As a part of our creative writing class on Tuesdays, we often have guest speakers from Duke Divinity. The message underlying each is the need for the world to hear our voices, even as the state intends to silence us forever. On August 17th our guest speaker’s main message was no different, but much more powerful considering the source. “Find ways to stand up to injustice by saying ‘I am here in every way you can’.” Bryan Stevenson’s words inspired me like no other and, for the first time in my life I can unabashedly claim to have met one of my heroes.

Author of Just Mercy, executive director and founder of the Equal Justice Initiative in Alabama, professor of law at NYU, and Harvard graduate it is easy to understand why he has spoken before the U.S Supreme Court 5 times, and been awarded the MacArthur “Genius” Grant. Listening to him unravel the inequities of criminal justice in America and capital punishment was thoroughly fascinating. Even though we were allowed to watch one of his TED talks the week before and had an idea about what to expect the entire room hung on his every word. He is a rock star in our world for the dozens of condemned men he has saved, his constant fight against injustice and much, much more.

In a lot of ways Bryan Stevenson’s ability to weave complex concepts into engaging true stories and leave you wanting more is similar to Malcom Gladwell. In all of Gladwell’s books one may find psychological theories and statistics that might bore anyone outside of the field, except they are expertly described in conjunction with simple relatable examples that help readers learn without realizing it. This is the mark of a true master and Bryan Stevenson is exactly that.

There were some harrowing statistics mentioned that anyone familiar with criminal justice or paying to the attention knows, but the general public is less conversant in:

--Nationwide 154 people have been exonerated from death row since capital punishment was reinstated in 1977. “If an airline” said Mr. Stevenson, “had a similar rate of airplane crashes not a single plane would be allowed to take off.  Yet we continue to execute people even as one out of nine death row prisoners are found to be innocent.

--In the 21st century 1 in 3 black male children will be incarcerated in the US. A rate that has increased over the last thirty years.

--70 million Americans have a criminal record and are restricted from many kinds of employment opportunities, loans and housing.

--The U.S. is the only democratic nation in the world to sentence children under 14 year of age to life in prison.

The most interesting point in Bryan Stevenson’s lecture was his discussion of proximity. Being proximate to change is the only way to create a lasting difference in any given situation. Real change in the criminal justice system, not the sort that is merely talked about, comes from working in the trenches with prisoners who need to be habilitated before they can be rehabilitated. Proximity to change means action instead of complacency, knowledge of every aspect of a problem and a willingness to apply that knowledge in a just way.

By acknowledging all of a problem this places you in a position to impact the narrative of a story. If the old narrative is “don’t talk about slavery and racism”, the new narrative must be a thorough discussion on that very subject. For those of us on death row the old narrative is our alleged inhumanity, so the new narrative must be a display of our humanity, showing any who will witness that we are more than men condemned to die.

Before Bryan Stevenson left I got a chance to speak with him and obtain a signed copy of his book Just Mercy . It was affirming in a way I didn’t think possible on death row. He saw our humanity, recognized it and gave us many jewels of wisdom. And the most poignant advice of his visit? “Hopelessness is the enemy of what we’re trying to achieve. Being on death row is an exhausting experience but you must fight it to maintain your humanity.” I certainly intend to.

It was an honor Mr. Stevenson. An absolute honor.

“Would you realize what Revolution is, call it Progress; And would you realize what Progress is, call it Tomorrow.”

--Victor Hugo                                                    

Allow to me to apologize in advance for any offense taken by the following essay. My intent is not to insult or mock but to elucidate an ongoing problem we have the power to change. It is my hope that upon hearing what I have to say you will spread the word to those whom it applies and together we can make some productive changes.

 Tomorrow is here but we are missing progress in the most basic of areas: social etiquette. We’ve been afforded an opportunity unlike any other death row in America – the ability to congregate in the Multi-purpose room to learn. There is only one reason to be in this room and that is to learn. Whether it’s about religion, writing, yoga, debate or drama our continued education as a group is essential to mentally thriving on death row. If we do not seize this final opportunity and utilize what can be gleaned from these classes we all suffer, and will die as individuals who could have done better but chose not to.

