The following is a book review, written for a course on cultural diversity from which I learned a great deal about intercultural competence, and what it means to be aware of my place in the world.
 
A Review and Comparison of The Sun Does Shine
 
                The Sun Does Shine, by Anthony Ray Hinton and Lara Love, is a story about the impact of institutionalized racism and classism in the criminal justice system. Anthony Ray Hinton, “Ray” to his friends, grew up in Praco, Alabama, during the 1960s and 1970s when Birmingham earned the nickname “Bombingham” and black families hid in their bathtubs fearful a bomb would be thrown through their windows. Though Ray could have played baseball in college, without a scholarship it was not an option any more than leaving his mama alone. After high school he worked in the Praco shale mine for five years before it closed. After Ray’s first trouble with the law, which involved a stolen car and 18 months in prison, he vowed never to “step a foot wrong again”.
                A few years later, while Ray worked the nightshift at Bruno’s warehouse two restaurant managers were robbed and killed. Despite having a solid alibi of working in a locked compound, Ray is arrested and charged with capital murder. Police detectives seized a pistol from his mother’s house and claim it is the murder weapon. Ray is ultimately convicted of the murders and sentenced to death without any evidence connecting him to the crimes.
                Alabama’s death row is hell on earth and Ray struggles with the rage and anger of being an innocent man sentenced to death. For three years he speaks only to his mother and friends at visits, maintaining complete silence on death row. He discovers, by listening to other prisoners talk, that Alabama death row defendants do not receive state-funded legal representation beyond an initial appeal. After that defendants must provide their own counsel, which most cannot because they are indigent. Ray’s first lesson in the criminal justice system is that capital punishment means those without capital get punished. Equal justice in America costs money.
                Fortunately Ray and the other son death row have Bryan Stevenson, founded of the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), who knows which prisoner needs legal representation and where they are in the appellate process. Ray is assigned an attorney, thus beginning the long battle of his capital appeals. It is not until Bryan Stevenson himself represents Ray that he feels a true sense of hope. However, proving one’s innocence is not easy when you are presumed guilty and sentenced to death. Sometimes it takes decades; some innocents are executed before they can prove their case.
                Along the marathon journey to save his life and win freedom Ray concludes despair and hatred, like hope, faith, love and compassion, are choices. He chooses compassion, breaking his silence to comfort a man whose mother died, sharing brief moments of laughter with others on death row, and even initiating a book club to give guys something more to read than a Bible. The State could steal his freedom and even kill him, but they could not take away his humanity or sense of humor. Ray befriends a number of people on death row, most notably Henry Hays, the first white man Alabama sentenced to death for lynching a young black man. Ray believed, “ . . when you try to survive moment to moment, there wasn’t the luxury of judgement” (p. 152). They were all human beings facing death and, despite their pasts, are more than the worst things they have ever done.
                Bryan Stevenson submits a “Writ of Cert” to the US Supreme Court in a last ditch effort to prove Ray’s innocence and it works, they unanimously rule to overturn his sentence and conviction. After doing so the State drops all charges and releases Ray. Finally, freed from the darkness of death row, the sun does shine for Anthony Ray Hinton.
                As someone who has lived on North Carolina’s death row for the last twenty years I thought The Sun Does Shine an accurate, well written account of the mental torment inherent in a death sentence. Reading this book was difficult because every execution reminded me of the thirty-three I have experienced while on death row. Many of my friends are no longer here. Normally, you might think that, when relating to another’s experience it would be comforting to know you are not alone.
 
“We banged on our bars for Henry Hays. Black. White. It didn’t matter. I knew he was scared. I knew he was alone. I knew that he was afraid that hell waited on the other side of death row because of what he had done . . .I screamed so Henry would know that he meant something . . I yelled for Henry so he would hear me and so he would know that he didn’t have to meet his maker alone . . .” (p. 162-163).
 
For the condemned who walk or are dragged to their death it may help to know they are not alone, if only briefly. For those of us who await our turn that “shared-fate-comfort” wears thin after so many years. Ray’s primal scream had more to do with his desire to be recognized as a human being, though his intent may have been altruistic.
                This scene made me angry because capital punishment is such an arbitrary and cruel mechanism of the criminal justice system, one that is a legislative act in most states. If average citizens could vote on the death penalty and know the full scope of torment involved, they would vote to abolish.
                It was hard to separate Ray’s feelings and experiences from my own. The injustice done to him made my eyes burn. Innocence, the US Supreme Court has ruled, is not an appealable issue, yet prosecutors consistently pursue death against innocent people. There was never any evidence Ray committed a crime so law enforcement fabricated what they needed to gain a conviction. As one detective told Ray:
 
“You know, I don’t care whether you did or didn’t do it. In fact, I believe you didn’t do it. But it doesn’t matter. If you didn’t do it, one of your brothers did . . .I can give you five reasons why they are going to convict you . . you’re black . . a white man gonna say you shot him . . . you gonna have a white district attorney . . .you gonna have a white judge. And . . . you’re gonna have an all-white jury . . .You know what that spell?” (p. 52).
 
