It was a Monday afternoon, just after our African American Cultural Committee had finished a two-hour meeting about bringing more educational opportunities to Washington State Penitentiary. Education is essential to reducing recidivism, and we were adamant about providing prisoners with the tools to become contributing members to the communities they would transition back to.
When the meeting ended, I gathered my paperwork and left the recreation building with a close friend. We slow-walked back to the unit, relishing the warmth from a bright sun moving through a perfectly blue sky.
Although prison has a way of dragging you through the mud, mentally and emotionally, something as small as walking through green grass on a warm day can revitalize a person’s soul. For some of us, these little experiences propel our thoughts beyond the razor-wired fences and gun towers that guard our bodies, allowing us to envision life outside of prison.
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As I navigated my thoughts, Joseph and I made our way toward the weight deck, an area we had to pass before arriving at the unit. The sound of steel plates rattled and clanged, echoing through the air as prisoners racked and un-racked the bench presses. Other prisoners sat to the left of us, playing cards and slamming dominoes at the gray tables. As we pushed our way past a few people, my eye caught someone I had not expected to see, someone I had known prior to my incarceration, a close friend of the person who was murdered in my case.
My role models at the time frowned upon those emotions—”real men” weren’t supposed to feel any of that…With no one to help us counteract these views, my friends and I retaliated.
It was the worst mistake in my life, not only because it landed me in prison at the age of 21 with a 63-year sentence, but because many people and their families were hurt.
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Just that quickly, the world around me darkened, and emotions began to surface that were at odds with the person I had become over the years since my conviction. Although I had walked away from my previous lifestyle, this other man’s demeanor suggested that he had not, reminding me of a part of my life I wasn’t proud of. I braced myself for what could happen.
I watched him as he sat down, playing dominoes with two other prisoners. When he spotted me, our eyes locked, and he slowly got up from the table. “Aye homie, can I holla at you for a minute?” When I stopped to hear him out, my friend kept walking, assuming that the guy wanted to talk to me about something that required privacy. Because of my ministry within the prison, such conversations were common for me.
When the prisoner walked up to me, he asked my name. His inquiry felt malicious, which made it difficult for me not to slip into an aggressive mindset. “My name’s Twon. Why? What’s up?” He responded, “You killed my partner. We gotta run it.” In other words, he wanted to fight over the death of his friend.
At that moment, I felt like there was no way I could prevent a physical altercation. This wasn’t a case of someone angry over being disrespected, which I could make right with a simple apology. Someone he loved and cared about had been murdered. I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, but I had been there and that made me equally responsible.
I was now standing in the face of the same pressures that landed me in prison—I wasn’t sure if I could resist.
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Fifteen years before, when I was little more than a kid, I felt justified in my rage when this prisoner’s friend shot somebody I loved and cared for, multiple times and in broad daylight.
I remember vividly how I felt the moment I’d heard about the shooting. I was sad, afraid, and frustrated, though I struggled to find ways to communicate those feelings back then.
My role models at the time frowned upon those emotions—”real men” weren’t supposed to feel any of that. We were taught to be indifferent and calloused about the heartaches we experienced in life. So when those feelings arose, I began to see myself as inadequate and less of a man. With no one to help us counteract these views, my friends and I retaliated.
It was the worst mistake in my life, not only because it landed me in prison at the age of 21 with a 63-year sentence, but because many people and their families were hurt. A man lost his life, my friends and I were sentenced to die in prison, and all four of our children were forced to grow up without their fathers.
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The psychological trauma we brought to our communities is impossible to calculate—all because we had chosen to kneel at the throne of violence.
With these thoughts flashing through my mind, I looked this man in the eyes and told him I wouldn’t fight. I explained that too much damage had been done already, and I refused to continue traveling down this road. I talked of the number of lives that had been broken and said the cycle needed to end with us. All those years ago, I would have fought him, but the person I had become couldn’t. I apologized for what I had done, hoping he would hear the truth in my words.
