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
It was an unusually quiet night, the normally blaring TV’s and radios were quiet. The typical long-distance conversations between inmates yelling back and forth from several cells away, or the blusterous sound of someone triumphantly declaring “Checkmate!” – were not heard on this night. On this night, some of us were preparing to say good-bye to a friend for the very last time.
Hashi was ‘making his rounds’, saying his final farewells to those that mattered to him. It was a ritual that played out each time someone’s ‘death date’ was upon them and upon all of us, like some Shakespearean tragedy. Thus is life on Death Row – a series of greetings and farewells. And my turn to say good-bye was approaching faster than I wanted it to.
I could hear Hashi drawing ever closer to my cell, and I steeled myself against the emotional onslaught that was certain to come when I looked into the face of my friend – a dead man walking. I needed to be standing when he got to my cell. I felt it would be inappropriate and disrespectful to be sitting, but I also felt like I had a ton of bricks strapped to my back, and I struggled to rise to my feet. As I did, my solid resolve began to melt away like ice cream on a summer day.
Within seconds, Hashi was at my cell, his hand thrust through the bars in search of mine, and in that one gesture, my resolve dissipated to nothing. I grasped his hand with mine and reached my other arm between the bars and hugged him. “I love you, brother,” is all I could manage. The dam broke, and my eyes flooded with tears.
Hashi squeezed my hand one final time and told me, “I love you too, little brother,” and walked away. In that moment, there was a dignity and grace to him that I had never seen. Even in what were to be his final days, he was still teaching, and I was still learning. I sat back down feeling a little lighter and sat vigil for the next three days.
We all knew that Hashi had about 72 hours to live. And as it is with all who are transported to the ‘death house’, we prayed for that last minute stay of execution, but God decided to say “no” this time, and at 12:07 a.m., Hashi was pronounced dead by lethal injection.
Several years later, God would say “yes” to me, and I am alive today and no longer on death row. Now, if I could only get him to say “yes” to easing this never-ending pain and loss.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Tony Enis does not write for WITS often, but I always look forward to hearing from him, and he never disappoints. He is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-years, was at one point on death row, and he has always maintained his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Anthony Enis #N82931 P.O. Box 1000 Menard, IL 62259
I started our newest book a little before the others – The Silent Patient, by Alex Michaelides. Without giving any of it away, I am hooked already, and I am not very far in. I’m really curious to see where this one goes and what everyone thinks of it, and I can’t wait for them to get their copies. If you get a chance, read it with us!
Now, for thoughts on the previous read. The club recently finished up Yellow Wife, by Sadeqa Johnson. This one brought on some in depth conversations, and I wish I could have been there. Our Arizona Book Club is very fortunate, in that they can meet together in the library. They shared a couple of their thoughts on Yellow Wife:
“Yellow Wife was an intriguing read and invoked both negative and positive reactions. It’s a story about how two women sacrificed themselves for the betterment of their children and others. This book should be required reading for kids in grades 6-8 so they can see some real history of how people were treated in the 1800’s.” – Robert Hinderliter
“Yellow Wife is a real page turner. Ruth wasn’t just the medicine woman, she was a survivalist, and a mother with plans that no slave could ever foresee. She instilled in Pheby her survival instincts and to always protect your children at all costs while setting up a better future for them, no matter the risks or costs too. Ruth also taught her daughter that sometimes in life a mother has to make a big, life-changing sacrifice for their children. The book could also have been called either: A Woman’s Sacrifice or just Sacrifice.” Victor McKaney
Feel free to contact WITS with your thoughts on any of our book selections!
When my family and I moved to E. B. Jordan Homes in 1980, it was like a ghost town in the woods – rural, secluded, somewhat lawless and all the perks of country living. There were ditches to scour, trees to climb, fields to rove; and also the not-so-friendly white people to consider. It was the early period of gentrification in Wilson, when underprivileged families were uprooted from the inner city and relocated to areas where we were less welcome.
E.B. Jordan Homes was a project housing community on the outskirts of town between a predominantly white neighborhood and a motorcycle club. We had the n-word flung at us from some few cars passing by, but other than that, it was a great place to live, and my mischief began when I was young. At seven I cussed, bullied and vandalized. I stole candy almost everyday from the old service station across the street. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught, nor was I bothered by the obscenities of some whites, but no matter how tough I acted, I was always scared of one thing… London Church.
