I love people.  They’re interesting, different, entertaining, and at times – frustrating.  Over the last 9,136 days of being monitored, tested, and prodded – I’ve also had the opportunity to observe those doing the surveillance  – the Correctional Officers.

I’m going to step on some toes, but I’ve been known to do that.  I will not call them ‘guards’ or ‘bosses’ or whatever else has been handed down over the years.  Everyone deserves respect.  We all start this life at the same place after all.  That is until someone decides – for whatever reason – they should be in charge.  Some are born to lead, some to follow, and some, unfortunately, should get the hell out of the way.

I know absolutely no one – I repeat, no one – who stood up in the third grade after being asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up, Matty?” and replied with enthusiasm, “A prison guard!”

That’s just not reality.  We wanted to be astronauts, firemen, nurses, soldiers, pilots, mechanics, cowboys, and last but not least, police officers.

I was fortunate to be raised by a father who was ex-Army, his two brothers Navy and Air Force.  All military service members, past and present, have my undying support and respect for their service and dedication.  Some of my friends, before I came to this place, were police officers. The same respect is extended to them.

Sometimes, though, you have to hang up the cleats and walk away.  That means, when you’re military or police career is over, you should move on – there are others waiting to fill your shoes.  You deserve to relax, have a few drinks, kick up your feet and enjoy life.

However, the prison systems of this country are so full, there’s a shortage of officers to supervise us.  At the top of the list of candidates for these jobs are ex-military, ex-police, ex-security guards – you might see where I’m going with this.  Then its junior college or college students who cannot, for whatever reason, continue their academic endeavors to get their degree.  The curve continues to decline from there.

Ex-military, usually, are the easiest to deal with, especially the older military, those who put in more than their four years. Everything is about order, respect, loyalty, trust – they recognize these things, because it’s been instilled in them. They’re no-nonsense kind of guys. They don’t take shit, and they don’t dish any out.  They put on their boots, come to work, do their 12 hour shift, and turn a blind eye to the extra pair of dirty boxers, the rubber band or the paperclip you might possess. They’re quiet, alert, peaceful, and sometimes even humorous individuals.

But I’ve met a few badasses…  These guys more likely spent their four years stateside and hoped to get out and join law enforcement but couldn’t.  They aren’t ready to let go. They – even though they’ve never charged up Hamburger Hill (but have ordered a few in their time), always show up to work with their perfect military haircut and Army-Navy store cargo pants adorned with zippers and secret pockets.  They arrive armed with every paramilitary gadget known to man – laser pointer, helmet headlight, mini Maglite, pen attached to a retractable chain release, water bottle holder, empty holster (even though you can’t possess a firearm inside the perimeter), and gas canister holster – casebook  in hand, and at the ready.

Weekend warriors don’t even own this much shit.  Hell, the state militia doesn’t own this much shit.   They arrive in their Range Rover’s, Humvee’s, and Monster Trucks, kicking up dust as they pull into the parking lot, their sound systems blasting.  They emerge from their vehicles with their high-fives and let’s go kick some butt attitudes to start their shift.  Within twenty months the parking lot is so deep in male testosterone you can actually swim in it.

What’s important to note is – this facility, for all intents and purposes, should apply for a nursing home license.  Most inmates couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.

The ex-police officers turned correctional officers are less testosterone driven. They’ve actually spent some time on the front lines. They know how badly things can turn ugly in the snap of your fingers. They’re pretty laid-back, more reserved, less likely to overreact.

Then there are the criminal justice majors.  They show up, and when they realized the error of their ways, usually depart within a couple of years.  The wiser ones quit before they even complete the Academy.

Then there are all the others, a melting pot of individuals, some okay some not so okay.   Others are downright frightening, due to the fact that they were but moments away from a felony conviction themselves before they were hired into the world of free money, long hours and constant turmoil.

Mr. George Beto, an ex-warden and ex-director of the prison system said it best in an interview.  He was asked – if he could let any offender go that he wished, who would it be?

His answer, “Well, if I had my way, I figure about 80% I could let go without any trouble, but the problem with that is, I’d have to let go 80% of the guards, and they’re more dangerous than the inmates.”

Not all correctional officers are bad. I’m not saying that at all. I have enough words in my mouth without anyone putting more in there.  But it is what it is, and until we quit paying for new prisons and maybe start to use that money for things likes books – it will stay that way.  The way to eliminate ignorance is education.

Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

One man forgotten
To all but those who carry
The scars of his pain.

Like trash, men’s futures
Litter the fractured asphalt
Of the prison yard.

I can feel your pain.
I can see it as clear as
The tears in your eyes.

His madness had an
Aura of resignation.
Even broken breaks.

