Reflect on a time while you have been living in prison where you have either participated in or witnessed someone else being a part of making a positive difference in someone’s life. Describe the circumstances, as well as what this experience taught you about loving others?
We are all ‘human’ and we all share human qualities, good and bad. Labels like ‘inmate’ or ‘prisoner’ are often associated with dehumanizing thoughts which assist in maintaining mass incarceration. These words and the sense they give that mass incarceration is not a humanitarian issue give fuel to punishment as a political argument rather than an issue that needs cognitive, emotional and spiritual solutions not just physical containment. That is why this prompt aims to capture the existence of one of the most fundamental human qualities and emotions – love.
This experience could be something that took place in a place of worship, the Yard, a common area, visitation or your cell. It could be anywhere, and it could involve anyone, either a staff member or someone who lives alongside you.
Entry Details:
Only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate.
We can’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.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: August 31, 2023. Decisions will be posted by approximately September 30, 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.
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The mind amazes me – how it can be the only power we have over attitude; how, though we can’t change our circumstances, our attitude can change the way we experience events. It brings to mind the way we experience a roller coaster ride – choosing between an attitude of faith or doubt. If I doubt the safety of the harness, question if it will hold, it will be a terrifying ride, hands clenched to the lap bar, feet dug into the floor, eyes closed and likely feeling miserable.
But if I choose to live in faith that the safety harness is strong enough to hold me, then I can focus on enjoying the ride. I can open my eyes, lean into every turn, throw my hands in the air and surrender to the thrill of it. Nothing on the ride has changed, the trajectory of the ride was already determined, every curve, every loop, the length. But inwardly, my experience was drastically different – faith felt like heaven, doubt felt like hell.
It’s pretty obvious the metaphor for spiritually and life itself; and, admittedly, the rollercoaster is a little cliche. Still… I am convinced that God has laid out a track for each of our lives, and while we can make certain choices – keep our hands on the bar or throw them skyward – much of our lives are beyond our control. Who knows? Only thing I do know is that God commands us to love our fellow man, which, if applied as a life principle, leads to a way of life – a track. So, once I committed to this way, it locked in the basic trajectory of my life, the circumstances I would find myself in, the people I’d encounter along the way, the trials and storms and temptations I’d face.
So, now all I can change is my attitude toward those events. When I doubt God, I find myself afraid to love others, afraid that my kindness will be mistaken for weakness, afraid I’ll be rejected or disappointed, afraid I’ll be taken advantage of. Prison is hard enough, and I sometimes fear that trying to love my fellow prisoners will turn me into prey.
Yet, when I’ve chosen to trust in God, I’ve felt an explosion of joy in my soul when I surrender to the love, let it shine forth. God says, “When the Lord takes pleasure in anyone’s way, He causes even their enemies to make peace with them.” (Proverbs 16:7) God takes pleasure in our ways when we love one another, forgive, show mercy, etc. And He keeps His people safe. Granted, there are times God asks us to sacrifice and suffer for a higher purpose, but generally, a lot of our suffering is avoidable – if we’ll just trust and obey.
So, often, my fears are unfounded because God is the X-factor. Sure, without God, people may treat me a certain way, or when I do things for my own purposes people may prey on any vulnerable area, but when I am sincerely trying to do God’s will, the normal laws of human nature don’t apply. Rather, God is involved because God is love, and so unexpected things occur – a cruel person suddenly is kindly toward me, the bully finds someone else to pick on, the thief decides not to steal from my cell.
