Farewell To John Ramirez

By Amanda Ramirez, Lesley Hurst, Eric Williams, Jedidiah “Crazy J” Murphy, Jeff Prible, Will Speer, and Dina Milito

Friend of and contributor to Minutes Before Six, John Ramirez was executed by the State of Texas on October 5, 2022. Following is a collection of farewells written to and/or about him, kindly shared by his friends and family.

From Amanda Ramirez:

Before I got off the phone with John during our last call, I wanted to share with him my most favorite day with him, September 10, 2019. I knew his friend Mark Soliz was going to be executed by the State of Texas and I wanted to come out and be there for him to make it as good of a day as I could for him. John and I laughed and joked the whole visiting time; that was one thing we both seemed to do well in the early stages of our relationship, make each other laugh so much that our cheeks would hurt and ache from the muscles being overused. When I got up to leave, I passed the room where they keep those awaiting last day visitation for executions, and I looked over and I saw Mark and I waved at him. I hurried out and proceeded to get into my car. On my drive home, before exiting on my last exit, I looked out into the sky and I saw a rainbow: one of the ways that the Lord, our God, tells me he loves me. I felt I had done right by God, going and sitting with John to help him through the day. I checked my mailbox on the way home and there sitting waiting for me was the first love letter that John ever wrote to me. He used the word love at least 50 times and every time he would put a heart around it and color it in red, his favorite color. I was so overwhelmed with love, and just with the whole day. At that time, 6 o’clock, it was time for the execution to start. I remember sitting on my sofa watching the prison show protest and wondering if I would ever be in that position to have to encounter John’s execution; to have to visit him in that same small room. So many thoughts flooded my mind as the protest outside the prison proceeded at the execution. I do not believe in my whole life I have ever laughed so hard, and cried so viciously in the same day. Mark was pronounced dead, and just the overwhelming sensation of the day overtook me. Very close to three years to the passing of Mark, I find myself in that position that I had wondered about. So many things have happened between John and I, more things than I can even explain. Yet even still, through it all, one thing still remained, that we both wanted each other to be present in those last moments, eyes full of love locked onto one another. I will never forget him staring at me as he slipped off into Eternity.

From Lesley Hurst:

Dear John… I started writing to John Henry Ramirez at the start of 2012. I’d seen an advertisement for a charity called Human Writes, which connects death row inmates with pen pals. In the information about the charity it explained the plight of the inmates, how their families often abandon them – either immediately or over time – and also how poor their living conditions were and how important letters can be to them. The concept appealed to me and I hoped to be able to shine a light into a dark place. What I didn’t anticipate was the blinding light that would be shone right back. In my first letter, I told John that I could promise one thing: that no matter what, I’d never stop writing, even if he stopped writing to me. When I received my reply from John, I was struck by his warmth and open manner, and a little relieved to find that although our lives had played out so differently we had a lot in common and never ran out of things to say. Both avid readers, we had our own little book club; reading the same stories, which he’d then pass out to fellow inmates. The years ticked by and our constant stream of letters formed a firm friendship, and in 2016, I flew to Texas from England to visit. The moment we met – speaking on phones behind a sheet of glass – was like two old chums meeting for coffee in a café, as comfortable and wonderful as it could be. John wrote exactly as he spoke – openly and from the heart. He was extremely funny and articulate and our visit times flew by. Just like the charity had said, over the years, many of John’s family peeled away like autumn leaves, and although he said he accepted it, I knew this was because he had no choice. This and the loss of fellow inmates murdered by the State caused a great amount of sadness to him. He also suffered the passing of his grandmother and beloved godmother. For all his wounds and grief he still gave out love and light. When the State of Texas set the fourth and final execution date for John, I flew back to spend as much time with him as possible for a few weeks and then to bear witness on his date. In our visits we laughed and cried, he knew his time was up but it took nothing away from his generous spirit. He was brave, kind and magnificent right up to his last breath – quite literally. When I look at what remains – photographs, piles of letters, paintings and drawings, poems and origami figures – it seems so small for such a huge hole he left. But that’s really not all, is it? I’ve learned a lot about humanity from John. He will remain a part of my life forever – he has shaped me to become more grateful, to be more compassionate to humans (I always struggled with that – preferring animals over people), and that it’s OK to laugh – from the belly – no matter how dire life gets.

From Eric Williams:

On Texas Death Row, many of us guys get to know one another quite well. One of my friends is John Henry Ramirez, sometimes known as “Rambo.” I write “is my friend” because even though the State of Texas executed him, he lives on in many ways.

We, who knew John well, will always remember his joyful laugh. Any time John had a big laugh, you knew he was around, without even being seen.

