I come from a fractured blacktop scattered with butts, blunt guts and broken butterfly jars. I come from broke and broken families where broken window theories clip wings early. I come from No Child Left Behind and Just Say “No” to three-for-tens and five-for-twenties, ten-ten skinnys and one-twenty-five by fives. I come from penny candies and two-for-a-dollar wings, fifty-cent hugs and dollar dutches – blocks where boys slapbox while the girls double-dutch. I come from humble homes where grandmothers are saints and every kid’s got a father they don’t know named John Doe. I come from late nights looking for my mother in the back-alley of a bar peeking through the crack in the backdoor. I come from where crack is king where the crack of dawn brings crack head neighbors to steal our newspaper. I come from crockpot dinners that simmer while our grandmother works seven days a week with a weak heart, gnarled hands and swollen feet. I come from hunger – from rumbling stomachs in the classroom to cutting class and rumbling in the bathroom. I come from redbrick rowhomes with glass ceilings, smoke-stained walls and tear-stained sheets. I come from big iced teas and big white tees, dirty Dickies and dicked sneaks that talk while you walk. I come from coupons and food stamps. I come from group homes and boot camps. I come from false prophets who sold me money-green dreams who never told me that God is dead and life is hell. I come from the otherside where trying to survive is a waste of time – I come from the end of the line.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, whose first submissions were a joy to read, and he has only gotten better over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Fayette P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
I just received a copy of Texas Letters, which includes a collection of letters written from solitary confinement in Texas. This is an incredibly important tool in any conversation regarding those subjects – prisons in Texas, solitary confinement, or specifically, solitary confinement in Texas.
The United States is an advanced country, and the systems of incarceration have not advanced alongside advances in other areas. Prison, solitary confinement and reform are not clear cut, black and white issues and arguments from those perspectives are not overly productive.
Arguments for solitary confinement include providing protection against violent and dangerous individuals, retribution and punishment, as well as individuals who actually want to be in solitary for their own protection, among other things. Arguments against solitary confinement include various perspectives regarding inhumanity, mental health and torture.
What is clear is that change is needed. WITS is confident there is adequate education, insight and resources within the United States to work together and develop solutions that are humane, productive, and safe, systems that protect those living within prison as well as those working there. Any discussion that entertains maintaining the current state of affairs is a wasted discussion. This book, Texas Letters, is a resource in the quest for solutions regarding an issue that becomes more urgent by the day.
A Conversation with George about Cross-Pollination and Compassion.
I once read a story about a farmer who grew excellent quality corn. She’d won many a Blue Ribbon for Best Grown Corn. One year, a reporter asked what her secret to success was. She grinned and said, “I share my seed corn with my neighbors.”
The stunned reporter said, “What! How can you risk sharing your best seed corn with your neighbors, when you know they’ll be competing against you next year?” What the farmer then explained illustrates a life lesson for me.
“Don’t you know? The wind lifts pollen from ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbor grows inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”
So it is with our lives. We all have something to offer. It may be a gift or talent we were born with or picked up along the way, or something we studied and practiced and honed. It could be an athletic ability or the gift of poetry. One might be able to draw anything they see or read the body language of others so well they can perceive what’s not being said. We’ve all seen people with refined skills teach their secrets and hard-earned wisdom to others… and we all know stingy folks who’d take a secret recipe for chili to the grave.
As editor of Compassion, a national newsletter written by and for people incarcerated on Death Row, I’ve had the privilege of working with hundreds of writers. Some live in the same prison unit as me; we started on this literary journey together about ten years ago. In 2013, the prison offered a creative writing class to the 140 or so men here on Death Row in North Carolina. Twenty of us signed up, though only a few had graduated high school and could actually write a proper sentence. Yet, over the course of its five-year lifespan, the class was mostly facilitated by professors from Duke University and UNC, along with professional journalists, novelists, and poets. We were in awe of these highly skilled people and didn’t understand why they were ‘lowering’ themselves for guys like us. Why waste their gifts? They said, “We believe in you. We’ve had opportunities and advantages you didn’t. So, now we want to offer some to you.” It reminds me of how NBA stars might volunteer at basketball camps for teens: It speaks to seeing the universality of human potential in even the least of us, the young, the wayward and uneducated. It’s about giving back, remembering that people greater than themselves helped them attain greatness.
