tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30304200594221768122024-03-07T23:59:43.830-08:00Prodigal SonsVoices from the InsideUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-91438499628377988282015-04-20T13:15:00.000-07:002015-04-20T13:15:18.351-07:00Buried AliveI have been buried alive for the past 23 years of my life inside these prison walls. That time has been full of trials and tribulations, such as the death of my father (R.I.P.), my grandmother, and sister, as well as friends I made here who became my family and who were executed. My beloved brother William Hasan Jones (R.I.P.) who I loved as a Muslim and convict. Brothers Samuel, Insane Zane, Joe Bates, and the many brothers who have sacrificed and lost the fight to get this death row overturned.<br />
<br />
The fight is not just with the courts, the fight is also with one’s self. We have to take this time, in most cases many years, to ponder our past and reflect on our futures. Some of us are going to be blessed to get off death row, and some of us are going to be executed. Either way, it’s going to be accountability. When you re-enter society you will be judged first from your past and then based on how you are living. In this case, you have a chance to show that you redeemed yourself and are ready to live a productive life and help society. In the second scenario, when you go before your Creator, you are being judged for the time you were allotted on this earth, no returns, no do-overs, etc. All you will have with you is your deeds (good or bad)—that’s why it is important how we manage our time, our lives.<br />
<br />
It is written that every human being has the right to pursue happiness. Does this right stop because you are confined? We should continue to strive for happiness and peace, and the first place this has to be established is within. I want a healthy relationship with myself, with my family, and most importantly with my Creator.<br />
<br />
This journey to obtain inner peace is a constant battle. Every day presents something new. We must really examine our lives and make the right choices. As a Muslim, I have to keep my armor with me daily. I’m not talking about a knife or razor. I’m talking about asking God for His protection and guidance. I try to shield my shortcomings, and I try to unwind in the evening by reflecting on how I managed my day. This is how I work on myself.<br />
<br />
I also try to build with family. I must admit this has been one of my greatest challenges. As Muslims, we cannot cut family ties. When I was growing up, my mother, grandmother, and oldest brother showed me the beauty of family. I miss my family dearly, even those who don’t write or visit. It’s hard to reflect on all of the things you have been through with your loved ones when they can just forget about you. If it wasn’t for the things I mentioned earlier, I would just stop praying for them, stop writing them, take them of my visit list.<br />
<br />
But I will never give up. You must fight for what you love. I often read the story of Joseph (Yusef): His brothers wanted to kill him and they threw him down a well. But God established him in the kingdom and brought his family back and gave them many blessings. The moral is: don’t ever give up. You never know what blessings are in store for you. I would like to share two of the blessings before closing.<br />
<br />
During the many executions I have witnessed, I have seen men, women, and children outside of the prison, in all kinds of weather. They never selected one inmate to do this for, and 97 percent of those out there don’t know the inmate or the family. But they’re out there because they care on a humane level. What they don’t realize is they’re not only supporting the one about to be executed, but all of us who are looking through our chambers (windows); it helps us know we are not going through this alone. People do care and the fight continues.<br />
<br />
Another blessing I’ve received is pen pals. I want to send a warm shout-out to the many pen pals who hold us down. In so many of our lives, they are our lifelines. I have been blessed to meet a wonderful family, and they make me feel like I was a buried treasure. They truly bring out the best in me, and I’m thankful for the blessings they bring to my life and others.<br />
<br />
I pray I have shared something of value in these pages<br />
<br />
<br />
by William BowieUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-49790342860363903602015-04-02T10:27:00.002-07:002015-04-02T10:27:34.542-07:00At The Zoo: The Demoniac He takes his energy to live by<br />
leeching from the images:<br />
he holds them captive in his head<br />
as they fly past his empty eyes<br />
<br />
that act as if they need no lids<br />
to keep them from escaping him.<br />
A glutton for sex and violence,<br />
he feasts his soul on Pandemonium.<br />
<br />
His heart beats like a tattered drum<br />
in tune to the incessant chatter<br />
created by crafty tongues and lips<br />
that shape and shift into proven patterns<br />
<br />
guaranteed to pleasure him. <br />
His lust is gratified by their plastic faces;<br />
the dribbling drool is evidence of his approval.<br />
Any brave who tries to change the path of Fate,<br />
<br />
as it’s been determined by his whim, <br />
will see his wrath unwrap itself like Giant Wings:<br />
full of fangs will his words become<br />
as they utter their obscenities <br />
<br />
in a liquid tone which turns to lava.<br />
He’s prepared to chew through someone’s will until <br />
he breaks the bones of their resistance<br />
or dissolves their sorry soul in humiliation<br />
<br />
so he can dominate the TV once again.<br />
He’s a beast! a Tyrannous Rex<br />
that doesn’t give a shit whom it pisses on<br />
when it lifts its leg to leave its mark on our remote.<br />
<br />
He lets them figure out how to wash it off…<br />
or whether to do something else about it:<br />
for some his fangs induce contempt,<br />
and his lava tone sets them on fire,<br />
<br />
provoking an eruption of profanities to fall like rain <br />
over the slap and thump of rapid fists tending to overthrow a depot,<br />
allowing someone else the opportunity<br />
to be king of our remote control. <br />
<br />
<br />
by George Wilkerson<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-35387755920148654172015-04-01T08:31:00.000-07:002015-04-01T11:42:20.477-07:00American Idyll<br />
Remember that famous scene in “Poltergeist,” the one where the child is kneeling before the TV, her palms pressing onto a static-covered screen—then her hands press through it? That kid was me, well, except I’m a guy and I didn’t exactly go into the TV like she did, but I identify with the imagery. After my parents’ divorce, reality became a place I didn’t want to be so I reached out toward the alternate universe offered in movies. It seems that gateway had always been waiting in the shadows, watching and rubbing its hands together eagerly, biding its time in the background until the tension between my parents snapped, flinging my mother and father in opposite directions. They each had a hand in showing me into the TV’s waiting arms.<br />
<br />
Divorce was a declaration of war to my parents, turning them into generals of opposing armies that ripped our world apart. They fought over the hearts and minds of us kids—our loyalty—and like any war-torn and ravaged land, we bore the ugly marks of conflict. Our bruises recorded a history of abuses. They had duel custody of us, so we were marched left and right between them, leaving bits and pieces of ourselves behind each time, hoping we could just go back to the way we were. <br />
<br />
Eventually, it was clear that we kids loved our parents equally despite their winsome efforts, and my mom proposed a peace treaty: She wanted to take the younger two and go her separate way, leaving my older brother and me with my dad, but he flat-out refused, telling her she was fucking crazy if she thought to split the boys up like that—it would turn us all against each other, perpetuate their war down through the generations. Rather, he wrote in stone that we four boys were to always remain together, either with her, or with him. That was when their war took on a new dimension, their wrath growing to Biblical proportions, and everything became a weapon in their hands…even their children. In hindsight, they remind me of my older brother and me. When we got angry at each other, we’d grab the other’s most prized possession—a favorite pair of shoes or baseball card collection—and destroy it in front of the other since we couldn’t physically hurt one another. It was psychological warfare at its basest. Pettiness wasn’t off-limits.<br />
<br />
When Dad heard Mom made us go to bed by nine, he’d make sure we didn’t sleep ‘til sunrise unless we wanted to, or until we fell over from exhaustion. Then he’d just pick us up and carry his sad sack of shit to the nearest couch or bed, sort of chuckling low to himself about how we were too weak to keep up with his insomnia. As soon as she found out he let us eat all the junk food we wanted, she began pointing a sharp finger at every deposit of fat we possessed while saying in broken English, “You be just like you fahdah—fat bum if you no stop eating junkkk,” turning the last word into a disgusting sound as if trying to get the thought of it hocked up and spat out. Then she forced us to eat every odd vegetable known to man that was able to grow in her garden secreted behind her house.<br />
<br />
We kids were about the only thing they kept in common besides their hatred of each other, thought even that appeared to be different: She hated him for the way he was, because he was a “fucking pig,” a perpetual offense to her sensibilities. He hated her for not loving him forever no matter what, as she’d promised, and because he suspected she’d only married a soldier boy to escape the oppression in Korea. He had been her lifeboat to America, where everything seemed shiny and glowing with potential, and as soon as her feet stood on solid citizenship, she abandoned him. So he blamed her for his degeneration. <br />
<br />
She started putting on airs as if they were jackets, and he sunk into his savagery like it was a tar pit. They were two time-elapsed movies of evolution moving in opposite directions. He seemed to grow hairier and more slovenly, and he went shirtless and barefoot in winter, even over gravel and broken glass, putting his cigarettes out with his bare heel. She raised her nose higher, stood up straighter, walked more upright; she dug dust from every corner of her polished floors on her hands and knees like a Korean Cinderella, accompanied by a bucket of suds and rags, and had fancy slippers for every occasion. His violence grew in volume proportionate to his gut, more overt, brutal, and volatile, as hers became more sophisticated. He’d ground and pound the living shit out of us in sudden explosions of rage, while her artful criticisms, contemptuous looks and snorts count be so sharp and slick I’d barely register a thing…right then…but later I’d feel an emptiness gathering within, and a sensitive spot, tender to the touch, where an insecurity was festering, growing gangrenous. We were constant reminders of the absentee parent, walking around and back and forth before them like sandpaper rubbing old wounds raw. We became their whipping boys.<br />
<br />
Their mindless war even crammed them into opposing moral and financial positions. However, seldom can life be clearly defined in terms of solid-colored categories—there are just too many grades of gray between, especially when it comes to humanity. Living with my dad, being poor made going out anywhere a rarity, but when we did go anywhere together as a family, crazy as we were, even going to the movies was a National Lampoon’s Family Vacation. To further cheapen the experience, we’d fill our pockets with Dollar Store candy, some of it paid for if necessary, and only one ticket would be purchased if possible: “Goddammit, Son, you need to pay attention! You already know what to do but don’t fuck around once you get inside. Don’t stop at the concession stand,” he’d say, ticking points off on his fingers, “don’t go to the bathroom to piss, don’t go to the goddamn arcade—keep your grubby little dick-beaters to yourself and get yer skinny little ass in their before everyone starts showing up. We’ll be at that door in two minutes; you’d better be too.” With a quick shove to help me along, they head outside to wait. Ticket held ahead of me like a magic key to get me into heaven, I’d ease past the gatekeeper. I was always a bit surprised I made it in so easily considering what I was about to do. Then I’d creep like a ninja to an emergency exit door and let in my anxious brothers with an air of magnanimity and a sweeping gesture as if I owned the place. They’d come twisting and slinking by as I held the door, then my dad, looking like a plainclothes cop version of the Kool-Aid man in cutoff jeans and a raggedy plaid shirt, would smash by me sweating, wheezing, and growling, “Stop acting like a goddamn idiot and shut the fucking door before you get us all caught—“ clubbing me on the head, “remind me to beat yer ass when we get home,” and he’s through the door like a cork from a bottle, my chest popping and spurting air. I never reminded him; he beat us enough as it was. <br />
<br />
Movies big as God Himself were awesome to behold and made me feel like one of the apostles, or Moses, with a mountain-top experience, but they were too few and far between like mountaintops, so to keep myself elevated during my time in the valleys, like Aaron and the Israelites, I had myself a golden calf. I idolized the TV movies. They mentored me, taught me where to touch a girl and how to do spinning back-kicks, how to rob a bank or track down fugitives, and how to talk a guy down from a ledge. <br />
<br />
At my dad’s, the living room was our church, the TV stand our altar, the TV our god. The motley collection of used furniture served as pews where we sat in slack-jawed ecstasy while eating up every word coming from the mouth of our god. We were united as one body, our differences set aside and temporarily forgotten—except when deciding between channels, we entered the heavenly vision, believing but never receiving the promises. Bleak as our world was, we hungered and thirsted for the milk and Honey Nut Cheerios advertised in our dreams, hoping and begging for a miracle to be Cool Whipped and spread over everything. Such is the life allotted to any family living below the Mason-Dixon poverty line: Everything north is rich and white (or so we thought then), while everything South is the unrefined sift leftover, wearing leftover clothes and shoes salvaged from Salvation Army bins, fighting over the leftovers kindhearted Christians would sometimes bring on the weekends when they came to bring the Gospel, which, at the time, we discard like so many other leftovers. All I could think of was being one of those 5,000 men miraculously fed, even if I had to sit through a sermon first. Sometimes I would pray they lay hands on my dad, cast out his legion of demons; or just lay hands on him lie he did us. <br />
<br />
We placed such a high value on being able to watch cable, along with HBO and Cinemax, that we were willing to settle for lesser things in other areas. Every household budget has needs and wants constantly chirping for attention, and ideally the needs would take priority over the wants, but we were so hungry for our shows that every image floating from the TV was manna to feed our souls. If we were running low on cash, we could always trade our food stamps for the going rate of fifty cents per dollar for forcing us into such a dilemma. HBO and Cinemax were greedy High Priests who made a living worthy of their high calling, heedless of the sacrifices our family made. I suppose it’s how we justified ourselves. If we died from malnutrition, so be it—at least it’d be while smiling idiotically as we watched the American Dream being dramatized in other people’s lives. But I can’t really blame or begrudge them; it’s just their nature; that is, the nature of business as usual. Every now and then that compassionate cable company would give us all the free static we could eat. <br />
<br />
I’d be lying if I claimed we suffered all the time. We were blessed compared to most other families living in the projects: Our other parent actually paid child support. That time of month would be like Christmas—well, how I imagined it must be up north—and we’d go grocery shopping, buy stuff food stamps didn’t cover. First we’d cram our freezer with hot dogs, bread, and baloney. Our staples. We bought cakes and pies and potato chips, massive amounts of generic soda (Orange, Grape, Lime, etc.), and we bought with Dignity, now able to look those cashiers and beggars in the eyes, rather than at their feet. When I complained about receiving a pitiful allowance, my dad pounded a lecture into me, “Be satisfied and go ride yer bike—at least ya fuckin’ have one, you ungrateful little shit. We may be poor but yer sure as goddamn hell the richest fuckin’ poor kids around!” I knew it was true, although I didn’t like the way the Truth was hand-delivered. All I had to do was look around; poverty would spit in my eye. <br />
<br />
The projects were the vision of desolation. Clumps of dying grass floated on seas of red dirt and sprouted strange flowers made of spent bullet casings, used condoms, crack pipes, and broken glass. To run and play was dangerous, and I have scars to prove it. The first gun I ever had was found lying on the ground, resting in a halo of heavenly light that I alone could see—it was my Destiny to discover it…and I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing in a creepy “omen” kind of way the second I laid eyes on it. Giant dumpsters stood like sentinels around the complex, layering the air with rotting garbage while the pungent threads of drugs and alcohol woven throughout glowed as brightly as neon EXIT signs promising a quick escape from our harsh reality. Hopelessness created an atmosphere of bitter desperation and inevitable destruction. For us, hell was here already. <br />
<br />
There were only a handful of bikes around and they all looked like Frankenstein’s creations with scavenged parts holding them together. NERF footballs looked more like football-shaped sponges for all the missing chunks. Basketballs had more breasts than porn flicks. NO ONE ever saw roller skates in real life until the 5th grade field trip to the skating rink, which was a joke because we spent more time on the ground than skating. For many, hunger was a close companion. Kids carried around empty soda cans as mementos of better moments, absently sipping at it as if hoping to draw out one more drop of joy, or filling it with water so they could be seen actually drinking, though the many dents and faded paint usually gave its age away. I tended to be oblivious like most kids; my dad, however, saw it all.<br />
<br />
For his many faults, his uncontrollable anger, his insane ramblings, and mysterious midnight conversations with people not there (yet—it turns out he was preplanning his arguments with us, mom, or others like a chess master seeing ten moves ahead), his heart had gigantic wings that never stopped expanding, taking in everyone around him. He embodied the “love thy neighbor as thyself” principle. We kids took his abuse, but everyone got to be embraced by his heart. He gave us everything we asked for if he had the power, but he also gave himself to everyone he encountered. He shared our home with the neighborhood, every bike, every basketball, every videogame; our ketchup, mustard, and sugar, and even our cable. He’d let neighbors bore holes through adjoining walls to run extensions into their apartments until our hook-up looked like a nest of skinny snakes slithering in every direction. That way they could watch and worship too. Our place became a safe haven for the neighborhood children, a sort of surrogate home or indoor playground. His love bridged the racial divide; we were one of the first non-black families to move into our ‘hood. <br />
