Growing up, I never had a birthday party; a few gifts here and there, yes, but no festive gatherings over music and treats. The closest I’ve come to a birthday wish was helping my baby sister blow out the candles on her cake. To be clear, my mom celebrated me daily with her sacrifices. She was always buying us kids the things we wanted that she couldn’t afford. But when money is scarce and you’re a ‘December’ baby like me, birthday parties often come in close second to an abundant Christmas. 

So, I would attend the party events of others with gift in hand, eager to dance, and with a tiny sparkle of envy in my eyes. Though they say, ‘you don’t miss what you never had,’ part of me still wanted people to eat, drink, and dance solely because I existed, but it just wasn’t in the cards for me to have a birthday party back then.  It is also said, ‘things happen for a reason’, and for some reason my birthday party was meant to happen now. 

It would be 49 years of trite birthdays before my fiftieth offered a time to remember.  The morning began with well wishes from my fellow Death Row inmates, each showing up at my cell door with fist bumps and canteen treats. Then came what I thought was the surprise of the day posted on the wall, my name slotted for an 8:30 a.m. visit.  I headed to visitation on the heels of suspicion with roving eyes leading the way.  

Once there, I sat down in the booth, ecstatic about the pop-up surprise visit.  It wasn’t long before I was greeted by two familiar faces, though I was surprised to see them together for the first time.  It was my mother, along with a very close friend; women who, throughout the years, have carried me over the threshold of surviving Death Row with unending love and support. They arrived with a festive gleam in their eyes, their energy bursting like fireworks, bright and exciting. Their hearty voices were music pouring through the speaker box to which I danced away to the melodies in my head. Their smiles were sweet as icing on the most lavish birthday cake, glistening with a thousand candles; way too many for my fifty years, but they were making up for lost time.  And, they’d brought with them yet another surprise, gifting me the invitation to reach out to another supporter of mine, the one and only Jason Flom, through a phone call.  I’d come to know about Jason from a previous interview he’d given regarding his stance on Criminal Justice Reform. Since then, he’d contributed in the fight against my own wrongful conviction – and now I was given the chance to thank him.  

Visitation ended, and I scurried back to Death Row, excited to make the call. The phone rang on one end while I stilled my nerves on the other, fighting back the anxiety that would make my voice quiver. Jason answered with the poise of someone born to greet people, “Hello.”

It was all I could do not to shrink at the thought of his status; he was Jason Flom, music extraordinaire, but I was somebody too. I began talking without much thought, the gratitude bursting from my mouth like party confetti. It was more than his contributions to my case alone but his passion for systemic change that earned my admiration. I was just revving up the praise when Jason let on that he wasn’t alone and was in the company of another person.   

“Her father made a name for himself in the boxing world. You might’ve heard of him… Muhammad Ali?”  He then introduced me to Khalia Ali over the phone and told her of my special day. 

I heard her voice chime, “Hi Terry. Happy Birthday.”

I gasped when I realized I was on the phone with the daughter of my hero, Muhammad Ali. I’d read countless books on him and seen several documentaries on his plight throughout America’s racial disparity. And now his daughter was wishing me a happy birthday, although all I heard was, “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. Rumble young man, rumble…aahh!”

My spirit abandoned my body long enough to race through the prison halls yelling, “Muhammad Ali’s daughter just wished me a happy birthday!”

On the phone however, I gathered my composure and thanked her for the shout out; it was more of a birthday gift than I could’ve hoped for. Jason then pitched the notion to visit me here on Death Row. I knew the possibility was unlikely with the visitation approval process here slow and meticulous, but I didn’t have the nerve to disappoint him, so I didn’t express my certainty that it likely could not happen.

I had not fully accounted for the tenacity of those supporting me though, and by the end of the week and after all of the prison’s policies and procedures were followed, Jason and Khalia were approved.  I was up that Saturday morning early enough to rouse the sun awake.  I paced wall-to-wall in the quiet of my cell. Today was the big day.  Though it was approved, my visit with Jason and Khalia was still in limbo – yet nothing could smother my excitement. It was nerve wracking all the same, as I watched other Death Row men escorted to visitation without me. 

Suddenly, my name was called, and I pressed on to visitation taking two steps to the C/O ‘s one. I kept sorting through the validation of my own worth along the way, that two such notable people would come to visit me. Once there, I waited in the excruciating seconds as my confidence began to falter. I chanted reggae songs to keep me company while soothing the raging doubt.  Before long, the elevator opened and two visitors stepped out enveloped in the air of excellence. I recognized the height, glasses, and salt & pepper hair of Jason from his interview; Khalia bore the striking resemblance of her father. They swept through the door into the booth where I waited like titans in designer threads, yet with the humility about them to dismiss the tight quarters, dismal lighting, the grit and grime. Khalia waved affectionately before taking a seat with a smile that brightened the room as Jason plopped down on the stool next to her, weary from the rush of a last minute drive. 

We exchanged pleasantries as though seemingly unbothered  by having to talk to one another through reinforced glass. When we spoke, Jason’s every word was teeming with genuine concern for the injustice I’d suffered for so long. I spoke about the events that led to my false imprisonment and my struggle on Death Row while Jason occasionally coursed his fingers through his hair, adjusted his glasses but said nothing – he was a  good listener. Khalia peered on with the keenness of her legendary father, her eyes trained to study every movement, whether friend or foe. Together they would make a formidable pair for whatever cause they championed.  I was just glad they were on my side.  At times, they asked poignant questions about my case, other times they wanted to know about my family. I soon saw them no longer as A-listers but merely influential people who cared enough to want to right wrongs. 

Jason slid on his jacket when the visit was over, gearing up to fight injustice elsewhere. They were off to attend a rally for another wrongfully convicted man; yep, injustice, too, is an epidemic.  Jason popped up from the stool, pressed his fist to the glass, and said, “I’ll see you on this side of the glass soon.”

Somehow it made it more real when he said it, and for a brief second I was free.  Khalia rose with the gusto of someone who was a champion in her own right. I realized then I hadn’t mentioned her dad’s name once.  I didn’t have to… her exploits were equally as impressive.  The two of them made for the elevator as Jason pumped his fist and Khalia blew kisses goodbye.  Afterwards I sat alone again, except now I felt accompanied by the spirit of a wonderful experience.

Later, while in my cell, I replayed such an eventful week, comparing it to birthdays of the past. People had gathered in my honor.  There was music and gifts and the dancing of my own soul. And though my time with Jason and Khalia happened unexpectedly, still it was a wish come true as I’ve now realized the best wishes are sometimes those we never wished for at all. 

It would take fifty years, but I’ve had that birthday party. It wasn’t a traditional celebration, but mine was unique and fulfilling. Not to discount my other forty-nine birthdays, because they were special in their own way, but this year’s party was a long time coming and well worth the wait. 

Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.

Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful that Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven in the not too distant future and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.

Terry can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.