I was recently asked why more people don’t sign up for the mental health classes offered by Dr. Kuhns and why attendance is down. There are roughly 150 people in Unit III but only 60 or so sign up. Of that number there is an average of ten absences every week, though it should be pointed out there are never absences when pizza is given away at the end of a six month semester.

 My response was that while some people aren’t interested in the topics, group activities or the idea of a classroom, there are other who would like to sign up but are dissuaded by an environment where just about anything goes. If they wanted to hear the same tired attitudes and comments from the same tired people, I was told, they could remain on the block to achieve that effect.

 I don’t disagree with the sentiment. As someone who has pursued an education beyond the classroom I can recognize the value and necessity of quiet order. It’s not enough to have a schedule and desire to learn – there must be an environment conducive to productivity. While it’s understood this is prison, our classroom should be able to transcend that stereotypical excuse. My only refuge to learn should not be locked in a cell with music blaring to drown out the bullshit in the dayroom.

 In a relatively unstructured setting where basic social etiquette is ignored and communication limited, it’s difficult to retain information accurately or effectively. A recent example is the confusion that arose in the speech and debate class because nobody really knew which position we were to argue. This was caused by a lack of attention, simultaneous conversations, and no real agreement on the topic. Similar problems have occurred in every class over the last six months.

 Freedom requires responsibility and discipline. Dr. Kuhns and the volunteer instructors are not here to enforce rules, they’re trying to help us learn. It’s our duty as adults to take the flexibility we’ve been granted and respond with maturity and intelligence.

 There are some simple rules that govern most classroom situations and should be easy to follow, but over time they’ve been replaced with complacency, disorder and disrespect.  Some common attitudes are:

• Why should I bother to complete an assignment when there are no grades, tests or consequences for failure? It’s not like we get credit for this stuff.
  
  
• We are in prison – who cares what you say or think?
  
  
• My opinion is the greatest and damn what anyone else believes!
  
   As we all know by this time everyone in the room has stopped listening because it’s hard to respect a person who only hers what’s coming out of his own mouth.
  
   At the start of the Writing from Captivity class we came up with a list of simple guidelines to follow while in the classroom:
  
   
  
  

1. Be respectful and silent while someone else is talking. Refrain from private conversations with your buddy or horseplay when you’re bored.
   
   
2. Raise your hand to speak. If you’re passed over more than once it probably means no more feedback is needed or you’ve already said enough.
   
   
3. Pass the mic after you’ve made a brief point or asked a question. You are not there for story time, diatribes or dissertations. Everybody has an opinion, but not every opinion needs to be shared. Also, avoid commenting on every subject – you’re not slick – pass the mic.
   
   
4. Fulfill your obligations as a student by trying hard to complete every assignment and show up at class.
   
   
5. Be aware your behavior is yours to control and not the fault of any other person in the room. Be conscious your actions have an impact on the group and make positive, progressive contributions rather than oppressive ones.
   
    Our purpose in this room is to acquire the knowledge and skills necessary to evolve as individuals. How can we achieve that goal if our time together is squandered on irrelevant arguments? What good is an opinion if it runs roughshod over others or is whispered where none can hear it? The revolution must begin somewhere and what better place to move forward than with our own thinking.
   
    Viva la revolution!
   
   

 

 

The above essay was an assignment in our writing class: write about a revolution. In an attempt to keep things fresh and address a recurring problem in one fell swoop, I felt the need to address our class directly. Dr. Kuhns and the volunteers and those prisoners who try hard every time they attend class loved this reiteration of social etiquette. It is something we all need to be reminded of now and then, myself included. So as long as we remain conscious that in a room full of people there are conversational “rules of the road”, it should be easy enough to avoid stagnant traffic jams and fender benders.

When the judge sentenced me to death in 1999, the following thought was nowhere in my mind: in 16 years you’ll still be on death row and preparing to act in the stage play Twelve Angry Men, by Reginald Rose.