<br />
We’d burn through Mom’s child support as if it were soaked in gasoline, then share sodas out like communion to anyone who happened by asking for a drink. Whoever decided to be our best friends that day, and were around when dinnertime came, were more of my dad’s sons and got to eat like one. Even a couple of rich kids from school would come hang out because they were allowed to eat, drink, smoke, or do just about anything they wanted. We definitely got to watch everything a kid shouldn’t, and nothing one should. His only vice was cigarettes. He wasn’t a drinker thought he talked like he was drunk. Many thought he had a speech impediment, but in reality he was so excited to be speaking (to someone, anyone, it didn’t matter) that his words would tumble out of his mouth like a box of kittens being overturned, all tangled and wrestling one another for dominance. Sagely, he’d share his smokes and his opinions—the two came as a package deal—with anyone who wanted, or was willing, to listen to the burly, grizzled bear-of-a-man who seasoned his speech with helping handfuls of foreign language phrases so garbled and mangled they were hardly recognizable to anyone but him. Everyone else just nodded and agreed, or laughed whenever he did because really, he was happy just to be socializing. Between his gruff appearance and hard-to-understand way of speaking, he very seldom got to do the very thing he loved (interact with other adults) unless he was giving them something. He knew it too, and though it hurt, he used it to his advantage because he knew how to control who did, or didn’t, come around. Children loved him—they responded to him on a deeper level, one where one’s looks or words were second to what emanated from the heart. They sensed his spirit and knew he’d die for any of them. How interesting they should feel so safe while his own sons were often terrified.<br />
<br />
A strange thing about my dad was that he was both narcoleptic and an insomniac. Sleep danced away when he tried to catch it, but would turn around and pounce on him at the oddest times. At night, he’d wedge himself into a corner of the couch, propped up by the extra back and arm in case he passed out. Sitting in absolute dark, he was but a disembodied voice and a pulsating red-tinged face that was lit for seconds at a time by the ever-present cigarette, tempting Fate with his narcolepsy. Every seat and arm looked as if an army of melted caterpillars was invading or burrowing into our furniture. It’s a miracle he didn’t burn us out of a home, or go up like a blazing ball of cotton, though there were gaps in his mustache, beard, and chest hair. Sadly, his narcolepsy never brought him more than an hour’s rest, and seldom more than fifteen, twenty minutes; most often he’d only get five or ten, so he was never really able to relax. “All I fuckin’ want is some GODDAMNED PEACE AND FUCKING QUIET—is that too much to ask?” he’d say while looking up at God. I’d flinch every time, expecting (and admittedly sometimes hoping) for lightning to strike. Lightning never came, but there was no need; he was the most tortured soul I’ve ever known. Ironically, his sincere blasphemy helped convince me of God’s existence. <br />
<br />
Since it gave us so many good laughs and brief respites from his abuses, I considered his narcolepsy a unique blessing. We’d be gathered in the living room attempting to let his latest rant roll right off our backs, trying not to make direct eye contact with this rabid bastard, and mid-sentence a switch was thrown—his chins would pillow the fall of his heavy head as it hit the carpet on his chest. We’d all heave a concurrent sigh of relief, look around wide-eyed, snickering and shrugging at one another. Then turn the TV on quietly, surgically remove his dwindling cigarette before it burned his fingers, and worship while we waited…Eventually he’d awaken as if he’d only blinked and continue his soliloquy exactly where he left off, then stop when his empty hand reached his lips formed around a memory, and take notice of the change in seating positions: sometimes we’d shuffled ourselves around or hurriedly go change clothes to mess with him. With an epiphany blossoming bright red in his face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger, he’d condemn our goddamn disrespect and ask why we didn’t fucking wake him up. Yeah, okay, Dad, please wake up and continue your abuse. Having lost his momentum, he would huff and puff and blow as much menacing silence as he could muster. “Just get the hell outta my sight; go outside or to your rooms—I can’t stand to see you right now,” while he flipped his hand dismissively, perhaps to deprive us of our show or movie since we obviously were so engrossed in it. <br />
<br />
For my dad, abuse was in his DNA. He grew up fighting a never-ending row of stepfathers that tried to treat him and his siblings as their personal punching bags or blow-up dolls. I believe part of his torment stemmed from his own ruined past, one he’d sworn never to put his children through. He KNEW its power to devastate. After a beating, he’d often sit down and cry with us as if he was as much a victim of his violent nature as we were. Strangely, in his effort to keep his boys together, when one of us provoked his anger, he’d make all four of us line up in front of the couch with our hands gripping the cushions as he went down the row beating “respect’ into us with his heavy leather belt. How many hundreds of lessons we had to learn like this. At first we cried and flinched from every lash or fist, but then he beat us for that too. We had to learn to take it, to embrace the pain, to toughen up until the only pain we felt was the humiliation of physical subjugation. He knew one day we would reach our breaking point and grab the hand that held the belt, but that’s another story. For the time being, we will subjected ourselves to his authority even though his abuses were so arbitrary; we never blamed each other for the unmerited beatings. He’d punish us for spilling an ashtray or for not getting out of his way fast enough, yet he might take us out for ice cream when we got suspended for fighting or skipping school, but the next day could be the opposite. This unpredictability, his psychotic instability, gave me the wary mind and quick reflexes of a wild animal.<br />
<br />
Despite it all, I can’t get the image of a werewolf out of my head, the good one who’d chain himself in the basement during a full moon so he didn’t harm anyone when he turned. My dad gave us freedom to roam, while he stayed chained to the couch. I don’t believe it was just his opposition to my mom, which motivated him. One reason was for our protection…from him. But also his feelings of inadequacy as a husband and a father—as a MAN—along with his guilt drove him relentlessly to try and compensate by giving us everything we wanted. Being penniless for the most part, and poor in self-control, he gave the only thing he was capable of giving: FREEDOM. He got the hell out of our way. Without a parental obstacle to negotiate, I sought answers to life’s questions on TV anywhere but at home.<br />
<br />
Under Mom’s restrictive regime, it was, of course, the opposite. I had so little freedom I couldn’t touch the fridge or go outside without permission, let alone try to develop any relationships that weren’t screened and approved first. She could afford two family rooms: one for her and my stepfather, one for us kids. My sister, born of my mom’s second marriage (this was her third), was a fascinating addition to our group. Nine years my junior, she made it difficult to leave his world because I had to protect her from the dangers I knew existed. However, she’d plant herself beside me and together we’d travel the worlds offered on display. Our little family room stayed stuffed with kids and FDA-approved friends watching regular TV—no cable—through bars and static, or memorizing the dozen or so movies we had on tape (not even on DVD). My mom’s family room had a big screen television that dominated one side of the room, two plush recliners that were like thrones exactly twelve feet directly opposite, a futon couch along a perimeter wall at such an oblique angle it was more for rest than for watching TV. She also had a satellite reception, and it was about twice as spacious in their room even though they had a third of the regular people. We weren’t allowed in there without them, and definitely couldn’t touch anything unless it was per their request to hand them something, although they graciously permitted us to sprawl on the floor at their feet and watch whatever boring thing they had on.<br />
<br />
Alas, we were abandoned to worshipping by ourselves. She was blink-blinking in and out of our world, there but not there simultaneously. She was either in her family room, at the spa for hours at a time, or at one of their favorite golf courses. Before they had “retired,” she spent all day working in the restaurant she owned. The only time we really spent together as an actual family was at dinner. Food was even more sacred than TV, and my mom was a High Priestess able to cook meals worthy of the gods. Even so, I felt like I lived in a perpetual state of homesickness, hungry for my mom’s attention through she was right there. I was invisible unless I did something wrong to show up on her radar. No doubt, love provides food, shelter, and the decent clothes Middle America faults, but people need something money can never buy, something free but seldom freely given: genuine affection in the form of hugs, praises, and gentle looks.<br />
<br />
My mom’s parents were hypercritical or outright neglectful. She became a mother to her siblings, forced to grow up overnight, cooking, cleaning, and literally singing for food on corners in Korea. Abuse takes many forms and sometimes it’s the passive aggressive, subtle gestures that wound us most. Like the fact she had wanted to take my younger brothers to live with her. Though my dad rebuffed her attempt, the desire manifested in myriad ways. A singular incident stands out amongst the piles of decrepit things. My older brother, Michael, and I were in our room when dinnertime suddenly dove between us. Knowing the importance of punctuality, we decided to go on downstairs rather than wait until the last second. We stepped out of our room above the foyer and saw our brothers, sister, stepfather, and mother sneaking out the front door. Before she could close it, <br />
<br />
“Mom? Where’s everyone going?” we ask, dumbfounded.<br />
“Out to dinner.”<br />
“Oh! Hold on, let us grab a jacket and—”<br />
“No, you stay. We go.”<br />
“What… what about us?”<br />
“You big boys; you eat sandwich—or whatever. Clean after. Okay?”<br />
<br />
As if she was giving us a choice. And with that the door shuts.<br />
<br />
We were seventeen and fifteen, but still. We eyed each other telepathically, unable to hide our shock and pain. Dazed, quiet, and fighting tears, we headed downstairs like a couple of drunks trying to pass a field sobriety test. We hadn’t done anything wrong that we knew of. “George, I’ve got some money. Screw them. C’mon, we’re going out, just you and me.” It seems he was always the strong one, always there to pull my ass out of the fire or out of the depths of despair; or stand between me and bullies, even when it was our parents.<br />
<br />
Sure, there was plenty of food at home. There were two extra freezers packed full and chilling in the garage. I asked if we could catch a movie instead, saying I’d eat later after we returned. “Sure, little brother, sure. Whatever you want.”<br />
<br />
To be honest, I never doubted the sincerity of either parent’s love. It was more complicated than that. Ideas have consequences. Looking back, it’s clear both had a flawed, incomplete understanding of what it means to love. The effects were apparent in the collapse of their marriage and the deterioration in their children. My dad found escape into TV long before, gleaning his twisted idea of love from there, since it was evident no example was to be found at home with his parents. All he knew was unrestrained giving to others (and himself), hedonistically, without thought of moral boundaries or tomorrow; pleasure was all it valued. In contrast, Mom’s had little to do with pleasure or emotions, but rather was more pragmatic in that it focused on sustaining the basic necessities to keep a body alive.<br />
<br />
Both believed their way exclusively correct, and neither could see it otherwise, yet both would later admit they knew something wasn’t right, but for the life of them [they] couldn’t say what it was. She condemned his brutal methodology, and rightly so, though she too was tarnished despite her polished, highly cultivated living standards. Dad toughened us with his thick leather belt or whatever was at hand—even his own heavy hands. Although he also verbalized his violence, she was the true-spoken samurai soldier ripping us to shreds with her heavy-handed tongue lashings, cutting words and looks, and cold-hearted cold-shoulders. Worst of all was her abandonment. She left us to raise ourselves and a dad who never truly grew up…until he grew up with his sons. We were more a parent to him than he was to us. <br />
<br />
I’ve wished I could simply explain love to her like this: “The love you were always looking for? It’s been right here the whole time tugging at your dress, clip-clopping through the house with your shoes on because I didn’t know then that boys ought not to, waiting at the door for you to get home from the store, then running out to jump up and down around the car, eager to tote those ‘heavy’ bags for you, hoping you’d uncover that radiant smile even before you spent a car to fix your teeth (while leaving mine as is). You’ve always been Miss America to me, Mom, the most beautiful girl in the world, without any make-up on, hair all mussed up in the morning. Every kind of gentle word or look from you was sunshine on my face to erase all the previous negativity as if it had never existed: love covers over a multitude of sins, and you have a blank page in my book.”<br />
<br />
At least my golden calf was there for me. I was mothered by a multitude of moms, doted on by dozens of dads, parents we all dream of. I had moms who hugged me often, who let me know how much they loved me and convinced me that they meant it. Moms who were understanding and cried with me when I tried so hard but failed anyway. Moms who promised me it’d be okay while the world around us was crumbling to ashes at our feet. I had dads who protected me, taught me the value of a dollar, and how to treat a lady. Dads who taught me respect by demonstrating and earning it rather than beating it out of me; and who taught me how to stand for something, accept responsibility, be a MAN. <br />
<br />
I also learned to take the law into my own hands, to follow my heart wherever it led me, even into sin; that I could steal from the rich or do whatever the hell I wanted and all would be forgiven if I just gave a dollar a day to some kid with flies on his face—he’d even send me monthly updates to tell me how much of a saint I was. TV told me I could be anything I dreamed….It lied. <br />
<br />
Recently, someone asked me to dig through heaps of yellow-tinged memories to find the first movie I ever saw. But that’s like asking me to retrieve my first breath from where it came to rest after the doctor slapped it across the room! Movies have been such a part of my life and there have been so many, I suppose it’s only fitting for my memories of them to be smeared together like an abstract painting on the canvas in my head. I catch fragments of images flitting past my eyes while a cacophony of gunshots and screeching tires is blended together with maniacal laughter and colorful profanities. Fingers of fear, lust, and envy dance up and down my spine to play me like a piano. It’s all discordant and flickering like a faulty projector. <br />
<br />
As I stare up at my insane history, popcorn peppers my lap and shrivels my lips, my neck is cramping from the sharp angle of the front row, and my eyes (which haven’t blinked since the movie began) are leaking sympathetic tears that meet beneath my chin to comfort one another.<br />
<br />
<br />
by George Wilkerson<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-62961324400759550142015-03-31T07:56:00.001-07:002015-03-31T07:56:20.775-07:00Struggling: StigmatizedIt smells like pee,<br />
it must:<br />
they crinkle their noses in disgust<br />
every time I walk by wafting it in their faces.<br />
<br />
It seems to follow me<br />
and precede me<br />
and hangs in the air<br />
like a cloud all around me,<br />
<br />
only I can’t smell it<br />
because I’m acclimated.<br />
I’ve seen it choke off conversations<br />
and invitations mid-sentence.<br />
<br />
I’ve seen hands fly to mouths<br />
to cover gasps<br />
of giggles while they pointed<br />
down their throats,<br />
<br />
gagging and looking down<br />
their noses at me,<br />
causing me to look down<br />
at myself,<br />
<br />
looking for a spreading stain<br />
that never came, yet<br />
what else could it be?<br />
I lift my arms and sniff<br />
<br />
cup my breath into my hands<br />
and whiff the contents: minty fresh.<br />
Is it just me, or does poverty stink?<br />
It poured cold water on my cotton candy confidence,<br />
<br />
melting me within myself.<br />
Since when did being poor become a sin?<br />
I’m too scared to raise my hand<br />
or sit at the front of the class<br />
<br />
lest I draw attention to myself.<br />
I’m scarred by Salvation Army clothing,<br />
burning with humiliation<br />
dripping with self-pity,<br />
<br />
shrinking…<br />
<br />
I am less of a person now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
by George Wilkerson<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-80251004265055021272015-03-25T14:20:00.000-07:002015-03-25T14:20:14.103-07:00A Man of Knowledge Increaseth StrengthI have learned some hard life lessons in my short time upon this earth--one of them being this: just because a person says they are going to do something doesn’t mean they’re going to do it. For most people, actions speak volumes while their mouths say something contrary. I know whatever a person chooses to practice becomes a standard of living for them, whether it’s right or wrong.<br />
<br />
I would love to believe that every person lives by a moral code. But my personal interactions and the news reports I read leave me thinking that many people don’t have a moral code. Morals are taught and a person grows and continues to practice them or opts out of them to seek a different path in life. Look at soldiers in any military throughout the world. How is it that some come from a moral background, then go to war, kill people, return home, and are expected to live a normal life? These same soldiers raise a family, teach their children the very same values they learned, and leave out the killer they were in battle. This was true for my momma and her siblings. My momma’s dad was in World War II, in Southeast Asia.<br />
<br />
But for me this common experiences raises the question, Who gets to judge whether a person is good? If someone does something terrible, how long does he need to show that he has altruistic qualities before another’s opinion of him changes? How long does it take for a person who was once believed to be evil to be considered moral?<br />
<br />
