Views From The Inside

Even In Darkness

1 Comment

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a sucka.  I let others place their opinions and values in my head, then I go running with it.  My dad and brother were and are in the trucking business (RIP Pops), so I naturally thought it would be my love too.  So, what did I do?  I studied everything trucking, from how to start a trucking LLC, to owning and operating, to onboarding.  But unlike my dad and brother… I don’t care much for trucking.

In 2012 I joined a rather radical organization, the Black Hebrew Israelites, and they hated whites, homosexuals and women.  What did my natural following-self do?  I became a homophobic racist who somehow liked women, but belittled them every chance I got.  That very same year I joined Occupy Chicago and Occupy Dallas and marched with the LGBTQ population to stop, or try to stop, big stock trading companies from taking over the government. 

And when I met Lukmon in a jail cell – it was no different.  His values became my values, and his way with words became mine.  You get the picture.  Since I was a homosexual-hating radical racist, me sitting in the county jail facing two murder charges shouldn’t surprise anyone.  But here’s the thing.  I suffer from a ‘personality disorder’.  If you’ve ever watched the movie Welcome To Me, I’m the black male version of that.  On top of that, when I was in the county jail, along came COVID-19, hell bent on wiping out half the population.  Suddenly no one was allowed to be released, and just as suddenly, it was decided anyone without a seriously violent crime like mine could get a P.R. bond.  Seventeen of us in my tank didn’t meet that qualification.  And it wasn’t long before I started noticing things…

In Dallas County’s North Tower there are tanks of 24 people with four cells that have six beds each.  There were no assigned seats, so people slept where they were comfortable.  Two days into the lockdown, I woke up to find I was the only man in a six man cell!  I gotta admit I’m a bit of a weirdo.  I had a big afro going, I didn’t talk to anyone, ever, and the medication I was on had me shuffling across the floor in circles all the time.  So, no, not one soul wanted to share a room with me.

Then one day I heard, or overheard (ear hustled), a conversation between a youthful older guy and his lawyer about how crazy it was for him to be jailed for breaking into his own home.  I gotta admit that was the dumbest reason I’d ever heard someone be arrested for.  But, it was a violation of his parole, so bail was denied and, like me, he had to just sit.  His name was Lukmon, he was fifty-four years old – and he was staying on a top bunk!  Eventually, he decided it was ridiculous for him to be climbing on a top bunk when I was living in a six-man cell by myself.  At first one of his cellmates said, “Don’t do it!  That fool is craaazzzyyy.  All he do is twist his hair, walk in circles and talk to his self.”  Lukmon heeded the advice at first, but after a couple days he remembered – not one person in this world is just something.  

I was watching Wendy that day, like I always did around lunchtime, when I turned around on a commercial and saw a bald, light-skinned guy curled up in my cell!  Not only was I surprised, but I’d grown comfortable in my own cell.  So in hysterical laughter, Wendy ruined that day, I walked slowly to my cell and went to sleep hoping it would be normal again when I woke up.  

I don’t know how many days Lukmon and I sat in that cell in silence.  But one day I had just gotten off the phone with the mother of my daughter, and it didn’t go so well.  I stood to watch the news and felt eyes on me.  I turned to find Lukmon doing the ‘contemplating man’ walk behind me.  When our eyes met, he asked, “What do they call you?”  That should have been established on day one, I thought, before telling him my Hebrew name, Maleek.  And right there it started.  We took our conversation to the room, where we talked for the first time.

And Lukmon can talk.  He amazed me with his optimism about prison.  Having spent twenty-two years mostly on the Smith Unit as its Islamic Coordinator, he didn’t mind the possibility that he’d be going back.  “Why would I be bothered by going to prison?  Prison is the second largest university, you know why?  Because you got unlimited time to surround yourself with books!  In fact, colleges should envy prison.”

He proved his point by getting on the phone and ordering a bunch of books.  He also told me about his man-cave back home, where he had a plastic tub full of handwritten notes from the books he’d studied.  He prophesied, “That’s gonna be you.  People are gonna think you’re crazy cause all you will do is study and write.  They’ll be intrigued by what I was intrigued by, and that’s that you are an enigma.”

I didn’t know what ‘enigma’ meant, but I used my context clues to figure it out.  That night, we didn’t sleep.  Lukmon was a conversationalist and only talked about what mattered to the listener.  Through him, I saw history in a totally different way.  I stopped hating and blaming white people for everything wrong when he told me, “White people have only been ruling the world for eleven hundred years.  We ruled for four thousand.  They did what they had to do to matter.”  I then wanted to know more.

