Getting Life

I am sitting here on my bunk staring at the concrete floor of my cell.  I can’t stop.  I can’t move.  It is like I am watching a movie of my life play out in my mind.  All my failures, all my triumphs.  Every moment clearly portrayed to its heartbreaking extreme.

My God, I have been here so long.  My life is filled with so many moments.  Too many of which have been behind bars

A sob racks my frame as I look around my cell.  Is this all there is?  Is all I own or will ever own contained within this small space.

I want to pluck out my eyes so not to see what little my life has been reduced to.  Such a meaningless existence.  All the voids in my life now filled with clutter so that I won’t feel empty.

I hate it but, I can’t stop.  I must fill all the empty moments with motion, reading, television, babbling conversation.  Silence is unacceptable.  Not the absence if sounds, that I would actually welcome.  But, silence of the soul.  That deafening sense that my life is worth nothing.

My past is a collage of half remembered pains.  My present is a constant state of longing.  My future an endless stretch of blackness.

What do I want?  What do I need to fill me, to bring some form of life to my deaden being?  I have entertainment.  I have learning.  I have hobbies.

Love, by God I want love!  To be someone for someone.  To feel that gentle touch.  To hear that whispered word.  To look into a women’s eyes and see all that I am, all that I was, all that I will become reflected without judgment, only acceptance.

What man doesn’t desire to be a women’s heart.  To hold, kiss, look to, feel this other being’s soul made warm by love’s action.  To be protector, companion, friend, lover, confidant, partner, equal in the masculine to all her feminine.  Tied together voluntarily by fate, by self made chains, ropes, ribbons of honesty, respect, and loyalty.

If prison has taken anything away from me it is the chance to love and to be loved.  To look across the crowded room and find the person who is my world looking at me the person who is their’s.

The longing for this, the horrible soul rending pain of it is matched by knowledge that I did this to myself.  I stepped into the pit.  And now I will never know love.

M.

(The class referenced in this story is part of a program that allows people from Graterford to take a class with students from Temple University) 

On the 8^th of September 2009, the Temple half of the class visited the “notorious” Graterford penitentiary, to meet for the first time with their new class-mates whom just happen to be incarcerated.  I was familiar with the Graterford half of the class having seen them around, working with them, and attended a few classes with them.  But also, there were many new and intriguing people for me to get to know.

Honestly, I must admit that I felt somewhat nervous in the beginning.  I was surprised to find my palms a little sweaty, my mouth a little dry, and for just a moment I had the urge to bashfully hide behind my text book.  Nevertheless, I wasn’t the only apprehensive one there: one student was nervously playing with her jewelry and others were sitting in a defensive posture (with their arms and legs crossed), not to mention a multitude of tapping feet and shifting eyes.  Yet, the temple students and the Graterford students all had our “poker” faces on.

Then, Professor Pumpa took the floor and used her idiosyncratic sense-of-humor to help release some of the very palpable tension from the auditorium, with limited effect.  Before the professor moved onto the upcoming class exercises, she spoke briefly about labels and introduce the term “trigger words”-reiterating the significance and importance of dropping the use of labels from our speech.

I was struck by the concept that I mentioned it to a benign fellow on the block I was housed on and he directed me to a theory known as “social reaction perspective” or “labeling theory”.  After reading a little bit about it, I can now understand the professor’s distaste for our labeling of ourselves or worse, allowing others to label us. 

Not only do words have meaning, but they can be extremely powerful.  There, danger awaits.  When we allow others to impose labels such as “boy” or “girl” or “felon”, “prisoner” or “lifer” on us, we actually allow the possibility that we may accept the “looking glass self” depiction of us; perhaps internalizing the lesser self turning their labels into our “self fulfilling prophecy”.

Ultimately, depending on the contexts of the words- labels –may either serve to exile a person from the masses of the free, or may allow a person to ascend towards his/her more celestial self when positive words are applied.  Thus, our lives have more meaning than just some simple label can express, and we must not ignore the ramification of the words we use.

Relief!  I understand and agree with one of my classmates on her one word choice of her feeling, at the end of class.  I too felt relieved to see that finally someone noticed we, the Graterford students, were actually just normal people whom happen to be labeled; “felon”, “convict” or “lifer”.