My parents reared four children. They taught us the principles of the Holy Bible, and I am a Christian. My opinions and beliefs are biblically based, and I stand solidly upon those teachings. I’m not perfect, but I do try to grow more each day by God’s perfect grace. Like any fallible human being, I too often allow my ego to get in the way where I need to practice patience and understanding.<br />
<br />
My dad and mom worked hard rearing us children while at the same time trying to acquire a piece of the American dream. My dad was one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known. I remember at one point in his life he worked for the Department of Transportation, working 40 hours a week. Also, after each day with the D.O.T., he farmed and ran a garage. <br />
<br />
Daddy was a great provider and protector of our family, friends, and the weak. I don’t understand how he did it, holding down a full time job and farming—which is demanding, especially if you are intent on raising a good crop. The garage was a small operation, but coupled with the other two jobs it added to the toilsome labor.<br />
<br />
As far back as I can remember, my brother and I rode around with our dad when he was farming or going to work on a car. Going to the garage was mostly fun for me, as I loved being around my dad. I always wanted to know what he knew. In many ways I tried to imitate him. He was my role model. <br />
<br />
To this day I remember one of the earliest lessons I grabbed onto. At this time I was about four. I don’t recall my brother being with us this day, but I do remember that I saw someone with something I wanted and when I asked for it--or for some of it--this upset my dad. Daddy waited until it was just me and him, and he scolded me, calling what I’d done begging. He said, “Boy! Don’t let me hear tell of you begging anybody else for nothing.” If it would have ended there, I seriously doubt the lesson would have stuck. <br />
<br />
But later that day, Daddy and I stopped by an older couple’s home in the neighborhood—Mr. Lee and Mrs. Easter. While we were there we sat at the kitchen table, and I saw Mrs. Easter baking what appeared to be a cake. It smelled so good. Remembering Daddy’s warning, I said nothing, but I did notice the sweets. I perked up, hoping for a piece of cake, my eyes following her every movement. It was obvious to anyone who was looking what my desire was, and surely Mrs. Easter would soon notice; she wouldn’t deny this cute, loveable, little boy a piece of cake. <br />
<br />
Knowing my dad, I’m sure he was watching me too. I thought I had found a loophole in my dad’s warning, and I could still be a success in obtaining my desire. I could plead with my eyes and use body language but be within the guidelines of the old man’s warning. Who said children aren’t smart? My plan worked like a dream--or almost worked. I got my cake and gave Mrs. Easter a “Thank you” with a big smile. Everything went down smoothly and I could not be accused of any wrongdoing. <br />
<br />
With my cake eaten and my dad’s business with Mr. Lee taken care of, we headed out to the car, jumped in, and headed home without a word. At home, as we were getting out of the car, Daddy said, “Boy! Didn’t I tell you about begging?” I started to plead my cause, intending to tell him that I didn’t ask but accepted when it was offered. My pleas were cut short by Daddy’s spanking and my yells. I guess you could say the lesson was driven home.<br />
<br />
It took some years to grow into the core of that lesson—why it is not dignified to ask a person for something just because I see it and want it. Most people who work hard don’t respect an able-bodied person who can work to obtain the things they need and want rather than beg. If a person is begging because because of an ailment or some other deformity or hindrance, it’s understandable. Otherwise, begging is a sign that you’ve lost self-respect and think that someone else who works for a living should take care of you and your needs. That’s one of the lessons that my dad taught all of his children: if a person needs or wants something, work for it. Ever since I’ve been old enough to work, I never had a problem with finding a job. Most of those jobs weren’t what I wanted, nor did they pay the wages I wanted. But I never asked anyone for a handout.<br />
<br />
Hard work was part of my upbringing. I saw my dad get up early for his job and come home, eat supper, then head out the door again to the garage. Daddy did this pretty much every evening and weekend, with me and my brother in tow. We grew up at that garage, working alongside our dad. In many ways I’m a reflection of my dad. I carry his name; I’m a junior. My dad raised me to be a man, to take on the responsibility of a man. He showed me how to be a protector, provider, and defender of family and friends, as well as the weak.<br />
<br />
Coming from that background, I know a person’s work habits, or lack thereof, reveals something about who they are and the goals they may or may not be striving toward. What reasonable adult believes that it’s acceptable to live in a home where they don’t need to make a contribution to the home?<br />
<br />
When school broke for summer when I was growing up, we children would sleep late, watch T.V. and if Momma wasn’t working, we would ask her questions until she grew tired of our curiosity. Sometimes we would help Momma out around the house and in the vegetable garden we grew each year. Most of the time helping Momma didn’t seem like work; we were having fun. Once school ended for summer break, after I had grown some, I was old enough to be at home by myself, but too young to get a job like the older kids. But my brother and me had a job cutting grass once a week for Mrs. C. Joiner. With school at an end I was free from those tough and long days of classes and the demands of schoolteachers; now was my time. <br />
<br />
I planned to sleep late, roam the neighborhood, and maybe even go fishing. My intent was to enjoy myself without the restraints and watchful eyes of adults. I was excited to put my plan into motion with places to go and things to explore. I just needed to wait until Daddy and Momma left for work. But, as usual, like Murphy’s Law says, “Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.” <br />
<br />
Normally, through the week when school was in, everyone in our home got up at 6:00 AM, sometimes a little earlier, depending on the need. But on the first day of summer I was laying there asleep, not a care in the world. All of a sudden I heard, “Alright, y’all get up; get on up.” <br />
<br />
“What’s going on?,” I thought to myself. “We don’t have school…. Daddy must have forgot; this will be straightened out shortly.” <br />
<br />
Once we stumbled out to the living room—still more asleep than awake—our dad started calling off a list of chores for us to do. The list of chores that was given to us was long. After Daddy and Momma had left for work, I said (to myself), “Man, we can’t get all of this done today.” This was something our Dad did each day throughout that summer. Even if he didn’t give us a list of chores (which was rare), he would wake us up at the same time he got up, and sometimes we would stay awake until our parents left. But after a while, most times, my brother and I would stay up, being that we were already awake. But early on, it was back to bed, unless we were cutting grass. One of the things we did after we had gone back to bed is wake up about an hour or so later and start on the chores, doing as much as we could (if it was garden work) by noon. Then we’d go in the house to dodge the heat, our older sister would make lunch, and we’d watch T.V. till we four decided to go back out and work some more.<br />
<br />
It was years later when I understood that it wasn’t just about doing the chores. We were being taught to get up early and get the job done. No being lazy, laying around depending on someone else to do the work. For me, these lessons paid off in life, as they did for my siblings. Every one of us became early risers for our daily jobs. No slacking. <br />
<br />
Long after Daddy started waking us up early it became a routine. At first I started working in the tobacco fields at the age of thirteen, working ten hours a day, walking up and down those tobacco rows in the heat of the day and every other part of it. Doing this to earn money made me a wise spender of my earnings and taught me a new respect for my parents, and how hard they worked. I remember before those tobacco fields, long hours, and hot sun, when my parents bought my school clothes and I didn’t take care of them as I should have. Most days when I came in from school (before buying my own school clothes), my mom would have to remind me to take off my school clothes and put on the ones I played in. But once I started working and buying my own school clothes, I learned real quick to take care of those items without having to be told. Also, as my older sister, my brother, and I started working all at the same time, we contributed one fifth of our earnings to the household. Today, as then, this was the right thing to do. When our parents told us this is how it was going to be, I wasn’t liking it so much, but once I saw how it lightened the load for my parents, it was good. I learned to appreciate the value of the family working as a unit. By giving a portion of what I earned this gave me a sense of responsibility and self-worth, that even my little bit helped.<br />
<br />
For me, when I was at the garage learning to work on cars, most of the time I had fun; I enjoyed the people, the talk, joking, and sometimes being treated like an adult, even though I was a young teen. Being respected for skills I had by the time I was fourteen and fifteen felt good and gave me the encouragement and desire to better myself. I could tell that my dad was genuinely proud of my brother and me when people would comment on what good mechanics we were as such young men. Daddy would swell with pride when people commented how we were such smart workers and hard workers.<br />
<br />
At sixteen, I got a job at a chicken house near my home; at first I would ride a 1969 450 Honda to work after school. The guy I worked for paid me a little above minimum wage, but at the time that was cool with me because I was earning money and the work wasn’t difficult. The work consisted of me being there at 4:30 each evening to walk each aisle, observing the chickens to see if any were sick or had died, and remove such. Each aisle was pretty long, maybe sixty yards. There were two sides to the chicken house and each side had about five aisles. After walking each aisle, I would turn the machine on to gather the eggs, stack them, and then place them in the cooler. I would work each evening from 4:30 till about 8:30 if nothing went wrong. The chicken house where I worked sat about half a mile off the road; it could not be seen from the highway. It could be a little scary to work back there at night by myself, surrounded by mostly woods, but by then I was used to the woods and darkness. The whole while I worked at that place, I couldn’t eat any chickens or eggs. I tried, but the smell of them wouldn’t allow me to put them in my mouth. I would have never believed that anything could affect my eating habits. Heck, I’ve seen chittlings cleaned and eaten them, so I was thoroughly surprised by my own reaction.<br />
<br />
I have worked other jobs since those tobacco fields of long ago. I learned lessons from each of those jobs and remember a quote from my dad, “Boy, every lesson you learn is going to cost you.” The last profound lesson my dad taught me before I was confined was one that I never saw coming from him because of my belief about who I thought he was. The whole situation started back in the fall of 1991. My dad and I had had some arguments and it seemed that we disagreed about everything. October of that year, my grandmother passed away and about a week or so after that, Daddy and I had it out again. It got heated to the point that he told me to get out. I had been living with my parents since January of that year and hadn’t even thought about moving out, which could have been the real source of all of our arguments. Whatever the reason, my dad told me to get out and I felt instant betrayal and a whole different kind of anger. So I left with no intention of ever going back there again. I didn’t speak to my dad for about a year and a half; I felt like I had been wronged. I was so foolish. I believed that it was all about me!<br />
<br />
I never gave any consideration to the fact that my dad had just lost his mom, still suffering his loss, or that I wasn’t living up to my potential as the man he raised me to be—living at home with my parents at twenty-five. There were some other things going on as well, but I believe the biggest problem was the loss of his mom. <br />
<br />
I remember one Sunday around March or April of 1993; I was at my uncle’s home when my dad and mom stopped by. Mom stayed in the car, and Daddy got out and walked straight to me. Daddy looked me I the eyes as I did him, me not knowing what to expect. He said, “Boy, when you leave here, stop by the house. I got a car I want you to help me with.” I answered and said, “Okay.” I knew as well as he did that he didn’t need my help with any car, but then again, this wasn’t about any car, it was about reconciliation. The older I get, the more I think about Daddy’s act of humility that he didn’t talk about, but showed. Daddy put himself in a position to be rejected and humiliated, and to me, this wasn’t the man I knew at the time. I was immediately humbled. But back then I don’t think I could have done it, as a matter-of-fact, I didn’t do it, and had no intention of doing so. I was so full of foolish pride back then. I thought that my dad was too proud of a man to humble himself; he was a wiser man than I knew, and a better one than me. <br />
<br />
I believe my parents were coming from church that day; they were into the Word of God. Now I understand that I was just a churchgoer at that time, thinking that a churchgoer and being a Christian were the same. Being a Christian is about showing the love of God, not just talking about it. Showing love means sometimes putting one’s self in a vulnerable position, to where one may be rejected. I understand why God says that he fights against pride, because pride will not allow love to flourish and grow.<br />
<br />
My place of residence at present date is on death row. Existing in an environment such as this requires all that I was taught by my parents, that I might remain sane. Being on death row is an affliction of the spirit. I must remind myself that I am a man, not an animal, no matter how often I am corralled or put in stalls. Fyodor Dostoevsky said, “You can judge a society by how well it treats its prisoners.” A person’s true nature is revealed when they have another in a vulnerable position, just as another’s nature is revealed in adversity.<br />
<br />
For me, there is nothing dignified about death row, though it is important to find dignity no matter where you are. Here on the row, we may be called at any time for canteen or a doctor’s appointment. I’ve seen some guys jump out of bed without washing or brushing their teeth while others would never do such a thing, even though guards complain that they take too long. As long as I live, I will always have an obligation to humanity to live and do my best, as every human in this world’s obligation is to each other. As I believe and my faith as a Christian teaches me, “A person’s life is measured in the quality of life they live, not in the quantity of years.” I make the best of every day by being the best I can. <br />
<br />
Sometimes being the best I can, in my belief of God in Christ Jesus, conflicts with the beliefs of others, but this is where respect comes into play between me and whoever may be the other person. As much as humanly possible, in the spirit of Jesus the Christ, I aim to live at peace with others, no matter their thoughts of me. “Your value doesn’t decrease based on someone else’s inability to see your worth,” said the Holocaust survivor Ted Rub. In some ways our thoughts always serve ourselves, but we as a people must reach farther and allow our assumptions and attitudes to serve the community. In this way we can create better communities. To the extent that I have something to contribute to this better life, I have my parents to thank for the values they instilled in me. <br />
<br />
by Melvin Lee White, Jr.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-77462988164945450422015-03-06T07:44:00.000-08:002015-03-06T07:44:58.955-08:00Keeping It TogetherIn <i>Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?</i>, memoirist Jeanette Winterson offers us the following words on one particular condition required in the pursuit of sanity: "Mental health and emotional continuity do not require us to stay in the same place, but they do require a sturdy structure on the inside." I know just what she means. As one "unduly" convicted of a felony, I was stripped — literally and figuratively — of my former identity and made to assume a new one, one debased and dehumanized, that of inmate, prisoner, and convict. Most may find this event to be humiliating, traumatizing, and difficult to bear. For me, it was not so, at least not consciously. I owe this to the ease with which I find myself identifying my experience of prison with that of my ancestors who endured being enslaved.<br />
<br />
Especially traveling from prison to prison on those urine-smelling buses, cramped next to others whom you've never seen before, shackled at the ankles and cuffed at the wrist attached to belly chains, images of slaves being transported to various plantations are conjured in my mind. At such times, one must have a well-fortified structure, a living foundation, within to maintain the hope of mental health and emotional continuity.<br />
<br />
I've survived this ordeal by keeping with me what is familiar to me. I've found it necessary to remain somehow weirdly nomadic, because I have to prepare myself mentally for the everyday fact that I can be transferred to any other prison at any time for any or no reason at all. With this in mind, I find that I can relate Jeanette Winterson's story to my own on many levels.<br />
<br />
by Rightjust SoulUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-7996543507118165182015-01-21T14:41:00.000-08:002015-01-21T14:41:01.051-08:00The Bad Apple VirusIt frustrates me that so few prisoners in this unit seem able to see any connection to their own lives in debates about law enforcement, race, and class struggles in the wake of Ferguson. The indifference of my fellow inmates is so maddening because much of the discussion is thankfully centered around criminal justice reform, with people all over the U.S. currently focused on public policies and laws which affect different communities unequally. It is hard to imagine a better moment in time for informed conversations concerning the real effects of policies which too often never see the light of day in public imagination and discourse.<br />
<br />
I understand the point of view which resists the idea that any problems at all exist within the American criminal justice system. After all, there is a strong emphasis on individualism and individual responsibility here which stretches back to our pioneering ancestors. I myself committed a serious crime in my youth, taking a life which can never be restored, and I have repeatedly affirmed what I believe most prisoners will also admit, that those who do wrong must be held responsible as a part of our response to crime. Humans have an almost instinctive understanding of this concept. For instance, even as children we learn that when we steal it is wrong and our family will discipline us, perhaps sending us to the corner to stand or having a cherished toy taken.<br />
