non-fiction selection, and if you would like to join, we will be starting Killing The Mob: The Fight Against Organized Crime In Americaby Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugard in January. This is a definite change in direction by the club, and I am curious to hear the reviews when they are done.
Arizona’s most recent read, The Girl With All The Gifts by M.R. Carey, was listed on the Amazon Editor’s Pick list for Best Science Fiction & Fantasy for December, with a 4.3 rating, but the book itself had mixed reviews from our club, with an average of 3.4 stars.
The ending seems to have caught all the readers off guard, with Carlos Sigala calling it “unpredictable” and Victor McKaney saying he “didn’t fathom it at all”. Only one reader indicated that they would not read any more work by this author, but the others felt differently, each saying they would read works by M.R. Carey again.
“I enjoyed the writing and the book as a whole. I would read more books by this author because I like her story telling.” – Isaac Molina “I enjoyed the style, I couldn’t put the book down.” – Carlos Sigala “I won’t read any of this author’s future books.” – Victor McKaney
“Duck, son, you need to learn to make your own way in this world,” my mother said as she walked me outside to the storage bin of our apartment, pulling the key out of her pocket. We lived in the projects, and inside that bin was the lawn mower my mom had purchased straight from Heilig-Myers furniture store, shelling out a bunch of money for a device that until now, she had forbidden us kids to fool around with. Yet there she stood, tapping her foot on the ground to the beat of anticipation as she eyed the mower, urging my nine-year-old self on with a curt nod of her chin.
I had never cut grass on my own before, but her steely confidence in me felt too good to pass up. Every other time I’d dug around in the storage bin it had been to retrieve my BMX bike, now I was digging for principle. I pulled the handlebar of the machine and the wheels followed, freeing the mower from the cluster until it was fully in my hands and invoking in me the sense of a qualified grass cutter. Though I’d yet to cut a single strand, I was buzzing with excitement as I yanked back the rip cord and braced myself for the wailing churn of the motor.
With her hands cocked on her hips and a stern crease on her brow, my mother waited patiently, and I set about mowing our lawn for the first time. I felt her studious watch as I walked our lawn, returning to her when I was done for a bit of doting praise, but instead she said, “Now, go knock in Ms. Maggie’s door and ask her does she want her grass cut.”
Ms. Maggie was our elderly neighbor who kept company most days with her TV soaps while the wild grass grew around her apartment, a haven for garden snakes and ticks. I strolled up the walkway and rapped on the screen door with my most earnest grass cutter face, my chest tight with the weighty responsibility of performing the task without guidance. Ms. Maggie appeared in her house robe and slippers, hair rollers bulging under her silk head scarf, and the TV remote attached to her hand like a prosthetic clicker. I was hired with the go-ahead nod and got straight to work on her lawn, discovering new techniques along the way like how to tilt the mower upward to avoid stalling the blades and checking underneath stones for critters. I pulled invasive weeds by hand along her zestful garden, as I reckoned a mishap there would earn me a good fussing. Once done, Ms. Maggie took a break from her regularly scheduled program to thank me with a $5 bill.
I sauntered home with the money in hand and covered in grassy debris where my mother received me with a cheeky grin and said, “That money’s yours. You worked for it, you keep it. Now look over there at that grass in Ms. Julia’s yard. And don’t forget you’ll need some gas.”
She was right – I would need more gas, $2 worth to fill up the tank. I was left with $3 and another lawn to mow; I was investing in myself.
I headed to the convenience store across the street and pumped regular unleaded fuel into my plastic container. Then I carried my equipment over to Ms. Julia’s door where I got cookies and again, the nod. I mowed from the outer perimeter inward towards the porch to keep from recutting the disposable grass bits. I wound the water hose up around the clothes line post and skirted the sewer grates with their protruding bolts. It was an hour-long job that earned me another $5 and a bi-weekly contract. I mowed two more lawns that day and made $9, but what I came home with was something worth more than currency.
I returned the mower to the storage bin feeling like I’d done something more worthwhile than wasting away the summer morning watching cartoons. I walked into the house where my mother was at the kitchen stove with a spatula in hand and a lesson on her lips. “Ya see, ain’t nothing you can’t have in this world, Duck, if you’re willing to work for it. Now go on in there and wash that gunk off you. And put that money up somewhere.”
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful that Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven in the not too distant future and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
I found myself at a crossroads – not at an intersection but the grassy median dividing the north and south bound lanes of highway 29 in Greensboro, North Carolina. It was summer, and though traffic was heavy that sunny Sunday morning, it flowed along at the marked 55 mph, and I stood beside the u-turn lane that cut into the median smacking the bottom end of a fresh pack of Marlboros into my palm, contemplating my life – and the possibility of ending it. Things can literally change overnight.