                Antony Ray Hinton’s case is not an anomaly. Criminal convictions are rarely about the truth, comprised of assumptions, stereotypes, prejudice and punishment of the first person who puts up the least amount of resistance to a charge. The “facts” matter insofar as they align with a prosecutor’s theory, anything that does not is ignored or suppressed, which includes exculpatory evidence. Like Alabama, North Carolina has prosecuted numerous people who are innocent yet sentenced to death. In 2014 Henry McCollum, who had been on death row for 30 years, was the ninth exoneration in NC, whereas Anthony Ray Hinton became Alabama’s sixth in 2015. Hinton and McCollum are only two of 164 exonerations from death row since the US reinstated capital punishment in 1976. Minorities – black and Hispanic – comprise 45 percent of that figure (https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/innocence-cases).
                Some of my discomfort from reading The Sun Does Shine is in the vast differences between our conditions of confinement. Death row prisoners in Alabama are held in 23 hour a day solitary confinement without regular access to books beyond a few allowed by the warden, and a Bible. Their food is meager, interaction limited, and executions are carried out “right down the hall” from their cells. As if that was not bad enough, with the electric chair
 
“ . . .there was the sound of a generator kicking on and then hissing and popping, and the lights in the hall outside my cell flickered on and off. And then through the night, the smell came. It’s hard to explain what death smells like, but it burned my nose and stung my throat and made my eyes water and stomach turn over” (p. 98)
 
North Carolina executions occur in another section of Central Prison, and before the lethal injection a gas chamber was used up until 1998. NC’s death row is not locked down and we interact with one another on the block, on the rec yard where there is grass and a cracked concrete basketball court, and in the chow hall where we eat together. Executions have been on hold since 2006, whereas Alabama has continued to kill people. We have regular access to books and magazines and do not have to rely on coping mechanisms like “day tripping” to escape the inhumanity of long-term solitary confinement. (“Escape from Death Row: A study of ‘Tripping’ as an individual adjustment strategy among death row prisoners” http://scholars.unh.edu/unh_lr/Vol.6/iss3/10)
                I hesitate to characterize my life on death row as “humane”, but it is at least less horrifying than Alabama’s death row. Our fight for survival, the struggle to prove our worth as people is the same. We too are “haunted by a past we cannot go back and change”(p. 95). I recognize everything is a choice and “spending your days waiting to die is no way to live” (p. 118). How we arrive at that point and what we do once there is one way diversity manifests itself on death row.
                I agree people should be held accountable for their crimes, that punishing those who are actually guilty of hurting and victimizing others is necessary for public safety. However, doing so should not preclude equality, justice and a path to redemption. The death penalty, in addition to denying human dignity, cannot be applied fairly or humanely. The medicalization of capital punishment through legal injections continues to violate the 8th Amendment’s prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment. The criminal justice system punishes by race and socioeconomic status, striking at the heart of diversity while creating an underclass of citizens. The death penalty and cases like Anthony Ray Hinton’s demonstrate the many failings of a legal system devoid of judicial and prosecutorial accountability.
                There might seem to be little I can do from death row. Reason dictates that, regardless of the facts, society has judged and cast me out. After all, capital punishment is the greatest indictment of and assault on one’s humanity there can be. Except, that would only be true if every prosecution was accurate and absent of misconduct, defendants received legal representation equal to the effort put forward by the State to gain a conviction, and individual legislators acknowledged their role in the mass incarceration of American citizens. What I can do is challenge the narrative told about people on death row, to make the public aware we are living, thinking, feeling human beings who represent more than a crime to be punished.
                Death row is a place, not necessarily a state of mind, and as long as I am able to write I can bridge the divide between the community and the people it would rather forget. People like Anthony Ray Hinton. Everyone is prison is not innocent, but each person should receive human treatment and a chance to prove they are more than their worst mistakes. Some of the specific ways I am doing this is by pursuing a bachelor of specialized studies degree in criminal justice administration and combining that knowledge with my experiences to push for prison reform. I periodically publish articles in Scalawag Magazine, which covers southern social justice issues; The Marshall Project, an online source of criminal justice news; and the J Journal, a quarterly publication by the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. I am also a board member of Lifelines.is , an online audio journal of creative expressions from death row.
                At the end of The Sun Does Shine is an “Afterward” that asks readers to look at the list of names for everyone on death row in the US as of March 2017.
 
“Read the names out loud. After every tenth name, say, ‘Innocent’. Add your son or your daughter’s name to the list. Or your brother or your mother or your father’s name to the list. Add my name to the list. Add your own. The death penalty is broken, and you are either part of the death squad or you are banging on the bars. Choose.” (p. 244)
 
My name is on that list. I choose to bang on the bars with every essay I write, each time I speak to a university class or church group over the phone, and with every opportunity to be more than my worst mistakes. I bang on the bars for all those who cannot, to let the public know we have value, and to remind the state we are human beings.

JPAY is a money intermediary for state prisons. Family and friends of incarcerated loved ones send money to JPAY in one of four ways: MoneyGrams purchased at Walmart and similar stores; money orders sent to JPAY’s physical address in Hialeah, Florida; by iPhone app; or through JPAY’s website using a credit card. With the exception of money orders, electronic transactions come with a fee, usually no lower than $5.99 to send $20. JPAY keeps most of this fee, with 25 cents per transaction given to the state where the prisoner is incarcerated. JPAY is the only way North Carolina prisoners can receive money.
 
As if this was not problem enough – elderly family members struggled with the transition and some pen pals refused to send money altogether – the NCDPS director of prisons, Kenneth Lassiter, as of February 5th, 2019, made it even more difficult for friends and family to send money through JPAY. In addition to the ridiculous fees, Lassiter has restricted our access to JPAY by limiting users to people on a prisoner’s visitation list.
 
Not a big deal, right? It is if you have a big family with a lot of young children. There are only 18 slots on a prisoner’s approved list. This does not include attorneys and their assistants. So you have to pick which you need more—a visit from a loved one or money for hygiene products, stamps, batteries, and other basic things like food. I get what you are thinking. Three hots and a cot is all you need. Most prisoners have jobs and get paid.
 
