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Carl, 57

Carl, 57

Stories

 

A letter to myself. Experiences challenged you and made every good seem for naught. Generational dysfunction and learned desires were instrumental in being your destructive force. It was hard for you to navigate the intricate dynamics of relationships. There was no way you could form trust, empathy or confidence. Up went the walls and vices to buffer the anxiety and insecurities. I recall the fear that would well up, you would wish it away and abandon everybody and everything. Not easy and always painful.

Your unknown broken rejection was all you had. The hurt, harm, and danger incurred from unchecked issues furthered your emotions, moods, and sense of being. No wonder your journey in life came to an abrupt halt. Your tangible childhood models were abusive emotionally, physically and seldom produced any semblance of wholesomeness. The consistent toxic woes of poverty, alcoholism and aloneness were all there ever was. When times started off in a secure direction, tragedy struck time and time again.

Each traumatic event served to cue you up to check out from uncomfortable powerlessness impacts. No longer do you have to go on in life feeling alone and unsupported. Your mature, insightful, empathetic, compassionate, concerned self is present and confident to face life on its terms with an open mind.

With the murdering of Patricia you faced the darkest time of your life. For the years that ensued you’ve gone out on limbs, dived head first into vulnerability, gone all or nothing into ideals and practices that promote mental awareness. You’ve grown to address and resolve many of your issues to experience forgiveness for self and others you harmed and put in danger. Lastly, making the commitment to live and be present consciously, securely, has brought about change. The future doesn’t seem impossible as it used to. Although many people you once loved have gone on, there are just as many people who have come to offer experience, strength and hope. You are now humble and receptive to what they have to share. I feel assured that life is going to be better than you ever imagined! Don’t stop thriving, continue on, you are worth it.

📸from Molly Carl second on left @ Toys 4 Tots

Tariq, 44

Tariq, 44

Stories

“SPACE MAN”
COVID-19 seems like a saga without an end. Our prison is experiencing a new wave of COVID-19 Delta infections. Talk and rumors of new restrictions are everywhere. The recently resumed limited visits have once again been restricted to being held outside under a canopy. And all religious services have been curtailed and religious classes are cancelled until further notice.

People outside are screaming about cabin fever, and in here, well, I guess we are just barely holding on to our sanity. That is why during nights I am spending more time than usual at my cell window staring at the outer-space searching for some consolation.

Admittedly, I am getting tired of it all. The pandemic “believers” and “deniers” are always at odds. And logic in here and outside seems like a fleeting commodity. I often find it hard to just be in a moment without conflict. So, to quell that uneasiness, I look at the heavens, searching for some solace.
Looking at the stars from my window has always provided me with tranquility and peace. I see my regular celestial companions through the misty dark sky, twinkling, playing that never ending game of hide and seek. A game, I still enjoy playing.

I always try to look at the bright side of things, but I must admit the last few months have been very hard. COVID-19 reached my house. My mother, brother, and sister-in-law were all sick. And hearing their labored voices over the phone had left me with a feeling that I can’t explain in words. I felt desperate. My little nephew and niece also had symptoms but with the Grace of God, they recovered and rebounded in a few days. My father too, who is almost 80 years old, with multiple strokes and other serious health issues, was spared. As of now, they are all vaccinated; yet the new Delta variant is still a palpable cause of concern and has left my father in particular more isolated than the other family members.

“I am imprisoned too,” my father stated awkwardly over the phone. “your brother is like a jailer. He is always trying to keep me inside.”

“He is only looking out for you, Dad,” I attempted to defend my brother. “You know he was sick too. He is just trying to look out for your health. We need you around for a while, old man.”
My father just laughed that uneasy laugh, leaving me wondering whether he understood or was under the impression that I didn’t take his side and have turned on him as well. To me, it is a losing proposition. I feel hapless, and helpless – like a floating spaceman.

Indeed, it has been a very tough year and a half in every possible way. And, in reality, I can’t wait for this pandemic to be over. Sitting by my window, looking out beyond the stars, I can see a quiet darkness. I wonder if out there anyone has any idea what is taking place in our planet. Space is so very spooky and scary, yet inviting too. I am amazed by its magnetism.

In my thoughts while looking out my window, I often transpose and see myself in space. With a lifetime’s worth of Sci-Fi books and TV shows about space exploration in mind, my trance-like state is so vivid that I can almost feel weightless. Flying about in the heavens, seeing nature’s light show, it is liberating. Yet, in theory, I am also aware of its hazards and pitfalls. Because losing control up there, well, it can be extremely total and can lead to a very uncertain end.

