Message from Terry Little: Hello, Thanks for tuning in to this series which deals with the productive interaction of prisoners. It is completely different from the common associations with prison; the violence, the deception and the recidivistic cluelessness that is perceived to be within us all. This dialogue, hopefully, will give readers on the fence of the idea of giving second chances to prisoners another perspective from which to draw their own opinion through these conversations with lifers. I hope that you enjoy these convos, and if you have any questions or suggestions that you would like to share I am open to them.
CONVO WITH A LIFER:
An edge of a sword may cut through the thick layers of flesh, but it is the arduous battle of ascending years in the bowels of a derisive atmosphere within purgatory, and the worried tears of ubiquitous suffering from loss, of chance, civility, of love and time, that cuts deeper into the already perturbed and vulnerable soul. Each year brings a new climb in their world, a reason to worry, and interchangeably a new reason to change.
The conversation that I encountered was with K. He was someone I had come to think of as an ally in this struggle. Someone that I once couldn’t imagine myself becoming friends with. That is until I witnessed a sudden change in his personality.
I found him sitting at a table, seemingly deep into whatever his attention found amusing on the TV mounted on the dayroom’s wall. We had planned this interview weeks before, and I knew he was excited then, although his inherent stoicism wouldn’t reveal it The delay was inadvertent, but this moment was opportune. I sat in a chair across from him after acknowledging him. In return he gave me a grin that brushed the away slight flakes of dust billowing in the ceased air.
“Are you ready?” He asked.
I scooted my chair to the table and after a brief greeting we conversated.
“What is a life sentence to you?” I asked.
K didn’t think about the question, it was as if his words were divers ready to jump from his tongue. “No end,” he said. “I think it should be the opposite though. I think there should be an end to a life sentence…” I was sure every man serving a life sentence felt the exact same way. K didn’t elaborate on his statement, instead he became discursive in his thoughts and shared them with overt comfort. “My family thinks that my freedom is guaranteed, but they don’t know all of the stipulations, and how ambiguous the word life sentence is.”
“Who would you say has been impacted the most by you doing this time?” I asked.
“My daughters.” Said K. His eyes had become lumber; still, and flammable. I knew I had to ask the right questions because I certainly didn’t want him to become down given how sensitive a matter being apart from one’s child could be. So I asked in surprise: “You got daughters?” I was also imagining how sweet could be pulled from sour.
“Yeah!” K’s face turned sideways, “I have two, T.”
His eyes finally moved, and realized speaking of his daughters wasn’t downer, but an upper. They were the medicinal cure to his struggles during this time. “One daughter said she’s not going to have any kids. Said it’s because I’m not there to be a grandfather.” Emotion nearly broke the plain of his toughness. “My sister poured it on me, too. Said she’s not getting married because no one’s there to walk her down the aisle. “Our father’s gone, and you’re in there…” I know they mean well, but that stuff cuts deep, little do they know.” And it showed. His head lowered, then came back up after shedding the melancholy. “You wanna know something else?”
“Shoot…” I said.
“My youngest daughter criticized me. Said that she was mad at me for missing her first kiss, and her first heartbreak.” K chuckled at the reflection. “The closest I had come to that first heartbreak was a visit once. The entire time, guess what she talked about…?”
My turn to be prompted without much thought to the obvious.
“The heartbreak.” I answered.
“I wanted so badly to know the boy who made my baby upset. But it also made me allow some good barbeque chicken to go to waste.” He was amused by the memory. “She eventually got over the heartbreak, and the boy. She’s a smart young woman. It’s a blessing that Allah gifted me with such children.”
“How old are you, K?” The accumulating grays in his disheveled beard gave away the
years.
“49.”
“How old were when you caught this case?”
“I was 27, and man! If only I could turn back time.”
My questions continued. “Do you think you’ve changed from the thoughts your 27-year-old self once possessed?
K was a fervent attendee in taking Spanish lessons within the institution, so out of habit he answered: “Si.”
“What makes you believe you’ve changed?” I quizzed.
“Well, internally I regret everything I’ve done. I tore a family apart. A mother lost a son, and I’m ashamed of what I’ve done.” Again, he used that glum chuckle, “I’m living 2Pac’s words, when he rapped: “…Huggin’ on my momma from a jail cell…” Although my mother’s gone, I got to hug her one last time. My victim didn’t get that same opportunity. He can’t be a father no more, a grandson–nothing. I messed up,” he said. “Had you spoken to me when I was 27, when I caught this case I would have said, ‘forget him’.” K’s head lolled before picking it back up. “…Man. A mom had to bury her son.” The impact of his situation had obviously gnawed on his conscience over the years.
