It all started with Marty Bell.
We were sitting on the Robertson Unit recreational yard. The wrens serenaded as they played in the gentle breeze. The sun peeked shyly from behind the blue-and-white velvet sky above us. We sat in silence watching as a baby rabbit courageously inched closer and closer to Marty Bell’s extended hand to nibble timidly at the proffered peppermint. It was one of those bright, breezy, beautiful days that blew one’s worries away.
Dark as molasses with a welcoming smile that is quick as his wit, Marty Bell is always looking for a way to be a blessing to the other men and the unit. He was placed in the perfect position to do both when he was assigned to work 18 and 19 dorms’ recreational yards.
“The water seems colder, the clouds fluffier,” Low Key had drawled, looking up to the sky with his arm spread wide after Marty had acquired the job a week prior.
We’d all laughed, but Marty Bell did keep the cooler full of ice and fresh water. He kept the yard spotless and was quick to see if anyone else needed refills from the cooler when he headed that way, inspiring other men to show the same consideration. Marty Bell is a genuinely good brother who leads by example, so I wasn’t surprised when he shared his righteous plan with me.
Marty Bell’s cute, furry friend had demolished the tasty treat and bounced away. We sat across from each other at one of the new picnic tables that Warden Cozby had graciously authorized so that we would no longer have to sit on the hard concrete to play board games or stand while socializing. The picnic tables were only one way that the unit’s first female head Warden had ushered in positive and productive change, brought compassion to the corrections.
“Labor Day,” Marty Bell paused in thought. “I think I’m going to ask Tiny to let me do something special for the dorms.” He cut the strip of taffy in half and slid a piece to me.
“Something special? Like what?” I bit into the candy with a smile of satisfaction. “Appreciate it, bro.” It was good.
“I’d like to bring out the Cornhole boxes, the Frisbees, fill the volleyball court, and …” he took a dramatic breath, “bring out the music!” He laughed at the audacity of his vision.
“You talking about doing it big!” I laughed too. The music had never been brought out, to my knowledge, but I knew Tiny, the 6’5, over 300-pound recreational supervisor, who was anything but tiny, to be a good officer–-always eager to help men who were trying to help themselves.
“Tiny will sign off on it,” Marty Bell voiced my thoughts. “But, to bring out the speakers and all of that equipment, the warden will have to give her approval.”
I thought back to Warden Cozby’s words when she’d first stepped on the unit several months back. “I believe that everyone can be rehabilitated, and that’s my job and chief objective: creating and promoting the opportunities for these men to rehabilitate themselves and start marching toward reaching their full potential as human beings.”
She’d been true to her words and manifested minor miracles. Gang members and drug dealers had become true men of God, delivering the Gospel, and sharing their inspiring testimonies from the dorms to high security (restrictive housing). She’d constantly raised the bar of expectation and the men had constantly exceeded it. It was refreshing to have someone believe in the best in you.
“I can have Too Black, one of the Field Ministers, to speak with her. I think she’ll give us the okay.” I was already signing up to play my part.
Marty Bell nodded his short black and gray curls in agreement. “I’m going to try and go ahead and till a track around the yard, too,” he pointed to the lumpy, uneven, football–sized field that made up the outside recreational yards for 18 and 19 dorms.
“I’ll help you out,” I volunteered, feeding off his enthusiasm, ready to step up to the challenges and make history on the unit.
Marty Bell and I sat there alone for over an hour, enjoying the blessed day, visualizing a brighter Labor Day, discussing all the details, the officers and offenders who would be necessary to manifest his vision. “A Labor Day of Love,” I unconsciously named the event. “A Day of Reflection and Refinement,” I gave it a theme.
“I really want to make this happen for everybody,” Marty rose from the table on fire, ready to create the dialogues and cultivate the spirits to do exactly that. “I’m going to make it happen,” he stated more assuredly, giving me a fist bump in departure.
I caught brother Tariq as I was headed back to 18 dorm. “Marty Bell got an idea for a carnival–like event on Labor Day. I was thinking that all of us could grab a corner for reflection and refinement. Men of God talking about our challenges and accomplishments, sharing knowledge, and planning how we can finish 2022 strong and start 2023 stronger as better men and mentors.”