And Lukmon also inspired me to write, though not long after I started, I got a visit from the county chaplain notifying me that my truck-driving, hard-working, crack addicted father had died.  I didn’t tell Lukmon, but he knew I wasn’t 100%.  But I’m never 100%, I’m weirdo Franklin.  Two months later, I got news my Christian mother had died.  I was numb, and just wanted to be on the next Upper Room Express.  I gave up on writing and turned into a TV junkie.  Wendy, the news and TMZ were my life, until one day an unlikely source gave me inspiration that would make Lukmon’s prophesy of me doing time with a pen in my hand come to pass.  I was walking by the television which seemed to be wobbling in a shipwreck kinda way.  I turned to look and saw a large, black celebrity on TMZ twerking in a thong!  The nerve!  People told me she was a famous singer.

But it hit me!  I didn’t stop writing because I had two deaths in my immediate family.  It was my excuse.  I really stopped writing because I felt like Lukmon wanted to rate my writing.  My insecurity used death as an excuse.  But looking at that TV, I knew if this big ol’ chick could find the courage to expose her tale-NT to the world, then my talent should be easy!  So I kept on writing.  

But one night, not long after, I got cold feet and packed up my belongings and snuck out of the tank to keep Lukmon from reading my work.  I regret that.  Why?  Because I guess somewhere inside of me I still want Lukmon’s approval on that first piece I wrote.  I blew my shot, and Lizzo is still killin’ it!

I’ve written over thirty unpublished books since then.  I’m glad to say I’m no longer a homophobic, racist, Hebrew Israelite who hurt people and low-key hated women.  I’m also proud to say I chose to follow someone that I may never see again, but I’ll remember forever, the one person who wanted to prove that a crazy person isn’t just a crazy person.  Well… prove that and also prove he wasn’t scared to sleep in a room with one.  Lukmon once said, “A man that can’t make up his bed can’t make up his mind.”  I promise you that my bed is made right now.  I’m ready to publish.     

ABOUT THE WRITER: Franklin Fuller is new to WITS, and he is also the second place winner in our most recent writing contest. I’m grateful I do not have the task of judging writing contests, but this one was particularly challenging for the judges, as there were so many amazing entries, which makes this accomplishment all the more meaningful. More than one judge commented on Franklin’s honesty and willingness to be vulnerable in his writing. I don’t know much else about him, but I agree with their assessment. If you would like to contact the writer, he can be reached at:

Franklin Fuller #2431449
Bill Clements
P.O. Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266-0400

Loading

LWOP, Views From The Inside

A Window To The Past And The Future

1 Comment

Both my past and my future were on full display before me – literally.  My past in the form of the dorm I once lived in as a freshman at NC State University.  I could not only see the dorm, but even more specifically, I could see the suite door which held my former dorm room and so many memories.  Through the very same diminutive, bar-covered jail cell window, I could also see my future – the formidable, infamous Central Prison which housed Death Row.  It was certain to be my next, and possibly final, residence.  Though both locations were separated geographically by less than a mile, just like my past and future, the prison and the university were as far apart in tenor as the east is from the west.

Four years earlier, amidst excitement and expectation, my parents had helped me move into that college abode.  A full academic scholarship had opened the proverbial door of opportunity for a quality education at an esteemed university, only to later be slammed shut by my choices to party and sell drugs; at the time, I thought it forever closed, locked and barred.  Facing a life sentence, or even a death sentence, a tutorial on doing time from ‘Old Heads’ was the only education I envisioned in my future.

Yet, even when education seemed only a dream withered on the vine, two seeds were planted without me realizing their concealed potential.  First, assured of many years in prison ahead and the consequent need for a substantial support system, I committed to writing to everyone who sent me a card, letter, book, magazine, money or any other form of support.  If they only signed their name, I would still write a full letter.  Even if they did not write for a while, I would keep writing.  I had always despised writing, procrastinating until the night before a paper was due, but the pledge to be the preeminent penpal developed a habit and then an aptitude for writing.  The informal portion of my education in the carceral environment had begun.  

The other seed came in the form of my need for a distraction from the immeasurable stress of awaiting trial.  I picked up a book, hoping John Grisham’s novel, The Brethren, could divert my thoughts for just a little while.  Each page turned took my mind further and further away from the claustrophobia-inducing concrete walls.  A love of reading quickly sprouted, helping me escape the inescapable confines of the dim jail cell.