At the time, my ex-girlfriend and I were expecting a baby, I was working long hours at a low wage job, and I didn’t have a place or a car of my own. Though I’d bitten off more life than my eighteen-year-old self could chew, until that point I’d somehow managed. But just the day before, I’d received a call from a friend I’d not heard from in over a year. He wanted to hangout, so we drank beer and ate pizza at the nearby apartment he shared with his girlfriend. It seemed like he was getting his life together, and it was good to catch up.
Before long, his neighbor came over and we all talked for a while, the conversation eventually turning to drugs. The neighbor told of a crack dealer he knew who sold ‘double-ups’, meaning spend $20, get $40 worth of dope. The conversation got me to thinking. I needed more money than my paycheck brought in, and I knew a dope house in the trailer park where my mother lived. I could buy $100 worth of crack, sell it in a couple hours and profit a hundred. I was all in.
The three of us drove to nearby project housing, and I handed the neighbor a Benjamin. He disappeared inside, and upon his return he handed me a knotted sandwich bag with 10 small, yellowish rocks inside. Feeling like I’d gotten a good deal, we returned to my friend’s apartment to finish our beer and pizza. The neighbor asked if I minded breaking off a small piece of dope for him. I gave him a rock figuring what the hell – I’d still make a $80 profit. In the drug world, when someone scores for you, you turn them on. He broke the rock into smaller pieces and after smoking one, placed another on his pipe and offered it to me. That one rock turned into all ten, and soon we were on our way back to the dope man’s apartment.
The process repeated itself all night until we were broke and discussing how we could come up with more money. The neighbor mentioned a 24-hour convenience store down the road, and driven by the overwhelming desire for more cocaine, we jumped into the car and sped past all common sense and logic. After blowing through several moral stop signs, we pulled around back of the store and waited for the lone customer to leave before running inside and robbing the place of $43 and change. We then drove around until sunrise looking to buy more drugs until my friend finally dropped me off at home. Stepping from his car, I closed the door with a simple “alright,” wishing I’d never answered the phone and hoping I’d never see him again.
Hours later, I zigzagged across the busy highway to buy a pack of smokes, and that’s how I came to be in that grassy median, replaying the horrible things I’d done only hours before, not recognizing who I’d become. Having made it across the few lanes of southbound traffic, I was unsure if I wanted to survive the northbound lanes.
“Hey!” a loud voice interrupted my thoughts. There were no people in the middle of the highway so I was confused until I heard it again, “Hey man!”
I turned to see a two-tone brown 280-Z stopped in the u-turn lane a couple feet away. Worrying I would get something thrown at me or that the stranger was up to some other form of no-good, I cautiously leaned down to look into the car. The driver was a Black man with a large bottle of beer in his hand. I must’ve been giving off some strong suicidal vibes and had body language looking as low as I felt because he said, “Keep your head up. Things are going to get better.”
Stunned, I thanked him and right then he found a break in traffic, completed his u-turn, and headed north as nonchalantly as if he did that every day, driving around saving lives. As his words seeped in, my chin lifted and my back straightened. Finding my own break in traffic, I carefully made my way across the three lanes toward home.
He was right. Things did get better for a time, and in the 26 years since, whenever I’m feeling down and not sure I can go on, I remind myself of those words spoken by a stranger in a strange place, and I once again carefully navigate life’s traffic, determined to reach the other side.
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission to WITS by Jason Hurst, and after reading this piece, my initial thoughts are that Jason has a natural creativity, articulating his experience in a descriptive way that feels natural and comfortable to the reader, not contrived or forced at all. I am glad he has chosen to submit to WITS and this body of work. Jason can be contacted at:
Jason Hurst #0509565 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Daily, I am faced with various degrees of hatred and hostility. Anger and aggression are as normal a salutation as any, while mean mugs, ice grills, and screw faces are merely grotesque masks worn to disguise the fragility of the tormented souls hidden beneath. Tension remains tangible and paired with an air of animosity and malice. The gift of new life seems more so burden than blessing when you awake another morning trapped in a lion’s den.
Here, in society’s pit of despair are cast the wretched, forlorn, and forsaken, thirsting for hope, longing for love. Time here is measured by dry cries and tears of sand captured in a bottomless hourglass. Although surrounded by men, I stand alone in corridors littered with broken spirits, blackened hearts, and tarnished dreams. This is what life is like, trapped in a lion’s den.