When you were alive
I took your love for granted.
How I miss you so.

When I bite my nails
I taste the dried blood of the
Friend whom I betrayed.

Why do I feel like
I’m living out of habit?
I need to kick this.

A man’s life is weighed
Against another’s sorrow
On the scales of fate.

Percocets, hot tea:
The breakfast of champions
And losers alike.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and a welcome contributor.  His poetry is strong not only in word, but also in structure.

Robert can be reached at:
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370

Okay, I’m a sucker – especially for Girl Scout Cookies.  There are worse things, right?

Rewind back to 1989. I was 29 years old, had a family, was gainfully employed, and had a foothold on a music career that was more love than dream.  It was mid-summer, and I was alone and recording vocals in my makeshift home studio.

The doorbell rang.

That’s not so unusual, door bells ring all around the world, right?  Just not in the middle of East Texas on a hot July day, twelve miles from the nearest town, and not on a Saturday.  I was dressed in army camo pants that were cut off at the knees, a Def Leppard t-shirt and worn tennis shoes.  My hair looked like something from a Broadway production of Rocky Horror Picture Show, I had a half bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a red Fender Stratocaster in the other.   I answered the bell.

Standing on the other side of the door were two of the cutest Girl Scouts I had ever seen – selling Girl Scout cookies, their mother behind them waiting patiently in the car.  When the girls, who looked to be about 10 to 12 years of age, got a full look at me their jaws dropped open.

“Hello.  Kinda hot to be selling cookies isn’t it?” I asked.

The oldest stepped forward, “Yes, but it’s for a good cause, and we’ve only sold 10 boxes today.”

The younger, apparently braver than her business partner, spoke up as she eyed me curiously, “Are you a rock star?”

“No,” I said – adding to myself, not yet.  At 29, if you haven’t made it yet, there is about a 2% chance you will. That’s why I was writing and recording demos and not out all over Texas trying to be discovered.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?”

“Sure, how many do you need to sell to meet your goal?” I asked before taking a swig of Gatorade.

“I don’t know, let me ask my mom,” said the youngest.

While we waited for her return, the oldest asked, “Can you play? You look like you can.”

I turned the volume control up and ripped through five arpeggios like a gunfighter.

“Wow,” was all she said.

The youngest member of Girl Scouts ‘R’ Us came back and said, “We need to sell sixty more boxes before we order on Friday.”

“What flavors do you have?” I asked.   It really didn’t matter, I was going for broke anyway.

“We have mint, oatmeal, chocolate chip, and we have shortbread, but they’re yucky.”

“I’ll take fifty boxes of the mint,” I said as casually as I could, thinking, ‘my wife is going to kill me’.  But that many cookies goes a long way.  I wouldn’t have to buy cookies for six months.

The girl looked at me like I’d just given her the Brooklyn Bridge.  “Fifty boxes…” she stammered.

I just wrote the check out and handed it to her.

I love Girl Scout Cookies. What can I say?

Their mother got out of the car and walked up on the porch. When the girls showed her the order, she said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Yes, yes I did. And I’d do it again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He wishes he could buy Girl Scout Cookies in prison.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

I’ll never forget that summer day in ‘78 when my childhood innocence was shattered.  I was four, the sun was out, and my only interest was in candy and fun. We lived in Mary Ellis trailer park, a scant neighborhood on the lower eastside of town. Everyone was treated like family in Mary Ellis. Even the insurance guy and the mailman were often shown hospitality.  It was a fine community to grow up in – until that day when everything changed.

I was playing in the yard with my cousin, Teeka, when my urge for sweets kicked in. My mom was at my Aunt Helen’s trailer, a few lots down, while another aunt of mine babysat us. Teeka was four also and convincing her to sneak away was never difficult.  Our capers were usually performed as a duo.

We started out for Ms. Rolee’s, a nearby elderly woman who sold penny candy and cookies to the neighborhood kids.  Though Ms. Rolee wasn’t home, my sugar cravings went undeterred.  Try-Me-Foods was a bodega located across the roadway that supplied people in the neighborhood with second-rate groceries on credit. Even though I was forbidden by my mom from crossing the busy street while unsupervised, I still set my sights there. Teeka and I scampered over to Try-Me-Foods, traded our coins for tarts and darted back. Once safely across, we considered the candy evidence and tore into the wrappers with our teeth.

Suddenly, a loud pop rang out and reverberated throughout Mary Ellis.  Startled by the unexpectedness of the sound, our steps came to a halt.  Teeka’s sparkly hazel eyes dimmed with fright as she clutched my hand tight.  I’d heard a car backfire before, which sounded similar. I was about to explain the noise to Teeka when a series of rapid pops bellowed out.  That was no mechanical hiccup.

