Historic Experiment on Death Row

he Underground Poet speaks...

TEXAS DEATH ROW (The Faith Based Section)

It's nine A.M., the men are singing hymns and praising the Lord. There has never been anything like it, or even close. It feels so unreal, despite the fact the men have been singing every morning for more then two years now.

It all began when death row was invited to participate in Kairos for the very first time in November 2021. It was Kairos 44 for us: two fun-filled days of festivities (with lots of food, drinks, and a live band).

General population prisoners dashed around with video recorders and clicking cameras, excited about capturing the unthinkable: men on death row rejoicing in the Lord.

Free world visitors came in to share their personal testimonies of having survived and overcome some unfortunate calamity that happened in their lives. Some were victims of crime. Some of substance abuse. But most had trouble with anger and the inability to forgive and move on from a stuck place.

During the testimonies, and subsequent discussions, I tried to observe and absorb as much as I could, finding that in some instances it seemed that more was being said in the bodily expressions around the room than from the speakers on the mic.

Looking around, I could see, and actually feel (even inside my own body) the momentary uncomfortableness of having to look so closely at the devastating effects of crime--psychologically and emotionally.

Feelings flowed as freely as water. Many teared up as they told and relived the horrors that happened to them.

Few in white stood stoic and unreadable. There were plenty of signs of sorrow, shame, and regret. But it would not last the whole day through. As indicting as the visitors' impact statements were, stronger still were their messages of forgiveness and redemption. It was truly an incredible experience (an atmosphere of healing, to say the least). An experience, though experienced, remains unbelievable and inconceivable still when reflecting back on it: that Hell (a.k.a. prison) was for a minute, a place of healing.

During this period, I remained quiet the whole time, but fully present (listening with all of me) while deep down wishing that I could take the mic to share my own story of being connected to both ends. Of having to live with having committed a terrible act, and of being left to survive a sister lost to murder after her home was invaded.

After sharing their testimonies, they took questions that led to interesting exchanges and deep insights into the human condition, as it relates to traumatic experiences and resiliency.

Somewhere out of my line of vision, a deep, rich, baritone voice boomed out "Amazing Grace." He sang solo for two or three bars before some others joined in. Then more...and more, 'till finally all.

He followed with another praise song, "O Worship the King," officially kicking off the celebrations. Guys and girls picked up their instruments to get the place jumping. All were just artists on stage doing what artists do: just straight out jamming, and wooing the crowd.

The white uniforms of the prisoners and colorful clothing of the outsiders contrasted strongly as they performed happily (pleased to be pleasing).

The genuine smiles and positive energy that filled the room was as foreign to prison as snowflakes to hell. It was more than just different (and not prison), but a feeling of reassurance a kind of quiet reminder of how tremendously pleasing it can be when people are simply enjoying people.

Guards, in uncharacteristically good spirit, together with prisoners, served up food and drinks. Burgers from Burger King's on the first day, and pizzas from Dominos the next.

I was taken aback when a guard held out to me a whole, large-size pepperoni pizza. I must have attempted to open the box to take a slice, or was maybe a little hesitant, to cause him to say, "Go 'head, take it. The whole thing is for you."

He needed not tell me twice. I seized it with both hands and got back out of the way. Because in this world, the rules are always changing.

It was more than I could eat. So I later shared it with a couple of friends who had turned down Kairos. They, like so many others, were skeptical of anything initiated by TDCJ. "The system only works for the system," is the way they see it.

To our amazement, the visitors were actually allowed to walk the tiers, to hang out in front of our cells to chitchat and fellowship. Some found instant friends and naturally bonded.

The men I met (Brain Dorsey, Paw-Paw Pilot, and Joe Lee) stayed in touch, and have since returned again and again over the years.

Kairos 44 marked an epic change in Texas death row history. Thanks to men like Mr. Bryan Collier (Executive Director), Mr. Daniel Dickerson (ex-warden, now Region I Director), and Mr. C.I. Hazelwood (Assistant Director of Religious Programing). All out to change prison culture on a scale not seen since the '60s, when it was under the stewardship of the late O.B. Ellis.

Under Mr. Ellis, who ran the system from the late 40's to the early 60's, the mission was quite different (and not at all in the interest of prisoners). With him it was all about the bottom line. (Moving the agency's budget out of the red into black.)