“Brother, I’m down for that! Anything positive that’ll provide these younger men with the tools to be successful–-just tell me when and where and, Allah willing, I’ll always be there.” Tariq had been educating men within the system for over two decades. He didn’t disappoint.
Other brothers were optimistic, but a bit skeptical. “It sounds good, but those speakers and music, all of that equipment ain’t moving without Warden Cozby’s signature,” Peer Educator Patterson told me.
“So, we get her to okay it,” I shrugged nonchalantly.
“Like I said, it sounds good.” He gave me a look like it wasn’t that easy. “But that equipment is worth thousands of dollars and …”
I moved on to other brothers and lost a little more steam with each one. “Maaann,” Black Mack frowned. “They don’t even have enough people to feed us half the time,” he exaggerated. “Where they gonna get the staff to pull that off?”
“We’re the staff!” I snapped. “We don’t need extra officers to supervise us.”
“Not going to happen.” He shook his bald head, gave me a flash of gold teeth, and walked away.
Again, the words of Warden Cozby echoed in my head, “I think the men can be trusted to carry and conduct themselves accordingly,” she’d stated to less enlightened officers as she opened more and more doors of opportunity for the men to showcase their talents, refine their crafts, and reflect their change.
Without extra officer’s supervision, religious services had become weekly revivals with a rainbow of talented musicians playing their hearts out on their long–denied instruments to touch and change hearts, bringing love, light, and joy to the unit in abundance. Some of the most notorious shot callers on the unit had left gangs for God, motivating others to leave behind their negative, self–destructive lifestyles.
Shoota Rich, one of the most phenomenal and multi–talented artists on the unit, had discovered his gift in a closed custody (G5) cell and immediately began utilizing it to serve God. He’d risen in custody, moved to the dorms, and reduced Mrs. Eve of Real–Life Ministries to tears with the performance of his poignant single, “My Story.” Warden Rodriguez and Major Thorton had run up on him with appreciation and approval when they heard his soulful, stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace” at the unit’s first annual Day With God.
Shoota, Frogg, Fat Daddy, Nu–Nu, Kush, and many more had all stepped into authentic manhood and answered their calling to be better fathers, husbands, citizens, and servants of God; asking not what their unit could do for them, but what they could contribute to it. A Higher Power was working overtime on the Robertson Unit, and it was paying off.
Labor Day arrived with no fanfare.
I’d spoken to a couple more brothers who were in a position to make it happen.
“We’ll see.”
“Too much going on right now.”
“Anybody can’t mess with that music.”
I’d received so many noncommittal answers and lukewarm responses that my faith faltered. My initial anticipation turned to agitation. I had strangely not seen Marty Bell. I’d drifted back into my own busy, but fulfilling, routine. In all honesty, I’d all but forgotten about the grandiose plans that Mary Bell and I had discussed a week prior.
I’ve come to learn that even when no one else can see your vision, you must continue to share it. When no one else believes in you, you must continue to believe in yourself. When everybody else gives up, you must go harder. You must have the fortitude and faith to know for certain that God will never give you a mission and not provide the people and resources to accomplish it.
I was standing in the necessities line early that Labor Day morning when Wet Daddy asked, “Y’all still going to try to do something?”
I was really disappointed with myself at how quick I’d dropped and forgotten about the whole affair. “I don’t know. I’ll get with Marty Bell to see what we can pull together,” I mumbled. Maybe we could all just get together to chop it up.
I dropped my linens in my cubicle and headed outside…
THE BANGING BEAT STUMBLED ME! I stopped dead in my tracks, my jaw literally dropped, as my eyes roamed left to right. Over a dozen men were on the freshly tilled volleyball court getting it in. A couple of older Hispanic guys were playing a younger Caucasian pair in horseshoes.
“What the what!” I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t quite 8am and a three-on-three basketball game was being played.