That was all I knew about the old creepy church that sat several yards from our front door. It was called London Church. It was faded white with chipped paint and shutters on the windows and guarded by towering oak trees. The older kids told stories about London Church being built atop a cemetery and the funerals for those graves were held inside London Church; that alone kept me up many a night staring over at the church grounds waiting for something to move. I spent the first few years trying to forget all the scary stories I’d heard, but often enough I would pass by London Church and wonder – yet throw a pretty girl in the mix and just like that, I was ready to confront my fears.
It began one day with some silly notion that was caught on the wind. We were hoping to impress some neighborhood girls when someone said, “Let’s break into London Church.” At the time, I associated the name London with England, and I thought of him as some ancient white man, one whose spirit would not take kindly to a bunch of Black kids running around in his church. But then the thunder crackled and the lightning flashed, and the break-in seemed like the perfect thing to do, as though God himself was saying, “I’mma lookout for y’all little bad asses this time, but you owe me one.”
So we headed over to London Church, one foot-step coaxing the other with the acoustics of thunder to incite our false courage. We told tall tales of ghosts and demons and old white slave masters, who would shackle not our bodies but our spirits. When we got there, all the wide-eyed looks turned my way, and unanimously I was elected the scapegoat… so I shimmied open the window and with a boost I climbed inside, in effect breaking into London Church. What happened next is spotty and irrelevant as the events of that day are now but a haze in my distant past, but what I did was dishonorable and has left me with lingering regret as I would come to learn more about the man called London.
On Valentine’s day, 1970, three years before I was born, the Wilson Daily Times published a full-page article on London Woodard, a man who was born a slave, yet died as a pivotal figure in Black history. London was born in 1792, the whip-cracking era when black bodies were deemed no more than chattel in an economy driven by cruelty. A time when Black heritage and Black identities, like the names of London’s parents, were snuffed out of existence and did not survive the passage of time. Much of London’s young life was unknown, but at 24, he was recorded in the estate of Asa Woodard, and later at 34 with Julan Woodard, indicating the familial passing down of his enslavement. On March 22, 1827, just one year later, London would be sold again. He was bought at an auction by Administrator James B. Woodard for $500. London would spend the majority of his adult life on the Woodard plantation as the slaves in those days seldom strayed far from the “good master”. London was 35 when he met another Woodard slave, a woman named Venus, and the two found marital bliss and would remain a union for 18 years, until Venus died in 1845.
London was recognized as a distiller in fine fruit brandies, providing a euphoria to the other slaves to best deal with the day’s long heat and the lash of the master’s tongue. He was baptized on August 24, 1828, as a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, a site located some few miles from the E.B. Jordan projects where I grew up and established as the oldest church in Wilson. From there London was promoted to the Overseer, tending to the slaves for the master, a discovery to which I felt indifferent to old London, but unfair since I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave.
It was, in fact, as the Overseer that London caught the eye of Penelope Lassiter, a woman born free in 1814. When she was 29, Penelope was hired as the housekeeper and surrogate mother to the children of James B. Woodard after the death of his second wife. Woodard would again marry 4 years later, but by then Penelope had become vital to the rearing of the children, and so she was kept on as she would come to be known as Aunt Penny. It was while working on the plantation that Penelope’s admiration for London grew, and in 1845, the same year his wife Venus died and London was left with 9 children, he and Penelope married. London was 58. He and Penelope had 6 kids together.
Penelope was born the daughter of Hardy Lassiter, a mulatto who owned a farm south of Wilson. Penny, herself, would prove to be business minded, and at 39, she bought 106 acres (five miles east of Wilson on Tarboro Road) for $242. It was then 1853 and she and London had been married 9 years. The next year, she paid $150 to James B. Woodard and bought London’s freedom.
But freedom would come at a far greater price when enslavement was all that one knew, and London would stay on at the Woodard plantation for another 11 years until he was officially emancipated. He did, however, continue to thrive, and on December 11, 1866, just one year after his emancipation, London bought 200 acres of his own. He also continued in his devout membership at Tosneot Baptist Church until after the Civil War, and on April 22, 1866, he was granted permission to preach amongst his “acquaintances only”.
Elizabeth Farmer, who was also a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, donated one acre of land for $1 for the purpose of building a Black church. The stipulation was as recorded, “…in the event that said premises be used for secular affairs, either by concord or trustees, then deed was null and void.” London went on to preach in Black homes and other circles of his peers for 4 years, until he was officially licensed to preach and saw the construction of the Black church completed.