His was a businesses mind (Capitalist to the core). He understood that labor, as a commodity, is as necessary as the raw materials needed to produce a product. Logs, for example, are needed for lumber, but without labor, the logs will never become lumber.

Thus, in an O.B. Ellis prison, labor was hard, compulsory, compelled by punishment.

It helped that he could do things his way uninterfered with. At the time, prisoners had no rights that the courts recognized and protected, leaving them no sanctuary, no recourse to turn to. Treatment was exceptionally cruel, and often pushed prisoners beyond breaking points. They were dispensable. (Dispensable because they were replaceable replaceable because they were plentiful.) They were literally defined by the United States Constitution as slaves.

To escape the grueling work, prisoners would often hamstring themselves. A quick hack to the back of the heel with a razor meant freedom. If they couldn't walk, they couldn't work (at least not in the fields.)

There was no worse lot than the fields. Stooped all day picking cotton beneath a relentless sun. It was backbreaking labor (with required quotas that could only be met by fast paced picking).

Slackers got the lash. And there were always slackers: slower pickers who couldn't keep pace. It was just a matter of who, but everyday (except on Sundays) somebody was going to get it.

We can trust that it was from among these men (the slow and the beaten) who were most apt to--and most often did--hack their Achilles.

While there'll never be anything heaven about prison, it must be acknowledged that "prison in the past," (under Mr. Ellis) and "prison in the now," (under Mr. Collier) are worlds apart. It is the difference between mattering and not mattering as a human being.

As much credit that is due to Mr. Collier, and the many decent men and women working under him, and as appreciative as we are for their honest efforts to offer hope, opportunity and safety in the system, I would be terribly remiss (and dishonoring the dead) if I did not mention how nothing came freely, or even easily. Prisoners had to fight for everything. They organized work stoppages, hunger strikes, and even outright rebelled, proving true that when people can no longer tolerate living under certain conditions, they rise up to change those conditions. Some, to be sure, relied solely on the power of prayer, which was also at the time frowned upon and thought defiant (albeit passively). They were spat on and taunted for praying. Told that not even God could help them...that the warden was God.

Now, today, wardens are kneeling with the prisoners, leading them in prayer, offering hope of a future that is better than the past.

In an interview conducted by a prisoner over prison radio (106.5 FM -The Tank-a station at the Polunsky Unit that was built by, and is entirely run by, prisoners) Mr. Dickerson, then warden at the time, spoke to the kind of prison he envisioned under his watch. Or, to be more accurate, quite revealingly of the problems he had inherited and hoped to fix.

"I don't want to have a call and talk to another mother about the death of her son," he said, "whether it's homicide or whether it's suicide, it doesn't matter. All are human beings. And having to call a mother to tell her that her son is dead is the hardest thing that I've ever had to do in my career."

That is progressive talk coming from a Southern warden. Yet, some still decry that the faith-based program doesn't go far enough. That what is needed is full-fledged restorative justice (a progressive judicial concept that, to be honest, really is gaining traction, and has long been called for by social justice activists). But as is demonstrated since the beginning of organized government, social change always begins with the demand of the governed. Courts and lawmakers ultimately change course to keep in accord with the ever-evolving standards of civility, though they are often slow (and unbudging) until people take to the street or vote them out of office.

So, with this in mind, restorative justice is still a rising sun in this State: a new consciousness coming up over the horizon, yet to cross the sky and set. For now, what is being offered in the prisons is a faith-based program (redemption through Christ, if you will).

Doubters and detractors have been vocal, but many are fully on board, and are, with deep commitment and passion, propagating the good news message of hope, faith and redemption. Some have gone to school and trained to become "field ministers", "life coaches" and "coordinators." They identify themselves as "changed men" who are now "change agents."

While debates rage on over the faith-based program vs. a restorative justice program, I am less interested in what's on the label than what's in the bottle. What does the program offer? What's the end goal? Are the questions for me.

Mr. C.L. Hazelwood, head of religious programing, could not have been any clearer in saying "I would love nothing more than to see prisons dry up on the vine and rot." (not exactly the social justice activist Angela Davis, but enough for me).

Most encouraging are the success stories: the videos on the tablets of men who have gotten out after successfully completing the program. They're doing more than just staying out and staying clean, they're working to help keep others from coming.