The average prison job pays 40 cents per day. Some pay as much as $1 per day but these are few and far between. Also, not every prisoners is able to work. The increased use of long prison terms and obstructing politicians who block parole-eligible lifers means an aging prison population with health problems. Add into that poor health care and you get fewer able-bodied workers.
 
Three hots and a cot does not mention inedible or occasionally rotten food. It neglects meals that end at 5:30pm and are not served again for 14 hours. Small servings slopped onto trays by underpaid workers serving life sentences who could care less because . . . nobody cares about their lives, at least not enough to give them a second chance.
 
Maybe you have sensitive teeth or problems with body odor. Name brand toothpaste is $3.30. That’s nine days of work for a prison janitor. Name brand deodorant costs five days of work. Eight to ten hours per day. Nobody thanks you. Or cares if you are sick – which also costs money. $5 copay per sick call. $7 for an emergency. God forbid you get a write up for breaking a rule—like missing work because you are sick – the $10 administrative fee is charged against your account, a debt you will pay even if you have no money.
 
I will not go into a discourse on the Prison Industrial Complex and how it feeds off of prisoners and their families. However, it is ironic that Lassiter in his letter to regional directors and facility heads of all NC prisons stated this:
 
“Prisons [are] constantly exploring methods to improve safety, security and the overall operations of our facilities. As you are aware there are serious issues affecting prisons that originate from the desire for monetary gain . . .” (Restrictions of Depositors – JPAY; January 2, 2019, www.ncdps.gov)
 
Ha.
 
The memo goes on to describe the new restriction is an effort to reduce or limit “illegal enterprises” in prison. A way to “follow the money” so to speak. While this may impact some of the target behaviors there are side effects.
 
The unintended consequences of this new policy will make it nearly impossible for random strangers to give to people in prison. Church groups, which are responsible for helping a number of my friends, periodically send a little money (about $20) for birthdays and holidays – that’s over. The new restriction will end anonymous donations and family members with felony records from helping out. It will also be a bureaucratic nightmare to have people fill out the detailed visitor application form and send it in with a photocopy of a valid ID, then await approval from the visitation office.
 
At the end of the day Lassiter’s new rule is another part of life in prison; not much different from any other hardship imposed on prisoners and their families. It is yet another misguided attempt to restore order in a penal system that has become increasingly violent and crowded and understaffed. Rather than reform a broken system NCDPS leadership continues to double down on rules. This slippery slope does not lead to safety and security for anyone. One would think by now the people who run the NC penal system would pay attention to the reams of data on effective corrections and listen to penologists and social scientists who collect that data. Harsher prisons are more dangerous. Negatively reinforced behaviors grow worse.
 
It might seem like a novel concept amidst the noise of tough-on-crime rhetoric from conservative politicians who have NC in a death grip, but reward-based systems are the most effective ways to change behavior. Maybe the NCDPS will catch up to this idea someday.

The recent publication of “Measures Meant to Make North Carolina Prisons Safer are Doing the Opposite”, on Scalawagmagazine.org, has raised questions among readers. Formerly titled, “Under the Guise of Safety and Security”, the article was a “big picture” created from a collection of newspaper articles, university reports, books on capital punishment, and personal experience. From these sources I was better able to understand a series of events that led to the end of therapeutic programs on death row, and how violent incidents in prison can cause overreactions by prison officials.
               
To my readers: I welcome all feedback because good writing does not happen in a vacuum; communication is an important part of the creative process.
 
Some points of clarification by paragraph, and concerns that were brought to my attention . . .
 
Paragraph 2: “ . . . death row staff wore somber black ribbons in Callahan’s honor.” Some staff wore these ribbons and some staff had “hard accusatory looks” twisting their faces. The description was not a stereotype of every staff member, rather, a conveyance of the general mood of many people working on death row. Some staff conducted business as usual, unaffected by incidents outside of Central Prison. My descriptions may seem to sensationalize but, several significant and traumatic events occurred throughout NC’s penal system and toning down the language to make it more mundane would have been disingenuous.
 
Paragraph 3: “ . . . the state’s wrath would impact every prison; a murdered guard was a license for punitive reprisals throughout the penal system.” This is neither an exaggeration nor an attempt to garner sympathy for prisoners. It’s a statement of fact and a major point in this article; in bureaucratic systems policy violations elicit over reactive responses. This applies to prisons and virtually every other government entity. Punitive reprisals in prison take the form of “tightening up”, a strict adherence to the rules and elimination of minor liberties. This often leads to a deterioration in communication between staff and prisoners, greater distrust, and animosity.
 
Paragraph 6: “Brutal cell extractions, beatings out of camera view, and prisoners pushed down flights of steps . . .” These incidents, according to friends who have spent time on Unit One, continued even after cameras were installed. The officers responsible are a small group and not representative of all officers who work at CP. Sometimes these assaults are unprovoked, at other times they may be reprisals against prisoners who spit, “gas” (a mixture of urine and feces sprayed from a bottle), or otherwise try to injure staff. On its face, retaliation seems justified if someone spits at or on you, but the majority of prisoners who do such a thing in solitary confinement are mentally ill and beyond reason. As natural an inclination as a violent response maybe for staff they should be above doing so. I’m aware it’s easier said than done, but this is exactly what de-escalation training teaches and why it is necessary on Unit One and Unit Six. You don’t beat or otherwise abuse restrained prisoners – justified or not. This is the burden and responsibility of authority.
 
