From Behind Prison Walls
By: Sharon Watts
Tags: Mentorship, Covid 19 Crisis, Prison Life, Suicide, Hope

I’m coming up on four years as a “snail-mail mentor” to a man who has been confined to a maximum security prison for over twenty years. Transforming Lives NY matches up volunteers with inmates who want to participate, providing blank journals and encouraging personal expression to help develop skills that can serve both inside and outside the walls. Correspondence is all done through the USPS, under the rules of NY State Department of Corrections. The following essay was written just one month ago. M____’s own artwork accompanies it.

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Something . . . ?

T.J. asked, “Are you going to the yard tonight?” I responded, “Nah, I need to fall back and take a break.”

In return, T.J. said, “Alright, I got something for you — I’ll send it with Odie.”

Odie is my co-worker. He and T.J. locked a few cells from one another. At that particular moment I was up against the clock, having to return to the cellblock for the count, and I hadn’t asked what “something” was. After all, had he wanted me to know in that moment, he would have volunteered as much. This was October 26th.

I first met T.J. in the early-to-mid-2000s at Comstock. In a world dominated by black and brown people, his 6’6” frame with blonde hair and blue eyes stood out like a lamppost. I was in my twenties; he was a few years younger doing a skid bid — a knucklehead routinely getting himself into hot water. During this period I didn’t get to know him well.

Fast-forward to 2009. I had been transferred to Attica. I landed in C-Block where the cells are arranged so that the fronts face one another with an aisle down the middle. The cell gates are plate steel with a 10”x10” opening to view through.

A few minutes after arriving I heard a questioning voice. “M_____?” I looked out the opening and directly across from me was T.J.’s face framed in the opening of his cell gate. He had arrived at Attica a day earlier. That evening he gave me the nutshell version of events that led to his return to prison with a newly-minted 29-to-Life. There wasn’t much for me to say in response — what do you say? “Welcome to the club”?

I remained in C-Block. He bounced around a bit before returning. During the 2010 softball season, I taught him how to play baseball. Besides the basics of hitting and fielding, I knew his tall build with long arms lent itself to pitching, so I made sure to work on developing this skill with him. In the spring of 2011 I was transferred out of Attica. I later learned from others that he had become a formidable pitcher.

A few years ago T.J. landed here. I got him a spot on the football team with me. He was a superb defensive end and his playing contributed to the team’s championship. This past season I hung up my cleats but kept involved by helping ref the games and authoring a newsletter reporting on the league. T.J. regularly got on me for not giving him more “pub” and I’d remind him that defense hardly ever gets love. Plus, with him being one of “my boys,” I didn’t want people crying bias.

Most of us in prison have vices, carry demons, or possess a penchant for creating problems for ourselves. T.J. had these traits in spades, and often found himself in one jam after another. He would tell me about them and I would listen. There wasn’t much I could do. Being a degenerate in my own right, how am I to preach any hypocritical bull shit? I did, however, encourage him to try meditation. Originally he thought I was joking. After explaining that I facilitate a weekly class, he promised to attend at least once. To my surprise, he became a semi-regular and sat like a stone.

For nearly a year now, outlets like recreative sports and the aforementioned meditation class have been closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Analogous to free society, this lack of socialization and group activities that provide people with support or a sense of purpose have contributed to an increase in lethal drug overdoses and mental health issues.

Two months ago, T.J. moved over to the West-Side of the prison, after getting a job in the mess hall. On the day he moved, I saw him pushing his property in a cart over to B-Block. I had a conversation with him, stressing that he could use this opportunity to reset, that he’s a new face and could chill out, that the West-Side was different than the East. But this message didn’t register. By the time I linked up with him that evening in the yard, he was already rip’n and run’n with abandon.

On October 27, the day after T.J. asked if I were going to the yard, I saw Odie in the hallway heading to work. He noted that his block was chaotic this morning. I asked, “How so?” He said, “I’ll explain in the shop.”

During our walk through the corridors, one of my peers, named Yang — whose job is delivering cleaning supplies to points across the prison — waved me down. In difficult English accompanied by a hand gesture to indicate “tall,” Yang said “T.J. . .T.J.” Odie tried to divert my attention, but it was useless. Yang finally got out, “ T.J., he dead!” I looked at Odie who reluctantly confirmed with a head nod, noting “I wanted to tell you in the shop and not in the hallway, but yeah. T.J. hung up this morning.”

A few minutes later Odie and I arrived at the maintenance shop where we exchanged mutual greetings with our supervisors. During the course of the day I saw small pockets of my peers in conversation, and just from their gestures I could tell that T.J.’s suicide was the topic. In the instances people tried to engage me about him I mostly shrugged my shoulders and gave a somber head shake. I didn’t want to talk about it. After all, words won’t change anything.

Had I missed some sign? As the day progressed my mind was busy replaying our last interaction. Him asking if I were going to the yard and saying he had something for me. I know a sign of suicidal behavior is giving away belongings. I wondered if, at the time we spoke, he had already made up his mind, or had some event that evening led to his suicide? I wondered about the operation of his mind — why was living another day too much to suffer? And I wondered about the efforts it took to hang himself.

A few weeks ago T.J. had lost a family member. I know it hurt him, but he didn’t discuss it much, at least not with me. I’m the type of person who doesn’t like intrusions on my personal thoughts, nor do I typically share them. So I won’t press others for theirs. If someone wants to speak, I’ll listen. But recently I’ve been a bit distant myself, so maybe T.J. didn’t view me as available.

At some point I asked Odie if T.J. had given him anything for me, knowing damn well if he had, Odie certainly would have delivered it. Still, I had to ask. Odie shook his head.

On the evening of the 27th I had a talk with myself, reminding myself “it is what it is;” there is nothing you can do to change the past. However, I’ll always be left wondering what that “something” was that T.J. wanted to give me — and if there was “something” I could have done to prevent his suicide.

all material copyrighted 2020

The New York Times Op Ed on Covid and Incarceration (11/22/2020)