Views From The Inside

Thought Is My Existence

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As I entered the county jail, a C.O. in intake recognized me as a local tattoo artist. Mine was a high profile case, and I was segregated from inmates with lesser charges. Holding back emotions and the regret that came with the initial realization of what I had done, where I was and all those I had failed, I steeled myself in an effort to make resolve with my guilt and ultimately grow.

Within 24 hours, I was moved to the top floor of the jail where inmates with mainly violent crimes were housed. The pod was on lockdown for a fight. My name was called as I walked to my newly assigned living quarters. “Who dat?” I responded, recognizing the voice as a client of mine from tattoo parties I had done in his neighborhood.

My cell door opened, and I entered. Single-man cell. I cried. Looking at myself in the warped mirror, I decided then that I would come out better than I was in that moment. I was unstable mentally, angry at life, financially uneducated and a flawed character, failing to accept accountability for my reality. I laid down, visualizing the moment of my crime and sorry for the pain I know I caused my two sons, my mother and my family.

I began writing poetry, expressing my regrets and acknowledging the pain I caused so many. So many! I hurt people who also have children, mothers and other family members. There is no reason good enough, no justification for what I did. I turned myself in because I felt the guilt that I did not expect to feel. The guilt and desire to make amends with those I hurt settled in my core like an anchor. How do I grow from this?

I listened to my victims at my preliminary hearing, speaking on what I did and expressing the trauma I caused them. I am a naturally empathetic person, so their pain resonated with me. I hurt people. I realized then that I must be who I am and accept myself with that truth. I don’t enjoy, nor do I desire to hurt people.

At my sentencing, at which I took a plea deal, I apologized to my victims. I don’t know if they felt my sincerity, my disgust with myself, or even my desire to be the best version of myself going forward. I am certain that none of those things really resonated with them for the sight of me must have brought to mind how my actions brought us to that point.

I was fortunate, I think, to be sent to the prison I am currently serving my sentence at. It’s no different than any other prison in regard to the treatment by staff, violence, intoxicants and many other distractions on the path to rehabilitation, but there are many programs that have helped me in my evolution towards a better me.

This time is mine, and I know that I am fortunate for having a foundation of principles guiding me in self-improvement and growth for myself and my family, and a future as a contributing member of society. My thoughts and desires are aligned, and my reality is more tangible because of what I have done with my time within the parameters of my freedom.

Knowledge and acceptance of my own self was the first step, acknowledging my wrong, acknowledging how deeply I hurt my victims, children, family and friends, and knowing what I can do from within these walls to accept and change my reality.

This knowledge made me accept accountability and responsibility for my emotions and character development. I utilize the library to obtain a healthier understanding of all things pertaining to my growth. I have assumed healthier habits and practices in my daily life and deal with freedom in realistic degrees and expectations. I no longer accept powerlesseness over self and have developed the ability to see the value in all things and people, major and minor.

Today I am better than I have ever been because my intentions and actions are clear. I choose to add value to all I encounter in an effort to bring forth a greater good. I know the true test is out in society, and I look forward to the day I am afforded that degree of freedom. I continue and will continue to do those things I know have the beneficial quality of contributing to the greater good.

I now think outside this box and have created books, art, youth programs and other endeavors. And I write this to inspire others in the same situation to change your perception of where you are and what you can do – and what your time means to you.

T.hought I.s M.y E.xistence.

“The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago, the next best time is now.”

Chinese Proverb

ABOUT THE WRITER. Jerrod Buford is a first time WITS writer, and he did not share much about himself with this submission, but I think the piece itself says a lot about where he is today. I am glad he has chosen to use writing to share his experience. Jerrod can be contacted at:

Smart Communications/PA DOC
Jerrod Buford #ME 9775
SCI Forest
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Entries From My Journal #4

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Note: This is fourth 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.

February 3, 2015 (Tuesday, 11:14 pm)

I’m praying, God. I heard it said that you know our hearts. Don’t do me like everybody else has done.

Entries From My Journal #1

Entries From My Journal #2

Entries From My Journal #3

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 has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Juvenile Justice, Views From The Inside

Ripples In Life

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My Grandma Bea – short for Beaulah – taught us how to fish.  She’d kick back in an armed beach chair with a big floppy hat and appear to be asleep.  Every so often she’d give the line a tug.  When asked why she’d come all the way out to the lake to take a nap, she’d respond, “The wind causes ripples on the lake that distort how you see the fish, and how the fish see you.  Only by closing your eyes can you see and be seen clearly enough to catch their attention.  Everybody knows that!”

