I’ve been incarcerated for almost twenty-five years.  That’s nearly 9,125 days without family, without the comfort of friends, without decent food.

People often mistake freedom with happiness.  When you have lived in both worlds, you know it doesn’t exactly work that way.  Some people are more locked away in their own little worlds than I will ever be.  Freedom isn’t liberty.  The ability to come and go as I please is liberty.  I may have lost my liberty, but I’ve always been free.  Freedom is a state of mind, a matter of the heart, a question of the soul.

What does this have to do with puppy love?  It doesn’t, really, but it reminds me of a dog I once met.  About eight or nine years ago, I lived in a dorm that had a reputation for being in trouble most of the time.  Illegal contraband abound, the rules be damned, caution to the wind, full speed ahead.

So, the powers that be would come in and shake the dorm down for said contraband, usually finding extra underwear, rubber bands, and paper clips – no drugs, no weapons.  Bring in the dogs!

I’ve seen drug dogs before.  I took classes before coming to prison on how to train and care for these special warriors.  They are disciplined, eager to  please, extremely well trained, exceptionally gifted individuals, and I’ve rescued (with and without my dad) at least thirty such animals from dog shelters over a period of thirty two years.  They are mostly Labradors, black, brown, yellow, and white.

They are smarter than people in a large sense and not only man’s best friend, but loyal to a fault.  If people had the same qualities as these guys, the world would be a better place.

When a dog’s service is deemed over, they are usually taken to a shelter.  That’s where Dad and I came in, we saved them from Death Row.

So, when I first saw drug dogs in TDCJ, my heart skipped a beat.  Unlike so many of my fellow incarcerated mates, I don’t have an authority complex.  I was a military brat and proud of it.  I don’t hate people in uniform – police officers, highway patrolmen, National Guardsmen, Army, Navy, Air Force.

The list includes correctional officers.  Personally, I couldn’t do the job they do because of the daily routine of having to enforce every single conceivable rule imaginable.  On the other side if it, I hear inmates say, “Rules are made to be broken.”  No, rules are made to bring order to chaos.  If everybody did whatever they wanted, the world would spin out of control.

It’s also been my experience that most of the correctional officers I’ve had contact with are decent, law abiding – even funny – citizens.  Remember, never judge a book by its cover.

Back to dogs.  The handlers brought the dogs into the dorm and instructed us to remain seated on our bunks and not to pet them.  So, I sat still as they were let off their leashes and went from cubicle to cubicle in a pattern that would make a marching band instructor proud.

The blonde lab, who looked to be about three or four years old and about 75 pounds, walked up to my cubicle and stopped for a second before coming in, jumping on my bunk, and laying down with his head on my lap.  His handler, an officer I had known for fourteen years and who had been promoted to the SERT team, asked the dog to step out.

The dog, whose name was Anvil, looked at him like he had just been asked to turn down a sirloin steak.  I sat calmly.  I was neither afraid of the dog or the officer.  I knew I had no contraband, never do.  Being locked away in these premises means you shake your own cell or cubicle down every day.

The officer told me, “Go ahead, pet him.  That’s what he wants.”

I scratched Anvil between the ears, and he sat with his eyes closed and his head on my lap for about three more minutes.

Then he turned over on his back, and I scratched his belly.  Two minutes later, he sat up on my bunk and licked me square in the face.

“Looks like you have a friend, Green.”

The dog still sat at attention, on top of my bunk.  He wouldn’t leave, I knew the answer – “Release, Anvil.”

The dog got up, left my cubicle and went back to work.

Dog is man’s best friend?  You bet your ass he is.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, Misunderstood’, but he still has the things his father instilled in him – humility, respect and love.  In spite of 25 years behind bars, he continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

 

 

First, I must apologize for the picture I am about to share because of what it has done to me and what it will likely do to you.  I’ve carefully searched through my stack of pictures to find the one that would vividly illustrate the loss that violence brings, but there were no photos to properly convey the gravity of what I’d like to share.  So, I have no choice but to paint one, a picture painted in words.

Long before I stepped inside a prison cell, I knew firsthand what violence could take away.  Most think they do too, but I want to share another look, an intimate one.

Violence is the voice of my three little sisters saying to me with tears in their eyes, “Are you going to jail?  What did you do?”

