On August 11, 1987, at 23 years old, my life took a devastating turn. Authorities arrested me for leading a cocaine distribution enterprise. Although there were no allegations of violence or weapons, the charges carried the possibility of a life sentence due to the scale of the operation and mandatory sentencing laws at the time. Having never been confined before, I had no way of comprehending what lay ahead.
A magistrate judge ordered me held without bond, and authorities placed me in solitary confinement. Alone in that small cell, with the weight of a potential life sentence bearing down on me, I began to lose hope.
When allowed to make a call home, I heard the anguish in my parents’ voices. My older sister, Julie, became a beacon of hope. My younger sister, Christina, was only 20 years old and didn’t fully grasp the gravity of my situation. The charges against me brought humiliation to my entire family, and the shame was compounded when my grandparents stopped speaking to me.
In solitary, I felt the will to live slipping away. I was consumed with regret for the pain I caused and fear of the unknown that lay ahead.
After being transferred to detention centers near Seattle for trial, my father and Julie visited every possible visiting day. They stood in long lines to see me, offering me the gift of connection. Visits were restricted to 30 minutes, conducted across a glass partition while speaking through telephone handsets. Despite the briefness and constraints, their weekly visits were lifelines that reminded me I wasn’t alone.
During those visits, I could see the worry etched on their faces, a constant reminder of the deep impact my actions had on them. They feared for my safety, my mental health, and my ability to endure the ordeal ahead. Their unwavering support was my anchor, even as I made poor decisions that prolonged their pain.
Rather than accept responsibility, I clung to the false hope that my lawyer would secure an acquittal, delaying the process of genuine accountability and prolonging my family’s suffering. My family’s love remained steadfast, but I failed them by refusing to own my actions. When the jury convicted me on all counts, I realized the full extent of the burden I had placed on those who loved me.
I’m here today because of my family’s belief in me. Their love and support through those dark days gave me the strength to persevere. Even now, I am haunted by the pain and worry I saw on their faces when they learned of my guilt. From the confines of a solitary cell, I vowed to spend my time inside working to atone for my crimes and to somehow make amends.
The conviction devastated my parents. My father and mother never fully recovered from the loss of their son to the prison system. I bore responsibility for the pain I caused and carried their heartache with me throughout my sentence.
After five years, my grandparents saw how I’d transformed my life in prison and we reconciled. Later, my dad suffered from dementia and he passed away during my second decade in prison. My mother got to see me come home, but she passed away in 2017, about five years after my release. Along with my younger sister, Christina, she visited me in a federal prison’s visiting room so she could witness my marriage to Carole. Once I got out, my mother got to see the life I built with Carole, and watched as I built a career that centered on the lessons I learned through the journey. My return to society brought her happiness.
Julie’s support was unwavering. She essentially served the sentence alongside me. After marrying her husband, Tim, she continued to visit regularly, regardless of where authorities confined me. Tim joined her in offering financial support, sending a few hundred dollars each month to fund my correspondence courses and buy books. They helped me work toward earning university degrees in human resources and interdisciplinary studies, providing both financial and emotional support through frequent letters, phone calls, and encouragement. When they had children, they brought them to visit, allowing me to remain connected to their growing family.
Christina, now living in Miami, built her own life. She married and had two daughters. Although distance and circumstances limited our visits, we stayed connected through letters and phone calls. Her children grew up without knowing much about my life in prison, and I missed the chance to fully know them as they grew.
I lived vicariously through my sisters while incarcerated, doing everything in my power to prove worthy of their love. The poor decisions I made during the recklessness of my youth inflicted enormous pain on my family. That pain motivated me to strive toward self-improvement and redemption.
Books became a pivotal source of hope for me. An officer brought me works by Socrates, which taught me the value of critical self-reflection, and Frederick Douglass, whose resilience in the face of oppression inspired me to strive for a meaningful life despite my circumstances. Those narratives inspired me to believe that I could rise above my circumstances. With my family’s love as my foundation, I began to build a plan. I established priorities, set goals, and cultivated the tools, tactics, and resources I would need to endure and succeed.
My family’s unwavering belief in me taught me the importance of support systems and resilience. Those lessons are central to the mission of Prison Professors. Just as my family helped me persevere, I now work to help others find the strength to transform their lives, even in the face of adversity. My family’s love carried me through 26 years in prison, and their example continues to guide me today.
‍
‍
How can you strengthen relationships with the people who believe in you, and how might their support inspire you to pursue your goals?