To escape my fate, I seek retreat in a weekly bible study led by a courageous volunteer from the outside, one willing to wade through suffering and sorrow bearing the weight of our collective anguish just to deliver ‘the good news’. Our mighty messenger is a beautiful, daintily built, 76-year-old motherly woman named Ms. Joyce. This tiny five-foot giant slayer marches in every Tuesday armed with a welcoming smile, warm eyes, and the word of God.
It is here, in the midst of this gentle spirit, that I am able to find rest as she sings, teaches and ministers from her well of wisdom and experience. More often than not, this is the most peaceful place within this morbidly wrought dungeon. Sometimes I wonder why she even visits such a sordid place, surrounded by murderers, thieves, conmen and worse. Then I remember, its her ‘Christian duty’. I am also certain she could serve that duty elsewhere – schools, hospitals, etc. – yet, Ms. Joyce finds it in her heart to remember some of society’s least mentionable, those bound in prison.
At times, I watch in awe as she listens intently to the stories, problems and fears of men who have committed some of the most heinous acts imaginable. Then, without judgement, she gives her best motherly and spiritual advice, hoping to comfort and correct those aching and misguided souls.
And, yes, there are times when the dubious enter the midst, bringing mischievous distractions, whether intentional or not. But Ms. Joyce lends them the same respectful, sincere ear and advice. Sometimes, she also lends a sweet, sugar-coated scolding that brings a sense of humility to the simple and silly.
My favorite memory of Ms. Joyce took place one day before closing a study group. She began singing, “I get joy when I think about… what He’s done for me…”
After singing through the chorus by herself, she stopped and said, “Okay, guys, now your turn.”
Once again, Ms. Joyce began singing, but unfortunately, she was still all on her own; not a soul joined in. Ms. Joyce stopped again and said, “Okay, guys, now your turn.”
The words were spoken a bit more stern; sort of motherly plea and demand. Then Ms. Joyce cranked up again, “I get joy when I think about… what He’s done for me…”
This time she got her results. There was no way I could disappoint Ms. Joyce, so I joined in; and when I looked around, to my surprise, almost twenty cold, hardened criminals were either singing or attempting to sing about the joy they had found.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Carter is a thoughtful and talented writer. This piece was included in the November, 2023, newsletter and although it did not place in our most recent contest, was chosen as first by some of the judges. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, though opportunities are few where he is currently at and in his current situation. He continues to write and work on positive endeavors and is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.
Upon arrival in prison, one is met by disdain and contempt from all sides. Among your new neighbors this may be because of the type of crime you committed, friends or family of the victims, the gang or people you associate with, the way you look, how you talk, or something as simple as how you breathe. Among the administrative staff, it is simply because you have committed a crime, and they have been vested with control over your life. And within this new world often exists a mentality of merciless anger, brutality, hatefulness and manipulation. Here, compassion can be scarce. However, in my thirty-three years of doing time, I have never been enriched like I have been from getting to know two gentlemen here – Richard Nelson and Ross Thornton. They defy the traditional prison mentality.
Ross Thronton is a 52-year-old man serving a life sentence. He has been working in the kitchen dish room for as long as I have known him, which has been about twelve years. He spends the first ten to twelve hours of each day overseeing the orderly running of all the equipment in the dish room, and he trains each person how to do their job with integrity, precision and a good attitude. I find Brother Ross extraordinary, not only because of his commitment to what many consider an unflattering job, but also for what he does every day before, during and after working his shift – serving the elderly population.
Brother Ross takes time throughout his day to pick up many of the elderly men’s clothes, help them to and from the shower, clean their cells when needed, walk them to the chow hall, get their trays and eat with them. He sits on benches and provides companionship to a segment of the prison population that is often overlooked. He makes them feel valued, respected and loved. His prayer requests are always selfless. We have been praying over them for eight years and have never read one requesting a prayer for himself.
And then there is Brother Richard Nelson, a 79-year-old man also serving a life sentence. He works in the cellhouse and goes about his job of cleaning, restocking supplies (which consists of carrying a very large box of toilet paper holding 96 rolls), and also helping people in any way that they need. He is the type of man who will walk by, hear you expressing a need, and if he is able, he will fulfill it. It makes no difference whether he knows you or not. Race, age, religious affiliations, etc., none of it matters – other than what you need.
I find Brother Nelson extraordinary not only because of his selflessness, but he also has the uncanny ability to make sure people know they are not forgotten. Brother Nelson can be seen on many days delivering birthday cards all over the cellhouse. He finds out people’s birthdays, writes them down, and then he either draws or has cards drawn. The front covers consist of the good qualities God created in you, why you are valuable, and the personal nickname God has given you! Then he sends three months’ worth of cards through his Incarcerated Individual Network to be signed by his friends as well as yours. How he finds out your birthday and who your friends are remains a mystery. All I know is, you come in from work or the yard and there is a birthday card on your bed.