I devoured book after book, John Grisham, James Patterson, Nelson DeMille, Robert Ludlum and David Baldacci.  I moved on to Jeffrey Archer, Pat Conroy, Nicholas Sparks, and Charles Martin, then worked my way through the classics, Les Miserables, Crime and Punishment, Gone With The Wind, Great Expectations and The Count of Monte Christo.

Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World, The Doors of Perception and The Island (I read all three, of course) advised, “Every man who knows how to read has it in his power to magnify himself, to multiply the ways in which he exists, to make his life full, significant and interesting.”  My love of reading has given me the power to magnify myself.  Reading of events through history, biographies and historical fiction taught me about the world, past and present.  Self-help books, like The Power of Positive Thinking and The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, helped shape and mold me into a person defined by values-based character. 

Reading has enhanced all aspects of my existence.  A pile of dog training books guided me in becoming a skilled dog trainer, giving me the ability to pursue a labor of love and purpose.  I loved working with dogs rescued from local shelters, teaching them basic obedience and a variety of tricks, giving them the love and skills to forever change their and their future owner’s lives, and teaching others to do the same.  John Maxwell’s books on leadership and communication equipped me to mentor other dog trainers on doing time in prison positively, and succeeding despite obstacles.  These undertakings gave my life purpose, a powerful tool in a place typically defined by a void of purpose.  Twelve hundred books and countless words penned later, the informal, yet extensive education in reading and writing has helped make my life full, significant and interesting. 

Five years ago, long after I had abandoned all hope of finishing my formal education, I was selected as a member of the inaugural class of the North Carolina Field Minister Program and enrolled in the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary.  In December of 2021, I graduated summa cum laude with a Bachelor’s in Pastoral Ministry, and a minor in counseling. The informal education in reading and writing helped me not only excel in the world of academia, but also tutor others and institute formal programs along the way.  I helped found an onsite Learning Center at the prison extension campus, launched a publication to represent the program as the editor and a writer, served on the Student Advisory Council, wrote a Writing Guide for incoming freshman, gave a speech at a Convocation, presented virtually at a national conference for higher education in prison, was published in a legal journal, and co-authored legislation for criminal sentencing reform.

Oprah Winfrey reasoned, “Luck is preparation meeting opportunity.”  When I looked out of that jail cell window, I thought my relationship with education was severed forever.  However, even at that moment the seeds of an informal education in reading and writing were planted.  Those seeds germinated, grew, and blossomed in the barren-looking concrete prison soil, preparing me to excel when the opportunity for a formal education came along.  Education has yielded considerable fruit in my person and my life, empowering me to positively impact the world around me.  Looking out that window at my past and my future I didn’t know my relationship with education was not dead; it was just beginning, and it will last a lifetime.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com

Loading

Writing Contests

Writing Contest – What Does Change Look Like?

Leave a comment

There are times we can’t change our location, our possessions, our circumstances. Yet there is always an opportunity to ‘Be Change’. What does ‘being change’ mean to you, whether taking personal responsibility or helping others; have you seen someone doing that – being change? Describe how that looked, and how it impacted you.
There is a school of thought that if we each choose to ‘be change’, collectively we can change systems. This prompt intends to inspire each of us to ‘Be Change’ and inspire hope for a better tomorrow.

Entry Details:
Only those who live in prison are eligible to participate, and we don’t accept anything that has been previously published.

Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.

Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered, as long as it is inspired by the prompt.

Submissions can be handwritten.

PRIZES:
First Place: Blackstone Paralegal Program Sponsorship
Second Place: $50
Third Place: $25

DEADLINE: November 30, 2023. Decisions will be posted
by approximately December 31, 2023.

MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia 23255

Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.

For all posts from this site as well as current criminal justice issues, you can also follow us on Facebook or Instagram.

Loading

Views From The Inside

Familiar Ties

Leave a comment

Note: This essay was shared in the September, 2023, WITS Newsletter.

Nobody comes to prison to make friends, but it sort of happens.  I mean, when you put similar people from common backgrounds in the same struggle, bonds are naturally formed.  Especially after being isolated and alienated through extended periods of incarceration.