I’d been dreaming of the moment all my life – the day my Dad would show up to get me and my life, my world, would change.  Such dreams are made up of layer upon layer of desire, memory and imagination.  They make no pacts with reality.  Only plans have the power to connect the two.

My sister and I were playing a video game when Grandma Bea answered the knock at the door that afternoon with a shriek of joyful surprise, “Hey, boy!  Come on in here!”

“How are ya doing, Bea?  It’s been too long.”  

The man’s voice was unfamiliar.  The timber, the basso, the speech pattern were all new to my sister and me.  After he followed Bea into the living room, she announced in her boombastic fashion, “Boy, this is your daddy!”

Now let me pump my brakes here for a moment and cloud the water.  My sister and I had, for as long as I could remember, played the ‘I Wish Momma Was Alive’ game.  It’s a game played by all motherless children, but we only ever played it with each other.  It was our most sacred time, our most private pact, a connection all our own.

However, it was her father who had killed our mother and left us without.  Motherless.  So, when I’d express dreams of my dad coming back, it was to get us – not me.  The first thing of value I’d ever shared.  He took us both for ice cream and we all hung out on the beach.  It was cool!

Now, I’d never met my dad.  We’d traded pictures when I was about six or so, but that was it.  At twelve years old, I looked so much like him that family and friends who saw us together for the first time did a double take.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of me!  Looking back, it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one who had been dreaming.

What I didn’t know was that the emotion of such long awaited events can place blinders on the most experienced adults and blind children altogether.  Not just for a moment, but for years.   Ignorance has no shelf life, and while dreams are oft powerful, wonderful, magical things, I never thought they could be dangerous too.

My little sister, whom I‘d shared a bed with for half of my twelve years, must have seen and felt the way my dad looked at me and remembered the excuse we’d been told he’d used to leave me behind in Compton – it had been her.

My grandmother wasn’t going to allow her murdered daughter’s only childen to be raised apart at the time.  She also wasn’t going to deny a man who she had known his entire life the chance to raise his son. So, she told him that he had to take us both or he couldn’t have me. It was biblical and the excuse he needed to avoid an obligation he’d felt boxed into showing up for.  He ran from the house as if his hair was on fire!

The only reason he was here now, all these years later, was because he had fallen on hard times and had to move his three children and pregnant wife back into his mother’s three-bedroom with my aunt.  They were only 24 miles away.  But kids avoid the ‘whys’ of their rejection.  Such is the danger of dreams.  Distortions.  Ripples.

My sister must have seen how the love in his eyes excluded her from the dream, the promise I’d made in the dark, sealed with our tears and our motherless wants.  

The next week we went to visit my pregnant step-mom, my two younger brothers and my step-sister, who was about nine years old.  A ready made family.  While the adults were away on a shopping trip, I was left with all of my siblings.  My little sister locked my stepsister out of the house until she was in tears.  I scolded her for it.  I was embarrassed that she would do something like that on a visit.  

What made it worse was that, caught up in my own emotions, I never stopped to ask why she would do it.  She’d rarely ever been aggressive or mean.  But I missed it!  And it’s possibly one of the biggest mistakes in a life full of mistakes.  I was angry and I must have been cruel and unloving, rejecting the sister I’d shared a life with for the sister I’d just met – not my intent at all.

The situation had so angered my grandma Bea that she threatened to beat me over it, but all I heard was her angry attack.  So I sought to defend what I never intended in the first place, eyes wide open, I thought my vision clear at the time.

Adults do not have it in them to not think about what comes next – that is the breath catching province of children.  Adults have experienced too many consequences for that ‘next’ to be ‘the’ factor.  Their minds have been trained, much like a dog with a newspaper is taught to sit, roll over, or to play dead.

But at twelve years old, adults would yell, and I would just shut down and defend.  I didn’t know how to think my way through being wrong.  It’s vital because the best lies ever told happen in the vacuum of your mind, simply because there’s no one there to call ‘Bullshit!’  

I went to live with my father and didn’t see my sister again for more than 18 months, the longest we had ever been apart in our young lives.  We’ve never spoken of that day, that time, the things that I said and did, or the rift between us that has been growing for more than 37 years.  I  never told her how sorry I am, for all of it was my fault.  That sorrow eats away at my bones, one of the worst things I’ve ever done.

