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.
For all posts from this site as well as current criminal justice issues, you can also follow us on Facebook or Instagram.
My father was a wild man who lived with his feet off the ground an eagle soaring on the wings of errant pride he was love on fire scorching heart beat on the move swaying to the groove of a guitar and a mended spirit a cue-pid ball gliding across the evergreen way chasing all the pretty numbers in the school yard he was brick pile wild the allure of promise jive talk over corn stalks and hawk bills in hip pockets perched on high a rooftop throne of rock tiles and sometimes regrets the king of tickled bellies shot gun shells and shattered windows of proven love crazy with that “I wish you would…” courage My daddy was cold Budweisers and ‘son, bet wiser fitted caps and waist tucked tees and greeted death with a smile on his face he was hard work potential and good old memories and 2 o’clock gatherings over hymns and hyperboles the greatest dad ever salute Wild Man Steve
“God called my daddy, Steve Robinson, home on November 6, but he left us with a lifetime of memories and three generations to carry on his name. Hug your family while they’re still here.”
Steve Harris Robinson July 27, 1948 – November 6, 2022
Terry Robinson he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com OR you can follow the writer, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson, on Facebook, all messages left there will be forwarded to him.
I wake to something crawling on my face, instinctively removing what feels like a very large cockroach as pain jolts through my shoulder and the part of my face I just touched. One of my nostrils is clogged up making it hard to breathe. As I exhale through my mouth, I feel the numbness of my lip. Dried blood has partially sealed my mouth and nose shut. My top lip is twice as large as normal. I ignore the pain in my shoulder, which has now turned into a throbbing headache. I place my hand on the part of my head that hurts the most. My head also seems to have grown twice as large since I last touched it. Now, I remember. All that guard had to do was ask me to leave the chow hall, he didn’t have to put his hands on me. In that moment when I pushed him away, I forgot the first prison rule I learned when I got here – never touch the correction officer.
Day Three
‘Does the light above my head ever go off?’ Over time, I learn it doesn’t, serving to assist the guards who pass my cell see inside. They are able to view me through a small square window located on the only door to this hole.
I hear familiar keys jangle and know a guard is in the hall making rounds. Before I can debate with myself what kind of round it is, I hear a man announce, “Chow time!” Shortly after that I hear the bean slot drop open. The slot is located a few feet below the rectangular window and is where everything from food to mail is passed to a person in solitary confinement. These items also come as a privilege. Because I assaulted an officer, my mail is withheld, probably destroyed. My food is also special. I’m given ‘food loaf’, an all-in-one baked bundle of whatever is being served that day.
As I listen to the bean slots open down the hall, I know they are near. I wait in eager anticipation. I’m hungry and food loaf is better than no loaf. Like magic, my slot is opened and presto, food loaf and a paper plate with a plastic spork appear. I quickly grab it and wait for the liquid beverage that will accompany my meal. It too will be savored. Just then, the guy in the next cell decides to ‘jack the slot’, which is sticking a body part out of the slot and refusing to remove it. The guard delivering the food immediately asks the offender to remove his arm from the slot. The offender responds with obscenities and an audible spit. The officer radios for backup, who quickly arrive in a musical symphony of key jangles. Commands are shouted to the offender, “Offender, remove your arm from the slot!” I try to see through the square window what’s going on, but my efforts are vanquished by an officer who sees my face and abruptly closes the small square door mounted over the window. Then I hear an audible ‘whap’, a scream from the offender, something about ‘you broke my arm’, followed by more obscenities. And just as quickly as it all started, it was over. Later that night, I hear the offender next to me whimpering about how the guard broke his arm, and how he’s going to sue them and their mothers.
‘Good luck with that, pal. This is Texas.’
Day Seven
I try talking to the guy next door through the wall and quickly determine he is mentally unstable. He talks to himself or some imaginary being in his cell and makes strange noises with an unknown body part. He laughs uncontrollably a lot.
I, in my boredom, have managed to count all the cracks in the wall and floor of my cell. I’ve even managed to make out imaginary images such as demons, women and what can only be described as mythical creatures, all derived from splotches on the wall. I’ve asked for a book, but as of today – nothing.
Day Fourteen (Sanity Slip)
I’m given a book. It is delivered by a very attractive female guard. Her perfume reminds me of the companionship of a woman. I speak to her, and she seems to still have some compassion left in her. I won’t see her again.
The book is 647 pages of kickass action. The author is some guy named Greg Hurwitz who has written several books about some badass orphan. I’ve never read a book as fast. I consider reading it again, but what’s the point? I already know the ending. Still no word on when I’ll be getting out of here. I workout and pray daily. I also reflect on my actions and how I got stuck in this hole. Simple things that so many take for granted are essential to maintain my sanity. I crave a look at the night sky and glimpse of the moon and stars. A breath of fresh air, even exhaust fumes, would be welcome in this new world.
I wonder how my mother is doing. I know she must be worried sick about me, especially since I have not been able to call or write. Maybe she will call the prison and inquire about my well-being.
The laughter next door becomes contagious. It’s not laughter of joy.
Day Twenty-One
I’ve been given a blanket to cover up with, which does nothing to combat the cold temperatures. The blanket is made of the exact same fabric used to cover speaker boxes or upholster the trunk of a car. It’s getting rough in here. I remember when I was a child and how I used a blanket as protection. Protection from the boogyman. Who was this boogyman, that mysterious monster-man who hid under children’s beds, in closets and in the dark shadowy corners of bedrooms? Where did he go in the day? Was it a place like this? Was the man next door him, the one who rocks me to sleep with his screams and laughter? Am I the boogyman?