Thinking quickly, I asked, “What’s next for you, here inside these walls?”
“Repent by doing this time. Maintain my mental wellbeing, then hopefully make it home someday to live out my life with purpose, for me and for the life I took.”
“What were you sentenced to,
“I was sentenced to 32 years to life.”
My next conversation was with D. I knew him for quite some time during this time incarcerated and in the outside world. At times we ran in the same circles, not any gangs or anything of the such, well speaking for myself, gangs wasn’t something I was into. Of course when I was around 15 the thought of being in one intrigued me.
It was easy to join and you were like a family, that is, until you’re crossed. And we know, you’re not blood related, so uncertainty is an ever-looming thought. Or it ought to be.
D walked with the stride of an individual 6’7”, although he was only 5″5, possibly 5’4”. And he possessed a personality that could not be defeated in debate. There was an unspoken rule among those who knew him, which he did not know of: “Don’t argue with him.” Because it was a never-ending battle, and I felt sorry for the poor soul who dared to engage him in an adversarial battle of intellect.
Beneath the basketball hoop in the front of the block is where I found him, idly standing there as if waiting on someone. I approached him and we greeted. His greeting was a bit more indifferent than mine, however, I ignored it. Small followed, he broached on his frustration relating a transfer he put in months back, and had yet to come through. I talked about my family’s lack of interest in coming to see me despite how close to home I was, which became a great segue into my purpose being there.
“What does a life sentence mean for you?” I asked.
“Death…” he said, as up front as he was. “It’s basically a sentence that tells you that life as you know it is over, and this is it. Deal with it.”
“Do you think it is the time that causes you to think negatively, and are there any positives under these circumstances?”
D didn’t have to think of the question. “Yes and yes,” he said. “This time has a lot to do with my negative outlook. Had I had an out date that was guaranteed I wouldn’t be so shut off to thinking otherwise, in regard to life means death. But because of this situation the struggle is hard. I get to suffer all the thoughts your average person doesn’t deal with. For example, early on during this incarceration I heard from no one I once knew. Because of that, I’ve found myself questioning whether I was that much of a piece of shit that no wanted to reach out to me…I wasn’t a bad person.” He stared at me as if to poll my opinion of him, but I had no answer. “But yeah…” his eyes returned to where they once stared, out across the court and the wandering cohorts of inmates. “There’s also some positives. Focusing on self, is what this situation gives you, to work on areas of myself I would have never known needed working on had I not had this sit down. I can’t say it was much needed, because someone lost their life. I’ll just say it was life changing, literally.”
“Answer this,” I said. “Many people have been sentenced to a life sentence for decisions they’ve made and have recognized it. But yet there are some who don’t acknowledge that it’s to better oneself?” I asked: At this junction from our conversation D’s eyebrow rose with suspicion as he cut a questioning stare my way. Nonetheless, he ignored it and went on.
“At this moment I can only speak for myself. I have a lot more growing to do myself, mentally and morally. So yeah, if I could use myself as an example, changing the way I think is of great importance.”
“I agree,” I said. “For myself it’s a self-conscious thing I battle with. I allow my thoughts to get the best of me. I think a lot of us deal with similar challenges, but are unable to address them. So the struggles I have now, and how far I’ve come in my growth, I know gradually with prayer, change will follow.”
“Change comes with time. You’re right.” He said.
Veering from the subject, I asked, “How much time do you have in?”
“I have 19 years in.”
The revelation didn’t affect me the way it once would when I would hear the outrageous amount of time guys would have in. The longest I was told was 47 years. (shaking my head).
“What has this time been like for you?” I asked.
“It definitely has had its downs,” D said, with a released breath. “I’ve lost my mother, uncles, cousins, aunts on both sides of my family. But there have been good times. I now have a relationship with my daughter.”
“Is that a relationship you think you would have had had you been out now?”
D thought about the question. It was a first. “No. Probably not.”
“How come?” I asked.
“I was dumb. Twenty years out there could have gone by with me being in and out of her life, and I wouldn’t have recalled a day with her.”
