Meet Raymond…

 I never want to see a child grow up lost like me. I express remorse to help others. If I believe, I can achieve.

Incarcerated: 20 years

My biological father was a heroin addict. My stepdad would drink and beat my mom. She raised me and my baby sister while on welfare. I would ditch school and spend the day in the back of an abandoned house, playing marbles. One day I stole some clothes, never bothering to think that I was taking from someone trying to support his family. I was put in juvenile hall and sent to group homes. My mother was living in a woman’s shelter. I remember walking down the street one day and seeing her and baby sister, the center of my soul. I thought I could go home with them. She had kicked me out repeatedly. I reminded her of her abusive husband. My mother told me that boys were not allowed. My cousin and I roamed the streets, eating with whomever would feed us. I became a crack addict at 13. I permanently ruined my brain. I can’t think straight. I have memory loss. I can’t concentrate. When I was 21, I met my biological father. He had charm and sang country music and played the guitar. He packed our bags and moved us to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I told him about my passion for boxing. I looked for a gym, and when I found one, I sat all alone in it. I didn’t know what would become of me. No one seemed to believe in me. I met a beautiful Mexican girl. Her dream was to become a singer.  Mine was to join the military. I ended up in Fresno with another woman, who like me, was betrayed, abandoned, and misled. I was abusive. Oprah had shows about abusive husbands. I would sit and stare at the TV. What if one of those men did that to my sister? But you shouldn’t throw stones if you live in a glass house. I was a gang member and a violent person who didn’t respect authority. I re-entered the prison system for murder. I will never be a boxer, but one day I will find a child who doesn’t have a father or anyone to believe in him. I will walk him into a gym and out of the streets. This is what I aspire to do. I never want to see a child grow up lost like me. I express remorse to help others. If I believe, I can achieve. 

Meet Michael…

My journey to true self acceptance has indeed been crazy, humbling, and not by any means easy.

Incarcerated: 23 years

I was 28 before I came to recognize what happened to me as a child was wrong, a violation, a molestation. It was not violent by recall. I was groomed by a school social worker. It became an identity… imposed, but most importantly… not my choice and definitely not my fault.

I’m sure the epiphany was birthed from the years of chaos and fleeting situational happiness I had experienced. I had fashioned a mask that spoke of self-confidence, gregarious warmth, and a lively welcoming personality. Yet inside I was a wounded insecure man who had learned that my only value was in his physicality.  At 30, manifestation had become empty and meaningless, but I didn’t know anything else. I was in the throes of addiction and had no static history of being successful in any area of life save the mask of my familiarly unfamiliar sexuality. With little or no progress from the divinely sown seeds of my awakening to my unfamiliar true self, four years later I found myself with a 20-year-to-life sentence in California. 2,500 miles from my Wisconsin home. 

Twenty-two years later, my journey to true self acceptance has indeed been crazy, humbling, and not by any means easy. I believe on a God-ordained, this divine level was necessary for me to become the man I am today. It is not just about understanding me, but others as well. It’s my personal journey to empathy, learning to love myself in order to really love others.

Being an American of African descent in this penal system, the conversation about sexuality outside the “Norm”  or “Straight” is no conversation at all, unless it was to degrade, intimidate or torture. For years in this toxic, hyper-masculine environment I donned the mask of my youth, out of an abundance of fear. Not just level four penitentiary fear from stories about what they do to people like me in prison, but more so out of fear of a continuing history of not belonging, and not being accepted. I could probably get over the physical pain but what if they don’t like me? All too familiar.

I hid behind the mask of fear and self doubt, unworthiness, compounded with codependency, yet in that mess and darkness, a light shone through. A light that called me to faith. A living faith in Christ. One who declared to love me as I was. A lifeline.

My journey to empathy has not been conventional, if there is any convention to be found therein. Even in coming to faith there has been no miraculous instantaneous change, but gradual exhaustive change in perception. I will say  I was struggling to figure out who I was/am, many around me were telling my story for me, based on their perception of who I was. 

Targeted from 2007 as the only “gay guy” in my unit, a title I hadn’t even given myself. Gay yet had to live through, and have lived through… victoriously! It is through many self-help groups like IMPACT (Incarcerated Men Putting Away Childish Things), VOEG (Victim Offender Education Group) and A.C.T. (Acting with Compassion and Truth) that my intentions at the start of this journey were met with the power of Grace. There is a scripture in Proverbs that says, “Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom, but in all you’re getting understanding.” Proverbs 4:7.

I now understand through a myriad of circumstances and horrible choices, that I stopped caring,  mostly for myself. I can honestly say through those divinely sown seeds all those years ago, empathy goes before me, without thought, fear or expectation. Today I do all I can to love GOD with all my heart, soul and strength, and love my neighbor as I love myself.

Meet OG Walt..

The older boys proudly embraced me into their group. They became family, like older brothers. They taught me street life.

Incarcerated: 27 years

As the oldest, I felt obligated to help my mother and grandmother whenever possible, so my mother awarded me a nickel for a treat at the corner store. I was dressed in short pants, a t-shirt, no shoes and no socks. I was suddenly surrounded by five older boys and one my age and size. None seem to have ever allowed a smile to touch the surface of their faces. They wore creased Levi’s, khakis and women’s solid color scarfs, stocking caps with steel choke chains hanging from their belts. Society’s rejects, outcasts and hoodlums.  

“Where are you from?” he said, looking me up and down.  

“I’m from 37th street,” I said, trying not to look him in the eye. 

 “You got any money?” 

“All I got is my nickel.” 

“You got to give that up.” 

“You ain’t getting my nickel. My mamma gave this to me.”

He grabbed me by the collar, cussing me, threatening me. My fists began landing punches in the boy’s face and head. He took off running. After the fight, an older boy said, “Get rid of that friendly-stupid smile, walk like you’re the king of the street and I better never catch you in short pants, without shoes and socks like a square-ass person.”  I still had my nickel, but the store had closed. The next morning, I was ready to spend my nickel, thinking that everything was all right, but the older boys were already waiting on me. They told me I had to continue fighting boys my age. My first three fights I’d attack before any introduction and catch my contender off guard.  In the fourth fight, the boy outweighed me and was taller. He charged me like a madman, then slipped and fell. The older boys proudly embraced me into their group. They became family, like older brothers. They taught me street life. I still had my nickel and my introduction complete.