What???

I would have called you loony and told you to lay off the drugs. Act and recite lines from memory? Yeah, right. Next you’ll tell me the New England Patriots will win four Super Bowls and there will be a black president. Truth be told there were a lot of “nevers” in my mind back then that have since come to pass, but being fully engaged in a dramatic theater production in a maximum security prison has been pretty mind blowing.

First, the irony. Twelve Angry Men takes place in Chicago during the late 50s. An all white male jury must decide the fate of a 19 year old minority kid accused of stabbing his father to death. If they find him guilty he’ll be executed. The jurors are nameless, identifiable only by personality and opinion. All of them are angry about something, with Juror #8 the only person upset over the injustice about to be perpetrated by the other jurors.

Juror #8 believes, despite a delinquent past, the kid is innocent. This juror knows the burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt has not been met by the prosecution. Telling the other men they’re wrong won’t work. Their ignorance of the law, prejudices, and indifference must be overcome in a masterful game of chess that maneuvers them into an enlightened position.

When our drama class began we read Euripides’ Antigone; Arthur Miller’s The Crucible; and Reginald Rose’s Twelve Angry Men. After reading through each play we saw a movie version to help cement the story in our minds. Henry Fonda and Lee J. Cobb in Twelve Angry Men were phenomenal, it’s a good thing I paid close attention to their characterization of Jurors #8 and #3.

We had to try out for parts in the play, each of us attempting a few lines of the character we thought ourselves capable of doing. I was not confident in trying out for Juror #12, who has the fewest lines. Talking in front of a group of people is outside my comfort zone, so you can imagine that acting isn’t even in the same solar system.

After a week we got assigned our parts. Me? Juror #3’s understudy. Maybe if you know a little about Twelve Angry Men you understand Juror #3 is the primary antagonist to Juror #8. I wasn’t worried though because the guy who got selected for the part is an outspoken, in-your-face sort of person. Some of us refer to him as the mayor of Who-ville since he seemed to have assumed that position without asking anybody. Did I mention this guy is “assertive” in away that can be construed as  . . . well, you get the idea.

Anyway, the mayor of Who-Ville was sent to the hole two weeks into rehearsals, accused of conspiring, fraternizing with, or otherwise doing inappropriate things with female staff. None of us really know what that drama is about, just that he’s under investigation until September. Better luck next election Mr. Mayor.

Anyway, this forced me into the role of Juror #3, played by Lee J. Cobb in the movie, and has made me reach into the depths of my imagination to play the part. Ha. Hahahahaha! It’s a good thing I have a background in Dungeons and Dragons, a role playing game that functions around the idea of creating a character and building that person (or creature) to survive in a fantasy realm. Not too much different from pretending to be a juror. Or an actor.

July 31, 2015

The People’s Forum

P.O. Box 191

Raleigh, NC 27602

Killing In the Name Of . .

On July 27, 2015, the state Senate approved the “Restoring Proper Justice Act,” a bill banning access to information about the chemical cocktail used to execute death row prisoners. It also removes the requirement for doctors to be present during an execution, instead allowing other medical personnel to assist in the administration of the lethal injection.

The bill is designed to restart the death penalty in North Carolina after a nine year hiatus, cutting through the dissent of citizens who oppose capital punishment and ignoring the facts. Rather than listen to reason, legislators such as NC House Rep. Leo Daughtry push to resume a fundamentally flawed punishment that has no room for error.

Over the course of my sixteen years incarcerated on death row, thirty-two men have been executed. Eight innocent men have been exonerated. Over a hundred others had their sentence or conviction overturned and reduced – a reversal rate of 71%.

By now the public should be well aware of the many flaws attached to capital punishment in North Carolina: prosecutorial misconduct, police misconduct, grossly ineffective defense counsel, racially biased juries, racially disproportionate juries, hidden or lost exculpatory evidence, poorly collected and analyzed DNA evidence, coerced and forged confessions, coerced witnesses, jailhouse snitch testimony for sentence cuts and more.

