Thank you, Mom, for having the strength and courage to hold me accountable.
Old Corcoran, 2018, Super Bowl weekend. It was an overnight family visit with my dad, Calvin, and my mom, Jeanette. My mom had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, and I was seven years into my life without parole sentence, with no dreams and no hope of ever getting out. My mom was the rock of our family and my best friend. Right or wrong, she had my back, no questions asked, often at great personal cost. I was a difficult kid, the youngest and the least. I chose a life of crime at 13, in the seventh grade, never once stopping to consider how my choices affected her. For 23 years, she carried that weight. That night, as we walked in the small courtyard of the family visiting unit, under the glow of the picnic lights, she stopped, turned to me, and said, “Kenny, I have to tell you something before I die.” She told me I had ruined her life. When I went to prison, she came with me. That she worried about me every single day, ever since I was a little kid. She blamed herself, wondering if things would have been different if she had put her foot down earlier. She spoke about the gun in our home, how it made her uncomfortable and scared. How, after I chose a life of crime, she feared I would end up dead or that one day, I would break into her house looking for drugs or money. That night, all her pain, anger, regret, and sadness came pouring out. Nothing was left unsaid. It was the last time I saw her alive. She passed away less than two months later, about a month before the Ninth Circuit overturned my case. The woman I loved most was also the woman I hurt the most. Accepting that truth was hard. For the first time in my life, I truly saw how my choices had affected those I love. Thank you, Mom, for having the strength and courage to hold me accountable. Today, accountability for my thoughts, feelings, and actions is the foundation of my rehabilitation. Thank you, Humans of San Quentin, for this platform to share my story.