Similarly, I have a friend on the outside who is a professional writer, editor, poet – she can do it all. She’s befriended budding writers in prison, and she corresponds with them, teaches them how to refine their craft, helps them to see their own potential and provides practical support to facilitate achievement. She finds publishing opportunities, types up their manuscripts, submits their work online (even paying the submission fees) since we have no computer access in prison. Without such support from people like her on the outside, it is impossible for incarcerated writers to succeed. I’ve asked her why she does it, and she’s said, “It’s in my heart to help people, and this is what I have to offer. I just want to do my part.”
But we don’t have to be experts to do our part, to give of ourselves. Among the volunteers who make Compassion possible, none are writing professionals. Rather, they donate time, money, energy, and labor to sustain this outlet. Each gives what they can. A couple type all the issues, someone else formats it, a few fundraise (Compassion is a nonprofit), etc. Of the writings themselves, most of the submissions I receive are handwritten, barely legible, and undeveloped as stories, essays, and poems, as most of the writers are uneducated, the same way I was when I joined the writing class here. However, Compassion is a defacto writing class for them. It can be instructive for the contributors when they compare their original submission to their edited version once it’s published. They also get to see the more polished contributions from highly skilled writers, which shows them what can be done if they keep practicing.
Of the twenty of us who joined the writing class here, seven stuck with it and became established writers, winning national awards and publishing books, essays, and poems. Several founded mentorship programs in collaboration with people on the outside. All were transformed because people invested in us, believed in us, helped us believe in ourselves.
It reminds me that we are all interconnected, and whether active or passive, we influence the world around us in a sort of social cross-pollination. If we wish to truly live well and meaningfully, we must help enrich the lives of others. The welfare of one is tangled with the welfare of ALL: like it or not, we are in this together. The fact is, none of us truly wins until we all win. Humanity is a race, but not the kind that lines us up against each other with only one winner. Rather, this race – HUMANITY – unites us. When we overemphasize individualism, “looking out for #1”, personal liberty, etc., we get exactly that – a bunch of lovely disconnected individuals. Too much individualism dehumanizes us, because humans are social creatures. The Golden Rule speaks to balancing selfish and selfless concern; we are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, not just promote one over the other.
Whether we know it or not, we are part of something bigger, something that transcends our subdivisions of gender, class, race, religion, age, political party. Life, the fulfilled life, is all about relationships – between us and God, and us and each other. Humans are not meant to be alone; we live symbiotically with others. Love is the nutritive force that keeps everything growing and producing a high-quality harvest, making humanity better as a race. Our differences are not designed to divide us, but to offer openings for us to pour ourselves into one another’s lives, to be enriched by each other, and to impart value by gifting us all with something special to bring to the feast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. He inspires me. When you work with people who live in prison long enough, you get to know some who make you hope to be just as loving as them. George is one of the people that makes me aspire to show his level of kindness. He is also an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside and Beneath Our Numbers. And, as discussed, he is the editor of Compassion. More of his work 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
Note: This is fifth 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.
Listen as Terry reflects on this particular journal entry.
April 17, 2016 (4:02 am)
It’s been 4 months since I wrote in this journal, but tonight I’m having trouble sleeping and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. I keep having these dreams of getting off Death Row, but I can’t stay long. For some reason I’ve gotta come right back. I’m going around visiting people I haven’t seen in years but it’s just to say goodbye. I don’t know if it’s meaning I belong on Death Row or this place is so far removed from the world that once you’re here, you’re lost forever. I wonder what happened to that little kid that used to be me, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead on Death Row. I used to dream of white picket fences and gardens around a trailer, now all I can dream of is the chance to see people before I die. Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, being woke to face all the bullshit that happens on Death Row, or going to sleep and realizing I’m still in this bitch.
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.
I am working on a new WITS book project. Taking a look at ‘ethics’. It is in the planning stages, but I am looking for essays on the subject.
What are ethics – in YOUR words. NOT a dictionary definition.
Are they important, why are they important? Should we expect ethical behavior from those in authority and why? I am looking for heartfelt responses as opposed to clinical responses, which is a challenge when it comes to this topic. I do not want textbook responses.
Share reflections on ethics as they relate to the population living in prison as well as the staff working with that population. This is not in an effort to hear negative perspectives, I’m hoping for a variety of material, to include both positive and negative. Most specifically what this book is looking at is one particular case of a WITS writer as it went through the system, calling into question ethics every step of the way, and the book hopes to look at ethics overall in relation to that case. These reflections on ethics will be used throughout. There is a fair amount of urgency, as this individual is on death row and out of appeals, and I would like to have the book finished in a reasonable amount of time for obvious reasons.