Like I said, it amazes me how powerful our attitudes can be. Though the outward reality of being in prison has not changed for me, my attitude of faith has changed the way I experience prison life – I’m not afraid. Rather, I’m filled with joy. I have thrown my hands in the air, surrendered to the will of God, and now I just enjoy the ride.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist, and I am grateful to share his work. He isn’t just inspirational as a writer, but also as a person. George lives on Death Row in NC, and is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion. In addition, he has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics. George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More of his writing and art can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Scars keep stalking me, No matter how hard I run. I hide behind doors That become obstacles. Blanketed in the darkness, Having cold sweats, But these are old regrets. Blood, sweat and tears drip. Shhh! You hear that? I know my ego tripping. Pride keeps screaming, Fear won’t stop manipulating The things I hear. Shackles cling and clang, Crutches, slowing me down, Controlling how you think, Caring more about the wrong, Missed the right in front of me. Why do I care what anybody thinks! Another door slams, A bottle of pain, Fading in and out of confusion. The horror reminds me to look back! There’s another way, A life yet to explore! A happiness yet to discover! A love to be seen True as Corinthians Chapter 13! Am I dying? Been so far lost Chasing excuses to avoid a chance. Who will look me in my eyes Before our time runs out? BEFORE MY TIME RUNS OUT? Can you understand how to navigate past the blackness? Can you see the person in the mirror? Past that mask they gave me, The mask that hides me?
ABOUT THE WRITER. Although Robert is new to writing for WITS, he had an interest in writing since early childhood. In middle-school, he challenged himself, submitting an essay for a writing contest about courage and what it means to you. He entered anonymously. I’m glad he has continued to write, and today, when he is inspired to write, he likes free-style poetry and personal essays.
Robert is pursuing a Bachelor of Arts degree with a focus on Psychology and has also recently earned certificates in Behavior Science, Human Resources Development and Digital Design. He was also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers, A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. Robert can be contacted at:
Robert M. Linton #0880370 Eastern CI P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Everyplace has a code of conduct, a pre-established format on how to behave, especially Death Row, where violating communal norms can have fatal consequences. And although I was surprised to learn when I arrived how clueless the men were to the accused crimes of one another, I soon learned it was a naivete woven from a thread of doubt that was necessary for us to coexist. Here on Death Row, we never discuss the crimes of others. Our spats are never armed with accusations. We share living space with men who have committed heinous acts and the courtesy between us is doubt. But what happens when the media airs coverage that shatters that doubt? What happens to courtesy when a vicious murderer is unveiled by his own admission? How do we come to terms with the visions of horror when there is no naivete behind which to hide? And what is the code of conduct when learning the person who is responsible is someone I’ve called a friend?
I first heard the rumor during my orientation to Death Row by a CO escorting me to the pod. He motioned toward a dark skinned man sitting alone at a table as we passed by a murky window. “See him? Watch out for that one there – he’s a serial killer.”
With questionable motives himself, I brushed off the warning as though it was merely a scare tactic. Either that or the CO was harboring a cold, vindictive grudge since his comment was dripping ice. I did, however, take notice of said ‘serial killer’, but I didn’t see a killer at all. No beady red eyes, twisted grin or drawing on the wall in his own blood – at least, that’s how I imagined a serial killer to look. This guy wore schoolboy glasses and had a quiet demeanor. He was husky and out-of-shape. It was not the infamous costume of a serial killer, but I decided to avoid him just in case.
Years passed before I ever said a word to the man and even then, it was mostly brief exchanges in passing. My observation of him was that he seemed knowledgeable about the world, well-respected, and typically kept to himself. The first time we ever had a greater interaction than that it was over a bet and got a bit tense.
“R. Kelly sings that shit!”
“I’m telling you man – it’s Aaron Hall.”
“Put $5 on it then.”
“Bet then mutha-fucka!”
We shouted opposing truths back and forth until he upped the bet to ten. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone, so I agreed. I lost and paid the debt, but I felt manipulated by him raising the stakes. We didn’t speak again for over a year.
But one thing about proximity on Death Row, it forges bonds out of shared affliction. Many a friendship here is founded on empathy alone; some on familiarity. We began having casual talks, and over time, I found he was quite pleasurable to be around. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, easy to engage, and never lost his temper. I felt petty for griping over a bet that I agreed to, and I discussed with him my point-of-view. He apologized and said he, too, was caught up in the moment. He’d bet to save face with the others. We were both trying to be liked in a place where likeability is relative to survival. We made our peace, shook hands with one another, and the two of us were friends ever since.
My friend, like myself, received visits frequently, and our loved ones became acquainted as well. My mother often asked about him, and I’d have great things to say. Occasionally, he stopped by the booth to wave hello. His name was mentioned regularly during conversations with my mom, but not once did we discuss the crime that brought him here. I told myself I didn’t care whether he was a serial killer – but maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.