In spite of the way society views us, it’s not who we truly are.  As the Romans once said many many moons ago, at the end we should just let “res ipsa loquitur”; i.e. the thing speak for itself.

J.V.G.

At times I find it extremely difficult to relate to my family and friends.  No matter how hard I try to explain my situation, I believe they fully understand.  It’s not so much my sentence, but rather the two opposing worlds we now share.  The view of what prison life consist of is way off from what it really is.  Most people believe prison is exactly what they see on television.  So to break down what prison is to the outside world is hard.  I believe you can’t know about a place until you know the people who live there.  Most of these people are of good nature, they just made poor choices somewhere along the way.  As time goes by, it’s even harder for those of us that are in prison to relate to the ones we love outside these walls.  Speaking for myself, it’s very challenging.  My family and friends are outside the state of Pennsylvania.  So visits are rare and my calls family/friends are scarce.  So most contact is done through the mail.  That’s the only way for me to really get a grasp on what’s going on out “there”.  People grow older, they die, they move; so many things happen that it’s difficult for a person to “stay in the loop”.

When I first came into the system, the support and love I received was abundant.  Over time I went from getting 5-8 pieces of mail a week to 5-8 pieces a month.  As time goes by and people get older, their responsibilities increase.  So the time they once had to sit down and write you a 3-5 page letter turned into a thinking of you card whenever they do just that; think of you.  Your true friends and overall loved ones keep the contact.  And maybe along the way you find new people who want to become somewhat of a support to you.  So in my opinion, as long as you are able to love there will always be someone willing to receive the love that you have.

Of the men here at Rockview, the ones who have the strongest family ties are the ones who aren’t assholes!  Let’s be real, would anyone want to be friends with assholes?   There are guys here who believe that their families owe them, despite the fact that they treated them like trash when they were home.  They abused their families/friends in so many ways that it’s hard to think that the pople who used to take care of these scumbags aren’t happy that they’re in prison.

For example, when I was home I was a fair guy.  I never hurt people physically, verbally, or emotionally.  I was a man of my word. (Not saying that I’m not the same person) I was a good guy.  As a result, I still have a lot of my childhood friends who’ve now become teachers, businessmen/women, doctors still standing by me.  I also have their parents in my corner along with my entire family.  Most importantly I have my high school teachers that still write me to this day.  How many people do you think can say that their 9^th grade English teacher or their 12^th grade Science teacher are still in contact with them after 10 plus years of being in prison.  To me that shows a lot about who a person is.

After being in prison for a certain amount of time, other inmates or even staff members kind of fill in for family.  Anytime a person comes to a place and is shown a side of kindness, guidance, or maybe even love that they never experienced before, I believe they kind of adopt that person as somewhat of a family member.  There are younger guys that I kind of look at as little brothers.  I want them to succeed in this life and have a lot of my characteristics that made me loved by so many.  I become that support that they don’t have on the streets.  In some cases, I believe I have stronger relationships with a lot of these younger guys than they may have with their parents.  The crazy thing is I’m only 28 years old, a few years older than they are.  But I encourage them to be great.  Something that they never had received from their parents.

In the long run, family and good friendships are a great thing to have.  That kind of support is hard to come by now a days.  Everyone seems to be so much more selfish than things used to be.  No one really wants to take the time and help a stranger as opposed to criticizing someone for a dumb decision.  I believe that we have to make sure our mistakes aren’t worthless.  There’s always an underlying message that if we choose to ignore it, we will be repeating the same errors time and time again.  It’s our relationships that we as inmates have and continue to build that will determine who we become in the future.

C.

Fear is something I am very familiar with. I have lived with it all my life. I have grown accustomed to it and don’t expect that I will ever live without it.

It started when I was very young and my parents began abusing me. My father started raping me when I was still very young. Any resistance was met with physical violence.

He made it very clear to me that he would kill me if I ever told anyone. I remember him saying many times that he would rather go to jail for murder than for what he did to me. I was terrified.

I remember being sent to my bedroom for the night but I knew I couldn’t go to sleep because he would be up later. It was worse if I was awakened from a sound sleep to be raped, so I stayed awake and waited in fear for what I knew was coming.

If I looked at him like I hated him it brought violent abuse upon me. I was expected to pretend that he was a good father and that there was nothing wrong with how he was treating me. I was supposed to praise him for what little he did for me.