My friend John is also one of the “success” stories from death row. (I call it “New Life Row.”) What do I mean by “success” story? Over time, John accepted the love of Jesus Christ into his heart. He chose to allow God’s love to work its transformation in him, day-by-day. And he, in turn, showed by example his love of God.

Once a person does those things, he is truly a new creation, walking by faith, not by sight.

So, John, thank you for your example. Thank you for living your life here to truly meet the test of Holy Scripture: “to live is Christ, to die is gain.”

You are missed.

May your soul be at peace.

From Jedidiah “Crazy J” Murphy:

I had a conversation with John a few days before he was executed and he wanted me to write this farewell letter. I was like… WWWHHHHHHAAAATTTTT!!!?? Last thing in the world I wanted to think about, and then he was gone. So… This is living in a cell. I walk it: four steps, then four more back; four, and four more. A door that crosses from section to section pops, and I feel the air move, and with it the smell of cologne and coffee. I sway where I stand. Sometimes nothing smells as good, and for that moment it was real, the realest thing I had ever known, then the moment passes… and I am again alone in my empty cell. I shudder until my muscles hurt, then close my eyes and pace the shape of my cell. Four and four… eleven hundred times… two thousand. At some point, I drifted to a stop without knowing. When I came back to myself, I was still on my feet. What was the count? I didn’t know, and that is another loss. I paced the cell again and mumbled in the quiet… One… two… three… four… That is what a day is like in this joint when you’re alone in your suffering. I do that when I am stressed, and believe me… I paced many an hour leading up to John’s execution. We all do.

John called me “Razor J” until the day he died because he once heard a psych patient yelling that at the top of his lungs six years ago because I gave him a bag of coffee. He drank that whole bag and screamed that for hours… even though my nickname was Crazy J, not Razor J like he thought. That is something I won’t hear again, and I used to hate it. 

The man they killed the other day was not the man that committed the crime. John killed him years ago. He did everything he could to educate himself and never settled on just going through the motions. I know the names of all the people he loved, but I won’t list them all here because I don’t know if they would want that. But that is what you knew about him… who he loved. On October 4, I celebrated my 22nd year in prison by talking all night to a man with less than 24-hours to live, and that was a hard thing to go through. He did all he could to live and it did not work out, and yet he was upset about what it would do to those he loved. That’s the truth.

The law in this state is nothing more than an axe. It cuts on whoever it falls on. The man who wins in the end knows how to aim the sharp edge away from himself. That same axe falls on our families. You cannot get through life, which is this crap… this fragile operation… without getting damaged. You just don’t. Not if you’re a feeling person or have a pulse at all. Not if you don’t have your head buried in the sand. Everybody’s effed-up. Some of us are just in on the joke. And when we don’t want to see that in ourselves, we see it in others. Everyone is a good guy. Everyone is a bad guy. It just depends on how hard you’re willing to look. With John, you knew what you had. 

He was sometimes easily frustrated, vocal and opinionated on things he was passionate about. I would deliberately get him sideways and he would do that to me as well. When he would figure out what I had done, he would laugh and laugh about it. I think people misunderstood John most of the time because he did not have a filter. I used to misunderstand him until I got to know him for myself. But when he was your friend, it was no matter what. It was not the often-flimsy version sold on commissary in prisons across this nation. 

I don’t know how some manage these losses. To me, it’s always there, an enormous thing… like a palace. But sometimes you can go into a tiny room, lock the door behind you, and that vast, overwhelming sadness is on the other side. It’ll always be there, and you cannot stay in that locked room forever. But maybe, while you can’t see it, you can get past it a tiny bit while you find something to smile about before you have to face the enormity of it all again. And then, who knows? Maybe you’ll find more rooms to smile in, and over time, the sadness stays locked in those tiny rooms, and you will remember more of the happiness you shared. Maybe that is what healing is like. It is why I like Looney Tunes. I love ACME and how they make everything from flypaper to disintegrating pistols. I love how when a character goes through a wall, it leaves behind a perfect silhouette. I love how the steaks are always the same shape and make everyone drool. But most of all, I love how nobody really dies…

John will leave behind a perfect silhouette in many of our lives and, in the end, for all the right reasons. He did the best he could, and he hated the idea of the pain this would cause. This is the thing about the life you walk. You start out pointed due-North, but should you vary one degree off, it doesn’t matter for maybe a year, or five years, but as the years stack up, you’re walking further and further away from where you started out to go, and you don’t even know you’re lost until you’re so far from your original destination that you cannot see it anymore. We do our best to set the compass back in the right direction, but many never really do. John did it as good as anyone I have seen.