Then came the Friday night that 20/20 aired its special coverage on his case. I felt like I was betraying my friendship simply by watching the episode. Did I even want to know? Was the element of doubt that was the glue to our friendship about to be dissolved? I decided that a friendship that hasn’t been tested is hardly a friendship at all.
From the moment the face of the first victim was shown, I was struck by the horrible reality. Such a sweet face and promising life snuffed out by a pair of hands wrapped around her throat. Then there was the girl’s mother whose tears and pleas made my own eyes blur with sympathy. I wasn’t thinking about forgiveness or reform for the killer – I was thinking somebody should pay.
Then came the face of another young woman that riddled me with guilt, her image penetrating me in a way that accused me of excusing her death. Then there was another face; and another, until the victim count was more than ten – all of them had been raped before having their lives squeezed from their bodies. The police had no leads, except the still-shot image of a man hunched over an ATM machine. It was grainy and distorted, but I’d recognize that hulking figure anywhere – it was my friend.
After his arrest, he confessed to the murders and gave a detailed account of his slaughter. The person sounded like my friend and looked like him, but it couldn’t be the man I knew. He was too thoughtful a person to want to hurt anybody, while the guy on TV was a monster. I kept trying to remind myself that people can change – but how does someone come back from that? Is there redemption after tying up the neck of a baby and leaving him for dead? If not, and we are forever judged by our past, then what would be the motivation to change?
Long after the show was off the air, the episode kept replaying in my head. I saw the women’s faces, heard their names, and re-lived hearing their families’ grief. Eleven women strangled, stabbed, even burned to death for no other reason than knowing the person I knew. Callous hands would cut down their future, choke away their dreams and desecrate a mother’s pride. And to think that I’d shaken those very same hands without consideration of the hurt they’d caused. I couldn’t help but feel I was committing a disservice to victims by befriending their murderer.
Suddenly, I was faced with two grappling concepts – justice and forgiveness. Many are taught to believe that by withholding forgiveness, we are perpetuating justice. But the perpetuation of anything is the opposite of justice, and forgiveness is a self-serving device. Different concepts that sit on the same end of the moral spectrum because there is not one without the other. I was taught that salvation comes after the worst thing we’ve ever done. I’m a believer in forgiveness, and no one is more deserving of justice than my friend’s victims.
There were two of the victims’ mothers and one sister who all said they’d forgiven him. However, one male cousin seemed consumed by the need for vengeance, vowed to petition for execution. Strength and resolve. Persistent anguish. How I admired one and pitied the other. Those women from whom everything had been taken were determined to take something of their own. Perpetuating the hate is a transfer of their power – by forgiving him, they took it back. It was the one defining moment throughout the entire segment in which justice felt truly served.
Now I know that I, too, must forgive the horrible things that were done. Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing the wrong, but allowing him to pay. And allowing him to live to pay – that is the only justice.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a writer who is consistently thought provoking. In this essay he gives us a look into an experience most of us haven’t had, and will leave some readers questioning their own self-understanding. Terry Robinson 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 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. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after a thorough review of his case, WITS firmly supports that assertion.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
I’ve often wondered why prisoners are some of the most creative people I know. Granted, I may have a distorted perspective because I’ve been incarcerated since I was seventeen years old, and I’m now forty-three. So most of the people I’ve ever known are prisoners, but it seems like a disproportionate percentage of them are highly creative compared to the general population. Prisons are full of extremely talented artists, musicians, singers, poets, writers, inventors, tinkerers, incredible chess players, legal minds, and a multitude of other skilled and talented people. Why? Why do so many highly creative people end up in prison?
I, myself, was an extremely independent and inquisitive child, always needing to know why, always needing to know how things worked, dismantling and reassembling things. I needed a reason for everything and could be excessively obstinate if told to just believe or do something without good reason.
I was nine when we moved to a small town in East Texas with more cows than people. I didn’t fit in and almost immediately became an outsider, a non-conformist, a rule-breaker.
“Welcome to parent-teacher night at ______ ______ school, where we want to encourage our students to be creative and independent thinkers.”