“That’s crazy because I see what you’re saying. I think that’s what many of our childhoods were like.” I was speaking of individuals incarcerated, and the strong-willed individuals who are free. “For you to say that it seems you’re talking through the eyes of your own father. No disrespect.”
D chuckled. “Nah, you’re right. That’s a good explanation for it.”
I decided to change course. “Let me ask you this: Would you consider staying sane in prison while serving a life sentence a skill?”
“I wouldn’t call it a skill. It’s more so…again, speaking for myself, about placing my faith in God. Sure I’ve made bad choices in life, I’ve got to accept them and move on best I can.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed with the answer. “I guess for me it’s the same. I too put my faith in God, praying that he helps me on this road. Of course I don’t expect him to do the heavy lifting, I’ll do the physical part of it, and I pray he does the spiritual lifting.”
I changed the subject. “Last question, and I’ll get out of your hair. What were you sentenced to?”
“34 years to life.”
My next interview was with C. W occasionally took some of the same programs at times, so it made this interaction feel less imposing. From his own words, what I learned about him is that he made quite the turnaround in his life. It’s why I was drawn to speak with him, and have this conversation, which isn’t an easy place to be open to talk about the real stuff. So often in prison someone’s decision to be open in a group, in expressing how one is feeling in order to change, can be weaponized by others. This potentially can be the result of a lack of communication on both ends. This is something another guy and I speak of in our own communication book, which is coming out soon. We create these resolutions to stymie these weapons we create.
The conversation wasn’t planned, but I did inform him I would be approaching him about this conversation when he was available. I wanted it to be as natural as possible, to get the uncut on the spot stuff. I found him at the ice machine scooping ice and dumping it into his clear cup. Small talk ensued before I riddled him with a conversation.
“This year is your…”
“19th year in prison.” C said, completing my guess. “And I’m hoping it’s my last.”
The assertion was relatable. “Aye,” I said. “Did you know that the youth curriculum you created from behind the walls is looked at favorably by the parole board?”
“And that’s probably true,” C. Retorted. “But I didn’t create the curriculum for the parole board. It was for me, my conscience, and what I thought was right.”
“Since we’re on the topic, let me ask you…I remember you said you were once a hard-shell kind of person, that no one could tell you anything, that you were told you were unapproachable once. Where, or when did that image begin to change?”
“Well, that’s a funny story. But first I wouldn’t say that I was a hard shell. I would just say that I was unpersuaded in my ways. What sort of changed the way I looked at things, in all honesty, it was a cellmate that I bunked with years ago. His name was bump. One night we were locked down in the cell, and I’m flicking through channels. Bump was a little younger than me, at the time I was twenty-four. Although I was older, he was way much wiser, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. And don’t get it wrong, he was ruthless. Quick to put someone in their place.
Bump didn’t have a TV, but that night as I flicked through channels, I saw George Bush speaking on every news channel. Back then I was mentally young, didn’t know a thing about politics, so when I saw Bush, it was, ‘fuck Bush!’ For no reason. I thought it was a thing everyone said and I adopted it.” He shook his head at his past self. “When I said it my bunky let out a sly chuckle. I asked, ‘what’s funny?’ ‘Nothing. You might take it the wrong way’. He said, ‘Well give it to me straight, no cut’ I told him. And he did. ‘George Bush is your President,’ he said. I replied ignorantly, ‘so what?’ ‘George Bush is your president. The representative of the United States of America.’ I didn’t immediately grasp what he was getting at. ‘What do you mean?’ I inquired. He said, ‘If George Bush, this representative of our country was making an announcement on all of those news stations, telling us that there was a bomb headed directly for this prison you wouldn’t know because it’s fuck Bush.’ And that when I realized that I needed to sharpen up mentally. Although this change didn’t take place in one day, I felt myself, after many other encounters like the one I had with Bump, gradually changing. Hence today this is who I am today, better than I was yesterday.”
“What were you sentenced to C, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked, coming to a close in our conversation.”
“I don’t mind. I was given 24 years to life.”
I found my next conversation with RM, a short but compact fella. He reminded me of myself in so many ways. For instance, he possessed the quality of humbleness. I describe it as quality because there’s a fine we must draw when ascribing humility to others and ourselves. Using myself as an example; I discovered although I’ve been described, and even consented to myself being humble, however, it’s yet to have reached the requisite maturity of being purely humble. Being astute in identifying these traits has been acquired during my years of incarceration, and I was able to identify this distinct quality of humbleness in RM.