London Primitive Baptist Church was opened for service on Saturday, October 22, 1870. It was regarded as the first Black church in Wilson County. London was 78 and unfortunately he would preach at the church for only 3 weeks. His last sermon was on November 13, 1870. The next day he suffered a stroke and fell into an open fireplace. Burned beyond recovery, London lived long enough to dictate a will, leaving his wife Penelope much of his furnishings and equipment, and to his children, his beehives and a tenth of the residue each, valued at $7 a share. He dictated the will before the Woodard brothers (William, James Simms, and Calvin) as witnesses, though London was too weak to sign the will himself. He died the next day, November 15, 1870. His will was attested and probated one week later.
And that was the story of old London Woodard, who was best known as Uncle London. But it was only the beginning of his lasting legacy as his church would stand more than 100 years later.
The history of London Church was declared murky for the next 25 years until it was rebuilt in 1895. It’s new location was on Herring Avenue, some 50 yards from the original site on London Church Road and even less than that from my childhood home. It was recognized under the umbrella of the Turner Swamp Primitive Baptist Church in 1897, and it is still in use today, making it a prestigious landmark for Black spiritual practice.
So that day when I broke into London Church, I broke the seal on something sacred – a place where Black ancestors far and wide once congregated in holy union. I’d passed under the threshold and stood in the halls of an ex-slave and survivor, whose name would now defy the passing of time. And though I’d trodden on the floors of Black excellence, desecrated by my youthful ignorance but made whole I would hope by my earnest accountability, I pray that my egregious offense to Black history and my blundering childhood ways are pardoned by the spirit of Uncle London.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up 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. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work,Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
Most people involved with prison reform are familiar with the system of incarceration in Norway, one based on the concept of creating good neighbors rather than retribution. That concept is something I thought would never be implemented here in the United States. I was wrong. This ongoing series will be a platform for those living within California’s very own – Norway Project.
As of February 7, 2023, CDCR’s Valley State Prison is the first prison in California to implement the Norway Model! It’s a model focused on providing incentives to inmates and guiding us towards pursuing meaningful rehabilitation and positive programming efforts. It’s meant to give back a sense of ‘humanity’ to the inmate population, and to also change the culture of prison from using discipline and punishment as the only means of correcting behavior.
I’ve been in prison for 13 years now. I’ve seen opportunities offered by CDCR, but the correctional officers and administrative staff were still under the beliefs that inmates were to be punished and that we cannot change. Now, this Norway Model sets a new standard and perspective for administrative staff and inmates alike, and the first act the prison has taken is an entire shift of correctional officers and the training they receive. The yard has a new wave of c/o’s coming, and this building is now an Honor Building.
We have been given a pool table! We also have received bigger, better quality flat screen TV’s in our dayrooms! The talk of upcoming incentives include a ping pong table, a PlayStation, and a vending machine for the inmate population!
I feel honored and rewarded for the hard work and progress I’ve made in my pursuit for self betterment. It’s definitely encouraging others to want to benefit from the model by seeking self help programs and remaining disciplinary free. I’ve seen a happier, more social and positive community since this began, and it’s only been a week… I cannot wait to see the huge change in relations between the inmate population and correctional staff now that resentments and biases are being changed for the better! This Norway Model has opened the doors for healing and a new way of rehabilitating the inmate community and showing employees there is a human side in all of us! All that was missing in prisons was the support, encouragement and unity in building a better world.
Yours truly – TL
I have been incarcerated for eight years, most of those years spent at a higher security institution. Recently, I was afforded the opportunity to attend an alcohol and drug counseling certification program here at Valley State Prison in Chowchilla, Ca. I’m currently housed in an honor building that is transitioning to a Norwegian model style environment. While it’s a long way off of an actual Norwegian model institution, it is a step in the right direction. We recently received special amenities like a pool table, coffee urns, and 70″ flat screen televisions. This type of living environment promotes rehabilitation through healing and incentives rather than punishment and deprivation of basic human rights. Work still needs to be done, but this is definitely a good start. This state and others could truly benefit from expanding the program, and I’m glad to be able to experience an opportunity like this.