Oh, really? When my mother was repeatedly called because I was always drawing in class, she didn’t understand why it was such a problem.
“Is he doing his assignments?”
“Yes, ma’am, but it is distracting.”
“How is it distracting if he is sitting there quietly drawing?”
“It is distracting to the teacher.”
“How is it distracting the teacher?”
“Because he is not paying attention to her.”
“But if he is completing his assignments, then he must be paying attention!”
“It’s disrespectful to the teacher.”
“Why are you always so hard on my son if he’s not disrupting class or bothering anyone?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard on him if you sent him to my Sunday school class at my church.”
The outsider kid who is a little different winds up in a few fights with ‘the good kids’ who go to church and bully others, gaining a ‘reputation’ as a trouble-maker amongst teachers and school officials. Those teachers and officials all attend the same churches and local functions as local police who naturally view outsiders with suspicion… and now need to keep an eye on that kid with a reputation as he is a trouble-maker in school. That same kid is then labeled as defiant and disrespectful of authority when he refuses to submit to corporal punishment at school because: one, ‘you’re not gonna hit me and get away with it‘; two, the blatant hypocrisy of ‘I’m gonna hit you to teach you a lesson that fighting is unacceptable’; and three, even at that age I found it supremely creepy for a grown man to bend pubescent boys over a chair and spank them with a giant wooden paddle. You’re refusing swats? Okay, you’re staying after school for detention.
“Why are you drawing in detention? You’re supposed to be doing homework!”
“I don’t have any homework.”
“Don’t lie to me! Everyone has homework!”
“I finished it in class.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, or I’ll give you more detention for insubordination!”
“What? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
More detention – which I refuse to attend on principle. It gets doubled… tripled… quadrupled. Which I find amusing… and get suspended… then assigned to alternative school for the remainder of the semester… where I breeze through my assignments and get into more trouble for drawing in class.
I finally return to regular school where an English teacher tells me, “You’re so smart and talented, but you’re not applying yourself.” So, I apply myself on a creative writing project only to be accused of plagiarism because, well, there’s just no way that rebellious little turd wrote that! More detention… for ‘cheating’ on an assignment. Seriously. For doing my assignment too well? Why bother anymore? More detention for refusing to do assignments. Lah-de-fucking-dah. More alternative school for refusing to attend detention. More problems at home because I’m ‘getting in trouble at school’. I come to hate school and start skipping it.
At some point Mom gets exasperated with all of it. “Why can’t you just be like other kids?! Why can’t you just do what they tell you to do?”
“Because it’s dumb. It serves no purpose, and I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I know. But it will make things so much easier for you if you just go along with it and do as you’re told.”
“Why is that a good reason to do something I disagree with?”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you so stubborn?”
Eventually they convince her that there might be something wrong with me. “What is wrong with you?” I stare at the floor and mumble that I don’t know. “If you don’t know, then who does?!” I continue to stare at the floor and shrug. “Look at me!” But no matter how hard I try, my burning eyes quickly resume studying the pattern weave of the carpet. “Why can’t you look at me? What is wrong with you?”
At some point I’m convinced that there is something wrong with me. I ponder this confusing question incessantly until it is internalized among all the other confusions I cannot yet unravel at that age.
“Are you even listening to me?”
How do I explain that my mind often wanders and pieces things together on its own while my attention remains captivated by something as simple as the gleam of light on the metal sleeve that joins pencil and eraser, studying how to recreate that metallic effect in a drawing? Do you really expect an eleven or twelve year old to understand how their mind works or be able to explain it?
“There is something wrong with you. You must be crazy or on drugs.” (Not yet!) “Why did you do that?!”
“Because I was…”
“Did you do it or not? Yes or no? I don’t want excuses!”
“I’m trying to explain!”
“Don’t talk back to me! What is wrong with you? Do as I say, not as I do. Because I said so. Don’t you dare look at me that way!”
I silently wonder – what way? Is it the confusion that bothers you? The pain? Or the contempt?
“What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?!”
What is wrong with me? Why am I so different? Why do I always feel alone even among friends? Why is it that the only time I’m at peace is when I’m drawing or writing? Except now my drawings grow increasingly disturbing, and I often destroy them. The same with my writing. I destroy it before anyone reads my innermost thoughts, the ones preoccupied with despair and misery. I destroy it before they have evidence that something truly is wrong with me. Destroy it all. Destroy everything and withdraw farther into myself.