The only way I could achieve this was by repressing the memories of abuse. I became very good at forgetting the abuse as soon as it was over, or by the next morning.

When I was about eight years old I told him that one day I would kill him if he didn’t stop abusing me. My parents’ reaction to that was to try and make me kill myself. They did everything they could to make me miserable and feel bad about myself. They told me that the things they did were OK because I was so weird.

They neglected my needs and belittled my feelings. They would not spend any money on me. My elementary school gave me a vision test and sent home a letter saying I needed glasses.

Although they had bought glasses for my brother and sister, they would not do it for me. I got my first pair of glasses when I was a senior in high school, and I bought them with my own money.

I was afraid to ask for anything I needed because I knew I would be harangued about how short of money they were and how selfish I was to ask for things. My father had a sports car and an airplane while I wore hand me down clothes and sneakers that hurt my feet.

I got one haircut per year and maybe a few articles of clothing at the beginning of the school year. I even wore hand me down socks with holes in them.

If anyone asked why my hair was so long or why I didn’t wear glasses they were told I refused o get a haircut and wouldn’t pick out a pair of glasses. I didn’t dare tell people the truth because I knew the horrors that awaited me later that night if I crossed them.
My parents were really good liars and, outwardly, very normal middle-class decent people. My mother told my teachers that I was incredibly arrogant and enlisted their help to humiliate me and teach me modesty. Her goal was to bring about my suicide, which they longed for.

My parents also told anyone who would listen that I told terrible lies. On the rare occasions when I found the courage to tell someone of the abuse, their response would always be to tell me that my parents warned them about me and that I should stop lying and obey my parents.

When I could not get help I would repress the memories so I could just go on. People were sure that the stories were lies when I didn’t remember them later.

As I got older and stronger I started fighting my dad off me. This increased their desire to bring about my suicide and they promised me that I would not live to be eighteen and move out.

My mother put rat poison in my food one time and put something else in it many times, which made me tired and weak and unable to fight my father.

I just wanted to live, and I promised them I would never tell as I bargained for my life. This was a source of amusement to them and they never agreed to let me live.

My brother and sisters largely participated in the abuse. I overheard a family meeting where it was decided that I had to die to stop me from killing my parents someday. They denied that anything was wrong to anyone who asked, and they participated in most efforts to make me feel responsible for the abuse.

There were times when I considered suicide and many more times when I was in genuine fear of being murdered. I didn’t know what to do or where to go, so I just forgot everything and managed to go on. Many times my family laughed at me for not remembering things. I didn’t know what I didn’t remember and therefore didn’t get the joke, but I was sure it was nothing serious. Today, I can’t understand how they could have been so cruel.

My teens and twenties are largely a blur because I found drugs that helped me deeply repress my memories. I always had an irrational fear of getting beat up, but I didn’t remember the vicious beatings at the hands of my father.

When I would get close to a woman who cared about me the memories would start to come back. I would withdraw into drugs pushing the woman away and the memories back into my subconscious. I hurt a lot of women who could not understand why I rejected them when everything I said indicated that I cared. Sometimes I would completely forget about a woman I was with so that I could also forget the memories that it brought back.

I was afraid of the memories and the humiliation that came with them. I was afraid of any relationship where I was expected to open up. I was afraid of love because my parents had not loved me.

In my thirties the memories started to come back to stay. I didn’t want to run and hide anymore and the memories helped to explain why I was alone and confused.

I finally wanted to remember and the horrific pictures came flooding back. I could finally deal with the shame but not with the anger. The anger consumed me and ate away at me until Memorial Day 2002 when I murdered my parents. When I was arrested I confessed and told the police why I did it. I thought the truth would come out and I could get some closure.

However, my siblings did not confirm my stories and with my taped confession giving him a strong case the DA sought the death penalty. I pled guilty and was given two sentences of Life without the possibility of parole.

I was afraid of prison but no more afraid than I have always been. You can get used living in fear. You can get used to most any situation if you have to. In prison you would be surprised at what you can get used to.

People ask me how I can live with a life sentence. I tell them that my life was never that good and it is not that bad now. As far as fear goes, I am still afraid but I deal with it and do not show it. If they know you are afraid, you are done for. If you appear confident they usually leave you alone.