They say we all die two deaths. One the day your heart stops, and the next the day the heart stops of the last person who knew you. I pray it is many years before that second death comes along… for all of our sake. Two people died on October 5, 2022, John Henry Ramirez and the man only a few would ever really know at all; a man who he grew to call his friend and who called him the same: Razor J.

Vaya con Dios, bro.

From Jeff Prible:

Bro, you were a highly intelligent friend whose constant quest to outdo me at all the little games we played (Scrabble, three-man chess, Magic: The Gathering, etc., etc.) kept me on my toes, and helped keep my mind sharp through the drudgery of living in solitary confinement. I found myself constantly learning and taking away something of value being in your presence. I surely learned patience! This experience is a unique experience we will grow from on the overall scale of existence. We are a part of each other’s journey throughout life forever. My life is better for having known you. From one Marine to another: Sepmer Fi, bro! 

Until we meet again… God bless you forever, and I love you forever. Your bro forever.

From Will Speer:

John Henry Ramirez, aka Rambo, Big Chief, Wrecking Ball, and some other not so nice things (big smile). But one thing he truly was… my brother. There’s even a proverb in the Bible for us, 17:17, “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” And, boy, did we go round and round at times. If I said it was up, he’d say it was down. If he said it was left, I’d say it was right. That’s just how it was. It wasn’t easy, and there were a lot of hurt feelings at times. But we would work it out, or just start over each day. Some days were better than others. But the growth and strength I received because of him, he was one I leaned on, one I rededicated my life to God because of.  

The knowledge of the Bible he had was _________, let’s just say, vast. In that blank spot, words like “wow,” “amazing,” “awesome” could be used. You get the point. But another thing was the SAUCE: Something Added Until Completely Educated. Something he’d say in our Bible study, “You got some sauce” or “I’ve got some sauce.” It became a thing. We even put it in our Fat Swag Newsletter, (‘Sauce of the Week’). Something else he encouraged me and Perry Williams in to doing with him. Founding members of the Fat Swag Crew. We did six newsletters, and the seventh was in process when they killed him. 

But let me get back to telling you what he did for me. He helped make me a better person; to love more, have more patience, to not let things hurt me or get to me that should not. Well, I’m still working on it, but I am way better at it because of him. He helped me see how broken people can be fixed. He helped show me how to deal with my problems and not run from them. He showed me how it is to deal with someone with mental health issues too, especially severe depression. Most people don’t know the John Henry I know, where he would cry himself to sleep because he was so sad. He’d be sad and wouldn’t really know why, so he’d just cry and cry by himself. He was also a frustrated person, so he’d be angry a lot. Part of it was because he couldn’t figure out why he was so sad, so it really bothered him. 

Studying took his mind off the sadness. He loved to dig in to the Bible and study. He got a real joy and pleasure studying, digging and reading. Another pleasure of his was writing. Man, that dude could write! He’d cut these legal envelopes and make these huge letters he called scroll letters. They were like five pages each he said, and he’d be typing and talking to me at the same time like it wasn’t nothing: pause, blah blah blah, tap tap tap tap, blah blah blah, tap tap tap. His taps were like a rapid-fire machine gun. He could really type. 

I’m going to go back in time, back to September of 2021. I want to tell you about who he was then versus who he was on October 5^th, 2022, the day he was killed. John Henry, Big Chief, Rambo was full of joy and love, and he loved the spotlight. To be counted on reaching out to others, he became very popular with the unit radio people. All the different shows, he’d write in and become a part of them. He’d send in joke books and write about topics they would present. He even got his wife involved; he really loved Amanda. He had a lot going on and this really helped him. He had hope. Sure, there were things here and there, but he dealt with what he could and let the rest just roll on. 

When he prayed, he would always open up with, “We come boldly before your throne…” He believed and he would share things God did in his life. Things like writing down his request to God, and tithing, and digging in deeper, or things on why he believed what he believed. Things that differed from what many preachers taught, but straight out of the Bible. 

And then it all slowly started to crumble around him after he got his stay. I will not be messy, but people hurt him very deeply and some left him. After time, he began to withdraw, only talking to just a few of us close to him. He became bitter, so cold my heart ached for him, to hear him talk to me as he slipped away. He even slipped away from God. He quit praying because all he had was bitterness towards God for allowing the thing to happen to him. In the end, he just wanted to die, to just end. 

On his last day, we – John, me (“Big Will”) and a few other guys – all said our goodbyes and we all prayed. He still did not pray, but he cried and thanked us for being his friends. What was special about that prayer time, our saying goodbye time, was we got to tell him things; like I wrote how he was a thorn in my side (smile), but a huge help in teaching me about others and how not to handle things, to do better and be better.