“Ma’am, have you considered taking him to a psychologist?”
“Ma’am, I think our son has ADHD and needs to be on medication.”
Hey, kid, take your meds. Take your drugs. Take drugs so people will like you, so they will accept you, because there is something wrong with you that drugs will fix. People don’t like you unless you take your drugs because who you are is unacceptable, not good enough.
“Doctor, the Ritalin isn’t working!”
People fear what they don’t understand. Now my own parents are afraid of me. “Son, you can’t live here anymore, we don’t want you here. We’re going to put you somewhere where you can get the help you need…” somewhere that you’ll be beaten and hospitalized twice, sexually abused, and placed on Thorazine because nothing transforms a confused thirteen-year-old boy into a drooling obedient little zombie like horse tranquilizers! At least until insurance runs out and stops paying for the institutionalization. (Yes, my thirteenth birthday was a suicidal tendencies song.)
Nowhere else to go but home (if you can call it that), even though they don’t want me there. But if I run away, they report me to the police. Now the police are always looking for me because I’m a ‘troubled kid’.
“Take your meds! Why aren’t you taking your meds?” Why do I need to be on drugs for people to like me? Or to like myself? Is that even me? Hmmm… I wonder what those drugs are like? The drugs don’t fill the void, I simply no longer care about it, no longer care about all the confusion in my head from all the fears, shame, and self-doubt I‘ve internalized; numb that pain; it’s easier to be numb, to shut off all my emotions and pretend I don’t care about anything. It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a bus anyhow. At least I’m accepted by others, even if I can’t accept myself. I can at least tolerate myself from one day to the next.
I find myself drawn toward music and imagery that explores the angry dark depths within. It is safer and more cathartic than opening a vein. And less of a mess. And I haven’t quite succumbed to that demon yet, but it’s breathing down my neck. I no longer bother to conceal my drawings or writings; maybe it is a subtle cry for help or to be understood?
“Son, why are you drawing such vile things? You used to draw such beautiful things… now it is all darkness, death, pain, and depressing drawings. Stop drawing that stuff! Why are you listening to that kind of music? You’re not allowed to listen to that! You’re not allowed to draw that! You’re not allowed to express that! You’re not allowed to think that!” Yeah… because trying to control a highly creative but very confused and depressed nonconformist by dictating what they are allowed to think or how to express themselves is really going to work out well. Hmmm… maybe if you beat him into a bloody mess that will cure the anger and resentment, make him more submissive? And when the local cops see the bloody results and laugh about it, or a teacher tells that kid he probably deserved it, that won’t result in any further resentment or rage or lack of respect for authority, will it? Nahhh…
“Son, why are you so full of rage and self-destructive nihilism? Why don’t you care about anything? Why are you on drugs? What is wrong with you?!”
Is it really so difficult to figure out why so many highly creative people self-destruct and end up in prison? Does our culture really value highly creative kids who have difficulty conforming with the other ninety percent?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Aaron Striz is a first time writer for WITS, and he also won the most recent writing contest asking people to share what they felt was a significant factor in their incarceration. Aaron was a juvenile when he was first incarcerated and he is now in his forties – which gives him incredible insight. His ability to express that should go further than this creative writing platform, and would be beneficial in the field of social work as well as criminal justice. Aaron Striz has also used his gifts to advocate for himself and those he lives with regarding issues such as solitary confinement. I feel it is important to note that Aaron was originally incarcerated at the age of 17, which would not be long after the experiences shared in this essay. Not long after his incarceration, he did try to escape and he has spent a great deal of his time in solitary confinement. He was sentenced to life, he won’t be eligible for parole until he has served thirty years, and although I am not familiar with his case, a quick search indicates there was no loss of life.
Aaron Striz can be contacted at: Aaron Striz #838215 Wynne Unit 810 FM 2821 Huntsville, TX 77320
Arizona is preparing to start their next book – The Maidens, by Alex Michaelides. They chose this book after reading their previous book by the same author. The books have been ordered and should arrive in Arizona this coming week. Joining both the Arizona and NC book clubs in their reading has made my life better – feel free to join us, we would be happy to share your thoughts here!