<br />
Yet what family will take its beloved but misbehaving child and banish them to some far corner to stand forever, never to return? Implied in punishment should be the intent to bring about a better outcome, and a better behaved child who be welcomed back to the fold as a functioning member of an improved family. If our policy instead was to permanently banish the child or only allow his return as a limited member who can, say, sleep at home but cannot eat meals with the family; we must recognize in such treatment of the offender a permanent negative value judgment. We only treat a family member this way who was by nature deficient, who lacked the potential to function properly, or who inspired more fear than love.<br />
<br />
Today, this kind of negative character judgment is built into our criminal justice system. Our policies imply the belief that some people by nature are apt to commit crime; that they lack the ability to function as members of our law-abiding human family. Viewed this way, the role of the law, of law enforcement, of our prosecutors and courts, and of our detention and supervision methods is to reach out and find the defective ones among us, to watch, punish, and detain them, and to stop them from harming others and themselves. <br />
<br />
In a culture so enamored of individuality, such a role for our system seems to make sense. Now we have enforcement and sentencing policies which ruthlessly carry out this program. So confident are we in our ability to root out the criminals, label and deal with them as it is necessary to treat such dangerous animals, that we now routinely lock away youthful first-time offenders for the majority of their lives, only allowing them to escape the system when they are old, if ever. We have sought out and identified in our state alone more “bad apples” than the total prison population of the country of Australia. And we know that they are bad apples because they have committed a crime, and anyone who would commit a crime must be by nature a defective irredeemable product from our human factory.<br />
<br />
Right now people in our nation are starting to realize something is not quite right with this process. When you personally know someone who has been caught in the net of our system, it becomes evident what a tragic mistake it is to judge a man or woman as defective and irredeemable based on one act, or one time period in their lives, usually when they are young. And if you are very poor and happen to be a minority or both, you cannot help but see how our system applies its justice unequally. If you are none of these, you may be among those in our country who feel nothing is broken about our system, a position much easier to defend when you don’t live in one of the poor regions targeted most intensely by law enforcement.<br />
<br />
Looking at prisons is essential to shed light on this debate. A process has been taking place inside Tennessee prisons which mirrors what has made people so angry in our country. Right now, I live in a disciplinary unit where men who are judged dangerous have their jobs and most of their outside contact stripped from them and where they are concentrated together under the most intense conditions of poverty, restlessness, and hostility. No matter the nature of the inmate’s transgression, or how well they were doing before their mistake, they are sent here for punishment for a length of time depending on their offense and removed from the neighborhoods of less dishonor in the prison where the men have jobs and outside support. Unlike those upper regions where inmates are generally left in peace by their peers who have incomes, and the officers who feel less threatened by the “good” inmates, in the lowest region, one will witness atrocious levels of drug abuse, violence, theft, and gang activity while the inmates are constantly harassed by the officers who feel all the bad apples naturally end up here, and who therefore focus most of their vigilance in this direction.<br />
<br />
To say that it is a matter of individual choice where an inmate resides inside the prison, is only a half-truth at best. Mobility between the different regions depends on much more than personal choice and character. However it happens that one slides down the scale from good to bad, it is much more difficult to climb the ladder than it is to fall because the conditions one faces makes it more difficult to avoid further writeups, and those conditions are created only in the context of the punitive policies which are ironically implemented in the name of promoting good behavior.<br />
<br />
So this zone takes up its place along a continuum of zones corresponding to our judgments about the nature of some people who belong in them and what enforcement punishment policies are necessary to control them. Authorities refuse to acknowledge that their own policies have anything to do with the increased problems in these areas, choosing conveniently to place the blame on individual accountability alone. In prison, the bad apple theory reaches its pinnacle practically unopposed. In fact, at this prison, the inmates in each zone wear wristbands color-coded to the unit, and an inmate's nature is commonly judged based on the color of the band alone. My comments about past regimes who used similar techniques on populations gathered into ghettos are not appreciated. I am not a bad apple. For anyone who knows me, the thought approaches absurdity. Yet I am a man who will defend myself as any man will, and as such I am walking a razor's edge every day trying to function while avoiding getting into trouble with an authority who knows what conditions we face here and callously blames the whole situation on individual responsibility. And I may succeed in making it out, but I have extraordinary advantages most don’t have. Just like the exceptions who make it out of bad neighborhoods and succeed out there, my example will only prove what it takes to rise above the rule. The rest may well curse me as they drown in bitter resentment.<br />
<br />
This pattern of judgments about the nature of some individuals, and the policies enacted to control them should seem familiar to those engaged in the debate post-Ferguson. It is the same pattern which is repeated like a fractal inside each prison, inside the TDOC as a whole (determining whether inmates go to “good” prisons with at least some opportunities or “bad” prisons where conditions are wretched), and outside the prison system where some communities continue to be the primary targets of broken window policing and simultaneously the inheritors of a legacy of economic and educational devastation in the wake of race and class struggles reaching back in history to before the Civil War and seemingly woven into our societies fabric. It is all the same practice of power justified by the erroneous belief that some people are simply defective by nature, a belief that can only exist alongside a tragic ignorance of the way the conditions one faces in life limits personal freedom and makes a mockery of the classic view of opportunities for mobility in the U.S.<br />
<br />
Departments of corrections defend their policies by describing the monster everyone fears, the criminal, the boogeyman; and when I watch men victimizing one another every day, just like many prisoners, I am tempted to curse some of my fellows as well. But I live in danger myself, and even so, I can see the humanity in all but the worst men around me. As hard as it is to understand, only the extremely rare sociopaths are exempt from a certain pattern seen in those I’ve met who seem to be unrepentant lost causes. Namely, from one angry broken man to another, they feel justified in what they do because in their hearts deep down it seems clear to them that before they turned on the world, the world turned on them first.<br />
<br />
As Michelle Alexander has pointed out, it is the last resort of the most desperate to embrace a negative stereotype in an attempt to turn shame into pride when no other option exists. The divide lurking beneath the post-Ferguson debate runs deeper than many are aware; it centers around history, shame, and an inability or unwillingness to imagine multiple/competing narratives across the lines that quite naturally divide localized regions. Until we penetrate these layers it will remain possible for either side to demonize the other, and when we cannot see the humanity in one another progress is impossible.<br />
<br />
I wonder now whether we will ever be able to make the connections which will humanize the exchange and make progress possible on a problem stretching this deep into our history. One thing seems certain to me; as long as those with power to enact policies are allowed to do so across the barriers if imagination that make it impossible for us to see each other as human beings, as long as those safe and comfortable and prosperous have no place in their hearts for the cries of those they fear and do not understand, and as long as we cannot even be honest with ourselves about our own history in a nation with deep, deep wounds still fresh and bleeding, healing will escape us.<br />
<br />
I challenge the notion that communities should not be trusted to respond to crime responsibly and humanely in the context where problems occur and when the parties involved may meet with some understanding of common history and common interests. I challenge the notion that lawmakers should pass laws and enact policies from the capitol which will affect different communities in different ways. I challenge the notion that a vast state-wide system on the scale we see in the U.S. is more useful than harmful, much less necessary. I challenge the notion that the state and national policies which benefit some regions at the expense of others are beyond the attack of those regions and communities which pay the heaviest cost while others prosper and fall back on the lame bad apple theories that only serve to cover what is at best ignorance and at worst pure exploitation.<br />
<br />
Our criminal justice system cloaks itself in the illusion of legitimacy, necessity, and righteousness, but that cloak disappears when we lose the lenses of fear that also hide the humanity of prisoners. Those caught in the bowels of the beast often fail to see the humanity in each other because we are kept in a divided state, degraded, hungry, and at each other’s’ throats for the scraps our masters throw at us. But no one thinks himself or his friends to be animals; it is always the other. And if someone out there has family in here, the illusion may disappear as well.<br />
<br />
But in order to proceed forward intelligently and humanely, it is vital to recognize the false belief that some people are by nature flawed; the lie which seeks to justify ultimately oppressive policies and practices carried out in the name of justice. This pattern of belief and practice concerning certain people who live in certain zones has replicated itself until it permeates the organism of our society like a disease. Like any doctor would recommend, we must first listen to the shouts of pain and seek to stop doing so much harm. Then this disease must be identified and eradicated to allow the healing we need.<br />
<br />
by Moses<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-55259258601620334722015-01-12T14:26:00.000-08:002015-01-12T14:26:08.535-08:00Ferguson on the InsideI watched the Ferguson decision with my cellmate as it was announced, and I monitored the noise in the pod to see if there was any reaction. It became clear there would be no indictment as count time and lock down was approaching, and it also became clear there would be no reaction in my neighborhood; a place where callous police interdiction and surveillance have reached their intrusive totalitarian pinnacle in our society.<br />
<br />
As an example, until very recently, the correctional officer was considered a sufficient presence for security and operations of the prison environment within TDOC. Now, however, I wake several times a week to the sound of some inmate screaming the warning "Green Team in the pod! Green Team in the pod!" Every prison now employs a full time "elite" para-military security team dressed in green fatigues and equipped with tactical gear. There are usually between four and six members of this team who serve at the warden's discretion and at his or her direction. These teams maintain a near-constant presence of fear and intimidation. It is very much like every little suburb or neighborhood in Tennessee having a convoy of SWAT trucks assigned to it on a permanent basis – which, in reality, is not unlike the truth in some neighborhoods and cities in America, and this brings me to an important point.<br />
<br />
Some would say prison is supposed to be this way. Prisoners have proven themselves to be dangerous and therefore must be controlled and punished. But the reality is that prison has become merely one point along a continuum of judgments built into our society about people who live in certain places and the way we feel we must treat the people who live in those neighborhoods. Prison happens to be at the bottom of the continuum of fear and interdiction. Yet it is just another place where a huge number of people, who are still part of American society, though rendered invisible, must live. For me this is simply home. And I know that millions of other prisoners in our country and tens of thousands in our state, still consider themselves citizens and participants in the social order because we are still, for now, participating with your increasingly intolerable criminal justice system.<br />
<br />
It should not be surprising that prison requires the participation of the prisoners, but it is understandable that people find it so at first when so much money is spent on expensive things like metal fences, and guns, and walls, and other visible signs of the power to restrain. In reality, prisoners know they could decide to leave en masse at any time with their far superior numbers, if they had nothing to lose, nothing left to live for. But most of us (less than before since mass incarceration and modern draconian sentencing laws were implemented) still hope to move back to our home neighborhoods the legal way one day because we still love our homes and our families and our communities and our state and our country.<br />
<br />
So if prisons are truly just neighborhoods of normal people extending below the rock-bottom lines of race and class disparity on the field of economic desolation; and if it is the stomping giant called our historical legacy that has pounded these craters called prison into that landscape, then one would think that here of all places one would find unrest about Ferguson. But I find almost none, and I wonder why?<br />
<br />
I now live in a pod which epitomizes the fear and tension exemplified by Ferguson. Once inside the prison system, individuals are subject to the ultimate in dystopian surveillance policing reflected over and over at different scales like a fractal. Being a disciplinary unit, the pod I live in is double or triple distilled so to speak. I discussed these policies in a previous <a href="http://prodigalsons1.blogspot.com/2015/01/into-wasteland.html">post</a>. What is the result of such policies? Extremely high rates of addiction and poverty coupled with distrust and hostility toward one another with an almost playful, childlike acceptance of or dependence upon the presence and actions of the authorities who rule over the inmates with often open disgust.<br />
<br />
Sound familiar?<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is a law of human nature that once you cross a threshold of deep dehumanization, resistance is no longer to be expected. Almost everyone in here lives as though what they are experiencing was as inevitable for them as the gravity that holds them to the earth. When every single immediate fact surrounding them, and everything in their history seems to agree, it is difficult to argue with the hard look in their eyes that says, "I was born for these chains, and I know I will die in them as my fathers did." But the real telos of this system is the simple stark fact that many of my brothers in prison have ceased to even see the chains as chains at all, and instead choosing the last defense available for men given no realistic way to earn dignity and status: to embrace the negative image with pride, to become the anti-hero, and to make their last appeals only to those few who understand and to God, while disappearing into the haze of drugs and alcohol.<br />
<br />
We are living, yet we can’t breathe.<br />
<br />
Perhaps there is a disconnect between those outside the prisons who criticize the severity of the criminal justice system, and those in here who have lost any sense that they have a legitimate voice of dissent. If anything, given our long experience inside the crucible which most people never see, many just raise their heads momentarily and stare, but the sounds of their chains, our chains, and the old hard voice of their protective skepticism drowns out the media blitz.<br />
<br />
The Sunday shows broadcast discussions about the grand jury process, and policing reforms, and community demographics into my cell, and I shiver inside, afraid to hope that this vision of oppression and the need for change is reaching critical mass. I urge my brothers to lift up their eyes, but I think in the end it is the last great sign of our humanity that we so desperately fear the cruelty of false hope.<br />
<br />
Hear us. We are living, yet we can’t breathe.<br />
<br />
by Moses<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-83618565912895118672015-01-07T15:41:00.001-08:002015-01-07T15:41:18.845-08:00Into the WastelandTwo days ago, I saw "Adam's" form walking around in the pod and I knew he must have gotten into trouble at the annex. I also knew he would get in trouble again with the guys in this unit, and I am ashamed to say I intentionally limited my contact with him to protect myself.<br />
<br />
Adam is big enough to have played college basketball, a white guy with broad shoulders, glasses and a sincere, almost childlike smile. I met him when I first arrived at my new place of exile before I was moved to the gang & disciplinary unit. My first thought when I saw him was that he was either affiliated with a white racist gang or that he soon would be because he appeared young, inexperienced, and very strong, the type of guy often forced into the role of enforcer by dynamic leaders. But I soon found out he wasn't in a gang, he was a nice guy, he liked comic books and he needed a shot of coffee. I gladly gave him the coffee as well as a book to read and made a friend. Since he was on his way to the annex, a much softer place where he could theoretically make parole on his short sentence, I strongly advised him to continue to resist the heavy, persistent attempts to recruit him. He was almost too grateful, too eager to fit in and make a friend, and I worried about him, but I had problems of my own to worry about.<br />
<br />
Having arrived at my new home, unlike Adam who was just stopping over temporarily to go to an annex, I was concerned with the question of which unit I would live in this new prison. Right away it was clear this was not the place it used to be, the place I had heard about all those years as I did time elsewhere - but then, the whole system had been evolving from what it had once been as the effects of laws passed and policies implemented in the 90's kept accumulating, and authorities and inmates alike struggled to keep pace with the quickly evolving prison environment.<br />
<br />