It has been routinely demonstrated the death penalty does not reduce violent crime, dissuade would-be killers, or otherwise impact murder rates. It’s an overpriced, outdated excuse for lawmakers to wield excessive force on incapacitated criminals – most of whom have served at least two decades in prison. Revenge killing? More like a bunch of sharks feeding on defenseless swimmers.

The shark can’t help what it is. As Rep. Daughtry said in an interview in front of cameras, “We don’t carry out the law, we make it.” In other words, the facts don’t matter to him or a majority of the legislators in the state House and Senate. They just want to execute somebody. Since this is the case what makes North Carolinians believe the facts will ever matter to lawmakers?

If NC representatives can overlook the SBI mishandling hundreds of serology, ballistics and DNA reports, Henry McCollum being exonerated after 30 years on death row, and the arbitrary nature of a death sentence – there is little to stop them from ignoring the facts related to voter ID laws, marriage equality, inadequate teacher pay, environmental contaminants from fracking, a lack of effective care for the mentally ill, and other issues near and dear to voters.

North Carolina legislators make laws that execute potentially innocent men, killing in the name of the citizens who vote them into office. One sure way to prevent this from continuing is to vote those politicians who ignore the facts out of office. Make it known you don’t want to be represented by people who disregard life, liberty, or equal protection under the law. If, instead, you stand by and allow a bill such as the “Restoring Proper Justice Act” to resume executions in your name, don’t be surprised when the sharks turn on you.

Lyle C. May

People tell stories in prison all the time. Besides eating, sleeping, working or watching sports it’s one of those things we do just about every day. So when it was announced death row would have its first quarterly Story Slam I thought: Wow. How exciting. What’s the difference between that and another installment of “I caught a marlin and it was so big it towed our boat”? The answer to that is . . .
                At the story slam we were to be judged by the audience on a scale of 1-5 for categories such as structure, creativity, and presentation. There was a 6 minute time limit per person, so if the story was longer than that points were deducted. Theme didn’t matter so much this time because we were all getting accustomed to the format, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
                6 minutes the way I read is about six pages double spaced or roughly 1100 handwritten words. This does not account for acting, audience reaction, forgotten lines, or glossophobia (the fear of public speaking). General nervousness was to be expected, but in addition to the fifteen death row prisoners there were eleven mental health and programs staff, two associate wardens, and three guests – one of whom was Allen Gurganos, noted author of Diary of the Last Confederate War Widow. Suddenly, that story you’ve told over the years to anyone who will listen just got a lot harder to tell.
                I found this out when it was my turn. After weeks of memorizing my story about the Quarry and acting out certain parts to engage anybody listening, I found out there is a significant difference in practice and center stage. I am a poor public speaker to begin with, though it’s not quite the level of glossophobia, and this is why. I’m always willing to try things like speech and debate. Or Story Slams.
                Fortunately, there were other stories much better than my telling and they rightfully won the top three places. At the next story slam in November the top winners will sit out and give others a chance to win. There will be a theme this time, however, though we won’t discover what it is until October. After three story slams we will have a “Slampionship”. If a best selling author is the first story slam’s guest I may develop a severe case of glossophobia for the Story Slam Championship. Though the general public is unable to attend any death row story slam I strongly urge you to check out the Moth on NPR radio to get an idea of what competitive storytelling is like.
 

 
The following is a version of The Quarry, which placed 4th at the First Death Row Story Slam.
 