Paragraph 13: “ . . . our interaction and communication with unit staff increased and improved.” Interaction with correctional officers on death row is different from any other unit. In the general sense the day to day routine seldom changes, leaving “relationships” to vary with each person. The end of Dr. Kuhns’ programs reduced the frequency with which many of us are around staff or have cause to talk with them. Juehrs discouraged both movement on the unit and communication with staff, preferring them to further isolate us.
Paragraph 16: “ . . . a faction of staff at CP resented the programs and attention on death row. They despised the idea that any inmate should be treated as an equal . . “ To be clear, most staff really liked the therapeutic programs on death row. It made their jobs easier and broke up the monotony of each week. It’s unfortunate some made their displeasure and dislike of the programs known by actively undermining them. The idea that any death row prisoners were treated as anything other than convicted murderers really bothered some staff. I recognize that no prisoner will be considered the “equal” of prison staff in terms of status, but this does not preclude humanity and that was exactly the lesson Dr. Kuhns tried to each everyone.
 
Paragraph 19: “Juehrs initiated an internal investigation of Dr. Kuhns . . “ The complete findings of the investigation were never made known to any of us. Our questions to the FCC (Facility Control Committee) on Unit One, a board that determines a prisoner’s security status, were ignored. At no time did any prison official attempt to inform me why I was being held in solitary confinement only that I was “under 45 day investigation”. My brief conversation with Juehrs after my release from Unit One was the only time I was provided information by staff about the investigation. Coupled with what I could glean from volunteers who had been kicked out of the prison, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out what happened. If there is any failing in the facts presented in this article, it is due to the lack of transparency and evidence from the investigatory process
 
Paragraph 21: “Lt. Soucier, who conducted the investigation, received a promotion to the hospital unit manager and created such a hostile work environment for Dr. Kuhns that he ultimately left CP . . .” From the moment Dr. Kuhns worked at CP to the day he departed it was a hostile environment. Any time you attempt to alter the status quo of a world where power is measured in your impact on policy, there’s going to be resistance. Lassiter gave Kuhns the chance to implement his programs and Joyner allowed them to flourish. When these administrators moved on the status quo – punishment not rehabilitation – reasserted itself. That Kuhns was forced to work under Soucier added insult to injury and likely awakened him to the fact he was fighting a losing battle by himself. Maybe there will be a day when more administrators are interested in progressing North Carolina’s prison system with rehabilitative programs like Dr. Kuhns implemented, but that day has yet to arrive.
 
True reform in the penal system requires communicating and understanding the needs of both prison staff and the incarcerated population. What is not helpful, and makes true change a pipe dream, are entrenched attitudes about one group or another. With this in mind I will always strive to understand my environment and the varying perspectives of people in it, encouraging dialogue about those differences in any way I can.

“Under the Guise of Safety and Security” is set to be published by Scalawag Magazine. (www..scalawagmagazine.org) in November 2018. I wrote the article in response to the increasing incidents of violence and death in North Carolina prisons. The article is also an indictment of how prison officials continue to fail North Carolinians by clinging in punitive reprisals as corrective policy. Not only is public safety undermined by  maintaining the status quo of retributive security, incarcerated citizens are dehumanized and treated much like cattle. You cannot cage, beat, denigrate, and remove all hope from people then expect them to suffer in silence. This is not the purpose of incarceration.
                After reading “Under the Guise of Safety and Security” a friend of mine wondered if I took an unnecessary risk to make my point. I said, “Everything I wrote references events reported in local newspapers. The only thing I did was connect the dots.” Which is true, in addition to my perspective and experiences at Central Prison for context. Is being direct about corruption and abuse risky? Is framing the obvious failings of a dysfunctional and outdated penal system, calling out corrections officials for their complicity in prison violence, and describing things as they really are a gamble? Yes. Any time you live as a member of an oppressed group there is risk in speaking out.
                I will not compare myself to any free world journalist because their profession is a bit more removed from the circumstances of a given story. Their “vested interest” in telling the story is new for the sake of news. Mine is not. I wrote about the pattern of prison violence and the NCDPS administration’s response because there is no one representing NC prisoners’ experiences. Not that I presume to be THE representative, merely a  man in prison who has the ability to directly express what mainstream media outlets like the Charlotte Observer and Raleigh News & Observer refuse to report. I have a vested interest in the truth of prison conditions being known by the public because this is where I live.
                History tells us this is not a new trend. National bipartisan conversations inform us that criminal justice reform is a current hot topic. In 2013, nearly 30,000 people in various California prisons went on a hunger strike to protest the state’s use of solitary confinement (“California Prisoners Launch Biggest Hunger Strike in State’s History,” Guardian, July 9, 2013). In 2016, the largest nationwide prison strike took place – covering 24 states and including up to 24,000 participants – during which incarcerated people staged work stoppages or hunger strikes to object to the unfair use of prison labor, poor wages, abusive guards, overcrowding, and poor health care among other grievances (“This is Slavery: US Inmates Strike in What Activists Call One of the Biggest Prison Protests in Modern History,” Los Angeles Times, Oct 28, 2016).
                More recently, in April 2018, a South Carolina prison riot over inhumane conditions left seven dead and 17 injured – all of whom were prisoners – because guards had abandoned the facility. In response to this incident, and consistently degrading prison conditions around the country, in August 2018, prisoners in 17 states began a 21 day labor strike (How a South Carolina Prison Riot Really Went Down,” New York Times, April 28, 2018; “US Inmates Stage Nationwide Prison Labor Strike Over ‘Modern Slavery’” Guardian, Aug 21, 2018).
                Local media outlets caught wind of a handful of North Carolina prisoners joining the national prison strike in August. When pressed about it, the NCDPS responded that no strikes had occurred in NC prisons. News and Observer journalists discovered six incarcerated people were sent to the hole for their protests. Three of these people actually created a sign protesting prison conditions and labor practices. However, because the NCDPS claimed no strike occurred, the media went with it and didn’t bother to connect NC’s dysfunctional prison system to the national strike.
                Objectivity in reporting is something of a myth. Journalists shape things, or are misinformed, and quite often fail to do adequate research. In my writing I strive for objectivity, but realize many readers will only view it, and me, as a product of incarceration. So be it. I will continue to exercise my First Amendment right and hope it is not as hollow as the Thirteenth Amendment’s prohibition against slavery.