The first impression I got walking into the wilder part of the facility: wasteland. Unemployment is outrageous, educational opportunities this prison was once known for like the cosmetology and culinary schools have disappeared, recreation is at a minimum, the tension in the air is thick in every quarter, and the whole prison is divided into neighborhoods which control the perceptions and behaviors of those who both live and work in them. The inmates even have little wrist bands which demarcate where they live and therefore what behavior is expected from them.<br />
<br />
As I looked around the unit my first day, I remember the guard on the bus after we arrived who recognized an inmate and said in a fashion fit for Dante's entrance into hell, "You don’t want to be here no more. I'm getting out, man, quick as I can. This place fallin' apart. It ain't straight. It ain't straight. This ain't the place you want to be.”<br />
<br />
A few days talking to people while I lived in the transit cell made me feel like he was right. I distinctly remember looking around at the men in that pod and thinking they looked like hard-driven, dirty refugees with sunken eyes, unkempt hair and beards, and ratty unwashed clothing that did not fit. Men just surviving, just being.<br />
<br />
Those in that area of the prison had been excluded from the "good" part of the prison, and although they had not been sent into the worst place, all wanted to get back on top of the hill where men had jobs and did not fear being beaten, being locked down, going hungry while surviving on chow hall food, and constantly living with the tension in the atmosphere that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. They wanted to live in a place where men did not have security escort details packing knives escort them to the showers, where walking to a table to play spade after dinner and crossing the path of such an escort accidentally can turn your world into a "Nature" documentary.<br />
<br />
It seems that our prisons have been neatly and quietly divided into areas where such behavior takes place with vigorous intensity, and areas where inmates are held under oppressive submission with the threat that they may be sent to such a place. This control technique is simple, and in many ways, it eerily mirrors the way ghettos and similar control regimes appear elsewhere in history. <br />
<br />
The reality is that some men and women in prison are committed to a lifestyle of depravity and predatory behavior that extends from a social legacy of racism and class warfare we in the US have yet to come to grips with. Birthed into a world they felt did not want them and having nothing but shame heaped upon their heads, lacking security and basic necessities, many have turned and declared war on the world. The fear of these people is the reason for mass incarceration, and here filtered down to its essence in the worst pit of our prison system is the real legacy of the race and class struggle we have inherited from our ancestors.<br />
<br />
The administration has found another way to use these men. Having chosen criteria and implemented policies that concentrate those they fear the most into one unit at the bottom of the prison, they have created a lawless, brutal zone of violence where reluctant men from opposing gangs, cities and cultures keep each other at a constant tense stand off. This serves the purpose of controlling the population in two ways. First, it tends to silence or at least minimize the influence of rebellious voices who may stir up resistance to the increasingly oppressive and onerous conditions inside the prisons. Second, when such a fearsome unit exists, it allows the rest of the population of the prison to be controlled through sheer intimidation. The threat of being stripped of one's job, shorn of access to one's family at visitation, and being placed in a unit where violence is unavoidable if you are not affiliated and still likely if you are, is a powerful deterrent.<br />
<br />
So when I arrived at this prison, all I heard from the men here was that you don't want to go to that unit. Just recently it had been locked down when a man's head had been smashed and the gangs were beating and stealing from unaffiliated white guys. When I explained the write-up I had been give when I was shipped here, everyone I talked to got a dark look on their faces and said without conviction, "Well maybe they won't put you over there. Clean-cut white guy, not affiliated, never been a problem before; maybe they won't put you over there." But though I hoped like everyone else to avoid it, I knew deep down that's exactly why they had sent me here to this prison, to see what's at the bottom of the prison system's funnel-web trap. The person who signed my transfer papers to this prison has strong ties here and had to know where I would be going and what I would be heading into.<br />
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I have been in this unit about two months now, and I am sickened by what I have seen and what I continue to see. I cannot help but recoil at the brutal cost of these techniques of control extracted in terms of real human suffering right in front of me, so close I can smell the blood. Over and over, wave after wave of inmates from the rest of the compound desperate just to work or educate them selves and live in peace are swept up by the administrative hand and thrown into the funnel to be sacrificed upon the altar of oppressive control. As soon as they arrive, the monster pounces on them, tearing them to pieces. I have literally watched the blood flowing like a river, and even as I write this, I do not know whether mine will be next.<br />
<br />
These men have nothing. They cannot get jobs because the jobs aren't there to give them, and if they were, they wouldn't qualify because of the same policies and criteria arbitrarily defined to exclude them. Once a person is thrown into the funnel, he finds the sides are so slippery that he cannot climb out. The conditions make it almost impossible to avoid getting further write-ups-for those who even care to try to avoid them. Some men don't seem to care about anything anymore. Nearly every policy seems from this perspective to be designed to reinforce the horrible conditions humanitarian principles should oppose: poverty, drug addiction, violence, robbery, rape, gang activity, strong-arm activity, racism and racially motivated violence. In the last thirty days, the word is that over 30 men have gone into protective custody from this one unit alone.<br />
<br />
I am sick because I know that the administration is fully aware of all these conditions and events and finds the situation useful. I am sick because try as I might, I cannot convince the ones doing the worst of it they are being used as weapons formed out of a people against its own people. I am sick because these insane places make all this insanity possible. I am sick because when I saw Adam walk back into this unit, I feared he wouldn't escape the visceral teeth of those poor souls who have been so dehumanized that they don't realize or don't care that they have become the trained attackers of their masters, temporarily trading the majesty of their humanity for pocket change. I am sick because Adam has been swept up and sacrificed right in front of me and I can't save him. I don't know if I can save myself.<br />
<br />
Adam dressed in a suit and tie would be the manly pride of any family in the State, tall and strong with a chiseled chin. He walked into a unit anointed with the distilled essence of ten generations of his ancestors' racism, and the cancerous, monstrous child they birthed devoured him while I watched. My mother was speaking to me on the phone and I could not reply because I was watching the scene play out in front of me. One of the swarm jumped on the chair by the phone beside me, grabbing his crotch in front of my face but ignoring me as he screamed across the pod, "Cell 200 is mine: That's me!" Adam didn't even fight. His celly did, but not for long.<br />
<br />
Being so inexperienced in the system and having such a short sentence, I knew Adam wouldn't be able to stand against this assault. It has taken all my personal strength and the help of like-minded men I have formed community with to stand for my own freedom since I was exiled here. I don't have the power to stop what's happening around me. In my heart, the fact that I would stop it if I could is only partial consolation for the shame I feel for not helping Adam. He cannot understand why I shunned him. He will never know how I have begged for forgiveness in my heart and how I continue to beg God to help me forgive my captors for forcing me into this situation.<br />
<br />
It would be easy to say, as the administration no doubt would in defense of their policies, that all this is merely the inmates' faults. "Those gangbangers, those violent offenders," they would reply, "they just refuse to comply with the rules no matter how we try to control them. We do our best to manage them and keep them off the streets for you, and we do what we have to do with the worst cases. Unfortunately, we don't have enough maximum security cells in our system [thank God!] to put them all in solitary confinement, so we have to do something with them. It seems to be their consistent choice to engage in violent exploitative behavior no matter how strongly they are discouraged, and the department only has limited resources to deal with these most dangerous men when it is now over-burdened with non-violent offenders as well."<br />
<br />
And I sympathize with their point of view, seeing that prisons have now become mere extensions of the poorest neighborhoods in our State and this problem stretches from my doorstep to yours. Yet it is dangerous not to recognize two falsehoods in the protest above if we actually want to solve problems.<br />
<br />
First, TDOC will not release deep statistics on this subject so that independent minds and policy makers can analyze what's going on. There is a lot of shallow talk about releasing the non-violent offenders that supposedly clog up our system. But instead of looking at violent and non-violent offenders, we should be looking at what violent conditions are consistently associated with and maintained around certain locations. It is clear from my view in this unit that very many of those most feared and hated are exactly those "non-violent" offenders being discussed, those who also happen to be young, black (or ultra-poor white), affiliated, drug addicted, and under these conditions, ultra-violent. It is the conditions people are forced to live in that matter most.<br />
<br />
What is missing is any political acknowledgment in our State that it is to a large degree our laws and policies which have brought about the cultural and socio-economic conditions as well as the shifting localities where both violence and drug-related crime thrive. As Michelle Alexander and Jeffrey Reiman have pointed out, not to acknowledge this is tantamount to the implicitly racist and class-biased statement which cuts to the cancer still stinking inside the South that those people (i.e. blacks and ultra-poor whites) are just naturally violent and drug-addled animals. I know this is at the core of all of it because I live here inside the festering core and I hear the predominantly white, lower middle class staff, literally saying just that about anyone who lives in this unit. Prison is the best mirror we have of society, and that's why no one really wants to look at it.<br />
<br />
So now that it is costing too much, the "non-violent" offenders should be released because that is the most politically expedient tactic to release the pressure from the system which hasty fear-motivated policies passed by opportunistic politicians in the 90's caused in the first place. Perhaps Governor Haslam can personally come open the gates of those five-star hotel prisons that he promised to eliminate in 2010 and release them himself.<br />
<br />
by Moses<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-48856794113783771652014-12-23T08:26:00.000-08:002014-12-23T08:26:55.142-08:00Cherished MemoriesI cherish this -- my childhood memories of Christmas at Grandma's. Every December 24th, my parents, two younger brothers, and I would travel the two hundred or so miles in the sometimes bitter cold to Grandma and Grandpa's to celebrate Christmas with my mom's side of the family. We would always get there in the evening in anticipation of sharing (well, mostly getting) gifts and spending time with cousins seldom seen throughout the year.<br />
<br />
Once everyone was settled in, we would begin with a home-cooked feast of turkey, ham, and all the side dishes. Glasses of egg nog and slices of pecan pie would fill any spot in our tummies left by the main course. Afterward, we would gather in the living room, each grabbing a chair, couch, or spot on the floor. I liked the antique couch with the red fabric that had the distinct homely scent that I would always associate with Grandma. It was a pleasant scent (not an old person smell that might bring a grimace). Beside the couch was the old coffee table that doubled as a record player. You could lift the top and see the record player and the compartment that was used to hide the toys. Inside were Star Wars figures and a set of kids' boxing gloves. Smiles and gifts were exchanged in a flurry of ribbon and wrapping paper flying through the air. The anticipation of which He-Man figure or Lego set was more than I could bear. No matter what I got, I was never disappointed.<br />
<br />
Afterward, with the clock approaching midnight, we would all say our goodbyes and talk in anticipation of the family reunion in the summer. We would load up our blue Dodge Caravan and settle in for the two-hour journey home. Upon arrival, we would all face the dread of the cold house and try to endure it while the solitary heater warmed up the house. It didn't take too awfully long for the freezing bed to transform into a place of comfort where I could snuggle and hope for sleep in anticipation of Christmas morning. The faster I went to sleep, the quicker I would wake the next day and find out what Santa left underneath the decorated Christmas tree. But that is a take for another time.<br />
<br />
I cherish these memories because they are all that's left. Grandpa has since passed away from a stomach aneurysm. He died peacefully in his sleep. The cousins are grown with kids of their own and have instituted their own traditions creating their own memories. Mom and Dad watch their nieces and nephews with hidden sadness because they have no grandchildren of their own. I cherish the memories of Christmas Eve at grandma's so that I don't forget the life that was before.<br />
<br />
by JoshuaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-31346225124482256592014-12-15T09:24:00.001-08:002014-12-15T09:24:13.684-08:00Becoming a ManI arrived on Death Row at night, November 14, 1997. I wasn’t worried about my survival, nor was I afraid, though I didn’t know what type of environment I was entering. One of my cousins who’d been locked up since the late 1970’s schooled his nephew and me on Sunday visits. He told us that because of the way we were getting down in the streets, sooner or later one or both of us were bound to come to prison. We were advised that as soon as someone tried to come at us in prison we should make a very convincing example out of them. <br />
<br />
So while I was being transported to the prison for my very first bid, that’s what I had on my mind. I reasoned that I was going to be surrounded by nothing but convicted murderers with death sentences, so I set my mind that as soon as anyone disrespected me they were going to be punished severely, according to the level of the offense. I refused to be handled in any way. I was determined to return home to my mother in the same form that I left her. <br />
<br />
The Row was locked down for lights out when I arrived. I was assigned to a bunk of 1-F Block – Westside. The first two men that I met were Lil’ Chris and Bro. Frank. I developed an immediate relation with these two men because of our commonality to Charlotte. Because Lil’ Chris was from Gaston County, he was basically my homeboy. Bro. Frank told me that he used to live there, too. They embraced me like a young brother though I really didn’t trust them just yet. But my instincts didn’t detect any reason to fear them. <br />
<br />
The third man I met with Keith. He introduced himself to me from behind his cell door by dropping his food trap and informing me that he had the canteen if I needed anything. I quickly developed dislike and distrust of him because he was trying to hustle me while I hadn’t been on the Row for an hour, much less on that block for less than fifteen minutes. I was from the streets, so I recognized game when I saw it — most of the time, anyway.<br />
<br />
I made mention that I had to perform Salah (prayer). Lil’ Chris asked me if I was a Muslim. I told him yes. He asked me what kind, and I told him that I was a Shiite Muslim. He pointed to a brother lying on the top bunk behind mine, saying that he was a Shiite Muslim, too. This was the fourth man I met on the Row. He held up his head a little and his right index finger in greeting and said, “Assalamo Alaykum.” (“May peace be upon you.”) I heartily returned his greeting with, “Wa alaykumus-Salam.” (“And may peace be upon you.”) This brothers’ name was Bro. Dawood, may Allah have mercy upon him.<br />
<br />
Lil’ Chris also told me that in cell 16 there was another Shia brother named Fareed; I’d have to wait until the morning to meet him. (He became my best friend that morning by the Grace of Allah. I was directed that I could perform my Salah in the block bathroom, so I proceeded that way.)<br />
<br />
This was my first night on Death Row. I’d been cheated of my freedom with lies and sentenced to die. But on my mind, despite my anger, was to worship my Lord. No matter what, I must worship Allah and turn to Him alone. I didn’t care much about everything else. I already knew that this was all a test, a trial from Allah.<br />
<br />
What! Do people imagine that they will be left off on their saying: ‘We believe!’ and they will not be tried? And indeed we did try those before them, so Allah certainly knoweth those who are true, and certainly knoweth He the liars. - Holy Quran Surah 29 v. 2-3<br />
<br />
I had complete faith in Allah. I just had to use this time to perfect myself for His Cause. I wanted to get out of prison so that I could do the good which I’d left undone, but I’d learned something about myself: I can’t change anyone nor anything until I first change myself. So I gave myself to self-reformation.<br />
<br />
I learned to practice something very valuable from my Brother Fareed: “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything; but if you stand for just anything, you’ll fall for nothing.”<br />
<br />
I wasn’t on The Row for three days when I was engaged in a conflict with a Christian brother in the hallway outside of the kitchen. I had arrived here during a time when there were Christian-Muslim tensions, so I fell right into it. I got 10 days on lock-up for fighting. After all was said and done, we eventually reconciled. We realized that surviving prison was our common goal so there’s no need to bite at each other’s throats. We would rather be part of the solution than continue to contribute to our shared suffering. <br />
<br />
In the summer of 1998, our chance to stand united presented itself. Once again, the locale was the kitchen. This day they served fried chicken, and when fried chicken is on the menu almost everyone goes to chow. When there’s a kitchen full of inmates wearing the same color clothes and similar shoes, things are bound to get blurred for the meager staff. They can’t see it all. So a chicken tray was boosted — someone doubled back and got another tray. Since the tray lines’ garage-like door was down to about six inches, the staff behind the line could only see pant-legs and shoes. This caused confusion.<br />