As humans, we are social beings, and we all desire those connections that provide us with a sense of understanding, support, and empathy.  However, due to our incarceration, previously established relationships are often strained, broken, or nonexistent.  So, it’s easy to see how friendships are formed on the ‘inside’, out of need, dependence or as a means of survival. 

Simply put, we all need someone, whether in here or out there.  And it’s easiest to relate with someone who understands you; if not you, at least your struggle.  Someone like-minded and like-hearted. 

The prison system is a world all its own, comprised of various institutions with multiple security levels, and built in the most remote locations; you can go decades without seeing the same person.  So, it goes without saying the delight I felt when I ran into an old comrade I hadn’t seen in more than ten years.

My homie, C-Lo, was a good friend from ‘back-in-the-day’, a walking memory of a former place in time, one when we were still ‘young and thuggin’.  Spending a few years together on a maximum security yard, we had once passed the majority of our time smokin’ and jokin’.  A gangster’s way of coping.

Now, fast forward eleven years, we have both matured substantially, and very much in the same aspects.  I believe we may have more in common now than we did back then.  In hopes of rekindling our friendship, we immediately requested a cell reassignment so we could be cellies.  Request granted, we began the late nights of reminiscing and catching up.  It was during these conversations that I realized I didn’t know C-Lo as well as I thought, and that we were actually ‘running partners’ more so than friends.

It was also during one of these late-night chats that I found out C-Lo had a “L” (life sentence).  Discovering this unknown fact broke my heart, knowing my brother may not get another shot at freedom without a strong fight.  Needless to say, he was equally surprised and disappointed to find out that I’d been home and returned to prison twice since we last saw each other, squandering two opportunities at a life he may never get a chance to see.  That truth made me feel extremely small and careless.

Despite our circumstances, we found the reunion to be quite pleasant.  I would entertain C-Lo with comical reentry stories and grandiose free world exploits and endeavors, as he laughed and imagined himself transitioning into a totally new world.  Sadly, after twenty-five years of incarceration, he had grown accustomed to living vicariously through others. 

In turn, C-Lo told me a year’s worth of war stories and prison news.  Although we hadn’t seen each other in all those years, we knew the same people, ran in the same circles.  Much like its revolving doors, the prison’s population was one big circulating mill.

Gossip and fishermen’s tales weren’t the only topics of discussion.  We also built on more constructive things.  Our dreams, our goals, our hopes for the future and the work we were putting in to achieve those things.  This is when I broke the news of my most recent accomplishment, one I’m super proud of.  I had become a published writer.

After reading a few of my pieces, C-Lo seemed impressed and genuinely happy for me.  Esteemed, I passed him a copy of Beneath Our Numbers, a collaborative memoir I was privileged enough to take part in.  An avid reader, C-Lo wasted no time diving in.  I knew he would enjoy it because these were our stories, told by people like us.  However, I had no idea just how close to home the stories would reach. 

One night, while doing some late-night writing, I heard a heavy sigh come from the top bunk.

“You good, cuz?” I asked.

“Yeah, just doing some reading.”

Not thinking much of it, I left C-Lo to his reading until I heard a second and equally burdensome huff of, “Damn.”

“What’s up?” I asked, a bit more concerned.

“My co-d in this book.”

C-Lo and I never spoke much about our cases or our co-defendants, and I didn’t personally know any of his; for that reason, I didn’t think much of it.  So, ‘cool’ I thought.

“Oh, yeah, which author?”

There was an odd pause.  “Nah, he in one of the stories.”

This really piqued my curiosity.  I wondered which story, but judging by C-Lo’s tone, I had a funny feeling I already knew.

“Which one?”

“This one,” C-Lo said, passing me the open book. 

There was a sting to being right, one I wish I could take back.  I stared at the title page.  Coping With Conviction, by Terry Robinson. 

I knew the story well, read it twice.  It was very moving and full of emotion.  I liked it a lot, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel.  The story was about two young men that had been sentenced to death row.  Both were struggling to accept, face and fight the judgement deemed their fate.  However, they formed an unlikely bond.  Becoming friends, the two found common interests that helped them cope with their convictions. 

Unfortunately, after some ups and downs, one of the young men succumbed to the weight of his burden and took his own life. That young brother was C-Lo’s co-defendant and childhood friend.

After sharing some of their personal story, as if I needed proof, C-Lo pulled out a host of paperwork and news clippings; showing me a picture of his dearly departed friend.  They were young men who made a bad decision, which cost them tremendously. 