Our conversation took place at the gym’s recreation facility inside the prison. RM was finishing his exercise on the weights and I was preparing to begin. We’ve crossed paths many times, and had many conversations cornered around our lives inside.
“How many sets did you do?” I asked RM. He wiped the sweat from his eyebrow with his drenched rag. He pointed toward the curling equipment near the back of the room.
“I did ten sets of those,” then RM pointed at the bench press, “And ten sets of those.” He said, “Tired now.”
I didn’t know if this was the best time to engage in such a conversation considering the setting. But I thought, “where else to conversate, then a gym and a barbershop.” So I asked.
“Before you get out of here, think we can talk a bit?”
RM sat his rag down on the grated bench and took a seat himself. “Yeah, sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I’m not exactly lookin’ to get something off my mind, instead I’m looking to pick yours for a minute.”
“Pick away, man.” He consented.
“Look around us; day in and day out, look what we deal with. The officers, other prisoners and family problems. There’s people who’ve been locked down 30 years and bitter here, who I’m sure has had to take a step back and examine their predicament. How do you examine this predicament from your own point of view?” I said
“Mannn! That’s deep…” RM playfully stared at his invisible wrist watch. “It’s kind of too early to be hitting people with those kind of questions.”
“Aye, I gave you a chance to hit the exit.”
“Yeah, you right…” he retorted. “Well; how do I examine my situation being here for the last 13 years, I don’t. I take it one day at a time.”
“That’s a cop out. A cliche. That’s a phrase everyone uses when there’s more to it, they just don’t want to hear how it’s received.”
As if he had been caught crying, RM slumped in his posture. It wasn’t what I expected. “I guess you got me,” he said, “this isn’t a conversation you have every day, especially in prison.”
I felt as if he was going to cut our conversation short so I pulled back. “If you want to try again next time I’ll catch you some other time.”
“Nah, we gon’ finish this, because next time I may not be in the right space to talk about this. And plus, I think because we don’t get to have conversations like this is why there’s forever tension in the air in prison. So, from my position, where I am today, I examine it with caution. What I mean by that is, I try to pick very carefully, what I find myself gettin’ into. Like, if I sign up for a program, two weeks in–and I know it’s not always good, but I look for the negatives and positives in the program. I examine the people taking part in it from their personalities to who they’re kicking it with on the compound. I also determine if the supervisor of the group is adequate. This will ultimately tell me if it’s safe for me to stay in the program. Pretty much I try to vex the negativity.”
“I think that’s being wise. Myself, I also have a similar perspective, because you know like I know, you don’t have to go searching for conflict because it’s always around the corner. So I like that; examining with caution…” I stored the phrase in my memory box. “Let me step outside of prison. In your family, who would you say has been affected the most by your incarceration?”
“Man…That’s hard to say because if you asked my books and my door at mail time, they’ll tell you no one,” RM chuckled at his own comment. But it was one that was relatable. “If I had to choose, however, I would say my sisters. They’ve all in previous conversations sounded so numb we spoke. It’s like at times they forget that I’m their brother. Or that our mother had me. But I know this is some foreign shit. I turned my family and another’s family lives upside down behind my case. No one expects to hear that their brother was arrested for a homicide, or that he’s been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. And I can only imagine the horror someone’s sister must feel when they hear that their brother was on the other end of that situation.”
“That’s well put.” I told him. “So for myself I do a lot to get through this time the best I can.
To be direct, to not think of the time. How do you get by considering the time you’re doing?”
“You see it.” He indicated the weights to his left. “Aside from this I stay in the world and work in the kitchen. And hope that some day they open these doors.”
“I know you said it earlier, but what were you sentenced to?” I asked.
“Oh, no… I was using that as an example, I was sentenced to 44 years to life.”
The individuals who participated in these conversations were very open, and I guess it is this idea of hitting a sensitive tone, like a melody in a song that many favors, whereas here, it’s inflaming what’s being suppressed–how the person is feeling at that moment in serving their life sentences. These conversations aren’t meant to place a halo over the participants’ heads for their repentance, but they do seek to humanize them, and bridge a relationship between our community, and the communities beyond these gates–American communities, because we too are America….
Stay tuned for CONVOS WITH A SHORT TIMER…
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