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. 

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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

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.

“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

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