<br />
I was fifth to last in the line. Behind me were four Christian brothers. After I’d received my tray and moved ahead, the guy behind me, Lee, moved to get his tray. He was immediately accused of coming through the line again. This was a total mistake, because he’d been behind me the entire time. He argued his case with the kitchen staff and an inmate that was serving. Most of us stood bearing witness to what had happened and waited to see how this situation would resolve itself. The kitchen staff became angry, decided to shut the line down, effectively denying Lee and the other three men behind him their food trays. <br />
<br />
Lee stood up for himself. As they were shutting down the garage-like blind on the serving line, Lee reached through, grabbing the chicken pan. What ensued was a tug of war, Lee versus the kitchen staff and the server inmate. This short, stocky weightlifter held his own with just on arm! The commotion invited the Sarge and lieutenant from the hall outside the kitchen to come in and sort this out. We’d found our opportunity to stand together. <br />
<br />
Since I was a direct witness to this man’s innocence, there was no way that I could stand by without saying or doing something. The other men were being denied their right to eat, too. It did not matter that Lee and the other three men were Christians and I’m Muslim. It was a simple matter of right opposed to wrong. Many of the Muslims and some of the Christians in the kitchen came to these men’s aid. This in turn led to my first time on Unit One (Segregation) for inciting a riot with Bro. Fareed and Bro. Jibreel. They let Lee off after a few days of lock-up, but the three of us had to do at least 18 months. <br />
<br />
O ye who believe! Be always upright for Allah, bearing witness with justice, and let not hatred of a people incited you not to act equitably, Act ye equitably that is nearer to piety, Fear ye Allah; Verily Allah is fully aware of what ye do. – Holy Quran Surah 5 v. 8<br />
<br />
My direct appeal was denied in 2001. That dashed my expectations of going home in the two years, at least. Disappointment washed over me. But as quickly as it arrived, it disappeared. It was not my time. I wasn’t ready. I still had things to work on within myself and much more to learn. <br />
<br />
In the time that I’d been on The Row my paternal grandfather died, my only brother was murdered, and my favorite aunt died from complications of AIDS. It seemed as if I was losing more than my freedom. My family was beginning to fall to the grave, and I couldn’t be there to help the survivors. <br />
<br />
Naturally, anger and resentment entered my heart and mind against everyone who caused or aided in my incarceration. Still I didn’t curse Allah. I continued to worship and strive to better myself. I submitted to the facts that Allah has control over everything and that my grandfather, brother and aunt didn’t belong to me, they belong to Him.<br />
<br />
I spent my second time on Unit One (Segregation) from 2001-2004 because another prisoner violated me by laying around with his private parts exposed. After I had a civil conversation with him about covering himself and respecting other people, the third time it happened I referred back to the advice of my cousin who told me what to do when someone disrespects me – I punished him. <br />
<br />
For the second time, I was blessed with the opportunity to spend some time with one of my best friends and Brothers, my Brother Alim. We came to The Row round about the same time, but we didn’t get to know each other until my first go around on Unit One. Although under unfortunate circumstances, this turned out to be a blessing to be able to learn some more knowledge and wisdom from him.<br />
<br />
The first lesson that I learned from him is from the Holy Quran, that we should compete with one another in goodness and righteousness. This was a serious contest that not only brought us both closer to Allah, but closer to each other. The second great lesson that I gleaned from Brother Alim is the art of organization. If I wanted to help my people as I desired, I had to harness the ability to think through every pro and con of a situation in order to get the best result. The third lesson that I learned from him is to be very careful about my friends and associates. I had to swallow the hard pill that some of those whom I’d held close to me from the free world and the prison were not my compatriots. We didn’t share the same views and values, not did we have the same passion for reformation. If I sincerely had aspirations for success, many of my past and present friends had to go. <br />
<br />
And say thou: “O my Lord! Increase me in knowledge.” – Holy Quran Surah 22 v. 114<br />
<br />
Is he who was dead, then We raised him to life and made for him a light by which he walketh among the people, like unto him whose similitude is that of one in utter darkness whence he cannot come forth? Thus hath been made fair seeming for the disbelievers what they did. – Holy Quran Surah 6 v. 122<br />
<br />
Disappointment reared its head again when my MAR (Motion for Appropriate Relief) was denied in State Superior Court in 2008. I just knew that I was going to get a new trial that would have led to my release from prison.<br />
<br />
During this time, I met Bro. Mumin, who wasn’t a Muslim yet when I got off segregation, but shortly afterward came home to Islam. My brother Fareed told me that I needed to save him from being miseducated in Islam, so this is how I began to be close to him. We were an odd pair because of our different races, but we discovered that we had a lot of common interests. Islam brought us closer.<br />
<br />
This Brother has a very analytical mind which he employs to assist him in study. This is what I learned from him — how to be analytical. Although I am a little older than he, we became compliments of each other. Sometimes, when there are two people that are very much alike, they are bound to be butt heads. And this occurred from time to time. Though we would get frustrated with one another for whatever the reason, always Islamic, we’d immediately amend and continue on without skipping a beat. So from this man I really developed a virtue that is essential to success in this life as well as the next - that is, patience, especially with my beloved Brothers. Sometimes we won’t agree on everything, but as long as we agree on the main things – the Fundamentals of Islam – then we’ll always be united. <br />
<br />
This period was the longest that I’d spent on Death Row general population. I’d served most of my time up until then on segregation. During this period, I had to live around the other men more, so I had to deal with the multiple personalities, unbalanced emotions, and moderate-to-severe mental health issues. Already angry about my situation, having to learn to live with these different men, some of whom I really didn’t like, was difficult at first. But gradually I learned to use my wisdom and this new gift of patience in order to navigate the conflicts that arose. This practice elevated me to another pinnacle in my life. I began to find my inner peace and also learned to forgive and overlook the faults and shortcomings of other men. Allah humbled me, for the most part.<br />
<br />
This experience was a blissful adventure. I am a very proud man. I can be very arrogant at times, looking down upon those whom I consider beneath me. Being proud in the sense that I won’t allow someone to mistreat me or trample upon my rights is never a negative. So I learned to nurture this quality. But as for my arrogance — my feelings of contempt for those whom I consider lesser than me — that had to go. I had to crucify this negative characteristic, especially after I realized that this type of pride and arrogance is characteristic of Satan. It was this type of pride that caused Satan to disobey Allah’s Command and to become a disbeliever after he’d worshipped Allah for 6000 years in the company of the angels. <br />
<br />
And indeed We did create you, then We did fashion you, then said We unto the angels, ‘Prostrate yourselves unto Adam,’ so they all did prostrate themselves except Iblees, he was not of the prostrating ones. Said He (Allah): ‘What preventeth thee that thou didst not prostrate when I did command thee?’ Said he (Satan), ‘I am better than him, me hast thou created of fire while thou didst create him (Adam) of clay.’ Said He (Allah): ‘Get thee down hence for it doeth not befit thee to behave proudly therein. Get thee out, verily thou art of the despised ones.’ – Holy Quran Surah 7 v. 11-13<br />
<br />
Allah had already told me that Satan is my avowed enemy, so why would I want to exemplify my enemy, Satan? He stated that he was better than Adam (May Peace Be Upon Him), Adam is me and I am Adam – Man. So I would be Satan to believe that I am better than my fellow man, except where piety or God-fearing is concerned. I had to eliminate this pride from myself, and I have graciously embraced this continuous struggle. Now I’m feeling better about myself, free even.<br />
<br />
I may never get my freedom. This prison may be my lot. But I have to keep living life, no matter the circumstances. I could have lost or abandoned faith, throwing away my Quran, prayer rug and kufi. I could have said I’m done with this way of life called Islam. I didn’t though, and I’m not. I have been blessed to persevere, even though things may not go my way. Perhaps Allah has something better for me that I don’t or can’t see, or He is protecting me from something that is harmful to me. Nevertheless, I still have to live my life in Islam (Submission to the Will of Allah). Everything else is vain.<br />
<br />
Now I’m finally becoming a real man. I now know that my ultimate objective in this life is to live and die as a righteous man, whenever and wherever that may be.<br />
<br />
by Elrico Fowler<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-90132897290657465072014-12-08T07:35:00.002-08:002014-12-08T07:35:25.278-08:00Mercy on my SoulIt took the jury a little over four hours to determine my fate. <br />
<br />
I sat in silence at the defendant’s hardwood table while twelve strangers filed into the courtroom to take their seats as my designated peers. I searched their faces for some clue of what they had decided, but their expressions were stoic.<br />
<br />
Sitting with his fingers comfortably entwined on his desk, his brow creased with austerity, the judge issued his command in a voice seasoned with authority.<br />
<br />
“Will the foreman please rise?”<br />
<br />
Juror #8 stood with a sense of duty, summoned by an acknowledged superior. He was an older white man, perhaps in his early 60’s. Tall, with a casual polish, wearing a light-colored polo and tan slacks. He had the appearance of a man who might spend his spare time playing golf — a man I envisioned brushing shoulders with the social elite. Certainly no peer of mine, though an obvious choice for foreman. His presence seemed to demand deference. <br />
<br />
He reminded me, in an odd sort of way, of Leslie Neilson, the bumbling and totally clueless detective who personified the satirical image of civic duty in the comedy classic, Naked Gun. I smirked within myself at the irony of what this charade evoked: a mocking comedy of justice where even the actors resemble the characters of a spoof.<br />
<br />
“Has the jury reached a decision?” the judge asked the foreman.<br />
<br />
“Yes, Your Honor, we have,” Leslie Neilson responded.<br />
<br />
“Will the bailiff please convey the sealed decision to the clerk?”<br />
<br />
The bailiff walked gracefully over to the foreman, received the decision and handed it to the clerk. My eyes were transfixed upon this scene as the clerk, remaining seated, accepted it with her right hand and passed it along to the judge with her left.<br />
<br />
His Honor was a plump man of about fifty years, with rosy cheeks and a head absent of hair on the top. He carefully and deliberately opened the sealed decision and looked at its recommendation. Glancing at me with the same look of severity and condescension he had worn throughout my trial, he pushed the bridge of his reading glasses up the slope of his nose and returned his gaze to the decision before him. Lifting his pen, he began to write as the entire courtroom, including its audience of seven spectators, waited in anticipation for the outcome.<br />
<br />
I glanced at the spectators. In the last row of the courtroom sat the Warden of Caledonia Prison Farm. He wore a smug look on his youthful, chubby face. He had the look of a white man who knew how to wield power. He could’ve easily passed for a plantation owner or a Southern politician with his good ole boy demeanor and sly and mischievous eyes.<br />
<br />
Next to him sat his deputy, a taller, slimmer black man with a bit of a stoop in his posture. He had a bland, sullen face that looked to be worn down by years of servitude and posturing. His eyes carried heavy bags that spilled down onto his cheeks - eyes that hinted that they were filled with secrets that his sad and downward-turned lips would never utter. <br />
<br />
Right behind me, in the second row, sat my mother and my sister, the only people in the world who cared enough about me to show up on this day when strangers would determine my fate. My mother, with her dignified head of gray hair and blue eyes that smiled while concealing a lifetime of pain, held tight to the hand of my sister.<br />
<br />
Keisha and I had the same face. I could look into her eyes and see myself reflected in the best light. She was the only person in the world who saw me as a role model - someone she looked up to and took pride in calling her brother. Despite the accusations, despite my misdeeds, I was forever her hero, her protector, her guide.<br />
<br />
Behind the prosecutor sat the aggrieved family of the victim. A grandmother and a mother who had both lost a man they called “Son.” The grandmother was graceful. Her light brown face still contained a youthful glow as she sat with dignity despite her grief. Her eyes, visible behind the large-framed glasses that covered almost a third of her face, had a quiet kindness to them. Her face showed mercy, compassion, and empathy for her daughter’s pain.<br />
<br />
Her daughter, though an obvious younger version of the grandmother, had none of the kindness or mercy in her eyes. Instead, her eyes were like daggers of hatred that I could not bear to meet, lest they pierce my soul and further torment the guilt-ridden heart of my conscience.<br />
<br />
Two rows behind them sat a reporter, who I was able to identify by his scribbling pen and miniature notepad. From his perspective across the room, he wrote the official story.<br />
<br />
As I focused my attention on the judge, I felt my heart rising slowly up the insides of my chest. It reached the top of my throat and lodged itself there, holding me breathless as the judge finished whatever he had been writing and handed the jury’s recommendation back to the clerk.<br />
<br />
Composing himself, he sat up erectly from the perch of his throne and with both arms fanned out the sides of his robe. He pulled it tightly around his shoulders as if it were the cape of some superhero who was about to impose justice on the evil villain.<br />
<br />
“The jury, having found the defendant, Michael Jerome Braxton, guilty of murder in the first degree, sentences him to death,” the judge began.<br />
<br />
His words continued on, but my heart sank from my throat down to the pit of my stomach as everything except my thoughts receded into the shadows around me. Words and sounds became nothing but background chatter in a movie that I now seemed to be watching from outside of myself. <br />
<br />
I looked around at this drama unfolding and felt my soul hovering above me as if it were fleeing to seek refuge from the tsunami of emotion waiting to burst forth inside of me.<br />
<br />
Amidst the chatter I heard a request for each member of the jury to stand individually and affirm their verdict. I watched in a clouded daze as the figures of men and women see-sawed up and down in succession to acknowledge their fateful decision. <br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, there was a pause.<br />
<br />
A black woman, perhaps in her thirties with a brown complexion and medium build, appeared overwhelmed by the burden of the occasion. She choked back heavy sobs and continued to sit after her name was called. Every eye in the courtroom was now on her.<br />
<br />
I looked at her face and could see the difficulty etched in her features due to the battle waging inside of her. My heart raised barely a micron from its pit with a glimpse of hope. The juror sitting to her right, another black woman of similar age, gave her a tender stroke on the back, consoling her and perhaps empathizing with the difficulty of the task. Then the woman looked at me and a body-racking lament erupted from her throat. Gripping the arm of the chair, she struggled to pull herself to her feet and utter a weak “yes” before falling back to her seat and sobbing.<br />
<br />
I almost wanted to console her myself, seeing the pain she had to endure to stand behind a decision that she ultimately believed right. It touched my heart that even though this woman had sentenced me to death, she recognized my humanity. It caused her great pain to participate in my execution.<br />
<br />
For a moment I was lost in my thoughts, still numb to the reality of what was actually happening to me. Separated from the part of me that had feeling, everything became white noise again.<br />
<br />
I could hear the drone of the caped crusader’s rote-voice from a distance in my mind. Words and phrases were being uttered about being handed over to the custody of the warden of Central Prison to be held until my death was carried out. I heard a date of February 8, 1998 being announced for execution. But in some weird way, none of this was happening to me. I was just another spectator observing the proceedings along with everyone else.<br />
<br />
Until suddenly, I heard my name being called.<br />
<br />
“Michael Jerome Braxton!” The sound roared like it was being shouted down from the expanse of heaven. It was like a jolt, and my soul collided violently with my body. Once again I was sitting at the defendant’s table.<br />
<br />
I looked up to see the eyes of the judge peering down at me over the rim of his glasses. His gavel, like a mighty weapon held firmly in his right hand, seemed ready to smite the wicked. On his face was a look of frightening condemnation as he spoke the words that sent tremors through my bones and made my soul faint — words indicating that my judgment was no longer a concern of this world, for now I was to face the judgment of the Divine.<br />
<br />
With a thundering boom of his gavel, his voice reverberated with a tone of finality: “MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL!”<br />
<br />
I looked back at my family. My sister’s face was a mask of torment. Never in my life had I seen a face so anguished and distraught. She wept until her cries became a wailing hiccup and her body convulsed in her seat. <br />
<br />
My mother reached out to me, her hand pleading for one last touch of the son she had birthed into this world. But as the guards surrounded me, her beautiful eyes became puddles of the saddest pain. She mouthed the words “I love you” as they took me away.<br />
<br />
<br />