Violence is my little nephew telling his Nana that if he eats all of his vegetables, his muscles will turn to rocks because all he remembers of his uncle is squeezing my arms inside a prison visiting room.

Violence is my baby sister, who received the brunt end of my affection, crying as she blew out the candles of her birthday cake because all she wished for was her big brother to come home.

Violence is the aftermath of me taking another person’s life and a death certificate that reads, ‘Parents too distraught to sign’.

Violence is the real emptiness that is left behind.

Violence is the guttural sound that escaped my mother’s lips when the judge gave me a ‘life sentence’.

Violence is the lie I told my mother after the trial when I said, “Momma, everything’s going to be alright.”

Violence is the sum of years that I’ve spent trying to atone for something for which there is no atonement.  It is the tears that stream down my face and stain this page as I write.

Violence is the picture I’ve painted with words, a picture of the true horror and great despair that I can never erase.  I only hope and pray that no one will ever have to paint on this canvas for themselves, because violence is not the answer.

 

Written by Darrell Sharpe #W80709
P.O. Box 43
Norfolk, MA 02056

 

At a visit the other day
His little girl asked him
If he would come to her play…

He felt as though he’d cry
If he looked into her eyes
So he had to turn away…

He didn’t mean to lie
But said that he would try
Because he didn’t know what else to say…

She had just turnt five
And couldn’t understand why
He would lie to her that way…

But with time, she would come to realize
It was because he died inside
Each and every day.

Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370

The following story is completely true. The names haven’t been changed, because in this day of fake news and alternative facts, there are no longer any innocent…

I’ve been incarcerated for 8847 days. That being said, I’ve seen a lot of things that I’ve thought stood out in my journey. This is just one of them.

During my travels, I once did time on the French Robertson unit in Abilene, Texas—a large maximum security unit. At the time of my stay there, it was a very dangerous place for inmates and correctional officers alike.

It was 1995, and I had been there less than a year. I knew absolutely no one. I weighed 160 pounds, dripping wet. I was 34 years old, and I realized that I was probably going to have to fight to stay alive.

Now, I am not a fighter. I know a bunch of dirty tricks, which my dad taught me when I was young in order to avoid getting my butt kicked or picked on by bullies. I am also well versed in the art of psychological warfare.

When I arrived at the unit, I was shown my living quarters and left to my own devices. My cellmate, an older convict by the name of Ranger, looked at me and told me bluntly, “You’re going to have to catch a square.”

I asked him what that meant, and he told me that I would have to fight someone in order to gain respect so others wouldn’t bother me. I looked out into the dayroom, and in one area near the TV, I saw a mountain, sitting, watching the television.

I figured that, if I was going to die, it might as well be “instantaneous”, so I went down the stairs into the dayroom, and I tapped the giant on the shoulder. He turned and rose. Soon, I was looking level at his shirt pocket. I couldn’t see around him, because he blocked the light.

He looked down and in a voice that would do any baritone monster proud, said, “What do you want, little man?”

I quickly pulled a notepad and pencil out of my back pocket and asked him, “Can I have your name, Sir?”

“My name is Mongo. Why you want to know Mongo’s name?”

I explained to him that I was writing down all the names of the people whose asses I could kick. He looked at me for about three seconds, blank stare, furrowed brow. Then he started laughing so hard I thought I saw a tear come to his eye.

He patted me on the back and said, “You can’t kick Mongo’s ass, little man!”

I turned my pencil around and erased his name and said, “Well, let me take your name off the list then.” This made him laugh even harder. (I think he might have peed a little bit, but I didn’t point this out to him.)

Mongo said, “Little man, you the first to make Mongo laugh in fourteen years. I like you. You Mongo’s friend.”

Like my dad told me, the only way to eliminate your enemies is to make them your friends.

Mongo motioned for me to sit on the bench next to him. Because of his size, it was his television. He was watching cartoons. I imagined if he was home, he would have a large bowl of cereal and orange juice nearby—still in his pajamas (if they made pj’s that size).

There was a commercial break, and he asked if I wanted a Coke. We were having such a good time, I decided that to decline such an offer might result in hurt feelings, so I said, “All right.”