A pejorative is a disparaging or belittling word or expression. Police officers, for example, hate being called “cops” or “pigs” because the words denigrate their status and official duties. After the recent publication of “The Unwritten Rule in Prison” on themarshallproject.org , a staff member approached me.
                “I read your article and I have a question,” she said.
                “Really? What did you think?” I’m always a little surprised when people tell me they read something I wrote, especially prison staff. It’s not that I think it’s a secret, only that I forget I live in a fishbowl.
                “It’s good. Why do you call us ‘prison guards’?”
                “Um. Because you have not been correctional officers in nearly 40 years.” The NCDPS in fact changed their name from the Department of Corrections about a decade ago to reflect this. “Besides, it’s not like I appreciate being called an inmate. I have a name.”
                “But that’s what you are” she said. “I’m not calling you a piece of garbage – just an inmate.”
                The woman seemed genuinely concerned that I referred to her as a “prison guard”, as if somehow this was a pejorative. “What would you prefer?” I asked. “Correctional officer?”
                “Well, yes.”
                “I tell you what,” I said. “How about we agree to use each other’s name and I’ll write about this on my blog.”
                The ironic thing about this conversation is that I had been reading “The Toughest Beat” by Joshua Page, a book about the California Correctional Peace Officers Association’s influence on the field of penology. In the opening chapter Page explains the transition from corrections to confinement.
                “For most of the first half of the twentieth century, the central purpose of imprisonment and related forms of punishment was rehabilitation. But from the mid-1970s onward, the central aim and logic of incarceration switched to retribution and incapacitation. With rehabilitation no longer a major aim of imprisonment, funding for educational, vocational and treatment programs dried up making it ironic that states still refer to their prisons as ‘correctional facilities’ and their penal agencies as ‘departments of correction’”.
 
For those of us who have been incarcerated for the last two decades it does not take a book on penology (albeit a very well written book on penology) to tell us what we already know: the prison system stopped caring about keeping people out of prison and instead became this place where no one seems to leave. Staff “guard” us and are reprimanded for anything beyond cursory conversations. “Corrective” action is more often a form of castigation intended to corral.
                A great deal of meaning and history is tied up in words like “inmate”, “guard”, “convict”, “CO”, “prisoner”, and “screw”. The prison system to quote a fairly knowledgeable writer by the name Charles Norman “uses ‘correctional officer’ as a euphemism for ‘prison guard’ although it is more than that. The negative connotation of ‘prison guard’ does not infer the so-called inflated status of ‘correctional officer’, a prouder term that elevates a historically lowly position.”
                In my writing I tend to use “guard’ – a person or group that protects, watches over, restrains, or controls somebody or something – because it’s an accurate, neutral summation of the people who maintain the prison. Guards stand on the walls with shotguns at the ready for any prisoner dumb enough to climb the razor wire. Guards patrol the hallways with batons and canisters of mace. Guards lock the doors, keep the gates, and enforce the rules. Guards count bodies – living or not – without any care for where those bodies come from or where they eventually go. I am not saying there is an utter lack of care for a fellow human being, only that a significant distinction exists between who lives in prison and who merely works there.
                If it is easier for a person to identify by a particular label then far be it from me to gainsay that decision. Personally, I do not call myself a prisoner unless referring to part of a group or to lend greater understanding in my writing. At the end of the day, no matter our position in life, we are all human beings who want a little respect and consideration.

Guest post by Timothy White

It never fails; Whenever those of us on death row are granted even the smallest blessing, favor or minor look-out, one of our fellow prisoners comes along and screws it up for everyone.
 
This article was published in collaboration with Vice.
 
Sometimes it’s a matter of greed. Other times it’s pure nastiness. Then there is stupidity, for which there is little excuse. As if being condemned to die isn’t enough, some seem to believe we should continue to heap punishment upon ourselves.
 
Take what happened with our gym equipment: Years ago, we could work out with weights, but this privilege was taken away after an altercation during which one malcontent bashed another in the head with a dumbbell, nearly killing him. When I first arrived on the row nearly 18 years back, this kind of thing was a never-ending source of frustration and anger for me. With the passage of time, I have come to accept that it’s just the way things are. Still, there are moments when I can only shake my head with disgust. This morning was one of those times.
 
The newly-constructed Central Prison chow hall isn’t too unlike a school or hospital cafeteria, except for the rows of steel tables bolted to the floor, and the small waist-high window from which trays are served. We don’t see the regular population prisoners who work in the kitchen unless we bend down to look through the serving window, and this is frowned upon by the gray and black uniformed officers, or C.O.s who usually lurk somewhere nearby. The tables are dirty, the floor sticky and strewn with crumbs, used plastic spoons and other detritus
 
As we stood in the breakfast line, my buddy Greg, up front as usual, turned to announce: “Man behind the serving line says he’s gonna look out for everyone with a boiled egg and piece of cheese. It ain’t on the menu, so don’t bitch cause you only get 1 egg.”
 