by Michael BraxtonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-28053348258581717252014-12-05T07:37:00.002-08:002014-12-05T07:37:28.200-08:00"You are men, and I am your God."Then the word of the Lord came to me saying, “Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel. Prophesy and say to those shepherds, ‘Thus says the Lord God, “Woe, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding themselves! Should not the shepherds feed the flock? You eat the fat and clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the fat sheep without feeding the flock. Those who are sickly you have not strengthened, the diseased you have not healed, the broken you have not bound up, the scattered you have not brought back, nor have you sought for the lost; but with force and with severity you have dominated them. They were scattered for lack of a shepherd, and they became food for every beast of the field and were scattered. My flock wandered through all the mountains and on every high hill; My flock was scattered over all the surface of the earth, and there was no one to search or seek for them.”’”<br />
<br />
Therefore, you shepherds, hear the word of the Lord: “As I live,” declares the Lord God, “surely because My flock has become a prey, My flock has even become food for all the beasts of the field for lack of a shepherd, and My shepherds did not search for My flock, but rather the shepherds fed themselves and did not feed My flock; therefore, you shepherds, hear the word of the Lord: ‘Thus says the Lord God, “Behold, I am against the shepherds, and I will demand My sheep from them and make them cease from feeding sheep. So the shepherds will not feed themselves anymore, but I will deliver My flock from their mouth, so that they will not be food for them.”’”<br />
<br />
For thus says the Lord God, “Behold, I Myself will search for My sheep and seek them out. As a shepherd cares for his herd in the day when he is among his scattered sheep, so I will care for My sheep and will deliver them from all the places to which they were scattered on a cloudy and gloomy day. I will bring them out from the peoples and gather them from the countries and bring them to their own land; and I will feed them on the mountains of Israel, by the streams, and in all the inhabited places of the land. I will feed them in a good pasture, and their grazing ground will be on the mountain heights of Israel. There they will lie down on good grazing ground and feed in rich pasture on the mountains of Israel. I will feed My flock and I will lead them to rest,” declares the Lord God. “I will seek the lost, bring back the scattered, bind up the broken and strengthen the sick; but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with judgment.<br />
<br />
“As for you, My flock, thus says the Lord God, ‘Behold, I will judge between one sheep and another, between the rams and the male goats. Is it too slight a thing for you that you should feed in the good pasture, that you must tread down with your feet the rest of your pastures? Or that you should drink of the clear waters, that you must foul the rest with your feet? As for My flock, they must eat what you tread down with your feet and drink what you foul with your feet!’”<br />
<br />
Therefore, thus says the Lord God to them, “Behold, I, even I, will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep. Because you push with side and with shoulder, and thrust at all the weak with your horns until you have scattered them abroad, therefore, I will deliver My flock, and they will no longer be a prey; and I will judge between one sheep and another.<br />
<br />
"Then I will set over them one shepherd, My servant David, and he will feed them; he will feed them himself and be their shepherd. And I, the Lord, will be their God, and My servant David will be prince among them; I the Lord have spoken.<br />
<br />
“I will make a covenant of peace with them and eliminate harmful beasts from the land so that they may live securely in the wilderness and sleep in the woods. I will make them and the places around My hill a blessing. And I will cause showers to come down in their season; they will be showers of blessing. Also the tree of the field will yield its fruit and the earth will yield its increase, and they will be secure on their land. Then they will know that I am the Lord, when I have broken the bars of their yoke and have delivered them from the hand of those who enslaved them. They will no longer be a prey to the nations, and the beasts of the earth will not devour them; but they will live securely, and no one will make them afraid. I will establish for them a renowned planting place, and they will not again be victims of famine in the land, and they will not endure the insults of the nations anymore. Then they will know that I, the Lord their God, am with them, and that they, the house of Israel, are My people,” declares the Lord God. “As for you, My sheep, the sheep of My pasture, you are men, and I am your God,” declares the Lord God.<br />
<br />
Ezekiel 34Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-74247945257567316472014-12-02T13:11:00.000-08:002014-12-02T13:11:02.885-08:00My Experience of Solitary ConfinementRecently the PBS program "Frontline" aired an updated documentary about the overuse of solitary confinement in the United States prison system. You can watch the documentary <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/locked-up-in-america/#solitary-nation">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Having recently spent about two weeks locked in exactly the same kind of cage, and pondering a system in which even a moderate dissenting voice arguing for reconciliation instead of exile and slavery is not tolerated by a fearful, totalitarian regime, I watched the program with the definite sense that we as prisoners today are engaged in a struggle for our very humanity.<br />
<br />
I did nothing violent or threatening to anyone, certainly nothing to justify being treated as dangerous. My infraction, rather, was perceived as <i>a threat to the system itself</i>, and so I was held in solitary confinement for almost two weeks and then banished to another penitentiary, away from the community I wrote about in a previous post.<br />
<br />
In my two weeks in solitary confinement, I learned that a stripped-down, burned-out concrete box with a steel door and a toilet without toilet paper are all that are required to bring me to the point of kicking the door and screaming to get attention in desperate frustration. This type of outburst is a behavior I had witnessed before from the other side of the door as a minimum security inmate. I was comforted by the thought that I could never be brought that low. The brute fact is that had I not acted out this way, the man in the cell next to me and I would have remained soiled with our own feces. I had to throw a fit to receive toilet paper. Aside from shoving food through the double-locking pie flaps that eliminate human contact, the guards ignored our cells, as if they were empty. And I might have used my hand or shirt and held on to my dignity out of sheer stubbornness, but the man in the cell next to me was my best friend of 14 years, and I knew he would not act out that way. It was my fault he was there, and I could not bear the thought of him being reduced to having no toilet paper.<br />
<br />
I tried every manner of normal, polite behavior, confident that the officers would respond in kind to someone making the effort to remain civilized in the midst of that hammering cacophony. But what I learned instead was that polite, normal requests almost never receive a response. Only those willing to act out in the most vile, inhuman, animalistic ways could even get the slightest attention from the staff for the things they needed or wanted.<br />
<br />
Confined in that kennel, listening to the supernaturally loud noise of all the other animals competing for what they could only receive from the officer milling around and ignoring them outside in the dayroom, the bare facts of the situation reduced my humanity to a simple choice: kick and scream like an animal, or do without the necessities of civilized life. Either way felt like a a most bitter defeat.<br />
<br />
I struggled over such choices the entire time I sat in that hole. Every moment I imagined all the people who know and love me - my family, friends, the good people that attend church services with me, both free and inmate, my spiritual mentors, my professors and allies in the community - and what they would think or feel if they could see me in this situation, squatting like an animal, held captive by my own body's functions in a concrete box that still bore marks on the walls where a previous inhabitant literally tried to destroy his confines with anything at hand. He went so far as to tear the metal out of the walls, set the place on fire, and covered the walls and ceiling with feces.<br />
<br />
The literal function of these cages is to ignore and degrade the humanity of those placed within them. The authorities who claim solitary confinement is necessary, authorities that are even now preparing to christen the first "supermax" unit in Tennessee at Riverbend, these authorities contend that the cages are required for prisoners who display a lack of humanity, who are a danger to others and to the system itself. I, however, found that the use of the cage very quickly and effectively functioned to diminish my humanity.<br />
<br />
Terrifying.<br />
<br />
The threat of this power now looms over me even as I write these words. I began writing for this blog with certain goals in mind, as set forth in the original post <a href="http://prodigalsons1.blogspot.com/2014/06/who-we-are-and-what-we-want.html">"Who We Are and What We Want."</a> I affirm now my absolute dedication to the ideals expressed there. Recently my entire world has suffered apocalypse, but I will not return in anger. I know that some people celebrated a job well done when they destroyed my life and gutted a whole community, a community which is still under senseless attack. Some people have lived in the one-sided cartoon world of cops and robbers for a long time now. But I remain dedicated to the principles of reconciliation and live with hope for a better day precisely because, other than the humanity which they may one day take by force, hope and the bonds of love which cannot be broken by a tragically ignorant system defending itself are all I have left.<br />
<br />
by MosesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-1622548516818864072014-11-26T08:59:00.000-08:002014-11-26T08:59:38.345-08:00The History of Racism Behind Ferguson<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/preston-shipp/ferguson-the-latest-manif_b_6222634.html?utm_hp_ref=crime&ir=Crime">Here</a> is an article by a former prosecutor explaining how Ferguson is not so much about the conflict between Officer Wilson and Mike Brown, as it is about deep-seeded racism that has plagued our hearts and our institutions of "justice" throughout the entirety of American history.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-50089740709011058702014-11-18T09:25:00.000-08:002014-11-18T09:25:30.089-08:00Keeping Up AppearancesI stood at attention outside my cell door this morning at 9:15 for inspection. The pod was nearly full of inmates with nowhere else to go. Fe men have jobs or are enrolled in classes anymore, especially in this unit where administration is quietly and unofficially concentrating gang members and those with class A and B write-ups. The unemployment rate is around 85%, so almost 100 men stood outside their cells on the lower and upper tiers as the unit manager and the CCO entered the pod and began the ceremony by addressing the men.<br />
<br />
"Good morning," the unit manager said. Nobody answered.<br />
<br />
"Good morning!" he repeated, and somebody said something unintelligible off to my right, which sufficed to let us move on. Unit manager B____ is a levelheaded veteran of the Department. He has the correct mixture of firmness combined with enough confidence to let things go that don't matter, which is required to handle this type of unit effectively, a set of traits now too rare among staff. Anyone who stands too firmly on ceremony and cannot take a few jibes without getting ruffled in this high-pressure environment quickly and inevitable escalates tensions and loses control.<br />
<br />
"We're okay. Not good, just okay," he says. "I haven't been over here in a couple of days."<br />
<br />
These daily cell inspections have been intensified this week since the prison itself is being inspected by outside personnel, a yearly event that makes appearances even more critical to the staff. The appearance of order, cleanliness, and security will be presented this week at any cost. To ensure our cells appear especially uniform and correct is one of many visual priorities, the only kind of priorities that appear to matter.<br />
<br />
We know and they know and they know that we know it's all a temporary show, and it's the same now as it is every year. The language they use is, "Y'all know we have to do this, so let's get some cooperation and try to make it as painless as possible." And with the inmates' cooperation, several hundred spit-shine jobs take place the week before the inspection. Then the inspectors show up, walk around, and check things off a list. Afterward everyone relaxes a few days, and then operations return to the daily cell inspections mandated by Haslam's campaign promise in 2010, to make it hard on us.<br />
<br />
At the first opportunity I got when the staff wasn't looking, I ducked into my cell and removed some cleaning rags hanging beneath my sink - not allowed. The unit manager was being strict today. Otherwise I felt confident we would pass, so I stepped back outside after peeking first and stood at attention by the door again. I had been up since 7:00 a.m. and had spent half and hour cleaning and prepping the cell after m cellmate had gone to work. Daily routine. And as soon as the inspection was complete, I would reassemble our cell the way we actually lived. Daily routine.<br />
<br />
While waiting for my turn to be inspected, I overheard with some interest a debate over how to get away with the whiskey-cooking operation in a cell. Simply burning incense wouldn't cover the smell of a batch prepping, one guy argued, sending the message flying across the pod while everyone remained standing at attention. Some cleaning fluids were sprayed and finally the offending door was closed in the hope it would be skipped. We all waited to see if it was passed by . . . and it was. Shalom.<br />
<br />
I stood waiting a while. People were restless and bored and started to murmur. "Now if we're talking, we're not in compliance!" the unit manager said. "Nuh nuh nuh nuh-nuh, nuh nuh nuh nuh-nuh," some inmate mocked. The unit manager cocked his eye and continued to the next cell. It was quieter.<br />
<br />
"Good morning," he said to me in front of my cell when he went in. "Good morning," I replied while I suppressed the basic human instinct to resist having one's only personal space casually violated, judged, and raked over, after just the promise of it happening in the future had been enough that morning to cause me to rearrange every single possession I own in a way not intuitive or convenient. Then I also suppressed the question which naturally arose in my mind as a man who has served sixteen years already and faces the need to live permanently <i>somewhere</i> on this earth, whether my basic human dignity will endure the Chinese water torture effect of such daily assaults for the rest of my long life, or whether I and everyone else will simply go mad long before then.<br />
<br />
Two minutes later the unit manager emerged with a rolled piece of maroon upholstery fabric in his hand, about six inches wife and twenty-four long, which my cellmate uses to cover the cell window when he uses the toilet.<br />
<br />
"See this?" He holds it out to me, and I nod." "Not good. It's not good to have <i>colored</i> pieces of cloth like this in your cell!"<br />
<br />
At that moment, an elaborate response played out in my head, and I suppose I may be the worst kind of coward for writing about it now instead of just saying it out loud. This is how it went in my head:<br />
<br />
"But Mr. B____, how can a piece of upholstery cloth be good or bad? Is God looking down upon us right now and declaring 'BAD!' The human race struggled for millennia to produce the technology to manufacture such embroidered cloth, but now there are a trillion shreds of such material in our landfills. Nobody cares. And you've been around longer than me, so you remember just as I do only fifteen years ago all over the state men in our prisons had bits of carpet on their floors, cushions on their toilets, bed clothing from Wal-Mart, and even wall hangings to warm the walls. Nobody cared. Why would they? They were still the poorest, most pathetic people you knew, barely scratching out an existence on the planet, merely trying to take some pride in their hovels. And the thought of holding up a bit of cloth and calling it 'bad' would have seemed ridiculous to men such as you and me. What has happened to us? Why this obsession with the way things look instead of the way they really are? Why not inspect the inmates themselves instead of their uniforms? How about that guy with the cuts all over his face? What happened to him while the inspectors weren't watching?"<br />
<br />
Instead, I said nothing and looked at him and looked at the piece of cloth and nodded. I know it does not good to protest to the person who has a job to do. After all, he is also following orders. "Look, I hear what you're saying," he would say, "but you know I'm just doing my job. I've got people watching me and they expect me to get it done or they'll find somebody else who will. I got mouths to feed. So let's make this as painless as possible, okay?"<br />
<br />
As painless as possible. But for whom?<br />
<br />
In the movie Saving Private Ryan, there's a scene in which a German soldier kills one of the American heroes by driving a knife slowly into his chest. "Shhh," the German urges as the American's strength fades and the blade slowly sinks deeper. "Shhh. Shhh."<br />
<br />
by MosesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-4138455871097400042014-11-13T15:08:00.000-08:002014-11-13T15:09:42.208-08:00A New ParadigmIn prison I often look around myself and wonder why our citizens accept this state of affairs. Mass incarceration is a tricky puzzle and an expensive problem in our State. Like other states, we have packed men and women into prisons as quickly as we could afford to build them without much thought for what the prisoners would do inside these expensive containers. Gone are the days when every prisoner was expected to have a job or take a class. There aren't enough opportunities to go around. No doubt the Tennessee Department of Correction would portray it otherwise, but in the unit in which I live, unemployment hovers around 80%. Drug abuse, gambling, gang activity, and violence are the order of the day. Our governor and the TDOC commissioner would rather folks not know this, but to be fair, this situation has been building a long time. Having watched it evolve firsthand, I can actually sympathize with the challenge they face. The system is fast-approaching a breaking point similar to the crises faced elsewhere in our nation. This is particularly due to a shift in focus on incarceration.<br />
<br />
The concept of rehabilitation is an outdated artifact left over from another era. I don't know why this fact hasn't further penetrated the popular consciousness. Experts and textbooks acknowledge that we no longer concern ourselves with what prisoners actually do in prison. The focus for some time has been simply to increase the capacity of beds in much the same way a burgeoning corporation may increase its market share. We have abandoned all attempts to help an inmate improve, despite the fact that the vast majority will be released back into our communities.<br />