Also, feel free to share reflections on ethics within the judicial system.
Illustrations can include things you’ve seen or experienced.
This is an evolving project, and not all material sent in will be used in the book. Although some pieces might be posted on WITS’ site if appropriate, even if they don’t fit the material in the book.
Thank you! Send submissions to the below address, and poetry is welcome as well.
Walk In Those Shoes Attn: Ethics P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
The bold red lettering screamed, the words an unexpected punch to the stomach causing a burdened breath to break free. Unable to face the sullen sign any longer, I lowered my head, chin to chest, contemplating the burden that lie beyond – spending the next sixteen years imprisoned, only able to call home once each Christmas; the thought… fathomless. My life was over. My brittle heart crumbled, the pieces plunging into a pit of despair, dragging along my broken spirit.
I sat in a daze, oblivious to my surroundings, yet aware of their presence. Fluorescent lighting clicked and ticked above, my nose numb with the smell of fresh paint masking decades of stale urine, and my bottom paralyzed by the cold concrete bench. Slowly, the void began to lay claim.
The crackle of ratcheting manacle locks shattered the emptiness, a sound I would, unfortunately, become intimate with. None of it even mattered.
ONE PHONE CALL A YEAR CHRISTMAS
This had to be cruel and unusual. I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down any tears threatening to fall. My chapped lip quivered; I bit down, tasted blood.
“Aye…” I felt a light tap on my knee.
“Aye…” Grappling through my haze, I struggled to focus on the face before me. It belonged to the county sheriff, whose job it was to deliver me into the custody of the department of corrections.
“Hold ya head up homeboy… You from Laurinburg,” he said, smiling encouragingly.
I understood the sentiment, but despite the man’s effort, the lore of the infamous Central Prison weighed heavy upon me. Frightening images flashed before my mind’s eye, depicting gruesome tales of murder, assault, and far worse taking place behind the century old walls. The prison’s vicious reputation brought to mind fangs, thirsting for fresh blood. I shivered.
“You’re going to be a’ight Emmanuel… I’m sure of it,” the Sheriff said.
There was something in his tone, the look in his eyes, the way he said my name. Emmanuel, ‘God is with us’. It gave me a sense of reassurance.
As the words processed, my head began to rise. Although I could feel my neck cringing beneath the weight of stress and anxiety, I firmly held the sheriff’s gaze and gave an affirmative nod. Responding in kind, he smiled again before turning to leave.
Watching as he gradually descended that long empty corridor, I silently cried out to return with him. The sheriff was going home… I was not.
Once again, I looked at the sign.
ONE PHONE CALL A YEAR CHRISTMAS
I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down the tears that threatened. Defiantly, I stood… ready to face the burden that lie beyond.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Christmas and other holidays carry a unique struggle from prison. Carter captured some of that struggle in this essay, and I am grateful for him and all the WITS writers who continue to open up and share their experiences from within prison. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.
lost at fourteen, a product of the system, wandering behind walls confining souls like Satan. silent screams of youth can be heard through my eyes, far off cries for a seat at Grandma’s table. while sleeping beside a toilet on a concrete slab atop a 4-inch mattress, I ride my bike again with friends left far behind. reminiscing can be pleasant, nostalgia can be sickening, color, emotion, tone; contrast. recalling crispy fried chicken and siracha hot chili sauce, collard greens with bacon strips, hot water cornbread and Kool-Aid. warm tears on my cheeks, the saltiness finds the corner of my mouth. reminds me of my father’s whoopings, all that correcting didn’t correct me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Michael Kent is a new poet here, and he is a true pleasure to work with. I’m drawn to his writing because of its unforced and genuine quality, and I’m drawn to working with him because of his clear willingness to explore his creativity. I look forward to sharing more here.
Michael can be contacted via Getting Out or by writing: Michael Kent Jr. #15215000 777 Stanton Blvd. Ontario, OR 97914
Inside the confines of solitary confinement’s concrete cell, you have to make abnormal adjustments in a rather abnormal situation. Otherwise, your capacity to socialize atrophies, you wither up and die a social death. In this place, you’d better adjust and find creative ways of connecting and communicating, lest your emotions become hollowed out, leaving behind only a mere shell of your social self. I’ve been isolated on federal death row for fifteen years now and have learned some deaths are more inhumane than lethal injection.