These two men have taught me how to love unconditionally by the way they live. They never seek recognition. They never brag about anything they do or the help they give. They simply live their best prison life making prison life better for others. I would never have become friends with them for so many shallow reasons, but meeting them through the church helped me understand a particular scripture – Hebrews 13:12. “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”
Ross Thornton and Richard Nelson raised the bar for me. They became the human paradigms that elevated the way I serve. I see them as two people I entertained and learned they were Angels.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Michael Blackwell is not only new to WITS, he is also the First Place Winner in our recent writing contest! I am always glad to hear from new writers, and as this writing family grows, the insight shared here grows. I hope Mr. Blackwell continues to write, and I hope he shares more with us in the future. He can be contacted at:
Michael E. Blackwell #0060156 Fort Dodge Corectional Facility – 1114 P.O. Box 96777 Las Vegas, NV 89193
Throughout much of my life I struggled with the concept of what “love” is. From an early age the very people that were supposed to love and protect me harmed me or put themselves ahead of my well being. To conceal the pain of isolation, I became a master of disguise, wearing masks to fit in with others. Sadly, I found my place drowning in an abyss of other broken souls much like myself… after thirty-five years of incarceration, I had forgotten what love actually was. I managed to survive a life of imprisonment by not feeling my connection to the humanity around me.
Then the prison I am housed at announced they would be bringing a Service Dog Training Program to the facility. I hadn’t seen nor touched a dog in over two decades, nor had I ever had a dog of my own growing up, though I envied the boys in my neighborhood who did. But, I was excited and wanted to be a part of something that felt outside of prison, something that had nothing to do with the coldness of concrete walls and steel doors. I simply wanted to feel again after years of hiding behind pain.
With the help of the facility Captain, I was able to name the dog I was assigned, a twelve-week-old yellow labrador retriever. ‘Delta’ seemed fitting, and shortly after he would become the face of the dog program here on D-facility. The moment I held him in my arms I began to feel things I had been longing to feel but could not say out loud. The walls, the very walls that kept me from connecting with others around me, began to crumble.
I sat in my prison cell that first night with tears streaming down my face. Here I was, convicted of first degree murder for taking the life of another human being, now responsible for the well being of this amazing creature. I was instantly humbled by the experience and what was to come in the three years that followed.
Delta became one of the top Warrior Support Dogs in the program, and through our time together he taught me how to love and be loved. The men who took this journey alongside me, raising dogs of their own to be of service to veterans and first responders in the community suffering from PTSD, allowed me to see a side of them that most men continue to hide within these walls. In the end, I gained a family of men that showed their love, kindness, trust, and patience with me as their team leader, as well as their commitment to love their dogs.
My fondest memories, despite being bittersweet, were of the dogs going out into the community following graduation. Together, we watched like proud parents as a dog would graduate and together we hugged and cried, no longer able to hide our emotions from one another. If that is not love, love for self and another human being, I don’t think I will ever experience it while incarcerated.
Delta now resides with a wonderful service vet couple where he has lived since graduating a year and a half ago. I still carry with me all the things he taught me, most of all how to love others with acts of kindness, rather than deprive myself of the beautiful opportunities that come with being a part of something remarkable in another person’s life. My greatest reward is that I can actually feel again… and I’m not afraid to do so.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Keith is an amazing writer as well as artist, and his has been a frequent contributor since he started writing for WITS. He also placed third in our recent writing contest.
Keith does much more than write though. He is tireless in his drive to support other individuals on their path to reform. He consistantly supports others, encouraging and uplifting everyone around him. He is currently working on a book project with the intention to support troubled youth. He has inspired another yard at his facility to write. He is facilitating and helping to organize a presentation at his facility. And this is just to name a few things he is busy with.
Keith Erickson has acted as the Chief Editor of the 4Paws Newsletter, he has earned an Associates Degree in Behavioral Science, and was also the illustrator of the GOGI Life Tools Coloring Book. Keith works during the day and facilitates programs in the evenings. He also hopes to have access to pursuing his Bachelor’s degree in the future. Finally, he has also generiously donated his third prize to supporting youth.
To hear more of Keith’s story in his words, listen to his Prison POD podcast.
Keith Erickson can be contacted at: Keith Erickson #E-74907 Pleasant Valley State Prison D-5-225 Low P.O. Box 8500 Coalinga, CA 93210