Note: This is sixth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
January 29, 2023
[Typically, these journal entries are sent in written form. Terry called me on January 29, 2023, wanting to share something that he wrote, impacted by seeing the mother of Tyre Nichols on the news. We started recording shortly after he called.]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up 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. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
This will be the biggest favor I have asked of anyone, I realize, my head slumped and the phone receiver shaking in my hand. My friend answers the call.
“Are you current on the situation with my Dad?” I ask, relief seeping through me when he responds that he is. I do not have to say the awful words.
My Dad is dying – not dying like we are all dying, or dying with two months to live – dying in that he will be dead in a few hours. The shocking news has hit me hard. I am scrambling to take care of the necessaries.
“I have a huge favor to ask,” an understatement, but I cannot think of adequate words. When my friend pledges his willingness to do anything for me, I press on. “I want you to represent me at the funeral. I am going to write a speech to honor my dad and want you to deliver it.”
Without hesitation, he replies, “Of course. I’ve got you brother.” The tears I had been holding back break through before I hang up the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.
It isn’t until I enter my prison cell and shut the door to muffle the ever-present clamor that I allow the tears to stream. Yet, even as I struggle to breathe, gratitude to God mingles with the suffocating grief, gratitude for a friend, a brother who loves me so much that he is willing to bear such a weight. My thoughts travel back to the day when I prayed for a friend and God gave me a brother.
“Wake up. You’re not going to sleep away our last few minutes together,” I told my biological brother, elbowing his arm. “You’re going to talk to me.” He sighed heavily and yawned but sat up, a reluctant compliance.
In our early twenties, we had traveled many thousands of miles side-by-side, but not quite like this. In the backseat of the family car on trips to visit family in Maryland and Florida, vacations to the Blue Ridge mountains, Disney World, and Myrtle Beach. Then, in high school and college, one of us driving and the other riding shotgun on road trips. So many miles, so many happy memories.
Never had we journeyed confined by shackles, bounced relentlessly by the decrepit shocks of a prison transfer bus. Never before had the trip guaranteed our separation, maybe forever.
Arriving at the Sandy Ridge depot, we were herded off the bus into the ‘Cattle Shoot’, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the livestock. My brother and I were being transferred from Foothills, where we had been together for about a year, to different prisons. With him serving thirty years and me life without parole, we wondered if this goodbye was the goodbye.
His name was called first. We exchanged “I love you” and “Keep your head up”, hugged as best we could in shackles, and he shuffled away. I prayed, “God, please take care of my brother.”
When my name was called, I prayed again, “God, please give me a friend where I am going,” while doing the shackles-shuffle to the next bus. Some of the guys already knew each other. They caught up on news of various prisons and prisoners. I did not plan to talk to anyone – the sting of saying goodbye to my brother still too raw.
The two guys closest to me discussed the previous night’s Fiesta Bowl. Upstart Boise St. had upset powerhouse Oklahoma in dramatic fashion. One of the two turned to me, asking if I had watched the game. Initially, I just stared through my fog. His smile nudged me into a response of “yes”. Despite my barely verbal opening, the conversation on my favorite topic, sports, drew me out of the haze.
We recapped the spectacular (now legendary) plays: the hook-and-ladder, the statue of liberty, the running back’s proposal to his girlfriend, a cheerleader, after he scored the winning touchdown. The sports talk replaced my lifelessness with animation. I was a Claymation form temporarily brought to life. At least the conversation helped the bus ride pass, I thought.. God had more in mind.
When I thanked God for the semi-familiar face of my sports conversation partner in the next cell, God must have chuckled, knowing He had already given me abundantly, exceedingly more than I dared ask.
The confined, compact nature of the prison environment amplifies the obstacles to developing and maintaining a friendship, while simultaneously intensifying the need for a friend. In the friendship building stage, the prison environment causes near constant contact, an abnormal closeness for the start of a friendship. The excessive time together combined with the high-stress state of living generates numerous opportunities for friction. Only when both parties are committed to working through the inevitable conflict does a friendship develop.
A friend is not a person without flaws but a person with whom exists a mutual contract of grace. If friendship required flawlessness, nobody would choose to be my friend. My new neighbor, Tommy, extended grace to me despite my caustic sarcasm and know-it-all attitude. Instead of taking offense, he laughed, even at himself. And he helped me laugh, a much needed soul-medicine.
