Lyle, 45

Meet Lyle…

Within a few months the classes on death row were eliminated. The rehabilitative ideal was purged. Central Prison became an increasingly violent place.

Lyle, 45
Incarcerated: 26 years
Housed: Death Row Central Prison, North Carolina Department of Corrections, Buncombe

We received a new warden. His predecessor was supportive of programs and even allowed psychotherapeutic classes on death row. We had just finished our last performance of 12 Angry Men, not the sort of activity one expects a group of condemned prisoners to be engaged in, but North Carolina’s death row is a congregate confinement unit. We are not locked down in our cells, instead moving around the block much like general population prisoners. The new warden wanted none of it. Ordinarily, shaking hands with guards or prison officials is forbidden. It can mean solitary confinement for the prisoner and firing for staff. There are very few exceptions. There is also the taboo amongst prisoners that you don’t fraternize with staff. Our last warden who allowed programs on death row, who infused the prison with the rehabilitative ideal, was an exception. He shook everyone’s hand, looked them in the eye, and treated every person as an equal. A human. I walked over and stuck my hand out, the warden shook it, thanked me for participating in the play, and wished me luck on my appeals. Feeling the moment, I turned to his replacement with my hand out and said I hoped the classes were something he supported. He looked at my hand. Then at me. Then at the new unit manager, a guard who climbed the ranks to make management and who had said he wanted to see sentences carried out. “We’ll see about that,” said the new warden. And so we did.

Within a few months the classes on death row were eliminated. The rehabilitative ideal was purged. Central Prison became an increasingly violent place. We look back on that time when we had classes and performed in plays with a sense of nostalgia. For a while, at least one warden remembered we are human.

Taki, 45

Taki, 45

Meet Taki…

I am struggling to receive love because it falls way short of what defines love for me. This is where hard work and growth meet.

Taki, 45
Incarcerated: 28 years
Housed: Stateville Correctional Center, Joliet, Illinois

I have learned alot about love. I have learned it is an action word. I can’t just say that I love you, I have to show you! Love is unconditional. Even if you can’t have a relationship with someone, you can still love them. It is selfless, pure, kind, honest and true. I have been sharing this insight with my brothers and family, and I thought I could share this here and really be impactful. For the incarcerated, we find it very difficult to believe people when they say that they love us, when their actions don’t match what we believe love looks like. This stresses us out and can cause us to ruin relationships we should cherish. The lesson I learned is this: Everyone’s life circumstances and experiences have shaped us, and ultimately help to formulate how we view love. It is not that people we deal with do not love us, they just do not understand love as we do, because we’ve had different experiences and concepts of what love is!

For those of us incarcerated, especially those of us who have been gone for a long time, we appreciate things on a much more intensive level than most human beings. Our deprivation of not having the things that we want so much causes us to hold, treasure, value, and love things on a much deeper level than the average human being. Our love is intense. To hold people who haven’t been shaped by the same experiences as us, to our standards of love, isn’t fair to them, or to ourselves. We have to learn how to love and be loved from the place in which that love resides. I am struggling to receive love because it falls way short of what defines love for me. This is where hard work and growth meet. Now I have to do the necessary work so I can get to a place of peace. Sharing with you has already helped me through my personal revelation, thank you.

Selena, 28

Selena, 28

Meet Selena…

 I felt like I wasn’t allowed to have human emotions simply because I was a prisoner. My solution to this was attempting suicide.

Selena, 28
Incarcerated: 6.5 years
Housed: Gloria McDonald Women’s Facilities, Cranston, Rhode Island

As soon as I walked into prison, I stopped being Selena and became an “inmate.” During the fifth year of my incarceration, I was sent to Segregation pending investigation for a violation of the prison’s no touch policy. I was a 26 year old adult who was punished for a consensual relationship and spent 15 days alone in a single cell. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to have human emotions simply because I was a prisoner. My solution to this was attempting suicide. Fortunately, I survived.

In the past year, my life has changed for the better. I realized that I’m not alone in how I feel and I’ve been working with advocacy groups to humanize the justice system. I want to be an example of strength and perseverance for others who are locked up. Your life matters. You can channel your experiences into being the voice for those who don’t realize they have one yet. When we come together, people listen. Thank you SO much for the opportunity to be heard!  

Ramon, 63

Ramon, 63

Meet Ramon…

The life of a death-row prisoner is harsh, restrictive, isolated, and lonely. So moving out into the mainline environment after 24 years of death row continues to shock and amaze me, most so because I had never been to prison before so I never knew what mainline had to offer.