The mood noticeably changed.  The small cell suddenly felt tiny and tight.  A harsh reality weighed heavily upon us, and in the grim silence, there was no need for words.  I could read C-Lo’s every thought, feel his every emotion and shared his every sentiment  These were our stories; told by people like us.  We too, were coping with conviction. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.   Carter is a naturally gifted writer, and it is a privilege to share his writing here. When I read this piece, I immediately knew it was the perfect one to be included in WITS’ very first independent newsletter. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, though opportunities are few where he is currently at and in his current situation. But he continues to write and work on positive endeavors. Carter is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.

If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.

Loading

Views From The Inside

My Real Prison Sentence

Leave a comment

“I will continue to be a good man, just in case she’s watching.”

In remembrance of a love that can’t be dismissed
I write a letter made of words never spoken,
Sharing my love,
The unbearable loneliness without her.
I nervously await a response,
Desperate for her to know what I am feeling.
Does it matter, the love still in my heart,
The honesty in my words,
The sorrow in my soul?
Will my message reach her heart,
Maybe remind her of moments and love shared,
A long history of passion for one another?
Could the words spark hope,
Possibly bring warmth and happiness,
Perhaps even a smile thought lost forever?
Can there be forgiveness in her heart?
I sit in the seclusion of my own personal purgatory,
The memories of our love burning in my heart now and forever,
Awaiting a letter filled with love, forgiveness and hope.
This is my real prison sentence.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Kenneth writes with the hope that his words will touch someone, somewhere, and possibly change the direction of their lives. That is the hope of many WITS writers, and together we are accomplishing that. He doesn’t call himself a writer, but I disagree. He speaks from his heart, which is the most important factor.

Kenneth can be contacted at:
Kenneth Edwards #383909
MacDougall Correctional Institution
1516 Old Gilliard Road
Ridgeville, SC 29472

Loading

Views From The Inside

From The Dorms To The Dungeon

Leave a comment

I am currently sitting in a thirty-day overflow cell meant to be a form of punishment, but it has unexpectedly inspired me to stop doing the worthless drugs on this unit and make better use of the gifts of money my family sends me.  I mean, it really does feel great to feel what clean is again and to have commissary to eat as I please or to share.  My mind is flowing with rhymes and words and thoughts that I thought I were lost in the depths of the abyss.  Wow.

Thank you.  I haven’t written on any piece of paper in so long, except for a recent grievance.  I recently watched friends die from overdose and despair, and I thought I was being punished when I was placed in this dreaded cell, but no.  I was rescued, saved, now I can see again.  I can hear sounds, I can touch and taste like a newborn babe.  

I’m 47 now, and I will see 50.  I will see my freedom again.  My hope is restored.  I hope my words show others in this struggle that you don’t have to be put up somewhere to be tired of puttin’ up with the trash.  Save your money, start eating your food, call your people on the phone, or write them, and watch how high in spirit you feel.  Now, hit that!

ABOUT THE WRITER. Antoine Taylor has never submitted any work to WITS before, and what caught my attention about his writing was the sincerity and hope that I saw in his words. Although he did not share anything else about himself, I hope he continues to write on pieces of paper, whether he sends them to WITS or loved ones, or simply journals.

Antoine can be contacted at:
Antoine Taylor #1816700
Michael Unit
P.O. Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266-0400

Loading

Mental Illness and Prison, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

At The Turn Of Dark

2 Comments

Imagine a life so darkened with despair, death feels like the only solution; a darkness that blots out your ability to rationalize that nothing bad lasts forever.  Yours is a forever darkness, filling you with dread and pelting you with unrelenting regret.  You are plagued by the spirits left broken in your wake from a horror you can never take back.  You become desperate to end the pain, ingesting sharp objects that leave your insides wracked with blood, only to rouse days after surgery to discover death rejected you.  What remains are the ills of living in pain, the aching darkness still looming.  It pushes you beyond the realm of rationality until your escape is as dark as your mind.  Medications don’t work and therapy proves but a pitiful attempt to make sense of the pain you feel.  No – death is your answer and you will not be denied… so you try again.