“Yeah baby!” Big Country screamed as he scored on the Cornhole Boxes. The other seven men playing cracked up as he did a chicken–scratching dance in celebration of the win.
“Unbelievable!” I broke my paralysis to head toward the huge speakers that had been placed on the recreational yard outside the multi–purpose room. Patterson was inside deejaying like he was born to do it, but I didn’t even get to talk to him.
“O yeah!?” I threw my arms high and wide as I spied Marty Bell across the yard watching me and laughing. I shot over to him. “Bro, how y’all pull this off and I knew nothing?”
I was on an emotional high, bouncing around like a kid at the fair, and he couldn’t talk for laughing. A young brother ran between us to leap and catch a Frisbee, sending it skipping back before his feet touched the ground.
“You been in dem books and on that typewriter,” Marty Bell smiled. “I haven’t seen you.”
“Wet Daddy didn’t know–half the dorms didn’t know,” I just shook my head drinking it all in.
Marty Bell bounced his curls with a satisfied smile. He’d done it. “We were out here at 5am tilling the volleyball court, knew word would travel, and didn’t want everybody in the way.” I could tell he really enjoyed watching the men enjoying themselves.
“So, it all came together?” I slapped his hand and pulled him in for a chest hug. “You did that.”
“We did it,” he paused to step over and kick the soccer ball back to the stampeding players. We headed toward one of the picnic tables as he continued. “Tiny was all for it. Brother Minister talked to Warden Cozby, and she was too. It got easy after that.”
“Too Black came with the music?”
“Too Black, Brother Minister, Patterson, everybody came with what they had.”
“AWW–NAW!” somebody screamed at the top of their lungs as Patterson went from Lil Bootsie to Betty Wright, slowing it down. We looked over to see older brothers doing some old Temptations move and burst out laughing.
The weather started out perfect and stayed that way. The chow hall did their thing, and the cheeseburgers, hot dogs, and dessert were good. By noon there were over two hundred brothers of all races, religions, and cultures partying together like family. Marty Bell and a couple others offered blue or purple Lagoons to men getting water. I handed out taffy.
“This is the natural order of things,” I told a group of brothers. “All God’s children getting down together.”
“Getting down? You showing your age, San,” Kounting Paper cracked everybody up.
Brother Minister and Patterson rocked the party for over eight hours. Neither the old nor the young had a complaint nor a conflict. There was nothing but love.
“God was truly on that yard,” a brother would say later.
In my 27 years of incarceration, I’ve never witnessed such a perfect day. The love, the joy, the peace were real. A lot of serious matters were settled: Marty Bell and Patterson took the team dominoes title. Bo had the other brothers playing musical chairs as he ran up a dozen victories before Bruce finally sent him packing.
“He stalled me out, San,” Bo kept us laughing.
At around noon, chairs were brought out. Brother Minister and Tariq gave some powerful speeches on Labor Day, encouraging the men to ponder the past and prepare for the future. I had my own thoughts about how everyday should be Labor Day for the incarcerated:
“Rather it be laboring to build you spiritually, laboring to mend or maintain your relationships with family and friends, laboring to acquire your G.E.D. or a degree, laboring in the law library to set yourself free–-everyday should be spent laboring to become the best you that you can be.”
We truly had a ball. Warden Cozby’s faith in the men was again proved to be well-placed. As things wound down, everybody pitched in to pack up, and there wasn’t a scrap of paper left on the yard. Ice Cube’s “I Gotta Say It Was A Good Day” was a fitting finale for everyone to orderly file in on. So, we did.
“See, I told you all that the men could be trusted,” Warden Cozby told the naysayers. And then she got back to her business of bringing the best out of men. Similar events have now been held for both G4 and G5 housing areas, likewise without any negative incidents.
On behalf of the entire Robertson Unit, we’d like to thank Warden Cozby, Sgt. Freeman, SPHO Reyes, Tiny, all of the Field Ministers, Peer Educators, food officers and good men like Marty Bell who’ve gone that extra mile to make this a safer and saner unit, one that is more conducive to rehabilitation and preparing for a successful reentry into society.
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