Ramon, 63
Incarcerated: 27 years
Housed: Donovan Correctional Facility, San Diego, California

The life of a death-row prisoner is harsh, restrictive, isolated, and lonely. So moving out into the mainline environment after 24 years of death row continues to shock and amaze me, most so because I had never been to prison before so I never knew what mainline had to offer. So my experience is vastly more astonishing than someone who’s been in and out of institutions. Tidbits sneak up on me from time to time where I say to myself, “I can’t believe I’m doing this right now.” The decades locked away had conditioned me to not expect certain things and be content with nothing. Now the ice in my heart has started to thaw and sunshine begins to brighten each day. It’s pretty sunny now! I continue to marvel at the vast changes my transfer has provided me, like walking on grass for the first time in decades. I find myself in the dirt with a blossoming ‘garden’ of sorts enjoying touching the grass, soil, and pulling weeds. Who would’ve known? We have specific tables each ethnic group hangs out at, but my table has huge mint plant patches accompanied by a few green onions, bell peppers, jalapeños, flowers, and other random seeds I wanted to see if they would germinate. No other table compares, it’s the talk of the yard. Other inmates stop by to check it out while officers and free-staff make positive comments too. Maybe in my cynical death-row way of thinking someone will be malicious or vindictive and stomp my little garden to oblivion, but I have gotten a great deal of enjoyment and satisfaction creating and nurturing something beautiful and unique that previously never existed. Death row consists only of steel and concrete, and the only dirt available is the dust that accumulates in the cracks of the cement when the wind blows. Now I have four acres of land at my fingertips that helps me pacify my days.

Death row is very punitive and restrictive. I have seen guys written up for ‘dangerous contraband’ for things as harmless as a paper clip, a metal envelope clasp, or a wooden ruler with a metal guide strip. Imagine my disbelief and awe when I’m outside swinging an aluminum bat at a baseball game. How about using a shovel and rake to tend to my garden? Real solid implements forged from sharpened steel. Is this legal? I always felt like I was doing something wrong. I recently worked on a ladder the other day, something a death row person would NEVER be allowed around let alone touch. There’s always some apprehension about handling ‘tools’ around my wrists every time I left the cell.  I haven’t touched a set of cuffs for the last three years. Imagine how liberating that now feels. My existence now is just normal everyday life here without the stress, worry, harassment. I have interactions where some officers and free-staff call me Ramon instead of Inmate Rogers. I am considered more of a human in my new environment treated with a semblance of respect and dignity. I jumped on an electric golf cart the other day to the other side of the yard to deliver supplies and part of me felt like I was making the great escape. Being condemned never in my thoughts would I imagine being able to do these things that I do now. On death row our day is done by noon, we are locked inside the remainder of the day. Someone asked what I was doing in the middle of the yard staring skyward. It had been decades since I saw the night sky, the moon and stars, to smell the night air, to hear the subtle cadence of nocturnal creatures and who would ever tire of the majesty and spectacular hues of those regal sunsets? Nature has its own unique and unmatched awe and beauty but all that has been taken away from the life of a condemned. Words cannot express how amazing and stunning the world is viewed through renewed eyes after being locked away from it for decades. It’s like a whole new world I’ve had the privilege to be invited into. I’m thankful for the invitation back into reality. As this uncertain journey continues my eyes will be opened wider each day, not taking anything for granted.

I’m sure you are aware that me and the other death row inmates who left on the pilot transfer program are still classified as condemned inmates. The amenities, privileges, freedoms, and programs are far superior but we are still death-row inmates just living in a different institution. Many inmates and staff think we will be off death row and no longer condemned, but that’s not true. Technically we are out of San Quentin, but our classification hasn’t changed. 

Bindhu, 43

Meet Bindhu…

My great aunt in her eighties wrote back with so much love and information about my family. We wrote back and forth several times, and she had a mind like an elephant.

Bindhu, 43
Incarcerated: 19 years
Housed: Valley State Prison, Chowchilla, California

I wanted to know who my father was. I never met him. I was ten living in Crescent City. My mother put me on a plane to Denver to meet him. Arriving at the airport he was holding a sign with my name on it. Denver was nice. My father took me to his jobs and to the swimming pools on a regular basis. I missed my old life, friends, mother, and siblings. My father had a girlfriend with her own son. He told me that he was driving me back to California. I guess they didn’t want me. We were looking for my grandparents’ home in Watsonville and couldn’t find it. My father pulled over, said he was going for gas and food and never came back. I didn’t want to believe it was true.

While in prison, I wanted to make contact again. My sister gave me his address. He wrote back and told me that he was sorry and that his girlfriend made him do it. The counselor called me out of my cell to show me a returned letter that said “deceased” on it. I didn’t know what to feel. After some time, I wrote the address back to see if I could contact anybody on my father’s side because I didn’t know anybody. My great aunt in her eighties wrote back with so much love and information about my family. We wrote back and forth several times, and she had a mind like an elephant. I created a family tree, received pictures of my great aunts, grandparents, father, uncle, great grandparents, cousins, and more. She gave me all their names and details. Having the courage to write that letter brought some unexpected love into my life.

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