That is the everyday darkness that confronts T.J. as he battles with mental illness.  It is a deep depression that grows more ominous by the second and evermore self-destructive.  T.J. is the latest man to be placed on NC Death Row.  He is a tall brother with wandering eyes and a mellow disposition.  It was a few months after his arrival that he and I talked for the first time, an exchange that started out casual enough but soon turned rather disturbing.  T.J. revealed that he was suicidal and had already tried to kill himself twice.  He then hiked up his t-shirt, revealing a scar from his sternum to under belly.  I expected his next words to be dripping with regret, for surely he was grateful to be alive.  Instead, T.J. sighed with an air of defiance and said, “It don’t matter, ‘cause I’mma do it again.”

The conviction in his words left nothing to doubt…  T.J. would try to kill himself again.  I opened my mouth but found my own words caged by an awful reminder.  What T.J. didn’t know was that I’d lost a close friend to suicide right here on Death Row, and everyday I regretted not saying more to him when I had the chance.  Now I spoke fast and fervently to T.J., grasping for anything to impart logic.  It was my second chance, and I was determined to give T.J. a reason to live.

As it turned out, for all my determination, I was clueless as to how mental illness works.  I tried to use rhetoric to shine light on T.J.’s darkness, but his was a vortex consuming all but one hope.  Some months later, T.J. would make his third attempt to take his life when he climbed onto a stairway railing and fell backward to what he hoped was his peace at the bottom.  The impact shattered his clavicle and left other bones mangled.  His spine dislodged under the weight of the fall as ankles crashed against steel.  T.J. laid crumbled at the bottom of the steps as the pain rendered him unconscious, a merciful darkness that spared him the agony but not the endless darkness he sought. 

T.J. woke some time later in a prison infirmary to find, once again, the doctors had saved his life.  He returned with a back brace and walking cane but still nothing to support his wayward thoughts.  His latest suicide attempt gave me valuable insight on the effects of mental illness.  For T.J., it is a corrosive disease that turns the rational state-of-mind into the urge to induce grave harm.  Mental illness is a wellness deficiency that cannot simply be explained away but deserves heightened awareness, in one place more than any other – the criminal justice system.

What purpose does the death penalty serve for a person with T.J.’s mental instability?  Where is the justice in executing someone who sees death not as a punishment but a goal?  Such cases demonstrate a death penalty does not exact equal punishment.  The death penalty exists to appease a sense of vengeance.  True, there are bad people who do bad shit all the time, and they must be held accountable, but when the someone who is bad is suffering from mental illness, the flaw is a reflection of us, not them.  

The criminal justice system of today has practically abandoned principles on corrective behavior and thrives on the intent to punish.  It puts people like T.J. in hostile environments and expects to normalize him with medications.  And while our very own state of NC has passed a number of laws excluding certain criminals from being eligible to receive the death penalty, still they readily punish the mentally ill, as in the case of T.J., instead of providing them with adequate treatment.

T.J. should be receiving round-the-clock treatment for the darkness trying to claim his life.  He should be in a facility that specializes on his condition, not left to his own devices on Death Row.  And of those cases where someone who is mentally ill does wind up in prison, it falls on the criminal justice system to treat these cases as such, yet the very people who may be in a position to help T.J. are the very ones who want to see him dead.

I spoke with T.J. yesterday while on the rec yard, and surprisingly, he was buzzing with life.  He is on the mend, with friends and a local reverend dedicated to helping him heal his spiritual wounds.  T.J. assured me that he indeed does want to live, but he doesn’t know how.  And for as much as it pained me to hear that, still I didn’t try to rationalize life to him like I did before – this time, I just sat and listened.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson’s writing is consistently thought provoking. Terry 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 recently wrote an essay regarding that book club and what it means to the men involved at the request of a research group at the University of Texas, and he also recently contributed regarding the power of writing in self-care to a Social Work class at Virginia Commonwealth University. He is currently working on a work of fiction as well as his memoir, and he is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was also recently published in JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Lastly, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.
Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion and is very hopeful that will be proven in the future.

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.

Loading

LWOP, Views From The Inside

The Luckiest Man on the Face of the Earth

1 Comment
A Conversation With Timothy Johnson

Lou Gherig called himself the “luckiest man on the face of the earth” during his farewell speech, recognizing the blessing of the love being poured out upon him by former teammates and fans despite being forced to retire from the game he loved.  Gherig’s heroism in the face of impending death due to ALS provides inspiration for any who face difficulty.  And while Gherig must have felt like the luckiest man, I think the title belongs to me.