                In my hometown of Brunswick there was a crazy, glue huffing hobo named Calvin. He was frequently seen with a plastic bag attached to his face with model plane glue or begging. The story goes that Calvin used to be an honor roll student in high school before he attended a party at the Thopsham quarry and accidentally overdosed on LSD during a police raid. He aint’ been right ever since.
                There were many such urban legends tied to the quarry – some even involved drownings, robberies, shoot outs and a few pairs of cement shoes. What was clear is the quarry’s murky green water was so deep and impenetrable nobody knew what was in there.
                One summer a friend asked me to go swimming at the quarry. It was more of a dare really because who the hell swims at a place where people are alleged to have disappeared? 14 year old boys with nothing better to do. That’s who.
                When we get to the quarry on our bikes, I saw the only way to get in the water was to jump from the cliffs. We started out at an 8 foot cliff and worked our way to a 20 foot cliff where my friend showed off his acrobatic skills and landed in the water like a pro. I was a mediocre swimmer at best and it took time to rally my nerve before jumping from the cliff while holding my nose.
                About an hour or so later a couple of townies pulled up in their pick up truck and got out drinking some beer. One of them called over to us, “Hey! I bet you boys ain’t got hair enough on your nuts to try the 60’! I’ll bet a six pack of beer neither one of you can!” And with that he put a six pack of Miller’s on the ground in front of him, leaned against the truck and swilled a beer like some TV advertisement.
                My friend immediately said, “Hell no! Lyle, we gotta get going” which should have been my cue to leave. He was the daredevil, not me. But that was a six pack of Miller’s  -- more than enough for the two of us, not to mention the bragging rights to go with it. Without engaging my brain I opened my big mouth and said, “Sure.” Even the townie was surprised.
                I ignored my friend’s protests and walked to the nearest path up the 60 foot cliff. Most of it had to be climbed and as I did thoughts of exactly how dangerous this was entered my mind. So did all of the stuff that might be in the water; cars, bikes, rusted scrap metal, jutting rocks and the bodies of everyone dumb enough to jump from this cliff. In my imagination I saw myself impaled on a piece of metal, held under by clutching skeletons, and my legs broken and spine snapped by unseen shallows. By the time I reached the top of the cliff, I was TERRIFIED.
                I’m not exaggerating when I tell you this monstrous cliff was six storeys above the water. Also, the area of water into which I had to jump was obscured by a large tree branch and more rock. I kicked a loose stone over the side and heard it strike the cliff all the way down with a clack. . . clack . . . .clack clack . . .! Unable to see anything through the leaves I yelled out, “Hey! There’s no damn water down there!”
                “Yeah there is!” came a faint reply. “Jump!”
                “I can’t see anything!” I backed away from the edge.
                “JUMP!”
                I instantly regretted the bet and wanted to climb back down the cliff and go home. I’ve done dangerous jumps from the walking bridge spanning the fast moving Androscoggin River but at least I could see the water. Dying for a six pack, even if it was Miller’s, wasn’t just dumb --  it was bat shit crazy.
                I thought of Calvin then, even as the temperature seemed to have dropped this high up. He threw his life away in a single senseless act of . . . and then I understood. It had nothing to do with the danger – even if my future was about to be a whole lot shorter than Calvin’s.
                Heart hammering in my chest I paced amongst the trees. This was about proof. For Calvin, it might have been to show his brother or friends he could be trusted during a raid. Me? The townies didn’t really matter. I had nothing to prove to anyone. I paused then, sick with fear, and heard a tiny whisper of disgust in my head “coward!” And so it was I needed to prove it to myself. That I could be fearless. I ran the, four long strides  . . . and jumped.
                HOOOOLY SHIIIIT!!!!!
                When I crashed into the water my knees slammed into my chest and it felt like a giant has smashed me from the clouds back down to earth. Momentum carried me so deep in the water my feet scraped the jagged bottom. Fear of what it was propelled me upward as I swam, but it still seemed to take forever to reach the surface. When I did, sweet air rushed into my lungs.
                I found a place to climb out on rubbery legs and saw everyone staring at me. The townie spoke first and handed me the beer. “Jesus H. Christ kid! I wasn’t serious. You’re a friggin lunatic!” My friend was smoking a rumpled Pall Mall and handed it to me after I dried off. I took a deep drag.
                As we rode our bikes back to Brunswick that day we didn’t say much. I had silenced the doubt and there was no need to interrupt my cold Miller’s.