In a way, our lives on earth are quite similar and losing control can lead to a tragedy. Life here also has its own gravitational pull, dangers and dark-holes. I for one can speak to the validity of that notion. As a prisoner, I lost control a long time ago. Now with every fleeting year, I am like an astronaut who lost his tether and broke off from the space station. I too find myself flying through the cosmos, unable to do anything or control anything. I can’t change my trajectory, my direction, velocity or vector. I am alone, and in control of only my body and mind, and nothing else. Years, months, weeks, days and hours pass, and further away I get, bleaker and lonesome it seems. Like that lost soul in space, with every ephemeral day, I find myself too far removed. Alone! And the probability of a return seems exponentially improbable.

Yet, hope is a science of possibilities. And the gravity of discovery has its own invisible pull, one full of blind optimism. So, until my time runs out, I shall buckle down and enjoy the ride.
Till next log entry,
Space Man out!

Fredrick, 53

Stories

Housed: US Federal Penitentiary, Tucson 

Inmates because of their incarceration, have lost the favor of being a citizen. Many people believe that anyone in prison is the “worst of the worst” and thus deserves any hardships they receive. 

To counter that, you’d have to believe that the US judicial process is perfect: that EVERY person convicted was done so fairly. I ask, do you believe EVERY person sentenced was done fairly? Do you truly believe the judicial system is 100% accurate or merciful? We’ve established that the judicial system isn’t perfect, now are you willing to believe that sometimes people are falsely accused? If even ONE case shows that an inmate was falsely accused, then the belief stands that every inmate deserves to be re-examined. I’m not saying every inmate got robbed of justice; to be sure, many people need to be here. But I’d like you to consider that many times, the courts get it wrong for two basic reasons: one, human error, and two with malice. There’s a common term used in the inmate appeal process called “Ineffective Assistance of Counsel”. What does that mean? Often, especially in federal courts, the accused is assigned a public defender, who is supposed to represent the accused. The problem is that the public defender works for the court, not the accused. That person gets paid whether they win their case or not. Public defenders don’t get a penny more for properly defending the accused. If they have ten clients, none of them paying, do you really think they will spend 30 hours a week on a guy sitting in jail, when he or she has nine other identical cases, NONE of which is going to net them an extra dollar? Public defenders often don’t give their client their best effort, basically going through the motions, leading the accused to take a plea, making their workload easier. The accused gives up on his rights or if they take it to court, gets the minimal help. Only when he gets to prison, after he’s found guilty, does he find out the critical errors his public defender made that could have saved him, or at least reduced his sentence… thus ineffective assistance of counsel. Many guys in prison didn’t get a fair trial, so have a little compassion

EDDIE, 46

EDDIE, 46

Stories

EDDIE, 46

The word of a transgender-woman put me in shackles, yet when her story changed to my benefit, those facts went unreported. I was sent to ‘The Hole’ (solitary confinement) for prison rape elimination act (PREA) investigation. What was supposed to be a three to five-day investigation, got a 90-day extension. My evidence was ignored. My witnesses were not called, interviewed, or even contacted. I just sat in the hole while prisoners and correctional officers continued to treat me as if I was guilty.

Correctional officers allowed prisoners to steal my property. At that vulnerable time, I was not given any opportunity to send any of my property home. When the charges against me were deemed unsubstantiated, my reputation still suffered. An educator accused me of being put in isolation for a rape attempt. Prisoners assaulted my character with the word “pimp.” Nothing could be more hurtful or further from the truth.

When I was released 22 days later, my body had to repair itself from the self-inflicted damage it had incurred from a 20-day hunger strike. I was prepared for that. What I was not prepared for was how my mind had to heal. I kept my distance from all people. Even in a post-Covid-19 world, I found it a difficult task to request that people respectfully give me six to ten feet of space. After being isolated on the word of one, space was my greatest comfort to feel safe. Weeks went by with me explaining to people my strange needs, until genuine support began to cause me to feel normal enough to begin to let my walls down. It was then and only then that my smile began to return.

Thanks to all my haters, I forgive you. But to my supporters who never had any doubt, you are few, I love you. And I love you too.

Despite my current geographical location and overwhelming odds against me, I remain with a positive outlook on my future. With permission to mourn my losses, I close. Thank you for the opportunity to share. 📸 Eddie’s only

Talking with my mother opened the door for a lot of family healing.

Albert, 57

Albert, 57

Stories

Growing up in a gang neighborhood I attached myself to that lifestyle. It eventually led me in and out of six different prisons. Today I’m on death row for a crime I didn’t commit. Now I wait on the justice system to give back my freedom. While I sit here confined and waiting on the process to come to light, I live in this hell hole of a place.

I’m often asked, how can I smile so much when I’m on death row for a crime I didn’t do and so I tell them: it’s my faith in Jesus. If I didn’t have my Christian faith I would be lost like so many of the guys in here. I still see some light at the end of my tunnel. I could easily be mad at the court system, the jury or GOD, but I changed my way of thinking into something positive.