As long as there is an ounce of humanity left alive in you, a person is compelled to reach out and socialize, by any means necessary, even if you gotta yell through the solid steel door of your solitary cell. Or shoot the breeze, as I often do, with disembodied voices through the ventilation system.
In this four-storied, maximum-security building at the federal penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, the ventilation system is a social lifeline. The grapevine of prison gossip and not-so-private confessions. The social network where mundane conversations go viral, carried through the vents of far-flung cells across the four floors.
Standing on my stainless steel toilet in my third-floor solitary cell, I shoot the breeze with voices from downstairs, my head close to the perforated vent on the concrete wall.
“I’m a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” a feminine voice lilts through the air ducts, cutting through the heavy male notes clogging up the airways. I would know that nasal, high-pitched tone anywhere, the way it emotes a joy uncharacteristic in this dank and dark place. It’s Bonnie.
“Call me Bonnie Grace,” she told me when we first met at the vent.
Bonnie lives on the second-floor, confined to administrative segregation, also known as the hole, which occupies the first two floors (federal death row occupies the upper two). In the hole, men who were once in general population are segregated and locked down in solitary confinement for various reasons, most of which have to do with disciplinary infractions or pending investigations. Bonnie is there for the latter. Or so she says.
I’ve been chatting with Bonnie since earlier in the day. I’d been pacing when I heard her yell up through the vent.
“Death Row!”
I ignored the voice at first, not sure who she was calling.
“Upstairs!”
Still, I paid it no mind.
“I know you hear me. Hear you movin’ round up there.”
Sounds travel through all this steel and concrete, and apparently, my footfalls were thudding upon the concrete floor, Bonnie’s ceiling.
Tugged by the voice, and ever yearning for social proximity, I stepped up on the toilet seat, put my ear to the vent, and that was the start of our social exchange. And no matter the subject, Bonnie tends to go off on tangents and promote her appearance, as if she’s taking selfies with her words. At this moment, she’s doing just that.
“I’m about five-ten, weigh about 150 pounds. Skinny. Long hair. Pretty…” She pauses, perhaps distracted or thinking, and then she says with gleeful pride, “And they say I look like the girl on Beetlejuice!”
“Beetlejuice? What?!” I reply, confused. I faintly remember that movie. I think the characters are phantoms or a version of living-dead, ghostlike, and I’m surprised that Bonnie sees this as a compliment. “WTF!” I comment.
A male voice interrupts us, “And she gotta big-ass nose too!”
“Oh my god!” Bonnie says, her signature interjection. “But I’m cute though!” She giggles, and I picture her admiring herself, her hand running through her long hair, flinging it in the air, giddy with all the social attention.
Bonnie is transgender, identifies as female, and takes hormones. “I take estrogen and anti-testosterone pills every day,” she informs us. And now she’s “a white girl with tits and hips and ass,” one of fourteen or so transgender residents at this all-male prison.
Bonnie’s legal name is Steven, out of Texas. Steven used to be part of a white supremacist gang. “I used to tear shit up,” Bonnie says, wilding out, fighting and stabbing, doing all kinds of “crazy shit” for the gang. But all along, she says, a part of her felt like a female.
Bonnie never tells me what led her to taking the prison psych evaluation, one of the first steps to transitioning inside the federal Bureau of Prisons. She just tells me about the process. She started transitioning less than a year ago, and her body has changed drastically. Or so she says. You never know what’s true at the vent. A person can be anybody, assuming whatever persona, catfishing and being catfished.
But I choose to believe Bonnie. I have to. In order to socialize. To stave off social-death.
After some time, I end the exchange, step down from the toilet, and plant my feet on the cold concrete ground. I resume pacing compulsively, one of the adverse effects of solitary confinement, and I immerse myself in the lingering warmth – the afterglow of social rapport.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Rejon is new to WITS, but determined to build on his natural ability with words, spending a good deal of his time on federal death row constructively using his creativity. I hope he continues to write, and I also hope he sends some of that writing our way. You can learn more about Rejon at his website: www.rejontaylor.art
He can also be contacted at: rejonltaylor@gmail.com
To learn more about Rejon’s case, which involved being charged at the age of eighteen years old and later sentenced to death, click here.