Now – for views on the previous read, The Silent Patient, by Alex Michaelides:
A suspenseful narrative, worth waiting to see unfold! – Carlos Sigala
This book was really well written. I do not usually read many suspense novels. I like how the book kept me thinking throughout the entire read and didn’t let me figure it out until the very end. Looking forward to reading another one from this author. – Ralph Dyer
TheSilent Patient was a great book with good character development and excellent plot twists. The only thing that stopped me from reading cover to cover was lunch. It has an ending that you just won’t see coming. – Steve Lomax
‘Spellbound!’ An enigma wrapped in a riddle that created a MYSTERY! Through the twists and turns, I came to a sudden halt once the last few pieces to the puzzle were discovered. The introduction of the plot had me staggered. As it thickened, I was gripped to the pages. Walking into the climax, I realized the riddle was deciphering itself right in front of my eyes! – Terrance A. Morgan
It was an interesting read and had several plot twists I didn’t expect or anticipate. I give it a 4 out of 5 for keeping the reader guessing and engaged. It would be an excellent movie to watch if it was turned into one. – Robert Hinderliter
The human psyche is a very, very powerful muscle. The Silent Patient will have you asking more questions, looking for more and more clues to no avail. If you think you’ve understood and got this figured out, don’t worry the plot twist will get you. I give it 3.5 stars out of 5. – Victor McKaney
And, for my thoughts… Definitely a page turner. Which is what I like. I want a book to have me wanting to pick it up again. Without giving away anything – the ending had me wanting to go back and read the book over and see if I should have figured it out earlier. I’m really curious to see if the next book we are reading by the same author has that same type of direction. It will definitely have me trying to stay on my toes while I’m reading in an attempt to figure it out as I go.
And discussion on the previous book, Yellow Wife, by Sadeqa Johnson continues! Personally, I loved this book. It is probably up there in the top five of all the book club books I have read with the WITS clubs. That could have something to do with my familiarity with the geographical location of where the events took place, but I think it was mostly due to the story itself.
Two words best describe Yellow Wife – hope and despair. Within reading the novel there were twists, turns, as well as turbulence. Definitely a page turner.
The main character, Pheby, exemplified the true meaning of liberation! She had a deep inspiration to secure the freedom of her loved ones. Freedom was the ‘desire’ and at times, throughout the book, by any means necessary. Enduring the physical pain, in my opinion, was futile to the mental anguish that she endured. Her grit and dedication to a cause led to the freedom of others, to which she was seeking!
I recommend this book to any avid or non-avid reader. Indeed, a cast of movie quality! – Terrance A. Morgan
I am in prison because of my downward spiral of compromise, the gradual degeneration of my character and consequent choices. One compromise led to the next which led to the next, each one increasing the momentum of travel to and the probability of the next compromise.
My story is a tragedy, but not one of tragic beginnings. I was tremendously blessed to have wonderful parents and the advantages of academic gifting and opportunity, yet I still ended up in prison with a life sentence. How? Why?
My parents were incredible – loving, caring, kind, gentle, giving and honest. They taught and lived by their Christian beliefs of loving God and loving others. They prioritized the needs of others, supported without being overbearing, disciplined firmly yet without harshness, provided while instilling appreciation, and emphasized character, integrity, and respect for all.
I was academically gifted. Teachers frequently told my parents I was the smartest child they had taught. I won math contests and Science Olympiad events, participated in numerous opportunities reserved for top students, attended the prestigious North Carolina School of Science & Mathematics (NCSSM), and received several college academic scholarships.
I did not nose dive from the apex of the values my parents taught down into a cesspit of selling cocaine and carrying a gun. I descended one selfish, unprincipled choice at a time over several years. I entered the downward spiral by compromising with alcohol and marijuana. I drank alcohol for the first time while spending a week at the beach with a friend’s family. We went to a condo where more than a dozen people, all older, were hanging out. Drinking with the older crowd made me feel accepted and cool. Although I threw up and passed out, looking like a fool, I liked being part of the ‘cool’ crowd, naive with the dangerous desire to be accepted as part of the ‘in’ crowd.