With most having come from marginalized and underserved communities, they are proving to be invaluable assets to their respective communities, having learned to be resourceful and are now confident in their abilities to reach out, connect and work with others interested in serving others for the betterment of their neighborhoods.

As I listen to the men sing, marveled by the moment, I can't help but wonder if this is temporal or has change really come. I see so clearly that pitch black night ( a painting long in my head but never put on canvas) with words that read:

They were dark, dismal days

but we were singing still

because we knew

somewhere there was light.

This feels so much like a new day dawning.

Most mornings I sit quietly listening, occasionally mouthing the words to hymns that fill me with so much nostalgia. Hymns that were hummed in the home by a pious grandmother (and mother) who raised us all in church.

The songs sung by the men recalled for me more than just church and childhood, but many memories. Each one triggering another: of feelings, smells, sounds, tastes, and the way we were (my siblings and I growing up).

Beyond the songs is the sound, distinct in the way they are sung, whether the notes are hit right or hit wrong, or the harmony is in or out of sync. A certain inimitable sound is there that's strangely peculiar, deeply spiritual, and eerily bluesy. Like listening to Psalms being sang, only to have feelings oddly familiar, and belong to a distant past, wash over me that's known only to my soul because my body has never been there.

I see strange vessels at sea making their way across the vast Atlantic at different times: The Santa Maria, The White Lion, The Mayflower. (Together they are America, on her way to making landfall.)

Though it's the men on the row who are "Kum ba yah, my Lord," I am hearing and envisioning the descendants of West African slaves living on the Sea Islands off the coasts of South Carolina and Georgia who, over the years (out of many tribes and languages) merged into a single ethnic identity: the Gullah people.

In the Gullah dialect, "kum ba yah" means "come by here." I mouth them...feel them...contemplate them. They are weighty words that flood my heart with sadness and wet my eyes with feeling. It's such a desperate, earnest plea: "Kum ba yah, my Lord. Kum ba yah." Suggestive of a plight so bleak that God is nowhere present.

Then comes that "Amazing Grace," and my eyes close to the ambivalence rising within (My mind warring with my soul...The one telling me how I ought to feel the other completely surrendering). I so want--and want not--to sing along to a song written by a slaver.

I see him (that figment of my imagination): old, long-bearded, smoothed crown (in that typical male balding pattern). His copper face, lined with wrinkles and leathery, is scowled in grief and distress in the hour of his clarity and repentance. Then comes that miraculous moment when he knows that God has heard and answered. He feels that comforting grace, like a cleansing rain washing over him. And he goes from crying out in grief to singing out in praise. "Amazing grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!" makes me wonder if he literally heard God's voice.

Listening to these songs now, with thoughts on the past, awes me. How they have existed side-by-side down through the ages -- still relevant, still inspiring, still sang with utmost relevance.

Ignorance of this history, as I'm sure most of the men are, that "Kum ba yah" is given to us from a slave, and "Amazing Grace," a repentant slaver, I don't get right now how, why, of what causes the men to sing with a spiritual depth, echoing it seems from that distant past.

But here in this house, death and dying is all around: State put-downs sickness and disease aging, infirmity, and loneliness in a world absent of care suicide by those who give up and quit life self-harm by those still crying out alcohol and illicit drugs by those seeking comfort consequences of overdosing (of men accidentally dying while desperately dying to live).

Here sings the tired and the weary, the wretched of the wretched. Described best in a poem by Dr. Martina McGowan, titled "I am the rage."

I AM THE MELODY THAT LIES INSIDE OF EVERY NEGRO SPIRITUAL

THAT SINGS PRAISES OF DIMINISHING HOPES IN THIS LIFE

AND A BRIGHTER, FAIRER WORLD IN THE NEXT

What is happening on death row today is a story still unfolding. All that can be said for sure is that sensitivity has reached some high places. Hope has come (be it by guidance of God or fortuitous, I praise God still).

In closing, I share this little not so hidden secret: every person who's ever done time has some story about the prison walls. Mine, I suppose, will be for another time. But for now, I'm a little bit proud to say that I have a certificate hanging there! I'm a Coordinator!

*The Underground Poet is housed on Texas death row - Polunsky Unit

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