I haven’t spoken to my mother’s only other child in more than 22 years.  Still waters run deep.  Doing ninety years in prison, I get reports on the activities of her life from family even as my life stands still.  The irony of that balance is not lost on me.

I recently met her son as he came through the system, a man that I didn’t know who had only heard rumors of an uncle he never thought was real.  She still doesn’t accept my call.  Family has ever been like eating spaghetti with a spoon.  Doable, but only if you are very hungry.  Love and efforts simply are not enough at times, yet they are the only bait worthy of fishing with.

So, I’ll cast again, for life, until my arm gives out.  Then I’ll switch hands.  What I won’t do is act as if the reflections cast by the ripples on the surface of the water are real.  The pain of our casting, in reality, causes a splash and sinks much deeper than we know.  It’s the ripples of our dreams that distort our vision.  So, I’ve been resting my eyes when I fish and hoping that my little sister remembers to do the same.  Who knows, maybe then we can see each other again, or at least more clearly.  But fishin’ ain’t catchin’.

ABOUT THE WRITER.   DeLaine’s descriptive way of writing always paints pictures in my mind. He has a way of taking you back in time with him, to places you have never been. I’m hoping one day he will put together a book, and I will be first in line to purchase it. I simply love his writing.

Mr. Jones has served over three decades for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:

DeLaine Jones #7623482
Snake River Correctional Institution
777 Stanton Blvd 
Ontario, Oregon 97914-8335

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dance Muse

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Over the 22 years I’ve been on Death Row, the days have become progressively more difficult.  The physical toll it exacts is unabating; the mental toll, too strenuous to bare.  Incarceration is like starting off every morning at the bottom and laboriously scaling up the ladder to morale.  Nobody wakes up in prison feeling good about themselves, and feeling worthy comes with effort.  For many, being incarcerated will be our greatest challenge in life, shaping us in the best or worst way.  It’s adversity come to declare war on our peace of mind and the price of defeat is our mental wellness.  It should come as no surprise, the drawbacks of this system that devalues human rights, which is why it takes a special kind of resilience to get through the day.

Over the years, I have relied on several mechanics to stave off the despondence of daily restrictions.  I’ve put in long hours at the poker table.  I’ve watched enough TV to go blind.  I’ve swapped war stories, read tons of books, and even meditated to fill the void.  I’ve sang and written and turned to prayer when singing and writing didn’t work.  But the one thing that has been a constant relief for me is dance.  Yep, you read that right… dance.  Dancing has gotten me through the toughest moments, not just on Death Row but throughout my life.

I came up in a time when family and friends frequently expressed their love for one another through dance.  Drunks slow grinding.  Church folks stomping.  And those non-dancing head boppers who just couldn’t help themselves.  I started dancing myself when I was around four, merely twisting and shaking to the music while the grown-ups chuckled and pitched me coins, showering me with a feeling of acceptance.  By thirteen, I was plagued with insecurities and too ashamed to dance.  I envied the other teens during Friday night dance battles at the community center as they performed, seemingly without fear or reservations.  Envy gave way to passion, and I began practicing dance in private, choreographing routines with the help of my kid sister.  Then one day I danced before a crowd, and all my insecurities slipped away.  I knew right then I would never stop dancing again.

I didn’t set out in life to be a great dancer, just one who wasn’t ashamed.  It didn’t seem right to quit doing something I loved for the sake of others’ opinions.  Too often we buy into the narrative of dance with words like rhythm, grace, and beauty.  Yet we lose sight of the most important attribute of dance – its potential for healing.  I dance whenever the C/O’s piss me off.  I dance when I’m locked in the cell.  I dance to prevent shit talking inmates from provoking me to fight.  I dance around the dayroom, the rec yard and throughout the hallways – wherever I’m in the mood; and what’s validating is when the other inmates not only encourage me – but are themselves inspired to dance.

Dancing isn’t meant to be taken too seriously, unless you’re a serious dancer.  It’s okay to clown around if it helps us to feel better about ourselves.  I, myself, am a fan of crumping, a dance style that consists of hard-hitting, chest popping versatility, except I’m forty-eight with bad knees, self-taught, and mediocre at best.  But do I let that stop me from reaching my happy place… hell no.  I man up and go for mine.  And when the dance ends and the euphoria fades away, I find that prison is a little more bearable.