I am not suicidal anymore. On good days I live for God. On bad days I live to spite all of the people who have wanted me dead. Including my own family and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

R.

I once was a boy who read about wizards, elves, and talking about lions. I once was a boy who wanted to be a knight saving fair damsels. I once was a boy who ran through the woods wild and free. I once was a boy who dreamt of being a space explorer.

I once was a boy.

Now I am an inmate who lives with murders, rapists and thieves. Now I am an inmate who wants to be a good man. Now I am an inmate pacing my cell, no longer wild nor free. Now I am an inmate who dreams of being a husband and a father.

Now I am an inmate.

I recently wrote about compassion. A small piece about my thoughts and observations of myself and those around me. I was shocked my the response. There were many comments on how it opened eyes and made people think. But, many wondered about the writer. How did he end up there? What of his crime? My intention was not to draw focus to myself. I wanted to give a glimpse at a side of prison most people would not suspect existed, and thereby cause discussion.

Many people over the years have said to me, “M., you should tell your story.” Why? To garner sympathy? I do not want that. People should not sympathize with murderers. To create pity? Don’t pity me, I put myself here. To cause understanding? Why would I want to subject good people to the understanding of this horror. To teach? To teach what? We all know bad things, evil things happen all the time. To show that good people exist in prison? Come on, the prisoner who learns his lesson, changes his way, and goes on to help others is a movie cliche.

That being said, maybe some good could come from my sharing. Maybe reading my story would inspire someone to work with kids and stop them from walking the path I chose in life. Maybe these words could cause change for the better.

I do not seek fame or reward. I was involved in the death of another human being. I should be shunned as a person, not looked to for wisdom. If someone reads my words and discovers something about themselves, fine.

I am not wise. My life has not given me greater insight. I am only a man who may have something worthy of knowing. No more, no less than anyone else.

If you are looking for a detailed description of my crimes than stop reading now, you will be disappointed. I will only write a little about that night. Not because I am under any legal constraint, but because I am ashamed, embarrassed, and feel great guilt and remorse. I will not feed morbid curiosity. To do so would be disrespectful to the living victims of my crime. I do not wish to ever cause any more pain than I have already.

I was 14 years old the night an adult, two other boys and myself entered a group home and killed a man. I had been placed in this group home because I repeatedly ran away from my mother. Seven days earlier the two boys and myself ran away from this home. We met an adult and decided to stay with him. The day of my crime I was picked up by the authorities and taken back. Later that night I unlocked a window and ran away again. I met up with the others, who while I was gone had been planning to come to the group home, rob the place, and kill the counselor on duty.

I didn’t know, at first, that they planned to kill anyone, but I did want to go back and “grab my stuff”. We entered through the same unlocked 2nd floor window I had earlier used to leave. Once inside it was decided that the boys and the adult would go downstairs and steal the petty cash from the counselor’s room. I was handed a steak knife and told to wait upstairs, if anyone woke up I was to “take care of them”.

I knew what they were going downstairs to do, but I do now think I allowed myself to believe it. I waited in the upstairs hallway until I heard noises from below. I then, one-by-one, closed all the bedroom doors. I did not want any of the other boys staying there to wake up. I now wish someone had, I believe it would have given me the courage to act differently.

I crept downstairs to investigate the noise. Standing there I knew, I knew they were killing the counselor. I tried to open the door to his bedroom, only to have it pushed shut in my face. I turned and went back upstairs. I left that man to die. A man who had talked with me, helped me, who had devoted his life to helping troubled boys. I never said a word. I never tried anything to stop them.

Instead, I went back upstairs, sat in that hallway, and cried. I begged God that they would not kill me next. I could have left. I could have easily climbed out the window. The same window, that if I had not unlocked in the first place, would not have given us a way in. I could have run, called the police, and saved that man’s life. I did nothing. I was a selfish coward.

When I no longer heard any noises, I went back downstairs, opened the door, and watched as they searched the room. I stole a box of oatmeal cream pies and a book I had been reading when I ran away seven days before.

I waited upstairs until they were finished. We all left together, stealing the counselor’s car. I helped them dispose of their knife and bloody cloths, and used a rag to help wipe the car clean. I never said a word.