I think myself the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth because God gave me a godly mother.  My mother wanted, and still wants, only one thing from her three sons:  that they love God with all their heart, soul, and mind.  And no mother has ever loved her sons more, found more joy in her sons, or sacrificed more for her sons.  My mother’s incredible example of godliness and sacrificial love makes me the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

My parents were told by multiple doctors that they could not have children.  They found a doctor who shared their belief that all things are possible with God, adopted my older brother, and kept trying – because why not, right?  They loved their first son with all their hearts.   Ten years later, surprise, surprise, a Timothy came along.  God made the impossible not just possible but actual.  Two years later, another son joined the Johnson home, another miracle.

Throughout our lives, my brothers and I have been told how much we were desired, how our parents prayed for us to be conceived and born.  I picture my mother, like Hannah, in the temple praying and crying out to God for Samuel, then dedicating him to the Lord.  She desired to have children with all of her titanic heart and devoted us to the Lord from the very start of her prayers.

No mother has ever found more joy in her sons.  Pictures exist of my family spanning across the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and through the early 20’s.  All of them, even the ones taking sans pose, depict a family who played and laughed together, a family who enjoyed being together.  This ‘together-joy’ flowed from my parents into and through their sons.

Even at 50, my Mom enjoyed playing on the beach or in the pool with her hyperactive children.  A day of playing was often followed by a game of cards or bowling.  During all of this play, we laughed and laughed and laughed.  My mom taught us that “laughter is the medicine for the soul.”  Laughter was not only our soul-medicine, but also our love-language.  Love and joy intertwine in my mom’s heart, then flow out to ferry her sons along in an unsinkable raft on this river of life. 

No mother has ever sacrificed more for her sons.  My mom has given more, especially of herself, than most people can imagine.  She gave us all of her time and money, and still does.  When I left my girlfriend’s corsage in the refrigerator the day of her prom, my parents drove an hour and a half each way to make sure I did not let her down.  My mom never had new clothes, but she made sure we did.  She took us shopping to the outlet stores in Smithfield, taking us out to eat, and celebrated with us at each special item found.  

When my younger brother and I began this incarceration crossing, my parents decided to make supporting us a priority.  They traveled to prisons around the state, week after week, for years on end to visit us.  They gave up their dreams of retirement to provide money for canteen, packages, shoes, food sales, phone calls, books and the many other expenses of supporting a person in prison.  My mother has never complained about the sacrifices.  She rejoiced every time we received anything special – a Christmas package, new shoes, or pizza – happy to sacrifice to give us something.

And no mother has ever loved her sons more.  Love cannot be precisely quantified but its presence can be detected, and my mother devotes herself to loving God and loving others.  The ‘loving others’ reaches her family first, especially her three sons.  Supporting a loved one in prison takes a financial toll, but the burden extends much further, especially when the incarcerated has an interminable sentence.  My brother was sentenced to 30 years and I to life without parole.  My mother did not just offer support, she shared our burden as her own.

She asked countless questions about our experiences and environment, and realizing that we live in a dark, drab world, she sent colorful cards, stationary, and bookmarks.  My hologram dolphins and donuts bookmarks make me smile every time I open a book.  The cards with affirmations like “Become the most enthusiastic person you know” and pictures like the frog who has the crane by the throat refusing to be swallowed and titled, “Don’t Ever Give Up,” hang on my cell wall and encourage me as I start each day.  My mom, my Mama, loves her son as much as any mother ever could.  

Outside support makes a difference impossible to explain.  It is impossible for most to truly understand how much it means to an incarcerated person to receive money, visits and books.  Having a little canteen money almost completely changes life.  I am not saying it means as much as being born anew in the Spirit of Christ – not even close.  That reconciliation changes eternity.  But having money to buy a decent toothbrush, dental floss, a Dr. Pepper, a Little Debbie Fudge Round, or ice cream does completely alter a person’s quality of life in the prison setting.  That money also makes it possible to purchase phone time, which is certainly not cheap, at $1.65 per fifteen-minute phone call.  Contact with friends and family is a precious blessing.  Whether good or bad, it makes it better to be able to share it with someone who cares.

Lincoln once expressed, “No man is poor who has had a godly mother.”  I’m taking that further, I believe a man who has had a godly mother is the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth.  I am that man, because God gave me a godly mother.  Yes, it is true; the luckiest, richest man on the face of the earth resides in a North Carolina prison serving life without parole.  