I want to get out of prison. As a Christian, this desire hasn’t decreased at all – but my reasons for wanting to get out have changed, some of them, at least. Before, I just wanted to return to my old, pre-prison life. Over time, I began to pray for God to let me demonstrate my repentance, promising I would serve Him better if I were free, help those in need. Those of us in prison who identify as Christian have probably all prayed and promised some variation of that. Repeatedly. It’s been about twelve years since I last did.
And God answered me! Just not by granting my request. Rather, God first answered with a question He wanted me to contemplate, and I could sense the question like a rock in my gut. “If you won’t serve me wholeheartedly now, in a place and situation with fewer temptations and distractions, what makes you think you’ll serve me when free, when inundated with many of the same choices and temptations that condemned you to begin with?”
My initial reaction was to argue that I had changed. But had I, really? Maybe I wasn’t selling drugs or using them, but I had no trouble with fighting if the situation arose. I could also turn a blind eye to the needs of those around me. And I had this attitude that because I was in prison, I could do whatever it took to survive, to do my time. I realized I didn’t really stand for anything; rather, I was like a chameleon, adapting to my surroundings.
But in my heart, I wanted to be authentic, to be the same person God wanted me to be regardless of where I was living, regardless of being imprisoned or free. I prayed, “God, how can I possibly serve you right here, on death row?” All I heard was silence, as if my heart wasn’t quite ready for God’s response. Nevertheless, my question seemed to hover before my eyes everywhere I went.
Then, one day, God suddenly broke into my thoughts. I was in my cell working on an art project when I saw this vision of myself putting together a bag of commissary items and handing it to an elderly, less-fortunate prisoner. He had a very abrasive personality (almost nobody liked him, including me), so I didn’t want to give him anything. Further, he lived on another pod.
Attempting to set aside the man’s grumpiness and my personal dislike, I asked, “Lord, how would I even get it to him? You know the guards won’t just let me walk over there and pass it to him – it’s against the rules!” In answer, God brought another scene to mind: me walking toward my pod’s door, carrying the goodie bag. That was it.
I got the message, “Just do what I tell you to do.”
So, I headed toward my pod’s door, bag in hand. As I approached, the pneumatic door hissed open. Looking up at the control booth, I saw no guard. And coming around the corner was the very person I was to give the bag to, hobbling along with his cane. “Hey!” I exclaimed.
The old man recoiled and screamed, “Hey!” Then he eyed me warily. I quickly stepped into the hall and thrust the bag into his free hand, saying, “Uh… God wanted you to have this…” I felt weird saying it, though he seemed unfazed. In fact, he brightened.
“Okay! Thanks! I gotta see the nurse,” and he shuffled off, rattling the bag as I stepped back into my pod. I was a little stunned about how it’d all played out.
A guard appeared in the control station’s window ten feet in front of me and saw the open door. She gestured angrily, as if I’d opened the pod door. I shrugged at her and walked away, hearing the door hiss and bang shut behind me.
Now I understood. I didn’t need to know how God would accomplish his goals. To be of service is simple. I need only to maintain a humble, willing and obedient heart – and do what God tells me to do, when He tells me to do it, how He tells me to do it. Period.
Whether I’m in prison or out of it, if my heart’s in the right place, I am useful to God’s purposes.
Of course, I still want to get out of prison. Only now, getting out isn’t a precondition God must meet in my life before I’ll serve Him.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. I think that this piece, more than any other shared here, is the greatest reflection of the person I have come to know. George is an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Crimson Letters and Beneath Our Numbers. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Outside of the case that you are currently serving time for, what would you say is the most significant factor or factors that resulted in your incarceration?
Part of what WITS aims to do is raise awareness and add relevant voices to conversations regarding mass incarceration, and it has been said that those closest to the problem are closest to the solution. Another aspect of WITS is providing a creative outlet for people in prison through reflection. It is hoped that will lead to individual clarity and growth.
Please note, the above prompt recognizes not everyone is guilty of the crime they are incarcerated for. What we are looking for has nothing to do with the crime, rather factors that influenced the trajectory towards prison, for example, possibly childhood trauma, socioeconomic status, race, etc. It can be something from childhood or the day of arrest.
With that said, this prompt hopes to inspire reflection, a look at the factors in our lives that might have influenced our direction outside of ourselves. I’m really looking forward to seeing what this prompt inspires.
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: February 28, 2023. Decisions will be posted on or before March 31, 2023.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia 23255
Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.
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