His cell (emphasis on the word HIS) was on the first floor. He had no cellie. (I’m hoping that was because there wasn’t any room and not because he had eaten the last one!)  The cell was full of stuff. It looked like a Dollar Store. There were cases of soda, chips, soups, candy, radios, fans, hot pots—you name it. I asked him, “Mongo, where did you get all this stuff?” He replied, “People bring me stuff.” Simply put.

Mongo was at least 6’5” tall and easily weighed over 300 lbs—not an ounce of fat. His hands were big enough to palm a basketball like it was a ping pong ball. His head would do a Brahma bull proud.

I later learned that Mongo was the product of a Samoan father and a Spanish mother. I also learned his real name, Davidson Alexander Munoz, born 10/16/63.

He had been incarcerated at age 18 and had been locked away for fourteen years — that meant he was 32 years old. He had done most of his sentence on the Coffield Unit in East Texas. His E.A. (Education Assessment) score was 3.1.  However, his I.Q. was measured at 85. Mongo wasn’t stupid, he was ignorant.  He couldn’t read or write, his language skills were Cro-Magnon — his social skills were, “Mongo want that.”  And what Mongo wants, Mongo gets…

Over the next two weeks, we became friends. I learned about his childhood in American Samoa and his move to the U.S. to live with his aunt in Southern California. However, Mongo became a victim of the “law of parties.” He was with several of his “friends” when they went on a road trip to Texas, and they held up a convenience store where one of the “friends” shot and killed the clerk. Mongo was in the car.

They gave him fifteen years for being there. I doubt, to this day, he ever knew what he was doing there, in prison, or why. Taking up space—a lot of space.

I also learned that he hadn’t heard from or written to his family in ten years. I asked him why. “Mongo doesn’t know how to write. No one help Mongo.”

So, I told him to find the address, and I’d help him. “Address on left bicep.” Sure enough, there was an address tattooed on his left arm, hidden well between the tribal art. It had been there a while. I guess it was the family’s way of saying, “If found, return to this address.” I know a milk carton wouldn’t have been big enough. Heck, a bumper sticker wouldn’t have been big enough.

So I went up to my cell and brought a couple of sheets of paper, a blank envelope, and a pen. The letter, in itself, was an example of innocence and need. Short on details, short in length, long in hope.

We finished the letter in less than 20 minutes. I folded it carefully and placed it in the envelope and addressed it. Mongo pulled a wad of stamps from his ID holder and placed five in the corner.  “It’s a long way home.” I totally agreed.

So, now I knew almost everything about my new friend. I asked him one day if he needed anything done. He said, “Feet hurt. Need boots.” I looked at his feet (they looked like yards). His boots were too small. I asked him if he had any money in his account. “Mongo have money.” Well, why don’t we blue slip you a pair of boots. So I filled out a blue slip for him and asked him what size. “Don’t know.” I had him pull off his right boot. It was a size 18 ½, and it was too small. So I put 19 on the slip, and we mailed it to the commissary.

When it didn’t come back, I went with him to the store, and we bought a pair of size 19 Rhinos. It had to have taken a whole cow to make the things.

A week later, Mongo received a letter. It was from his mama. He asked me to read it for him. I read the letter, minus the scolding his mama gave him for not writing, saying that they were worried sick about him — fearing the worst had happened to their “baby” boy.

Mongo was the youngest of three sisters and four brothers. As I read the letter, Mongo was transfixed. He was silent. I told him he had a very nice family, and he needed to get out and go home. He nodded.

In the time I spent there, I taught Mongo how to read. It only took about 3 months. I doubt he would ever finish “War and Peace” in his lifetime, but he could write his own letters.

I left Mongo as I found him, sitting in the dayroom, watching cartoons. They (the Sheriff’s Department) had picked me up on a bench warrant, back to the county of my arrest.

I told Mongo I was going on a trip, and that I hoped he would be all right. He asked me if I would be back. I told him that it was up to the system, but I had his TDCJ#, and I would check on him when I got to where I was going. I received one letter from him. I kept that letter for almost twenty years—it was thrown away in a shakedown.

When I was leaving, Mongo grabbed me and gave me a hug (one that I still feel to this day, because I think he dislocated something!). But, it is his friendship I miss the most.

My dad told me, “Never judge a book by its cover.” He would have liked Mongo. That’s good enough for me. My dad also said, “It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”

I think he knew I would meet the gentle giant…

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583