<br />
Rehabilitation as an operational goal of incarceration began with the first large prisons in Pennsylvania and New York. It is debatable whether prisons have ever rehabilitated, thus the constant appeals for reform from prisoners and advocates that have understood from the beginning that these institutions do more harm than good. In the name of rehabilitation, countless men and women have suffered unsafe forced labor and the psychological damage of solitary confinement.<br />
<br />
As long as people believe prisons are helpful to prisoners and necessary to protect society, the place of prisons in our world is safe. However, as soon as we start researching, pulling back the veil, so to speak, or if we or a family member spend time locked up, a different picture emerges. We begin to see just how damaging prisons are not just to inmates, but to the soul of our entire society, and we cry out for reform.<br />
<br />
The changes that have come to the American system of punishment have not altered the landscape in any meaningful way. We can see this by noting that the critiques offered against prisons in the early 1800's closely resemble the protests of modern reformers. As Foucault notes in <i>Discipline and Punish</i>, "It is time to look deeper than ever before into this puzzle and to demand more fundamental changes than have yet been seriously considered.<br />
<br />
From the inside, it seems clear that the obscene number of people incarcerated for increasingly long sentences in Tennessee bears no relation to an increased threat of crime. Rather, our unprecedented prison population represents a conscious choice to crusade against people who suffer from complex but identifiable conditions that are inevitably associated with crime, such as poverty, lack of education, lack of opportunities for work that pays a living wage, and self-medication.<br />
<br />
Politicians have misrepresented to us that crime could be legislated away without looking deeper into the root causes of crime. We have been content to treat symptoms without diagnosing the underlying disease. All the while, we shovel millions of dollars into the money pit that is the criminal justice system/prison-industrial complex. So many resources are wasted in vain pursuits. Is this really the only response to crime we can come up with? Are we so obsessed with the myth of individualism that we cannot be made to care for other members of our community? Are we content to throw people away as though they were nothing? Are you content to let people like me rot in a state-sponsored human garbage dump?<br />
<br />
Every person I have ever met on the inside or outside has a story, a family, caregivers, lovers. What the legislators make view as human garbage is of infinite value to someone, somewhere. Yet the law will not see the positive or the potential for good within a lawbreaker. It can only treat that person according to his or her worst deed. The criminal justice system is a weapon forged against the elements of society that we do not understand because we have had neither the courage nor the love to look at them.<br />
<br />
We fearfully cry, "But look what they've done! Look at their guilt! We must be protected from them!" We act as though every one of the 2.3 million people that are locked up in America made a well-reasoned, conscious choice to commit a crime. Without diminishing personal responsibility, we should also acknowledge that the vast majority of these people would not have willingly chosen a life centered around crime or violence, all things being equal. People who are strangled by poverty or addiction are not autonomous in the same way as middle-class, educated people are. Yet we have been content to transplant whole neighborhoods of poor, young, minority men into prisons. These young men were caught up in the cradle-to-prison pipeline, and their fathers and uncles and cousins are waiting to welcome them to their final destination.<br />
<br />
What hope of rehabilitation is there for the young man who did not know his father, and due to a learning disability and a failing school system, never learned to read? What hope of rehabilitation is there when his childhood was one extended nightmare of violence, abuse, and neglect? What hope is there when his only chance at belonging to a family came from a street gang? Laws that are passed by upper-middle-class white people cannot account for these narratives.<br />
<br />
In the end, prisoners and their families must come to understand that together, they can organize and form a political body to advance their interests, proclaim their narrative, and make their collective voice heard by a society that has for too long been at best apathetic and ignorant, and at worst sadistic and hateful. No longer can we afford to toss people away by the millions merely based on the legal concept of "guilt," while other members of society are in fact guilty of greater sins. Our response to guilt should not be more destructive than the original harm done. No longer can we settle for treating crime as a disease when it is in reality only a symptom of deeper social ills that we have left untreated for generations. Taxpayers must hold our governor, the TDOC commissioner, and our legislators to a higher standard and not let them get away with funneling millions of dollars to corporate interests while spewing cheap, "tough-on-crime" rhetoric.<br />
<br />
We do not merely need reform. We need a new criminal justice paradigm. It is time to dream and act.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-77629549381656646732014-11-03T09:29:00.000-08:002014-11-03T09:29:45.825-08:00We Need to Talk About an InjusticeBryan Stevenson needs less than 22 minutes to educate us about the problems in the American criminal justice system (racism, disproportionate treatment of the poor, sentencing children to die in prison, wrongful convictions, the death penalty) and to inspire us to care for one another, to respect our common humanity, to acknowledge that what affects the least of us affects us all, and to recover our identity by caring for the people on the margins of our society.<br />
<br />
Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2tOp7OxyQ8">here</a> to watch the video. Then share it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-67658400594851453422014-10-30T07:52:00.002-07:002014-10-30T07:52:58.126-07:00Pope Francis Weighs In On Criminal Justice IssuesPope Francis has called fort the abolition of the death penalty, as well as life sentences, saying "[a] life sentence is a death sentence which is concealed." The Pope went on to say that it is "impossible to imagine" that states are incapable of developing more humane alternatives that respect human dignity. The Pope explained that sentences of death and life imprisonment are based on violence and revenge, which are irreconcilable to church teaching. He likened these harsh sentences to torture. He also expressed concern over pre-trial detention, pursuant to which people who are presumed innocent and possibly have not even been charged with a crime are nevertheless subject to penal conditions. The Pope added that we cannot simply punish our way out of all our problems.<br />
<br />
To read the full article, click <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2811316/Pope-calls-abolition-prison-life-sentences-calling-hidden-death-penalties-purely-revenge.html">here</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-13893401746195428722014-10-27T13:32:00.000-07:002014-10-27T13:32:41.098-07:00The ProcessIf we're actors in life's play, who's doing the casting?<br />
Maybe it's a bad joke, but who's doing the laughing?<br />
Me if you're asking. Ignorance is bliss and I'm lacking education<br />
Now add poverty to my pot of sensory deprivation<br />
Guess I'm in the Joy/Bad Luck Club, sans elation<br />
The "process" is a process that ends in probation<br />
Or parole hopefully if you're incarcerated, felonism awaiting us<br />
'Free' world living segregated like a prison bus<br />
The unjust and the righteous they look just like us<br />
Made in His image, I guess he's vain just like us<br />
Cancer and a conscience are expensive, so pay your tax<br />
It'll cost you your life and a refund can't pay it back<br />
Now, run and tell that to Congress or whoever will listen<br />
Tell them we're disenfranchised and lack that pot to piss in<br />
We need pot for recreation and recreation for fat kids<br />
You know the process is impeded when rich white kids do bids<br />
You could lose your lid just pondering the "What have-you's"<br />
Manipulate the statistics until the numbers grab you<br />
Or until some homeless guys stabs you<br />
Then, you're like "Me, too! I'm the victim!"<br />
Send a hobo through the wringer and I bet it'll<br />
fix him<br />
<br />
by VoxUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-6471799932886782292014-10-23T08:43:00.000-07:002014-10-23T08:44:03.921-07:00SLEEPWALKINGThe spirit came upon me strong, so I speak about it<br />
Even though I woke up weak about it<br />
So, I meditate out of it by going inside 'self'<br />
Who else is going to help? I'm hopeless, feeling crazy<br />
So I'm screaming JESUS, SAVE ME!<br />
But nobody's yelling back, so I got a pack<br />
Now, I'm selling crack to pay my tithes<br />
Looking for truth within the lies<br />
Looking to the skies for answers, but the stars ain't speaking<br />
My third eye is blinking, so my mind keeps seeking<br />
Something<br />
Finding Nothing certain<br />
While they tell me to pay no attention to the man behind<br />
the curtain<br />
Yeah, the system is workin' and God's great economy is hurtin'<br />
As depletion intensifies our demise is lurkin'<br />
Unless we collectively WAKE UP!<br />
Open your eyes and SPEAK UP and SPEAK OUT!<br />
Against conglomerates and corporations that sell us these<br />
nightmarish dreams<br />
Against entities that employ us unwittingly to participate<br />
in their dastardly schemes<br />
We've been turned into a team of TAKERS<br />
Numerous generations of fakers<br />
We don't know who WE be<br />
Siri and the TV give WE our identity<br />
So instead of me being me,<br />
I googled "How Can I Get Free?"<br />
WAKE UP!<br />
<br />
by VoxUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-8955548414794517762014-10-20T09:45:00.000-07:002014-10-20T09:45:19.638-07:00A Barrier to ProgressFollowing orders. That is what the wardens, captains, unit managers, corporals, and counselors are all doing. They are following the orders given to them by Tennessee Department of Correction Assistant Commissioner Tony Parker. Parker serves directly under Department Commissioner Derek Schofield. Schofield put Parker in charge of implementing oppressive strategies that impact inmates and staff alike. Together, the two men have attempted to completely overhaul the prison system in Tennessee and the ways it has functioned over the years. The problem underlying the Schofield/Parker approach is the unsupported assumption that the old way of doing things is wrong, and their new way is correct. Given this assumption, the duo has implemented counter-intuitive, ineffective policies at institutions across the state, which despite their futility, are becoming the norm. For example, Schofield and Parker have destabilized prisoners by severely restricting their privileges and movement, (movement meaning day-to-day venturing outside of housing units in order to participate in life-giving activities, classes, program, and ministries that orient inmates toward mental and emotional stability, connecting with outside society, and internal positive change). Their passion is to create an atmosphere of punishment of the bodies and souls of inmates.<br />
<br />
In order for these oppressive strategies to succeed, Tony Parker has to have subordinates who will play their roles and unquestioningly obey his orders. When he was put in his position, he forced his arcane agenda upon susceptible subordinates and threatened their jobs and careers if they did not tow the line. Many TDOC employees from guards to wardens refused and either quit or retired.<br />
<br />
Schofield and Parker created enforcers, which they termed the "Strike Force Unit." The unit was created to keep an eye on inmates and staff alike, and it ensures that Parker is perceived as more than merely the Assistant Commissioner. He wants to be viewed as a totalitarian. He and his minions have wielded influence long enough that they have become the role they play within the prison system. Inmates have always played a role. But under the Schofield/Parker regime, we are viewed by the administration and guards as sub-human, deserving harsh punishment no matter how much time we have done, no matter how long we have gone without a disciplinary write-up, no matter how many positive changes we have made in our lives, no matter how significant the transformation we have experienced.<br />
<br />
Although TDOC once encouraged cooperation between prison staff and inmates, Parker now encourages a wide gulf between the two groups. The vast divide allows for much antagonism, unfairness, inequality, and discrimination to take place. Inmates are left feeling victimized by the staff, who personify the oppressive guidelines and procedures, and staff can either abide by the policies or risk their jobs by resisting.<br />
<br />
Social psychologist Stanley Milgram developed an electric-shock experiment that mirrors the dynamic between role-playing prison officials and guards and the inmates. As in the experiment, prison staff who go along with Schofield/Parker policies are essentially prodding inmates, even when they have done nothing wrong. They occupy the role of punisher, and they unquestioningly administer the punishment because they have been told to do so, and they have come to believe that this is the right thing to do. They have buckled under the pressure that Parker has put on them, a pressure he no doubt believes is in the best interest of the people of Tennessee.<br />
<br />
As a matter of fact, the only result is terrible damage to the psyche of all inmates. While TDOC tells the public that it is contributing to a decrease in recidivism, they are actually impeding inmates' attempts at rehabilitation. Schofield and Parker are interfering with the ability of inmates to heal their souls and minds and move toward wholeness. Parker and his subordinates believe that inmates are unworthy of such healing. Before Schofield and Parker, many inmates like me fought for years to make positive changes, to improve as people, and experience transformation. But these men have created obstacles to such progress, which punishes inmates many times over, leaving them to wonder why even try?<br />
<br />
by DavidUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-7201072811387306222014-10-02T11:20:00.000-07:002014-10-02T11:20:02.030-07:00Christians and the Death Penalty"[T]he kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves. When he had begun to settle them, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him. But since he did not have the means to repay, his lord commanded him to be sold, along with his wife and children and all that he had, and repayment to be made. So the slave fell to the ground and prostrated himself before him, saying, 'Have patience with me and I will repay you everything.' And the lord of that slave felt compassion and released him and forgave him the debt. But that slave went out and found one of his fellow slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and he seized him and began to choke him, saying, 'Pay back what you owe.' So his fellow slave fell to the ground and began to plead with him, saying, 'Have patience with me and I will repay you.' But he was unwilling and went and threw him in prison until he should pay back what was owed. So when his fellow slaves saw what had happened, they were deeply grieved and came and reported to their lord all that had happened. Then summoning him, his lord said to him, 'You wicked slave, I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. Should you not also have had mercy on your fellow slave, in the same way that I had mercy on you?' And his lord, moved with anger, handed him over to the torturers until he should repay all that was owed him. My heavenly Father will also do the same to you, if each of you does not forgive his brother from your heart." (Matt. 18:23-35).<br />
<br />
If we take Jesus' parable seriously, we should receive the lesson that if we have been shown grace and forgiveness of our wrongs, we should not turn around and insist on retribution and punishment of the wrongs of others. Yet many confessing Christians who claim to believe that their sins have been forgiven by God in His infinite mercy, tend to be some of the most vengeful, violent, punitive people on earth when it comes to dealing with the sins of others. What sense does this make?<br />
<br />
To put a finer point on it, if I believe that I was properly subject to the death penalty for breaking God's laws, and that I was spared only by the grace of God through the sacrifice of Jesus, how can I possibly support the death penalty? How can I, as a redeemed sinner, support an institution that cuts against the concept of redemption? If I have been spared, what right to I have to support another person being condemned?<br />
<br />
However, Tennessee, a state in which you cannot throw a rock without hitting a church building, stubbornly clings to the death penalty. It seems that quite a few self-professed Christian politicians and citizens have not given much consideration to the implications of some of the most basic tenets of their faith. According to the Man himself, a condemned person who has been showed mercy is in a poor position to insist on harsh punishment for another condemned person. If the story Christians claim to believe has any relevance in today's world, it is to the death penalty debate. God himself was executed for the sake of all people. Henceforth, no one need pay for their sins with their life because the debt has been forgiven. It is time for our practice to harmonize with our beliefs. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-63483064806432811852014-09-29T07:43:00.000-07:002014-09-29T07:43:47.978-07:00Tennessee Supreme Court Delays ExecutionThe Tennessee Supreme Court has delayed the execution of Billy Ray Irick, which was originally scheduled for October 7, 2014. As <a href="http://www.tncourts.gov/sites/default/files/docs/irick_-_order_granting_motion_alter_amend_or_modify_9-25-201.pdf">this order</a> makes clear, however, it is nothing more than a delay. We must continue to pressure our elected officials to put a stop to state-sanctioned murder altogether. Check out <a href="http://tennesseedeathpenalty.org/">Tennesseans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty</a> to learn how you can get involved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3030420059422176812.post-7501758821719974822014-09-23T09:37:00.001-07:002014-09-23T09:37:30.037-07:00Stop Killing People to Show That Killing People is WrongIn just two weeks, Tennessee is scheduled to resume executions. It's not something we have to do. Many states virtually all of the other countries in the civilized world have moved forward and left this vengeful practice behind. The death penalty has no place in a society that claims to value human rights, the inherent worth of each individual, and the power of redemption. Click <a href="http://vimeo.com/96819443">here</a> to watch a video explaining why the time is right to stop State-sanctioned murder.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0