I hate being on Texas Death Row. The air. The stripping nude four times a day on average so officers have something to do or look at. The cold, faux-food. The redundant radio station playing the same ole’ commercialized songs every half hour. I hate my current existence so much, I even hate telling you about it.
We’re all enigmas here. Each emotionally abused and scarred in some way, shape or form. This is a place where a guy named Marty McFly can change his name into something catchy and it sticks like a new skin – Big Mac, Marty the Leotard, Mc-Dawg. Guys can rename themselves after their city, town, zip code, favorite animal, or even a car – something they never would have thought of had they been free. That’s one thing I don’t hate. I find the names quite creative and the choices interesting. At one point, I went by the name Louisiana because others couldn’t pronounce my last name correctly.
In some regard I think I’m better off than some in here, having battled my own thoughts of suicide and self-harm. There are times that are comforting, like when it’s quiet and I can read a good book and see the words come to life on the inner stage within my mind. There’s nothing greater than that.
Then – there’s visitation. I love getting visits and a chance to get out of this cell, to be allowed to interact with ‘freeworld’ people and have a moment of nostalgia. I saw a kid race another across the floor, and it brought back memories of seeing my own daughter doing the same exact thing two decades earlier.
I wasn’t much of a talker when I was free, but I’ve since acquired a taste for conversing. People fascinate me and I want to know and understand how they see the world, and how different cultures can be.
I recently did a BBC interview with a lovely reporter. It was my understanding the segment was to be focused on my beloved friend, Mary, who was here to visit me. Perhaps I understood the angle. Perhaps I didn’t. Or, maybe, I was a self-centered bastard who thought that – once the camera began to roll – it was ‘action time’ and all about me. Which would explain why I wanted to shave away the grey hairs from my face before the interview. Why I urgently smoothed the Olay moisturizer sample I received inside one of my girlie magazines on my face to give me a glow when the big lights came on. And maybe it explains why the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Where’s my glam team?”
A few days before the interview I had to have a tooth removed, and I found myself talking on the opposite side of my mouth so the camera didn’t catch the side-gap in my mouth. I am many things – true. Add ‘vain’ to the long list.
I attempted to change the narrative of the interview by talking about me, my case and this environment as the British reporter shifted right to left in her chair out of patient frustration. She was chasing a story. I was chasing freedom and wanted the world to know it while I still had a chance to express it. I could tell she ‘understood’. Somewhere, hidden beneath her eyes, she knew I was a lonely soul, cast into a lonelier sea. I may have seemed a bit ornery to her, or she may have even thought I was a meshugana. I’ve been called the latter a few times.
The reporter was a true pro. Smooth. She sensed it when my own oxygen began to run out. She had to have seen it in the finality of my expressions. The desperation of my emotions. The expression of agony of two decades of being mentally lynched within the halls of solitary confinement.
“Can I ask you one final question?” she asked with a smile. I invited her to ask me anything, confident that nothing asked would be too complicated for me, until she asked, “Do you have any regrets?”
Mentally? I began to perspire. Emotionally – I could see air-bubbles form with no words. I was caught off guard. Speechless. Suffering from a ten-second delay of censorship. Was this a trick question? Was she asking about my case? My life as a whole? I was truly confused and didn’t like it. I rubbed my head, looked into the camera and explained that I was innocent in every way from the conviction that molested my freedom from me. Sure – it wasn’t what she wanted. But, it was what I needed. I needed to say it.
I’ve been told an Italian saying that goes, “Vivere Senza Rimpianti” – to live with no regrets. And when I came back online mentally, that was the only thought I had. So, I told her, “I have no regrets.” Perhaps I regret saying that without fully explaining what I meant. Perhaps not.
What no one can see is that I’m not the same person I was when I was free, thinking I knew everything about everything, when in reality I knew nothing about anything. I’ve traded in gangster rap lyrics for informative literature. I now get intoxicated on history, philosophy, politics, psychology. Not beer, wine or champagne. I’m a different person today because… and I HATE to admit this, but my limited environment gave me access to unlimited knowledge.
Since I’ve been on death row, I’ve met so many people from all over the world. People I have no doubt I would have never encountered had such a wicked kismet not fallen upon me. People I love more than I love myself. People who have educated me, visited me, defended me and my innocence and have taken care of me as if I was always one of their own. A love that transcends mere words of affection. A love that does not judge my past, but supports my future. A love that isn’t defined by social acceptance or traditional neglect for those like me who are incarcerated.
I believe that if you regret some things, you will learn to regret all things. I love who I am. It’s my past mistakes that have made me who I am today. I learned from them. I grew from them. You can wish that certain outcomes never happened the way they did, but regrets? Traditionally, our mental wells have been poisoned into not challenging clichés and social norms when we know a challenge is needed.
When I told the reporter, “I regret nothing,” I meant that. For I could not and do not want to entertain an existence where I live without my friends who are family. I wouldn’t trade my freedom for them. Living would be a ‘regret’ if I didn’t have them in my life. Vivere Senza Rimpianti!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