The next year, the same ‘friend’ introduced me to marijuana, or pot. I did not want to smoke but did not have the courage to say ‘no’. My cowardice caused me to open a proverbial Pandora’s box of drug use. I liked being high on pot because it settled my mind, which was normally like an extreme laser light show, constantly on hyper-drive. Pot slowed the pace, allowing me to relax and feel normal for the first time. I eventually developed a daily habit.
My junior year began at NCSSM. Graduating from the residence high school for academically stellar students was my dream, but I traded it for nothing. Compromising by drinking and smoking pot cost me that valuable opportunity – it would not be the last one I wasted. Preparing to leave for college, I made another pivotal compromise, purchasing pot to sell.
For a while I could smoke pot and function well and still excel in school, even winning a math contest (Calculus) while very high. Selling pot allowed me to smoke every day, but smoking pot that much bore a critical side effect – it stole my drive. The exceedingly driven person with big plans, goals, and dreams, as well as the dedicated effort to accomplish them, was replaced by a distracted slacker.
As a freshman, I attended far more parties than classes, did more drinking and smoking pot than studying and learning, and added experimentation with other drugs (ecstasy, LSD, hallucinogenic mushrooms). I forfeited the academic scholarship due to terrible grades, having to attend summer classes to maintain eligibility.
I regained my academic focus and made the Dean’s List the next two semesters. Although the frequency of partying, drinking, and using drugs decreased (mostly on weekends), continuing to use at all was complete compromise. Two years later, I made another pivotal compromise, the terrible choice to sell cocaine. Quickly, I became addicted to the money, and began to view myself as a drug dealer. Adopting that identity led me to accept violence as a necessary part of the drug business.
Eight months later, my apartment was broken into and ransacked, drugs and cash stolen. My little beagle puppy, Bruiser, was left hiding under my bed, shaking uncontrollably. The break-in shattered my sense of security. I hated feeling afraid, violated, helpless. I wish I had responded by quitting the selling and using of drugs – forever. Instead, I responded by seeking revenge. Thinking I had determined the culprit, I organized a late-night armed robbery, however, the people we accosted were not involved in the break-in.
I thought striking out at someone, anyone, would make me feel less afraid and more in control, but the fear increased. I started carrying a gun everywhere, even to class. I always reentered my apartment with the gun at the ready, afraid.
Two weeks later my long, ever-worsening series of bad choices caused irreparable harm. Killing other human beings and being arrested for murder awakened me to how far down I had descended. I had the gun because for two weeks I carried a gun everywhere, because guns and violence are part of being a drug dealer, because using drugs can easily transition into selling drugs, because one compromise leads to the next. The overall direction of the compromises I made was steeply downward, but the incremental drop from one compromised choice to the next was so small as to be indistinguishable.
My parents and my gifts gave me the foundation for success, but I wasted both. The mistakes I have made are my own. I am solely, wholly responsible for my impulsive, immoral choices. I failed to learn from my mistakes, not only repeating them but making worse and worse choices. Smoking marijuana took my drive, selling drugs took my direction, identifying myself as a drug dealer destroyed my boundaries.
Now, I refuse to compromise on my values of honesty, integrity, compassion, diversity, and social responsibility. I know it takes only one compromise to enter the downward spiral, and I will never again re-enter the downward spiral of compromise.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson placed second in our most recent writing contest. Timothy has been incarcerated for nineteen years and 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/).
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
I am easily able to account for numerous contributing factors to my incarceration. My mind and heart begrudgingly possess a bevy of reasons, explanations and excuses. However, after further consideration, I concede they are just that… excuses; meager attempts to justify my being incarcerated, enchained and entombed.
As do many, I too find myself quickly casting blame upon the most frequently attributed afflictions – a broken and fatherless home; the lack of proper guidance and structure; a dysfunctional judicial system that levies unfair sentencing; misrepresentation by an ineffective counsel; the coercion of corrupt law enforcement; or perhaps, simply, the implication of a very ‘talkative’ acquaintance. This list could go on, and each reason would appear quite significant in the eyes of its beholder, but truth be told, these are merely the fruit of a much more poisonous tree.
