🔵 By Timothy Payne. Photo by lauragrafie.
Hearing voices can be taken as a sign of insanity. Yet, in the realm of long-term prison life it is well accepted that over the years we all get touched with a hint of insanity. Some call it institutionalization, some call it growing weary of life, but I call it the whispers that help us push forward to the next day.
Nearing twenty calendar years of incarceration, I have undergone a series of changes that do not need to be justified before a free-world audience. Their judgment and criticism of me has made me callous to their voice. To a group that wishes nothing but condemnation and vengeance upon you, what is more human than to ignore their voice? The voice to which I listen is my own-the whisper helping me put one foot in front of the other.
My voice is not one always speaking with authority. It is more of a questing voice seeking to make sense of the reality in which it finds itself. There was a period of self-loathing voice wishing the decisions I have made would have been different, my mind repeatedly realizing how a series of what seemed to be inconsequential choices led to such ruin in the lives of others and my own. While that voice spoke true, one tires of the same old song. It is not that this particular voice is now ignored so much as I have grown past it. In my mind I have accepted the guilt of my past and made peace with my current existence. Nonetheless, I did not get from self-loathing to where I currently am overnight. There were other voices influencing my life.
The next voice I encountered was one of anger and confusion. My anger was aroused by the actions of an unjust system. I say unjust not in that the act of incarceration is an injustice, but that the conditions are unjust. Many are ignorant to the fact that it is not unconstitutional for prison “conditions” to be cruel and unusual. What is unconstitutional is for anything designated as “punishment” to be cruel and unusual. In the midst of linguistic Olympics, almost anything goes in prison.
Yes, there is a grievance process for violations of established policies to be reported, but those are a joke. They are dismissed as lacking evidence or the officer in question denying the actions. In the free-world, police brutality and abuse were not uncovered and exposed by the police departments, but by ordinary citizen, with cellphones recording the criminal behavior. In prison we have no such recourse. The response we are left with is anger- an anger slowly molding our character and actions into passively-aggressive expressions of this emotion.
The anger, though, is more than a raw reaction to a system claiming to be “just” but acting in ways that violate justice. The contradiction makes the criminal justice system seem a farce to me. How can an unjust system hold me captive for being unjust? My personal feelings add a level to my anger because I am not here for my own actions. I am being held criminally responsible for the actions of another. I am indicted and convicted of Capital Murder, yet I have never seriously injured another person in my life. I can admit I am guilty of something, but that something certainly is not murder. This makes me angry- not just one element of it, but the parts of it forming into the whole. Even though the anger no longer controls me, there was a time when it did. Its voice whispering to me during every hour of my existence.
This angry voice is distinct from, but co-existing with a voice of confusion. Confused about what life means for me and what it looks like now that I have accepted the fact that the black cauldron of prison is inescapable. Sometimes there is a whisper wondering why life is worth living. The confused voice argues with itself that there is meaning, even for a life like mine.
I am vaguely aware of a voice from society saying I deserve to suffer every day for the rest of my life, yet that small voice does not whisper louder than my own voice seeking meaning and purpose. Yes, my life has been wrecked, but I have to live in the aftermath of it all. Knowing this, I know that I do not know what that is going to look like, thus the voice of confusion.
The voice drove me to various means of self-education via books and educational programs as an attempt to clarify the confusion. Near everyone of these means was intended for a free-world audience or for those shortly to regain freedom through the parole system. The education was good, but my voice of confusion was trying to make sense out of what it all meant for me-a lifer. Answers came and changed with a lived experience about what does and does not work. I have become convinced that the answer to my confusion cannot come from without, but only from within.
This realization gave birth to a voice of determination. This voice tells me that even though my circumstances limit me, there is still much that can be accomplished. Memory being what it is, I do not remember the exact philosopher who defined the “good life” as having the available means so that one could sit around pondering the great things of the world. Prison sucks, but one thing it grants those it holds is time to think.
Thinking, as thinking people do, I came upon the idea of influence. The idea was and is expressed in a wide variety of colors, but what I have not found is an expression of the power or a prisoner to influence the world around them. Fully in my mind is the belief that prison walls lack the ability to prevent me from influencing the world. Far from any nefarious ends, my voice of determination persistently began to whisper to me that my life could still have meaning.
To fully express the voice of determination, I would need to explain that for three years in the county jail I watched my face plastered on the nightly news for the crime for which I am incarcerated. Guilt and innocence aside, I have a deep realization of the harm I have introduced into the world. The voice of one of the District Attorneys remains with me to this day saying, “Maybe your presence was what your co-defendant needed to do what he did.” I do not know if the statements is true or not, nor will I ever. Yet, that voice speaks a powerful truth that apart from my intentions, my actions have left a powerfully negative mark upon the world. I know that no future good will ever erase that mark. Yet, the voice of determination says that at my death, through intentional actions, there can be some good with the bad.
The voice of determination has placed me upon a long road of education-both formal and self-led. In order to influence the world, I need to understand the world. People like Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi have shown me that education and persistence can lead to unexpected results. Perhaps these are not the lessons others would draw from these two men, but, then again, this essay is not about others.
Along the journey where I listened to the voice of determination I came upon the voice of religious exploration. For so long in my life I was unsure of the existence of “God”. The voice came to me one day while contemplating some of the biblical stories that seemed rather fantastic. My rational mind says it cannot be, but another voice says it can. Basically, the voice of religious exploration accused me of being a life-long doubter, of always choosing the safety of disbelief. Then it challenged me to taste and see the goodness of God. Listening to that voice, I made a decision to choose to believe God for two years and see where it took me.
Both the voice of determination and the voice of religious exploration would travel with me as my life began a transformation that still is not quite complete. I have grown from tasting to believing. The voice of religious exploration has convinced me of the power of influence. Rather than an ego-centric concept of “good”, I have come across the ideas of being a beacon of light in the midst of darkness. The light does not draw others to myself, but points them towards the voice of religious exploration. The idea of transformation is not a selfish concept to be horded by the incarcerated mind, but a light to be shared with a world smothered in imperceptible darkness.
The voices of determination and religious exploration have quieted to a gentle hum as a voice of mission has stepped to the front. This voice tells me that as a Christian I am part of something so much bigger than myself. The stories of Mandela and Gandhi have been replaced with those of David and Paul. Paul, in particular, is of interest to me because if he were alive today, he would have been criminally responsible for the actions of another for his role in the murder of Stephen. Paul could have been a fellow prisoner with me.
Despite his past actions, Paul also had a voice of religious exploration that led him to a voice of mission that has left a legacy of devotion and religious affection that should be imitated. If this life could be used by God, why not mine? The voice of mission tells me not to seek greatness, but to seek to be faithful to the call placed upon me. I am but a part of a greater whole working to build the kingdom of God.
I know some in society would dismiss the genuineness of religious conversion among the incarcerated. This does not matter to me. As I have said before, a voice of condemnation and vengeance is largely ignored by me because what is more human than to seek meaning in whatever circumstances we find ourselves? I might very well die in prison. Despite this truth, I have fond meaning and purpose through the voice of mission whispering to me. This voice currently tells me that the impact of my life is not bound by the cage in which I reside. My life will be used to change people whom I will never know. I rest in the peacefulness of this mystery. There is so much I don’t know and never will, and that is okay because the bigger mission does not depend upon me. Joy is found in knowing that my brokenness can be redeemed, even though, the society that condemned me might never see anyone expect that young man who made a string of bad decisions so long ago.