Enough said. It felt like the universe was smiling upon us. A boiled egg and a slice of cheese would go well with the S.O.S – that’s shit on a shingle”, or the chipped beef and biscuits that were on the menu – and would make an otherwise bland, pitiful breakfast much better. I waited my turn, grateful that the server would risk trouble by providing us with extra food. When a tray appeared in the window, I grabbed it and made my way to the table where Greg was already seated.
 
Watching the line as I began to eat, I saw Jazzy Jimmy approach the window.
 
“I bet ol’ Jazzy’ll try to sell his egg,” I predicted. “One boiled egg – with shell – for a stamped envelope.”
 
“Oh, he’ll try to get more than that,” Greg said with a chuckle.
 
Jazzy Jimmy is a 60-something man who acts as if his 12th birthday is still a few years off. He fancies himself a singer, rapper, a musician, and an all-around entertainer, but is, in reality, a minor annoyance. If not for his blatant narcissism and penchant for telling dubious stories about having once performed with James Brown, his behavior might be endearing.
 
After a short wait, Jazzy took his tray and began to walk away before halting mid-stride. Wait a minute, I only got 1 egg,” he said, looking down at his tray. He then turned back to the serving window and bent down to speak to the prisoner behind the line. “You only gave me 1 egg. Ain’t we s’posed to get 2?”
 
“You idiot!” yelled Little Chuck from across the cafeteria. “Everybody got 1 egg. Don’t you listen?”
 
“But . . .but . . ,” Jazzy looked crestfallen. There went his opportunity to make an extra stamped envelope.
 
By this time a C.O. – alerted by the scene Jazzy had caused – made her way to the window and called for the kitchen steward. The stewards are uniformed correctional officers tasked with overseeing the prisoners who prepare and serve our meals. “What’s going on here?” the C.O demanded. “Are they supposed to get 1 egg or 2?”
 
“They aren’t supposed to get any eggs. Eggs aren’t even on the menu!”
 
The kitchen steward was on the verge of a full-blown rage, his round face glowing bright red. “I’ll see to it that somebody goes to lockup for this.” He stomped away from the window to apprehend the server responsible for this terrible misdeed.
 
“Way to go, asshole.” An inmate called Mean Joe’s voice broke the silence left in the wake of the steward’s departure. “You’d fuck up a wet dream.”
 
The abuse continued from every corner of the cafeteria. As Jazzy Jimmy ate his breakfast in silence, not seeming to care, I wondered: is it possible to dislike someone and feel sorry for him at the same time?
 
Lunch was turkey-ham and cheese sandwich with vegetable soup, and predictably, the steward loomed at the serving window handing out trays. Under his close watch, nary an extra piece of turkey-ham or spoonful of soup got past him. In fact, we were lucky to receive what little the menu allotted.
 
Thanks a lot, Jazzy Jimmy.

Even though I have a First Amendment right to write whatever comes to mind, as a prisoner this does not mean I’m free to write without consequence. Prisons have policies, but they also have numerous unwritten rules. I know and hear about fascinating insider stories all the time, but writing them is risky business. As was demonstrated to me last year, any prisoner can be put “in the hole” under investigation for an indefinite period of time, however illegitimate the reason. Prison officials need only to declare it a matter of safety and security.
                With that said it’s important to remember this blog and any page containing my writing walks a careful line between facts as they occur in Central Prison and my opinion. I generally lean toward fact and logic in my writing to minimize any problems with “the man”. Unfortunately, anything I say can be used against me. It makes editorializing tricky, but not impossible. That is the writer’s challenge after all – persuading the largest audience and rebutting the opposition. Effective communication from a prison cell isn’t supposed to be easy.
                I was on the phone with Fr. Jude (a priest and friend who has visited me since Mule’s execution in ’05) when it happened.
                “LOCKDOWN! LOCKDOWN! EVERYBODY LOCKDOWN NOW!” The voice screamed over the intercom, anxious and panicky, but authoritative all the same. I hung up the phone after telling Jude I’d call him another time and went to my cell.
                Locking in our cells on death row usually happens at certain times of the day for “count” (when staff count everyone in the prison), tornado and fire drills, and whenever maintenance comes on the block to fix something. Sometimes an incident will occur that requires everyone on a particular block to lock down, such as the rare fight or once when E. Boogie hanged himself. If the entire unit was ordered to lockdown something serious happened.
                We could see it on the faces of staff who came through the block hours later, that look that says “oh crap”. One of them finally let slip there had been a stabbing. We ended up with more information from the local news. Lt. Brent Soucier, CP hospital unit manager, feared and loathed former head of Internal Affairs, was stabbed and beaten by two general population prisoners. The attack sent shock waves through CP, which had not experienced a serious violent incident involving prison brass in my two decades on death row.
                In the days following the attack rumors about Soucier’s condition changed with each person. He lost an eye. He was stabbed in the throat. Several bones in his face were shattered. All the media reported was that Soucier remained hospitalized in serious but stable condition.
                The two prisoners who attacked Soucier were also “briefly hospitalized”. One was immediately transferred to a prison in Western North Carolina, whereas the younger of the two went to CP’s hospital. Rumors drifted back to Unit 3 (death row is a building isolated from the rest of the prison, but we get prison news from guys in the chow hall, in passing through the tunnel, in the hole and on the mental health unit) that the younger attacker was so severely beaten by Soucier’s cronies he suffered brain damage. They beat him with batons for nearly five minutes before other guards arrived and stopped it. Of course no newspaper will report the reciprocal attack unless the prisoner dies.
                In the weeks after the attack on Soucier, the tension between staff and the inmate population reached a point similar to executions. Fresh in everyone’s mind were the guards killed at Bertie and Pasquotank Correctional Institutions in 2017. Though Soucier would recover it was lost on no one he was prison brass and an attack on the administration signaled a dangerous turn in the NC penal system. The looks of animosity guards now level at prisoners moving through the tunnel to and from the chow hall or hospital say it all.
                I can’t help but wonder if security conscious prison officials will bother to look beyond the immediate causes of the attack. The violence in NC prisons is a direct result of a fundamentally flawed system of “corrections”, a term that is itself a misnomer. No effort is made to positively impact behavior of prisoners. No psychotherapeutic programs exist to curtail conflict or otherwise inform those who engage in violent acts that it hurts the entire community. Solutions exist, but prison officials, legislators and the law enforcement organizations that blindly call for greater punishments refuse to see them. The penal system isn’t merely broken, it is backward; and coercion of the inmate population has left a body of evidence impossible to ignore.