I started writing books about my time in prisons and my gang life. And being on death row for 25 years. I tell you it didn’t come easy. I have five self-published books on Amazon with three more completed and two on the way, all will be published in May 2022. I’ll be the only person on any death row to have ten books published. And I did them all in this one cell.

I call what I’m doing “THE J-PLAN” (The Jesus Plan) because my plan didn’t work at the start of my writing. Initially, people ran off with my books and money, but I’ve learned I had to trust someone out there. I’m also in school, two classes away from getting my AA Degree and a business certificate. I’m doing all this with Dyslexia, a learning disability. So yes my faith in the Lord, in this dark place has made me the man I am today.

I can say with a smile on my face “I’M TOO BLESSED TO BE STRESSED” yes-even on death row:). I say to all that it’s not over as long as you’re walking this earth and I’m going to leave a legacy. 📸 Albert’s personal collection

Pheng, 45

Pheng, 45

Stories

“Took But Never Taken” 

Just as lightning strikes and dances across the dark skies, so too is this life I will live. In a jungle a world away, a war not of my own making, I lost my father and eldest sister in a cloud of thundering smoke. BOOM!  POOF! They are gone forever. At the same time, I was ducking and dodging bullets and bombs in a body not my own, my mother’s. 

Afraid, my mother prayed to heaven and ancestral spirits all around. She prayed not for what Death just took but for what was not taken, her unborn child. True to her fears, her child was born before it was time. I came rearing into this world to the drowning sound of silence. A stillborn baby; dead, cold and blue like the river that caressed me. Mother, understanding her plight, surrendered my body to the Mekong River. As I was being carried away, it was then I opened my eyes to a billion falling tears of angels and demons alike, the pouring monsoon rain. With a thundering cry, I alerted my mother and she swam after me. Now safely in her arms, she whispered, “you are a constant pain and worry for me. I will call you ‘Pheej’” [Pheng], meaning ‘constantly’ in a language soon to be forgotten like this people. My first act as a human being was theft, or so I chose to believe. Took, but not taken.  

Three years old, my first home and house-made out of bamboo trees tied together, surrounded by shit, piss and dirt; barbed wires and machine gun towers, a refugee camp. Near dying from hunger and thirst, Death came for what I stole. “No!” I yelled. This life I took cannot be taken. Through an act of grace and a miracle, my family and I were saved. America, here we come. Took, but not taken. 

At 7 years old, I lost my innocence to torturous beatings from my uncle for taking a toy car from a store. Only the torture lasted for 5 more years. By 12, I was ashamed and numb from beatings, humiliated by being bullied, I joined a gang. Fifteen years old, in and out of juvenile hall, I became bold. One night, POP! POP! POP! Five shots to my body from the gang I called my family as I was left to die by the side of a road; all because I didn’t do as I was told. My vision is static like an old TV out of picture and focus. Death came calling yet again. Deja Vous it said, then silence.  took, but not taken. 

I awoke to the sound of beeping machines and a voice of a crying angel, my mother’s. How right she was, those friends of mine she warned me about, failed to uphold what on the streets we call “The Code”. Not wanting to understand or forgive, driven by anger and hate, I became a wicked being. I gave birth to death and destruction by forming my own gang out for revenge. Took, but not taken. 

At 17, I was walking with a limp from shackles and waist chain handcuffs. I stepped out of darkness into a room filled with lights, a courtroom. Guilty of murders decreed the judge, then yelling “Life in Prison!” well hell, here I come, your newborn son. Took, but not taken. 

Eighteen years old, before the sun went down, I found myself kissing the cold concrete floor of my prison cell. With hate and menace in his voice, my cellmate whispered in my ear, “If you don’t like to make love to concrete and steel, you best do the taking.” so I did, selling my soul to the devil for the next 23 years doing the taking, destroyer of lives. Took, but not taken. 

My how time flew by, I’m now 39, some would say I had it made. Truth be told, the only thing I’ve made were enemies amongst friends. As fate has it, a flash flood of blood poured out from 6 holes in my chest. My body was being torn to shreds by those friends with whom I broke bread. Betrayal of the worse kind brings darkness to my eyes. Finally, death and I are one at last. Took, but not taken. 

From darkness to light, I heard a new voice echo in my mind. Arise my son and open your newborn eyes. I did. For the first time, I can see clearly how foolish I was to have ever believed, my life’s theft, my destiny’s pain. This life was a gift given me, not stolen, but from love and sacrifice. Now, a new fire burns every ounce of my soul with a desire to lift others up higher than even they thought possible to achieve. It is said, “The 3rd time’s a charm.” so I am alive today to say, “Don’t give in to anger, don’t follow hate. Instead, take this gift of life given you and create a future for the family awaiting your arrival. Persevere and you will achieve.”  Took, but Never Taken. 

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