Even when we were finally arrested I did not speak up. I kept to the story the adult came up with. I did not run screaming to the police, and thank them for rescuing me. No, I went along, kept my mouth shut, and showed no emotion. It was not until the officers brought my mother that I finally broke down and confessed what happened.

I think about that night every day of my life. I think about all the things a braver person would have done. I cannot blame fear or ignorance. I knew what the right thing to do was and I chose not to do it.

You may choose not to believe this. You may think, “Oh, he is coloring it to make himself look good.” That would make no sense, my case is a matter of public record. Besides, I know what this makes me look like, I see it every time I look in the mirror, a selfish coward, who helped kill a man, better than I will ever be.

I am sorry for what I have done, not just for the murder, but for what I have done to my family as well. I know if someone told me, “M., if you agree to be killed right now, in the most torturous way possible, your victim’s family will have their one back,” I would do it without hesitation.

Many comments on the piece I wrote asked where was my compassion at the time of the murder. They are right, at that time I had no concern for anyone other than myself. I had no compassion that night for the victim, and just because I have learned it now does not mean I should be let out of prison.

Some of you reading this may say my description of those events was cold. You are right, they are. I do not enjoy thinking, talking, or writing about that night. I am not proud of my actions, and will not use any writing skill I possess to put a flourish on their description.

I know I may serve the rest of my life in prison, I do not want to but, I am not sure it is not justice. Yes, I want to be free and will always fight to do so. Yet, I know nothing I can do in all my remaining days will make up for my choices that night. I live with that and will always live with that, whether I become free again or not.

I have settled into a life here. I used to hate myself. I used to wish for death. Now I do the best I can for as long as I can. I may never be able to make up for my actions, but I can try and repay a little by being a good man. I have not forgiven myself, and I probably never will. I can, however, forgive other whatever it is that brought them to this place in life, and help those who need it. It is what I do now that matters, and making sure that I never make the wrong choice again.

My name is M., I was a boy, now I am an inmate. But, between then somewhere I became a man. I learnt honor and integrity, honesty and kindness. I learned that even though I must pay for my crime, I also must not let that crime make me and evil person. I chose to help evil that night, I now choose to not let that evil define my future. My life maybe in prison, but that does not mean that my life has no meaning.

For the record, I hated writing this. I do not want the focus on me or my crime. You should always think about the victims first. If I talk with someone or write something it is because I want thought and discussion, not sympathy and pity. Do not say I deserve a second chance because I write well. If I am given a second chance it is because I have proven myself worthy of standing in that line. I wrote this only to answer the many readers who asked, “Why?”

What is freedom? To some it is a better tomorrow, to others another day of life. Many believe freedom is the chance to choose on how many possessions someone has accumulated. To a lot of prisoners it is an ideal. To me, it is a way of living.

I am in prison, and you would think freedom would mean a release from confinement. Sure, that is one definition. Another might be the liberty to move as I wish. These would be nice, but I have found a more personal definition. Freedom is the way I view the world and my place in it, the way I exist with those around me. An emotional, mental, spiritual (if not physical) definition of freedom as an individual.

One of the most common topics of discussion in prison is: What will you do when you are free? Men here go on at length about what they will buy or eat, who they will meet or where they will go. There is so much energy spent on the dream of what might be once released, rather than focusing on what reality is now.

It is a form of escapism. Dreaming of a better time, place, or life somewhere in the future. All prisoners do it at one time or another. Concocting an ideal of freedom is a way of keeping hope alive, and hope is a necessary survival tool in prison.

I have discovered, for myself, freedom is not about location or possessions. It is striving every day to be a better person. It is the letters I write, and receive, the 15 minute phone call once a week, and time spent visiting with family and friends. It is in each second I spend tutoring, each breadth taken while comforting someone in need. Every nervous sweaty moment spent meeting new people at one of the seminars or sessions with students brought in to meet the Lifers. It is at the end of every day when I can look back and say, “I did something good today.” I see it on the last page of every book I read. It is infinite in the quiet moments and a comforting presence in a crowd. It is the morals I embraced and code of honor and integrity by which I have chosen to love. It is personal and it is my truth.