Day Forty-Two (Suicidally Seduced)
I’ve started talking aloud to myself. I remember what my mother used to say about talking to yourself. “You’re not crazy if you talk to yourself, unless you start answering yourself. I can’t remember if I’ve ever done that, have I? No, I haven’t.”
Thoughts of my wife and son out there in that cruel world eat at my heart. I grasp at my chest to quench the pounding crunch of my need to know they’re okay. All I can do is believe they are. Then a thought from out of nowhere comes into my mind. What if I end my life? For sure all my troubles will be over…
I start to devise a plan on how I can do it. I can easily tie the blanket around my neck, tight enough to cut off my oxygen. I attempt this by straightening the blanket out and twisting it into a rope. I then wrap that around my neck and tie a knot. When I’m done, I realize I’ve wrapped my nose and mouth in my attempt. Death by suffocation, not strangulation. Halfway through my desperate act, something inside my head tells me, ‘This is not the way.’ If I kill myself, what will they tell my son? If I kill myself, the Texas Judicial System has won the game.
The blanket soon starts to itch my face. Torturing myself before I die is definitely not the way to go. I unravel the blanket from around my head, ball it up and toss it in the corner. Later on in the night, I retrieve the blanket from the corner and fold it into a makeshift pillow. Despite the freezing temperature, I sleep and dream myself out of the hole.
Day Forty-Three (Small Glimpse of Hope)
I awake discombobulated. It takes me some time to realize my breakfast is sitting on the floor of my cell. Someone has opened my cell door, and I was totally unaware. I pick it up and place it on the sink, which also serves as a table. I try to go back to sleep but it is impossible. I get up and perform my daily routine of washing up and exercise. After two hours of strenuous calisthenics, I sit on the floor and meditate, thinking about my time in the hole and all I’ve been going through, mentally and spiritually. As I reflect on those things, I feel something crawl across my leg. I then realize I am sitting in a line of marching ants. ‘How did they get in here?’
I follow their path to a small hole where the floor meets the wall. It dawns on me. This place that was designed to restrain and isolate me, could also be my way out in the form of convincing myself that if I can survive this environment, I can survive anything this prison throws at me…
ABOUT THE WRITER. I am always happy to have a new WITS writer win a writing contest, and this is exactly what Chiron Francis has done. It wasn’t only his way of sharing his experience in writing, but he also rose to the call of the prompt perfectly. It is not always that those two come together so well. Like many WITS writers, Chiron finds escape in writing, and I look forward to hearing from him again. He can be contacted at:
Chiron S. Francis #2178658 Wynne Unit 810 FM 2821 Huntsville, TX 77349
Becoming incarcerated at seventeen meant a few things for me. In the state of Virginia it meant I could be tried as an adult and given an adult sentence. It also meant I could not be housed with the adults until my eighteenth birthday. That didn’t stop them from sending me to the adult jail though. It just meant I had to stay in solitary confinement for three months.
At my jail, solitary confinement had a nickname: The Yellow Brick Road. I was told it was called this due to the mustard yellow concrete floor in each cell. I once asked a guard why it was yellow. His response still echoes in my mind – “‘Cause we can see the blood better.” As a 17-year-old girl with no previous incarceration experience, his statement and the callous way he said it was shocking to me. What did he mean, ‘blood’? Whose blood? Why would someone be bleeding? I later found out that people often tried to commit suicide in the isolation units. Apparently it happened often enough that they spent money to paint the floors.
That yellow floor drove me crazy. I remember sitting at the door day-in-and-day-out peeling up the paint with my nails. By the time I left that cell there was a grey patch of concrete where I sat each day. I am sure they covered it with more disappointing yellow. I hope that the next person at least got to experience some relief in the concrete island I created.
Those first three months of my incarceration left a stain on my soul that I will never forget. I can recall the feelings of desperation, hopelessness, and loneliness anytime I summon up the memories. Being isolated at seventeen so suddenly and abruptly after being free just moments before left a mark on me that I think is unique to incarcerated juveniles. In that cell with the small slab of concrete and the covered window is where I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. I did decide to celebrate though. By this point I was indigent, but I had saved a Hostess cupcake and a bottle of Sprite from months before. I sang myself Happy Birthday and ate the last of my canteen.
Once I turned eighteen I thought I’d be able to move to general population. This wasn’t the case. Now they said they were keeping me in protective custody because my case was high profile. Well, as a teenager does, I listened to the advice of my peers, which in this case were other ladies in solitary. Through the doors they yelled and encouraged me to tell them I was having suicidal thoughts. They said I’d have to spend a few days in the strip cell but then they’d put me in population. Ashamedly, I followed their advice. Luckily, they were right. My foray into population was met with comments about everything from my body to my crime. I was so excited to have human contact again that it didn’t matter what they said. I was free.
Looking back, I believe that the true reason solitary confinement at the jail was called The Yellow Brick Road had little to do with the floor at all. More so I believe it was called that because of the psychological effect it left on those housed there. There’s really only one way to describe the thoughts that run through your mind while sitting alone and staring at that mustard stained floor. Click your heels hard Dorothy and stop thinking about how badly you want to go home.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I am excited to say Ashleigh has placed second in our most recent writing contest regarding solitary confinement. I think what makes her stand out is her unique style of honest creativity. She is a natural writer. I hope we continue to hear from her. Ashleigh can be contacted at:
Ashleigh Dye #1454863 Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women 144 Prison Lane Troy, VA 22974