I took off running with Teeka in tow as she did her best to keep up. Such a volatile sequence gave the clear indication of danger and left me concerned for my mom.  Only when we arrived at Aunt Helen’s trailer did Teeka and I break speed.  That’s when I saw Uncle Jimmy, Helen’s estranged husband, behind the wheel of his blue Chevy Nova. Whirling tires spat dust and gravel as he backed the manic machine into the street and barely avoided smashing a parked car. His chestnut skin glistened with perspiration while franticness hardened his face.  As Uncle Jimmy scoured for an escape, I thought to wave goodbye.

Just as quickly, I was reminded of the concern for my mother, and I pushed Uncle Jimmy’s hazardous departure aside.  I turned to the trailer.  On busted hinges, the door hung ajar while the sounds of faint soul music and whimpers drifted from within.  I climbed the steps, stretched out my hand and opened the door wider.

Lying on his back, head first, was Curtis, a family friend who courted Aunt Helen.  A dapper man with tinted shades and neatly trimmed afro, I was accustomed to seeing Curtis often.  He would toss me high above his head, catch me in his arms, then say that I was his main man.  I liked Curtis, particularly because I was always tallest when in his arms.

But now Curtis wasn’t standing, all smiles and ready to hoist me in the air. His afro was pushed aside in a disheveled heap while a pool of crimson liquid gathered beneath him.  His shades were crooked in a way that revealed his closed eyes. Something was terribly wrong with Curtis, but I couldn’t decide what.

I was even more perplexed by Aunt Helen, who lay slumped at Curtis’ feet. Her body was sprawled across his, like a fallen shield at battle’s end. On her forehead was a cruel mark that oozed red with a distant glare in her eyes that bore through me.  “Aunt Helen.  Aunt Helen, get up,” I pleaded, though I knew she couldn’t hear me.  She and Curtis had transcended beyond the ways of sound.

I would never look at life or death the same after that day.  Part of me would stand on those steps for eternity, haunted by the gruesome scene before me.  As blood spewed from their tangled bodies, my childhood innocence seeped away.  I’d peeped through the doorway of a domestic dispute and saw the wrath of love turned deadly.  I’d witnessed the removal of three influential people in my life, whose absence carved an emotional chasm. The facade of life crumbled under the weight of Uncle Jimmy’s mercilessness, and yet the thing that stands out most is that I never got to tell him goodbye.

©Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

I pray to someday be in the free world again.  I fantasize about the day I’m released from this hell I’ve called home for the past 23 years. I imagine what I’ll be wearing and even what the weather will be like. My release song is Sam Cooke’s, ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’.  Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but I have to leave this place with a theme song fit for a Re-Born King.

The free world is so close to me I can hear it, smell it, and – at times – see it.  Just knowing Freedom is just across these walls drives me insane, yet it’s also comforting.  Little things remind me of her – cars, trucks, planes, the smell of gasoline, lakes, trees…

Every now and then I’m blessed to have a taste of Freedom, depending on how you look at it. There are times when I have to leave one Plantation for another.  At that moment in time, my heart skips a beat, my hands get sweaty and butterflies dance in my stomach.  And, there she is – Freedom will appear before my eyes.  I’ll be able to tell her – Freedom – how much I miss and adore her company.  I can explain my love for her and beg her to take me back. Sounds good doesn’t it?

Never happens like that. Instead, I’m shackled around my waist, my legs are bound and my hands are cuffed to my sides. Unmovable!!!  I’m placed on a bus built with rods to secure my leg irons. I’m sat next to someone who doesn’t understand my desire for her – Freedom. He won’t understand our relationship.

All I want to do is pay attention to her details. The way she smells, the sounds of her many voices, the beauty of her flesh, the piercing of her eyes as she stares back at me, the way the curve of her hips runs for miles down her legs.  At times, I can’t tell if she’s laughing at me or just laughing for me, to show me it will be all right.

I’m embarrassed to let Freedom see me in my condition after so many years of being apart from her. Does she recognize me?  Why is everybody on the bus staring at me? Then I realize I’m crying. I can’t even wipe my face because my hands are cuffed to my sides. I knew people wouldn’t understand my relationship with her.

Before I’m done taking in all the love of Freedom, I’m reminded it was only for a moment.  I enter another Plantation. My little time with Freedom will have to sustain me until my next rendezvous with her – on my day of reckoning.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Bobbie George is not only a thoughtful and talented writer.  He also has worked training service dogs during his incarceration.

He’s spent over two decades in prison, but still lives every day trying to be the ‘best version of himself’.   He can be contacted at:

Bobbie George #243589
Ionia Correctional Facility
1576 W. Bluewater Hwy.
Ionia, MI 48846