Being a prisoner, and lacking most of the worldly goods in life, it is easy to fall into the trap of believing freedom equals possession. It has taken many years for me to find my own definition of freedom. I, like so many other prisoners, confused freedom with living on the other side of the razor-wire. the desire for cars, games, parties, sex can seem to be what life is about. I found freedom once I changed the way I saw the world, what I really wanted in life, and my small place in the universe.

You may ask, “How can you think you have freedom?” Yes, I am in prison, and my movement is restricted to a predetermined area. Still, I have eyes that see, ears that hear, a heart that feels, and a mind that thinks. I have choices, and if I choose correctly, they allow me to be free. Using all I have and choosing to think and feel, act and interact in ways that make me a better person gives me live a better life. It is this ability to choose, think, feel, to be happy or sad, to live a life of purpose that has lead me to freedom.

I have not always been in prison. I remember spending time with my family, not living in a 8’x8’ cell. I remember car rides, birthdays, my first kiss, and school dances. I can remember, and in remembering I can feel, and in feeling I can know, and in that knowing I am free.

My love for family and friends and the things I have done to better myself are stones in a path. A path I extend everyday to walk to a future I create. A path of freedom, a path of discovery. I have the time and mind to explore each feeling to its utmost, follow each thought to its end. I may be in prison, but as long as I continue to walk this path I am free.

Freedom is not where you live, it is how you live. It is how you treat others and how this makes their lives better. It is getting up each morning and living a good life. it is loving yourself and finding happiness in the moment, in the little things you can choose. True freedom is not just of the body to move, but of the heart to feel, the mind to think, and the soul to shine.

What is freedom to you? Is it driving your car or helping a friend? Is it beer, video games, and sex, or spending time with your family? It is a loud party or a quiet moment on your porch sipping coffee and watching the sun rise? Be sure the freedom you have is the freedom you want. Because in the blink of an eye, one wrong choice, and you will have to learn to create your own freedom.

I may be confined, but I am free. I have created freedom for myself. I have transformed myself, found a path in life (even this life) that gives me freedom of the heart, mind, and soul, if not the body. I believe I am the better for it.

W.H.
24 years in

In 1975, Tyrone Werts was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison at the age of twenty-five. He has since been involved in the lifer’s organization, the Board of Directors of Reconstruction, Inc., The Victim Offender Reconciliation Program, the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, the End Violence Project, workshops focusing on leadership and civic pride and responsibility, the Prison Literacy Project, the National Thresholds Program, the Temple University Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program Think Tank. He is also the founder of the Lifer’s Public Safety Initiative, a crime prevention program based on Werts’ own theory of crime. He has testified before the Commission on Crime and Delinquency and the House of Representatives and received many honors, awards, and commendations. And on top of all of this, he earned two college degrees and became a licensed dental technician.


In 2009, Werts and another prisoner were the first to appear before the Pennsylvania Board of Pardons. His sentence was commuted and now, at 59, he is awaiting release.


In this letter (linked below), Werts discusses a hypothetical “Parole Act” that could save taxpayer money, enhance both public safety and justice in Pennsylvania.


Aging Out: True Justice, Fairness and Mercy

As I sat there in my cold lonely room, serving the twentieth year of a life sentence, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Where did it all go wrong”? There were so many obvious answers that came to mind right away, but as I searched into my inner self, there was always something lacking. There seemed to be more than what appeared on the surface. Every time I thought that I had an answer. I came to the realization that it was deeper than that. So I continued to dig.

I asked myself, “was it my father’s fault”? After all, he did leave room and me to fend for ourselves when he was drafted into the Vietnam Conflict. But of course that made no sense because he was back before I was four years old, and played a major part in my development as a child. I can still hear him proudly proclaiming to one of his buddies “This is my son, and I love him, and I will do my best to make sure that he has everything that he needs and most of what he wants”. Surely, my father was true to those words, as he was a good provider, and a respected family leader. I can never recall a time when I was in need of anything.

So I guess I would blame the neighborhood, after all, I did grow up in the ghetto of North Philadelphia during the gang—war days. Violence was a part of growing up. So naturally I would be prone to be a part of that right? But I knew that this was a weak attempt at a sad excuse, because I had watched so many of my friends, as well as other people in the “Hood” channel their aggressions and focus them on learning the sweet science of boxing, where they would spend hours in the gym, punching the heavy bag and sparring for round after round, until they were too tired to do anything but go home and get a good night’s rest. Many of them became professional boxers and went on to earn thousands, even millions of dollars. Instead of being engulfed by the violence around them, they sought a venue where violence was not only legal, but profitable.