Since the murder of five North Carolina prison guards in 2017 there has been intense scrutiny on prison security; specious thinking that ignores long-standing causes of violence. Poor training and overly aggressive, revenge-minded guards increase hostilities with prisoners with nothing to lose. Mentally ill prisoners are perceived as malingerers and allowed to kill themselves. A lack of incentivized sentences and rehabilitative programs leave idle prisoners to grow increasingly agitated. Under these circumstances, violence is inevitable. Although prison security is essential to public safety, it fails to address the causes of violence and recidivism; prison officials ignore the necessity of rehabilitative programs at their peril.
 
                Media sensationalism cultivates the misperception that casualties in corrections is a new trend in violence rather than a boiling point. Sound bytes and quotes from outraged politicians make it seem like they were ignorant of the growing crisis or the human element at stake. Diverted funds, excessively punitive laws, and inflexible sentences come at a cost. Political obliviousness is especially disingenuous when the News and Observer and local television stations regularly report on the corruption and dysfunction of North Carolina’s prison system. One would think, instead of taking NCDPS officials at their word, there would be more of a public reckoning.
 
                The NC General Assembly shows little interest in changing the culture of corrections. When House bills intended to impact prisons are presented, only those that align with tough-on-crime rhetoric seem to pass. HB 969 makes it a felony to masturbate in view of a prison guard. The law criminalizes normal sexual urges in an environment devoid of privacy and fails to account for mentally ill offenders in solitary confinement.
 
                Tough laws like HB969 further punish incapacitated offenders, compounding already lengthy sentences and overcrowded prisons. Officer training and recruitment encourages the same “us against them” mentality consuming America. The “new” ideas featured by the Prison Reform Advisory Board are old methods used by former wardens. Their cronyism often facilitated the problems plaguing NC prisons by leaving in place staff responsible for egregious abuses against prisoners.
 
                Incapacitation, punishment and rehabilitation are essential components of incarceration and when one is ignored in favor of others it undermines the criminal justice system. Society generally believes that criminals deserve what they get. The problem with this view is that it warps the purpose of correctional institutions. While a prison sentence is the punishment, one’s treatment in prison should be reformative. Instead, legislators, NCDPS officials, and prison administrators use “just desserts” to guide their policy decisions. As a result, prisoners are denigrated and many in the public accept our systemic abuse as a necessary evil of confinement. The flaw in treating prisoners like enslaved enemies who deserve no help is that most will earn release and bring what they experience back into the community.
 
                Just as accountability and reformation are the responsibility of prisoners, prison officials must create an environment where that is possible. Rehabilitation is the responsibility of prisoner, guard, and prison officials alike. Punishment and incapacitation alone create violent human warehouses that post a constant threat to public safety. The culture of corrections must evolve into one where offenders are educated, officers encourage accountability and ethical conduct, and prison administrators foster a learning environment that incentivizes good behavior.
 
                Solving prison violence means implementing programs that work in other states. California’s Senate passed the 2014 California College Promise Grant, which funds community college degree programs in 34 of its 35 prisons. Although a small step, the availability of higher ed and the senate’s investment in incarcerated citizens (it is also available to low income citizens) advances the fact prison reform is an attainable goal. Legislative support of rehabilitation is acknowledgement of the direct link between corrections, reentry, and public safety. New York and Texas also support extensive higher education and rehabilitative programming. Together, America’s three largest state prison systems embrace rehabilitation without seeming to coddle prisoners.
 
                To be effective, prison must be a transformative experience, but without parole-eligible sentences and higher education this becomes less likely. Public, legislative and judicial understanding of prison must reject the policies of mass incarcerations. Public safety requires a conscious decision to rehabilitate people in prison and treat them as investments in the community. Until this becomes the culture of confinement, prison will remain a violent place, one that puts everybody in danger.

Note to Readers: The following post is a departure from the topics I typically write. It was an assignment for English Composition and Rhetoric, a correspondence course I’m enrolled in through Ohio University. Writing about gay marriage or sexuality is not something I typically relate to prison. As a straight man this does not mean the subject is beyond my sphere of understanding or the prison I live in. One of my closest friends is bisexual, though in prison the distinction is irrelevant. He faces a great deal of verbal abuse and, were we in a place where there is more movement among other prisoners, likely physical abuse too. To me, my friend is not less than other people I know – he is simply different. His sexuality is his business; but, in prison, just because you believe something is strictly personal does not mean other people are oblivious. On death row outright homosexuality is rare. There are four people that I know who claim such feelings. Regardless, my mother taught me as a child that everybody is different, and those differences don’t necessarily make us better or worse than them. Just different.
 