I cried for John like I’ve never cried for anyone in 21 years of being on the row and he knew that. Sometimes his filter was broken – okay, most times his filter was broken – so he’d say things that were hurtful. But, in the end, he just wanted peace. I told him I was going to talk bad about someone, he gave a long pause and then said, “It won’t matter ‘cause I’ll be dead.” But, it was that pause and a lot of time… in the end, I believe I said what he would have wanted to hear. No drama, just peace… and that was my brother, John Henry Ramirez. RIP.

I cried the other day

I cried, not because of pain or hurt, nor was it loss.
I cried because of a movie.
I’ve cried because of many movies come to think of it.
Many of you would have too, but others nobody cries for.
I’ve cried in the Spiderman movie.
I’ve cried in the Avatar movie, twice!
I’ve cried in movies and never knew their name.
I’ve cried in movies I didn’t even see.
I cried because I heard it.
Which makes me think back over my life.
I cried because my mom cried.
I cried because a family member died.
I remember crying for a friend who lost the love of his life.
I’ve cried a bunch of times for men who had their lives taken from them.
See, I live on Texas Death Row and you’d think I would grow hard,
but still another has died,
and yes I CRIED!

From Dina Milito:

My introduction to John Ramirez was a documentary on Death Row. His case was featured on a television program that I settled on while flipping through channels. I no longer remember the name of the program I watched that day. What I do recall clearly was how awful John’s story was before he arrived on Death Row, specifically, his upbringing. That, and how relatable I found John to be during his interview. The impression he made stayed with me. It never entered my head that years later I’d witness his execution. 

John and I connected directly during the time leading up to his third execution date, thanks to our mutual friend Billy. Billy shared the writing project we work on together with John and John decided he wanted to be a part of it too. John’s writing was insightful, humorous, and heartfelt, as were his letters, which were often accompanied by origami butterflies. I have one sitting next to me now, yellow, as I type. John designed his own stationery, scrolls with poetry and his photo on the back, as unique as John himself. His sentences were punctuated with descriptions of his physical reactions to my messages, and sometimes he drew little faces for good measure. An example: “Ya asked me as always at the beginning of your letters … ‘how am I doing?’ ah, well, ya know how it is with me (shoulder shrug). A functioning HOT mess for lack of a better way of saying it …(head nodding)… Thanks for asking (thumbs up!).” He became, in my mind, sort of a Jim Carrey of letter writers and I felt surprise the first time I heard his voice on the phone, a soft Texas twang. He was animated in his letters. In person he was polite, well-spoken, and direct. 

I am still not sure why John asked me to be present for his execution and for the visits leading up to his date. I met John in person for the first time on October 3. We, his visitors, took turns coming in and out of visitation, laughing and crying with John, buying him food, hugging one another, and collaborating to keep hope alive in a desperately hopeless situation. The week of John’s execution taught me that the definition of hopeless is contingent upon one’s definition of hope. John did not want to die and had many reasons to live. He was beloved by his friends both inside prison and in the freeworld. He was devoted to his son. He was a gifted writer and an artist. He was a vibrant man, a deep thinker and feeler. And he was a giver. I believe, based on what he shared as he faced yet another execution date, that he was also tired. He saw no way out of the hole he was in except for death and so he accepted it. He had faith in God and in the notion that the best was yet to come for him, on a different plane. He promised he’d wait for us there. 

John’s final words spoke of responsibility, regret, and remorse to the family of his victim, and of love to his friends. I believe all who heard them would agree his delivery was deeply heartfelt and I am hard-pressed to accept that the messenger was not redeemable. John was the epitome of courage as he faced death. Not long after John’s execution, I came upon this poem, which I offer up in his memory now.

Becoming a Ghost 

By Tanaya Winder 

Ask me about the time
my brother ran towards the sun
arms outstretched. His shadow chased him 

from corner store to church
where he offered himself in pieces. 

Ask me about the time
my brother disappeared. At 16,
tossed his heartstrings over telephone wire, 

dangling for all the rez dogs to feed on.
Bit by bit. The world took chunks of
my brother’s flesh. 

Ask me about the first time
we drowned in history. 8 years old
during communion we ate the body of Christ 

with palms wide open, not expecting wine to be 

poured into our mouths. The bitterness
buried itself in my tongue and my brother
never quite lost his thirst for blood or vanishing 

for more days than a shadow could hold. 

Ask me if I’ve ever had to use
bottle caps as breadcrumbs to help
my brother find his way back home.
He never could tell the taste between
a scar and its wounding, an angel or demon. 

Ask me if I can still hear his
exhaled prayers: I am still waiting to be found. 

To be found, tell me why there is nothing 

more holy than becoming a ghost.