Having had the “exposure to violence” excuse crushed by, the success of many professional prizefighters, I quickly turned to the old stand-by, and blamed drugs for my failures. Everybody knows that the inner city is a hot—bed for drug sellers, and that people often turn to drugs as an escape from the harsh realities of life. This excuse quickly blew up in my face in no time at all as I had to admit, that my life was always sheltered by my father, who showered me with positive belief statements and was a great role model is that he taught me everything that I would ever need to know about being a man and providing for a family. He also taught me many things about being a responsible citizen and about respecting myself and others. So I couldn’t plant the blame on drugs as an escape from cruel life because my life wasn’t one of poverty and abuses, but one that was full of people, who loved me, provided for me, and mentored me in a positive way. Add to that, the fact that so many of my childhood friends had gone on to college and were now prominent people in the career world, I could hardly lay the blame on drugs, because I had seen so many others rise above the influence, also neither of my parents used drugs.

Finally, as I put my nose to the grindstone, I resolved to meticulously replay the years of my life in an attempt to unlock the single most, determining factor that led to my present incarceration. Leaving no stone unturned, I recalled my earliest childhood memories, and try as I might, there was nothing there but love, reinforced over and over again. If it wasn’t fishing trips and quality time spent with my father, it was Sundays at church with Grandma, with family dinner afterwards. In looking at those years from every possible angle, there was nothing negative there. I thought about my childhood sweethearts, and all the fun memories of just how silly little boys and girls can be. It was a time of innocence, where I lived a carefree sheltered life; probably what most might say was the “American Dream” for an inner city youth.

Then I reached the age of sexual awakening, and as I pondered those years, I felt a sudden heaviness in my chest. This feeling increased as I thought about the things that I used to do in order to put myself in a position to be sexually active. I started with the lies that I told my parents, about where I was and who I was with, because I knew that they would not approve of me hanging with such young ladies of questionable character, many of whom were several years older than myself. My father had always told me how he could tolerate anything but a liar, and I thought about how many spankings I “didn’t get”, just because I had told the truth. Yet, here I was, lying right to my father’s face. As ashamed as I was feeling at that moment, I moved on, because I knew that I was onto something, and I had to see it through. So I thought about how the trusted son that I was would sneak out of my bedroom window at night for a rendezvous with a willing girlfriend. If she was DTF, I was definitely on the way. My stomach was in knots, as I recalled the Pandora’s Box of all the evils that came with my sexual promiscuity.

In an effort to attain greater conquests, I soon began to hang out in some of the most unsavory places in the city. Knowing that there would be eager females there, I would hang around bars and clubs until closing time. Using my youth to my advantage, I knew that one of these girls would want to hook up with someone young and innocent looking as myself. Some of the females were drop—dead gorgeous, some were landmines, and some were grenades, but it didn’t matter. My hormones were raging, and I was in full shark mode, never considering the possibility of confrontations with a jealous boyfriend (bad move). If a young lady wanted drugs, I would find some for her, if she wanted alcohol, “hey, no problem”. I was in the high—stakes world of fornication, and I was willing to do whatever I had to do in order to get the gratification I was looking for. Controlled by lust and raging hormones, I had shelved everything my parents had taught me about responsibility and respect. I was in way over my head, and when all of the lying, stealing, and drug usage came crashing down on me, I didn’t have a leg to stand on. I had spiraled out of control, entangled in a web of my own desires. In an effort to explore my new-found sexual awareness, I bad thrown all of my morals out the door. It was a miracle that I never contracted an STD.

I wept openly in my cell that night. I had finally found my ground zero. I recalled all the lives that I had disrupted in my selfishness, and it made me physically ill. I wrote individual letters to everyone I could think of, asking them to forgive me for the wrong I had done. Now, as I sit here entering my twenty fourth year of incarceration, I spend much of my time and energy warning my family members and every young person that I can, about the dangers of sexual promiscuity. I realize that there are no do—overs but if there was one thing that I would change, it would be to keep myself pure until my wedding day.

W. 24 years in