Marriage and Culture: evolving standards of relationships
 
                In Obergefell v Hodges (2015) the US Supreme Court rules that state bans on same-sex marriage violated same-sex couples’ rights under the due process and equal protection clauses of the 14th Amendment. The Court’s decision, while controversial, is now the law of the land and whether anyone disagrees is a moot point. Ultimately, the Court’s ruling is influenced by evolving cultural standards, science and technology.
                Humanity evolved through natural selection: traits and behaviors that promote survival and reproductive fitness are inherited by or taught to offspring, whereas traits and behaviors that do not promote survival and reproductive fitness die with the offspring. The environment culls the weak. Civilization made survival and reproduction easier, reducing the impact of natural selection, but in terms of social behavior it grew more complicated.
                Civilization needed laws to protect its structural integrity, making it safe to belong. Traditions, mores, and religion intermingled with the complexity of communities, adding nuance to the concept of monogamy; thus, the social contract of marriage was created. As it relates to reproductive fitness, devotion to one mate is as counterintuitive as homosexuality, but the former is more likely to produce offspring than the latter. Advances in bioscience and technology have changed that.
                Artificial insemination, in vitro fertilization, surrogate mothers, frozen eggs and sperm, and genetic engineering enable reproductive fitness among same-sex couples. This defeats the belief only opposite-sex couples can further a lineage and degrades the original purpose of marriage. Moreover, legacies typically passed down to offspring can be bestowed on any child, regardless or origin, and is not exclusive to marital status or a particular gender.
                Is marriage a social contract that solidifies the idea of monogamy, a belief one should only have a single sexual partner over time? Does this extend to the creation of a family? If the first is true, marriage is merely a symbolic devotion to one’s mate and any argument about which genders comprise a valid marriage is irrelevant. If the second is true – marriage leads to the generation of a family – again gender is irrelevant because bioengineering can provide same-sex couples with offspring as readily as opposite-sex couples.
                Furthermore, claims about the sanctity of marriage is undermined by divorce, which has maintained a steady rate over the last fifty years while the number of people entering into marriage has declined. Traditionalists who decry same-sex marriage as a perversion of matrimony fail to account for how divorce undermines the value of that social contract. It seems more people prefer the freedom to continue choosing new partners just as natural selection dictates.
                Therefore, marriage is largely symbolic, a tradition increasingly diminished by modern culture. Static traditions are unlikely to last in a society that continues to innovate and, over time, those ideas that constrict growth will fall away. Traits once believed to be a weakness are no more than differences that add complexity and nuance to humanity. Those who hold views counter to the evolving cultural standard will either adapt or go extinct.

It happened on the morning of my birthday, February 16th. “Code Blue! Code Blue!” Boots squeaked on concrete before the thump-thump-thump of a guard running down the stairs. During the 6am live count when guards check on every inmate to make sure he is alive and in the cell, they stopped at IU-134. Bangbangbangbang. The noise of a metal baton striking the metal commode left no doubt something happened to Hector between 6am and 5am, the last time the guards walked through the block.
                “Mr. Juarez!” A pause. “Mr. Juarez, why are you on the floor?” No response. “Mr. Juarez! Mr. Juarez!” Several minutes later four guards jogged through the open pod door and up the stairs to Hector’s cell. They carried no backboard or medical bag. Louis, the guard who found Hector on the floor, asked, “Where is medical?” His African accent was unmistakable. “Code Blue! Pod 3! Code Blue! Pod 3!” A radio squawked with garbled sound and static.
                I stood at my cell door and watched through the window, unable to see what happened on the tier above me. While brushing my teeth four more guards streamed through the open door and walked up the stairs. Ten minutes had passed since Louis found Hector unresponsive on the floor. Another minute and a group of nurses arrived carrying a red Emergency Response duffle bag. Six more guards rushed in behind them, out of breath after running from the other end of Central Prison.  After fifteen minutes a doctor strolled in at a brisk walk with two more nurses in street clothes. Two guards pushed a gurney behind them.
                Somehow twenty-one staff were crowded along the narrow tier above me. I tried to imagine what it looked like with so many people clustered near Hector’s cell. Only two or three could squeeze into the cell with him. What were all of the guards for?
                It took a bit over twenty minutes from the time Louis radioed in the Code Blue to the point where Hector was strapped to a backboard, carried down the stairs, and checked by a doctor. Finally, upon making some decision I couldn’t see a guard and two nurses wheeled Hector out of the block. The rest of the guards milled around for a few minutes before they too left.
                Weeks later we learned Hector had a stroke and was paralyzed on the right side of his body. It would be another month before he gained enough strength to walk with a cane and return to the block.
                While Hector was gone I stood in the canteen line one day, waiting for my turn at the window when two guards’ radios squawked “Code Blue! Code Blue! Unit Three!” Again a parade of guards ran, jogged and fast-walked down the hallway and out of a unit door to a plot of ground used for Native American service. A prisoner was having a seizure. Those of us standing in the canteen line, our unit sergeant and a guard stood dumbfounded, counting. Twenty-one, two, three – a doctor and two plain clothes nurses brought up the rear. Twenty-six staff responding to a medical emergency that, at most, might have required two nurses, a few staff from the unit and a doctor.
                Why so many staff in one area after the incidents at Bertie and Pasquotank Correctional Facilities, where similar ploys were used to draw staff away from other parts of the prison? This couldn’t be the new Security Response Team, not when there are still staffing vacancies that need to be filled. This must be the training element where response time of new hires were measured against the notoriously slow nursing staff. It makes me wonder if next, as a way of rating their response time, prisoners who are hospitalized, and still alive, will be given surveys. How did we do? Check one of these boxes:
 

•  I feel safe and secure
  
•  I feel okay about staff’s response
  
•  Needs Improvement
•  God help us!