Even when friendship demanded a price, Tommy embraced the imposition. After I tore my ACL playing prison-yard gladiator basketball, he helped take care of me, getting my tray in the chow hall. When a miscreant thought the crutches a license to be rude, Tommy bluntly informed the misguided chap otherwise. His exact words, “His leg might be messed up, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs. So, what do you want to do?” Tommy, a Marine always and forever, could be rather intense. Somewhere along the way, we became more than friends, we became brothers.
Many in prison avoid friendship because of the inevitable sudden separation. One person moves to another unit or transfers to another prison, without any warning, without a chance to say goodbye. That’s what happened to Tommy. He was just gone one day, transferred to another prison, no warning, no farewell.
Keeping in contact, even by letters, violates prison rules. As a Christian, I submit to a higher authority when a divergence emerges between the two. I write letters of support as a ministry. Most persons in prison have no way to navigate, or circumvent, the prohibition, but an understanding family member relayed letters between Tommy and me. We supported and encouraged each other through those simple words and, of course, we conversed on sports, especially football. In many letters, he expressed his commitment to always be there for me and to help provide for me after his release.
Tommy walked out of prison after fifteen years. I had not seen him in seven years. My parents visited him that week to help him get a few things. They had gotten to know him well over the years. They were emotionally impressed by the way he spoke of me as his brother and of his love for me.
I have had a number of friends get out, promising to keep in contact and send pictures, order magazines, etc. Most are never heard from again, unless and until they return to prison. A few kept in touch, briefly, then essentially vanished. Not my brother.
Maintaining contact and transitioning to the role of a supporter after release begets numerous problems. Upon release, a person is not starting from zero but from deep in the negative. Acquiring a job, home, transportation and food, plus paying supervision fees – with a felony record – sets many up for failure. If a person does make it through the post-release quicksand, playing catchup makes life move at warp speed. Staying in contact and providing support increases the strain.
Many leave prison carrying with them the trauma of that environment. Yelling, slamming doors, quick movement, feet scuffling, or countless other triggers can activate the adrenaline rush and other fight or flight responses. Every phone call, visit or letter with those still behind bars takes a toll. Maintaining contact with friends left behind forces the released person to constantly confront their own trauma, a steep price.
My brother sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, for me. As soon as he could manage, even at a cost to himself, he put money on the phone, sent money to my canteen account, ordered books and magazines (mostly sports magazines, of course), sent photos, and relayed jokes and funny memes to cheer me up. On his first truck, he put a NC State sticker on the passenger side, his way of letting me ride shotgun.
When I prayed for a friend, I asked for someone for a season, wanting God to supply a temporary need. God recognized a permanent need and supplied a brother for life. Thanks to the gift of Tommy, on the day I learned my father would die in a few hours, laying on a prison bunk with tears tumbling, I whispered, “God, thank you. I asked for a friend. You gave me a brother. I did not know how much I would need him, but you knew.”
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is not only a great writer, but he also expresses through his writing who he is today and helps to illustrate personal growth. WITS is about allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers, and I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing not only his loss, but also his faith. Timothy is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.
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
Author, Kwame Teague, has created a productive, creative lifestyle within the parameters of prison – through pure initiative and tenacity. He wasn’t provided writing classes and tools within his cell, but rather, took it upon himself to establish a positive and productive way of life with access to only a pen and paper. THAT – is inspirational, and also why I wanted to talk to him.
Conversation with Kwame Teague.
While WITS is not the platform to share fiction writing, it IS the platform to share and encourage writing in all forms. Fiction writing is equally as important as non-fiction, and in many ways can be an even greater therapy. The book clubs WITS sponsor primarily read fiction, a much needed doorway to another life and time.
Kwame has taken fiction and run with it. In 2021, Dutch, the movie, was released based on a series of books he authored by the same name. While I enjoyed the movie, and felt a connection to it in more ways than one, as I grew up in New Jersey, what was even more overwhelming to experience was watching what Kwame had inspired and seen to fruition from within a prison cell.
I don’t know Kwame’s history. But that kind of dedication to one’s craft, focus, and determination centered on productivity – screams of being well prepared to successfully go home. While he has been busy over the years writing, he has positioned himself as a positive role model, taking time to encourage other writers. For that reason, I wanted to talk to him. I will share his work in our library, and I hope he keeps us posted on any future projects he is a part of. Below is a list of links to some of his existing projects, although it is clear from our conversation, this list is far from complete.