As we stood there, I could see that he was thinking about what I had said. But his friends were watching, which meant it would be hard for him to walk away. The street code that governed his life meant he couldn’t back down even if he wanted to—something I knew because I had lived that code most of my teenage years. He had to respond with violence. If he didn’t, it would’ve threatened his manhood and his standing.
This was toxic masculinity in its purest form.
As I had anticipated, he threw a punch, which I was able to block. With my folder and papers still in hand, I took a step back. But he had provoked me to engage, and immediately I felt the pressure to hit back. Even though his punch hadn’t landed, other prisoners would see me as being weak and a pushover if I didn’t retaliate. That’s dangerous in a place where many men respect only violence. But I quickly began to think about all the times I had stood behind a pulpit and spoken about love and forgiveness. How could I counsel other people if I couldn’t practice what I preached?
Even with these things in mind, I struggled with the reality that other prisoners were watching and would consider me soft if I didn’t fight back. I was now standing in the face of the same pressures that landed me in prison—I wasn’t sure if I could resist.
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After adjusting my baseball cap, I asked my friend to hold my folder so I could face the other prisoner. My friend must have known what I was thinking of doing, and so he looked me in the eye and said, “Twon, let it go.” Those few words—a simple plea that I think about the consequences of what I was about to do—were powerful and made me pause long enough to glance back at the man who had swung at me and see him as a person, not a threat. I hesitated, then spoke: “I’m going to pray for you, man—I’m going to pray for you.” Then I turned and walked away.
Later that evening, a number of prisoners who had heard about what happened lined up at my door, asking for my permission to retaliate. Most of the men in the prison knew I was a Christian. They understood, based on how I carried myself, that I did not support violence because of what it did not only to me but to my family and community. I discouraged any retaliatory behavior, whether on their behalf or mine. That wasn’t easy, and I asked God to help me keep my pride in check. I didn’t want to make another decision that would create more heartache and pain.
I’m glad I found the strength not to fight, and I am grateful to my friend for stepping up to help me when I most needed him.
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One of the most significant lessons I learned from this situation was how important it is to surround myself around people who want the best for me. No matter how far I get or how much I grow in life, there will always be a time when I find myself in a situation where I am vulnerable. That’s just part of being human.
I’m glad I found the strength not to fight, and I am grateful to my friend for stepping up to help me when I most needed him.
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Having someone who can be a righteous voice, someone who loves me enough to hold me accountable in those moments, can be the difference between making a very bad decision and choosing wisely.
I’m capable of thinking on my own, of course, but the people we have strong relationships with have a strong influence in our lives. As the saying goes, “Bad company corrupts good character.”
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More importantly, this situation reminded me of how my choices impact other people. That evening, an influential Hispanic prisoner came to my door. “I just wanted you to know, I saw and heard what you did earlier. I was watching you from the weight deck,” he said. “It gave me the chills, that you were able to handle that situation the way you did.” I was humbled when he concluded by saying, “I respect that.”
My choice, made with the support of my friend, meant this prisoner saw that violence isn’t the only option to conflict, that refusing to fight doesn’t make you soft, or weak, or less of a man.
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My choice, made with the support of my friend, meant this prisoner saw that violence isn’t the only option to conflict, that refusing to fight doesn’t make you soft, or weak, or less of a man.
That may seem obvious to some outside of prison, but in here being tough, aggressive, and violent is almost always part of what it means to be a man.
But we didn’t learn that in prison—many of us were taught this ideology of manhood well before we fell into the criminal justice system, which is evident from the amount of violence we see in our communities.
My friend’s support, my choice, these conversations with other people—alone, these small acts won’t change the world, of course.
But they remind us that we men can be tender, even in one of the hardest places in society.
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Photo: iStock
I appreciate your honesty. In my case I’m always itching for a fight, but I’ll reconsider due to your article.