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).
Recently, Timothy and Phillip Vance Smith, II, co-authored a piece for NC Newsline, which can be found here, and Timothy can also be heard on the Prison POD podcast on youtube.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Remembering Dominica…

2 Comments

Dominica Raggs and I spent both seventh and eighth grade in the same class.  For two whole years she sat directly behind me. There was a mere three feet between us, yet we were worlds apart. Finding out this quiet, hazel-eyed girl was the only other person from my graduating class to attend the same high school as me was mildly shocking.

Freshman year was, honestly, more interesting than difficult.  I didn’t think much of it the day Ms. Anderson canceled fourth period swim class due to a maintenance problem with the school’s pool.  She left a notice on the door informing us to report to Coach Torian’s gym class immediately.  

The change in scenery was ideal for me.  I’d been wanting to ball in the school’s gym all semester and wasn’t going to miss the opportunity.  I chilled in the bleachers with some of my dawggs, assured I was running next.  

As the game neared its end, I got up, anxious to play.  It was then that I noticed a commotion at the side of the bleachers.  From where I stood, all I could see was Walter Jones throwing what appeared to be hair to some dude I couldn’t really see.  Then I realized a girl was running between Walter and his partner in crime, trying in vain to get the hair they were keeping from her.  

I don’t recall what exactly drew me to this tasteless spectacle.  What I do remember vividly is the moment I was close enough to see the tear stricken face of Dominica being laughed at as she begged Walter and his friend to give her wig back.  Seeing the pain in her eyes and the absence of hair on her head, I suddenly realized that all the days she’d been absent in elementary school were probably because she was hiding how truly sick she was.

I felt a piece of my soul begin to decay as I stood there, and I knew if I continued standing there I’d never be whole again.  A compulsion overtook me, and I found myself standing over Walter after I educated him on the seriousness of the situation.  Walter’s accomplice dropped the wig and ran before we could discuss his participation.  

I picked up the disheveled hair and tried to straighten it as I gave it back to Dominica.  When she looked into my eyes, still crying, I knew I would never regret standing up for her.

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in the principal’s office being suspended for fighting.  Eleven days into my two week suspension I learned from a friend that Dominica died.  She’d had leukemia.

When I attended the funeral, Dominica’s mom came over to personally thank me for my actions.  Someone must have told her who I was.  Then she asked me to speak a few words on Dominica’s behalf.  I didn’t have it in my heart to say no, and the words I spoke that day came from a place in my soul I didn’t even know I had.  In the three years I had known Dominica I learned absolutely nothing about her, but in the moment I stood up for her, our souls touched.  I’ll never forget her. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  The author writes under the pen name Resolute, and although he doesn’t write often, the work he has shared here has been nostalgic and genuine, though both have been pieces about loss. Both have also been little windows into his past, and he has a very charming way of opening them.

Any comments left on this page will be forwarded to the author.

Loading

Views From The Inside

Addict, Killer and Now a Survivor

3 Comments

My journey to become worthy is intertwined with penance,
And with my penance understood, questions yet haunt me.
Can a life wasted with decadence
And egotism find absolution?
Or is this simply an illusion I need to embrace
For the strength to endure?
Loved ones trivialized and marginalized
Along my destructive path,
A family left with hearts forever scarred by pain.
My heart longs for love and forgiveness.
Tragedy resurrected me a better man,
But at a monumental cost to so many,
Those that tried to love me.
My journey is to become worthy of that love,
Of such a price paid,
And my journey is infinite.

I’ve met survivors in here, a small measure of people, resolute in their journey to a better life, a better way of living and to just be better people; a group not only on a quest to atone for their actions but to repair relationships broken during their time as broken men.  They work hard to help others do the same.  These survivors have become a light in this dark place, hope of a better way for some that may never have another chance to change.  So, even in this place, there is a way to live.  I choose to be better and surround myself with like-minded people, people who have changed their path and their very lives.  You can do the same – seek out these people, these survivors.  They will help you find your path to a better life.  I am one of them now, and I know now that there is a life beyond prison.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Kenneth is new to WITS. This submission as well as his role as a mentor and peer support specialist are a reflection of his commitment to helping others find their own journey to forgiveness and peace through recovery and self-awareness. That is exactly what I see in his writing – self-reflection, a search for light, and finding a measure of it in reaching out to others in their pain.

Kenneth can be contacted at:
Kenneth Edwards #383909
MacDougall Correctional Institution
1516 Old Gilliard Road
Ridgeville, SC 29472

Loading

Prison Writing and Expression