Dance doesn’t belong to the rhythmic and the graceful – it’s a force that’s driven by emotions, the therapeutic resolve of our inner conflict when words otherwise fail.  Dance has been not only a confidence builder for me, but also my source of inspiration allowing me the spontaneity to express myself in a place where emotional expression is generally discouraged.  It is a spiritual catalyst that transcends incarceration and brings me closer to peace of mind, therefore I dance to get through the days in prison because dancing sets me free. 

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 has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Views From The Inside

Hate Inspired Education

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I have been called young, dumb and uneducated.  I use those words to prove insults ignite my efflorescence.  I view my mind as a seed, so I water it daily.  There are not enough resources for incarcerated citizens to further their education.  It’s also not probable in the eyes of those who keep us that ‘criminals’ want to propel positively.  Most of them deem rotting in a cell as our final destination.  They see us as one-dimensional; our minds not liberal.  We aren’t fit to have wit.

Arriving to prison in my juvenescence, I had no major objective.  I was a die-hard, savage, gang-banging, jokester.  They say prison is not a joking matter.  I had to learn the hard way.  Prison is very similar to a Love and Hip Hop episode to me.  The facility I’m in consists of sex, drugs, drama and fighting that never ceases.  The grounds for saying this is, if you aren’t trying to change, the prison won’t make you.  The day I saw this for myself, I made a decision to educate myself.  It was a mental release from my physical shackles.  

The shake-off alone was a huge eye-opener for me.  I spent my entire adolescence playing Russian roulette.  I am 24 and in prison, so what did I do?  I got cracking on my road to edifying by reaching out to any and every organization whose mission was to help the incarcerated.  I expanded my library, replacing the entertainment with all self-help and educational books.  I began reading, studying and teaching myself the subjects from high-school that I didn’t pay attention to.  I buckled down on my purpose in life using the aversion as a flame.  I had to choose to elevate my means of brainpower, because I could not give my haters any satisfaction.

It seemed as though I was possessed by a supernatural determination.  I was radically looking toward my future.  The mere thought of returning to this depressing digression put my determination on one hundred percent.  The slight use of hostile insults from TDOC staff pushed me to follow my dreams.  The more I allocate my energy towards proficiency – the less energy the staff inhibits.

Every night when I sit on my bunk, I smile a proud, prodigious grin.  I am proud of my prospering cerebration.  All of the arrogant insults gave me inspiration to prove that prisoners are clever, resourceful and intelligent.  If it was not for my current circumstances, I wouldn’t have pushed my ability to learn and understand the importance of my own brain.  I truly appreciate the garbage that was tossed my way – it shocked my blossom in an awesome way.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quineshia Townsel is only our second female writer, so I was excited before I even had a chance to read the submission. Of course, I was even happier once I read her piece. Education, books, reading, and access to things of those nature has, throughout history, been withheld, subtly or not so subtly, to keep people in a ‘box’. I am glad Quineshia sent this in, I’m glad she is inpired, and I hope she keeps writing and reaching. She can be contacted at:

Quineshia Townsel #597032
West Tennessee State Penitentiary
480 Green Chapel Road
P.O. Box 1150
Henning, TN 38041

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Entries From My Journal #3

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Note: This is third in a series. I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. 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.

September 2, 2014 (Tuesday, 7:46 pm)

Man, what a wonderful day – not necessarily for me and especially not for all hating-ass envious dudes who don’t wanna see nobody get ahead, but for Big Hen and the McCollum family. Dude went home today – wow, man, how great is that. I was speechless when I saw the news, but happy nonetheless. I guess it does pay to have hope. I lost my hope a long time ago and didn’t even know it. I held on for as long as I could, then I just stopped believing in justice. I’ve gotta get my hope back – sometimes things do get better.

My man, Big Hen. Good luck out there bruh, and I’m gonna miss you.

Entries From My Journal #1

Entries From My Journal #2

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 has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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Views From The Inside

Painful Hands

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My hands fill the world with pain.  They cause destruction at almost every turn.  This is something I learned at a very young age.  I remember being a little kid, more than three or four, and my mother had a hold of my wrists.  She was telling me how bad I was.  I had colored all over my closet door.  My hands were bad; they ruined things.  That’s what I learned.