While contemplating similar causes in my own incarceration, I discover they undoubtedly share one common root. Although each merits its own truth, these stigma are the culmination of a far greater woe. This generational genocide, reinforced by blind belief in errant statistical data, flawed reiterations and environmental influence while balanced on the crutches of racial prejudice is but the surface of this deeply embedded spur.
By no means am I attempting to discredit the validity of such factors, or reduce their weight in regard to anyone’s bout with this carceral beast, my own included, but there is one simple answer to this question. What do I consider the most significant factor in my incarceration? ‘Absence’… Yes, absence.
In my humble opinion, absence is the root cause of any and everyone’s incarceration. No matter which surface truth we choose to blame, ultimately, there was an underlying lack that led to its burgeoning. Whether it was the absence of a father figure, a strong support system or a void of values, there was a lack. Maybe there was an unfair trial, insufficient legal assistance, or the ploy of discriminatory incrimination, but the fact still remains – we were without something, and the absence of that something created a vulnerability.
In an absence of awareness, we lose focus and forget all instruction and forewarning, then act with clouded judgment, in total disregard to consequence. In an absence of direction, we are left to our own demise, inept at navigating the hostile and often imbalanced terrain of our society. In the absence of maturation, we have become trapped in a race, running from responsibility, hoping to be rewarded with the avoidance of accountability. And, in the absence of knowledge, we are unable to defend our rights or freedom on the battlefield of ‘law and order’, thus we are captured, sold, and enslaved.
So, you see then, regardless of how one may attempt to rationalize the cause of their incarceration, a single truth prevails – there has been an absence in our lives – an absence resulting in ignorance, an absence that has become a perpetual deviant, an absence that led to bad choices and poor decisions, an absence that has left us absent.
ABOUT THE WRITER. It is no surprise that Carter has placed third in our recent writing contest. He has placed here before, and he is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers. His writing style is always reflective, sometimes nostalgic, and completely charming. WITS really appreciates the insight that writers like Carter bring to important conversations.
If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.
I’d end up dead or in prison, That’s what they said. I never listened. Kept living the way I was living, I should’ve listened. Surrounded by barbed wire, This prison is no place to be, Handcuffs and chains weigh on me heavy. Can’t even look at me And remember who I used to be. Like seasons, people change, Close friends, my woman far gone. Two decades worth of tears Span the gap between me and my family, Pent up energy bouncing off the steel, No where to go and Haunted by memories, How things used to be. Living trapped within the torment of My own sins and the pain I caused, Waiting for the day my debt is paid in full. Then what? Will anyone notice I’ve been gone for so long? Supposed to pick up where I left off? Back in a society where I didn’t fit in? Everyone said I’d end up dead or in prison. I kept on living the way I was living, God knows, I should’ve listened.
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is our first contribution by Kevin, and I’m glad he found us. WITS writers have been choosing, since we started, to pursue creative endeavors, and continue to put themselves out there. For that, I am very grateful.
confined spaces sealing broken dreams. i’m broken too, though it appears i’m together, broken and severed. too many years on prison tiers, too many fears, can’t shed no tears, seems tears and freedom lost their way. fear of not being accepted, fear of being rejected, fear of being neglected, unloved and unprotected. though I’ve changed my thinking, don’t feel at ease. but know somehow these things i’m instilling will eventually stimulate me mentally, prove this was meant for me and just maybe i was meant to be a voice for the voiceless, an example of choices that didn’t belong. i like that i can write and recite the fact i did it wrong. searching for right, hurting sometimes at night. hoping it will come together, that this won’t last forever. yeah, i’m broken and shattered, but the thing that truly matters is that I can climb, and I still have time as long as someone holds the ladder.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Michael Kent is a pleasure to work with. He opens up and shares his feelings and experiences in his poetry, and he is also enthusiastic about exploring writing. I’m hoping he will try his hand with an essay, which I think he would nail because of what I see as his willingness to share his experiences in his poetry.
Michael can be contacted via Getting Out or by writing: Michael Kent Jr. #15215000 777 Stanton Blvd. Ontario, OR 97914