As I grew older, this pattern continued.  My hands kept breaking various objects, and I kept learning how bad I was.  From dropping glasses to shooting BBs through windows, my hands destroyed most of what they touched.  My handwriting was atrocious and remained that way.  I lacked the ability to draw, paint, color, or create anything with my hands.  My hands aren’t a mechanism for art or creation; they’re for destruction.  That’s what I have learned.

As a teenager, the destruction that was left in the wake of my touch was exacerbated.  I used my hands to break hearts, to withhold love, and to isolate myself from others.  One day the inevitable happened, and I destroyed worlds ten times over when my hands gripped a gun and my finger pulled a trigger.

As I write this, I look at my hands.  They look like hers.  Every line, crack, print, swollen knuckle, I got from her.  Seeing these day after day, moment after moment, fills me with pain.  Still, after all these years, my hands cause pain.  Endless, inescapable pain – that’s what I’ve learned.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Ashleigh is fairly new to WITS, but she certainly does not write as if she is a new writer. Her willingness to make herself vulnerable in her writing makes it even stronger. Through sharing her thoughts, her hands made something very touching here. Ashleigh can be contacted at:

Ashleigh Dye #1454863
Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women
144 Prison Lane
Troy, VA 22974

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

10 Things I Love

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  1. routinely waking up at 4 a.m. while the prison sleeps. it’s as if the concrete softens when foamed in silence.
  1. filling my clear plastic tumbler with scalding water, scooping in dusty coffee, then watching it bloom through the water. like the emotion i feel when my girlfriend laughs at my jokes.
  1. when my buddy Kenny (whose dementia makes him unsteady as hell) suddenly buckled at the knee, i caught him just inches off the floor.  in front of witnesses.
  1. when I called my elderly mother, i honestly thought my sister had answered – so strong, steady, and wrinkle-free, her voice.
  1. the perfectly shaped handprints on the floor of Cliff’s cell.  he’s ratcheted out so many push-ups in the same spot, his palmsweat has blackstained the gray cement.
  1. remembering how respect washed across our prison chaplain’s face her first day, when she borrowed my Bible to locate a verse and discovered my underlines, highlights, and notes covering every      single      page.
  1. when I saw white dust all over the navy blue apron draped across my chest during my haircut, i thought it was baby powder, not gray hair.
  1. i am still grateful for the tingly feeling in my belly that signals a great poem idea, though it also means i need to shit.
  1. i love how loopy time is.  despite having been in prison seventeen years, freedom feels fresh as yesterday.  at the same time it feels like prison is all i’ve ever known. 
  1. the euphoria triggered by late-afternoon light.  it has a mystical, dreamlike quality.  rocks spew water and walls crumble at a word in light like this.
    it reminds me:  anything is possible.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer, co-author of Crimson Letters, and author of his very own, recently published Interface. I love to hear from him. He has a unique style, all his own. The above poem was compiled from excerpts from his gratitude journal. As he puts it, he “wanted to look for things I loved about everyday life.” As always – I love it when George sends his writing our way. To read more of his work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com

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Arizona Book Club

Kicking Off Our New Arizona Book Club

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And just in case NC’s book choice was not up your alley – this is the official start of our new Arizona Book Club!

Their choice this go round….

The Family Upstairs, by Lisa Jewell!

I read this book a few months ago, so I will be passing on this first read, but my opinion – I enjoyed it! I would definitely give it a 4.5 out of 5 stars. I hope they enjoy it as much.

A side note to the Arizona Book Club – I was told I could not order from my usual book supplier for Arizona. I was also told to try Hamilton Book. Wow. This is not an advertisement, but if you want to join us on this read – the paperback costs only $3.95! I couldn’t really believe that. Again, not an advertisement, but as the sponser of these book clubs, that was very much appreciated. In addition to that good news, the Arizona readers intend to donate their books to the library when they get done reading. I think that is a win for everybody!

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NC Death Row Book Club

Summer Reading!

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The NC Book Club has been in existence for about a year and a half now, and we are going strong. This week we started The Testaments, by Margaret Atwood. I was surprised when a member chose The Handmaid’s Tale by the same author last month. And, again, I’m surprised by another member choosing the follow up to that book.  

That is one aspect of our NC book club that I find fascinating – each individual person’s book choice when it is their turn. I would not have suspected any of the titles we have read. And the choices are all so unique.

So, our summer reading will be wrapping up with The Testaments. If you want to read with us, feel free, and you can message me anytime with feedback or thoughts, or if you want to pass along any messages to the book club members themselves!

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Prison Writing and Expression