Letters to an Incarcerated Brother: Encouragement, Hope, and Healing for Inmates and Their Loved Ones

by Hill Harper

  Not to say you’re a problem, but your letter to me certainly was. See, I’m somebody who wants to believe I can solve any problem—that if I don’t know an answer, I’ll find it eventually. But because of your letters, it’s clear, my kind of thinking is just my BS ego talking. The truth is, your letters messed me up a little and brought me to my knees, literally and figuratively, because I have no clue how to answer them. No idea how to help you. I mean, I’ve never even spent one night in a prison, what am I supposed to say? I feel a weird mix of guilt, anger, and helplessness. Which I thought was crazy, ’cause I don’t even know you. Why should it bother me so much? But that’s bullshit, too, cause in a way, I do know you.

  And those aren’t the only reasons I didn’t write back at first. There was another. Your trying to hold me responsible for what’s going on with you pissed me off. I’ll be blunt about it, Brotha: It’s your life, not mine. Yet I do believe that “we are bound together in a single garment of destiny,” as Dr. King said. So maybe my being pissed off at your letter was just my cover for the guilt I felt, because in a way you and I are actually inextricably linked. Your future is linked to mine, and mine to yours.

  You’re probably saying, “What the hell does all that mean, Hill?” What it means is that if I’m truly serious about helping you, then I will never be successful unless you are. And, ironically, you won’t be successful unless I am. You and I, my friend, are inextricably linked in a single ragged and torn garment of destiny.

  Those were the reasons your letter sat in the inbox on my desk as if somebody else was gonna magically come along and write you back. Then your second letter came, rightfully giving me hell for not answering. Yet all I could think about, again, was how could I respond to you when I have no idea what it feels like to be incarcerated—even for one night?

  True, my first book, which you say you read cover to cover, didn’t keep you out of prison. I feel damn bad about that. And let’s be clear, I got love for you. I want to see you happy. I want to see you succeed, and I believe in my heart that you still can. But again, I’m also not into the blame game. Yes, I wrote a book—a user’s manual for growing into manhood—but the key is: You gotta use it! Your letters hint at how little responsibility you want to take for your current situation. That makes me sad. It leads me to think you didn’t pay much attention to my message. You see, it doesn’t do you any good to read a book if you don’t actually learn from it. So why don’t we dead this whole issue and say both of us failed. Cool?

  You wanted to know if I remembered those letters you wrote me almost seven years ago. You’re kidding, right? Brotha, I remember the way each letter would start out with the same kind of doubt you’re expressing now. Your bitterness spilled out like warm blood when you told me about your mom dying and your father absent. Your disappointment about living with your aunt, who you were sure was just doing it out of some sort of obligation. Your feeling of being in free fall, with no parachute to save you.

  So now the question is, why did I bother to answer you back? You were basically just writing to tell me how I failed you and how little you needed bullshit advice. But I figured the fact you wrote me in the first place meant you actually needed something. Maybe, somebody in your corner? Remember what you said to me a long time ago? You were going to be as successful as my paternal grandfather, Harry, had been. Then, all of a sudden, you disappeared on me. Not a word. . . . Nothing for six years. I thought it was because you were too busy working out that plan. I figured you were making moves. And what’s wild is that it seems you were, just not the right ones. And whose fault is that? Yours? Mine? Your drunk dad? The fucked-up school system? That girl who broke your heart? God’s? Whose?

  Now six years later. I get another letter, from a correctional facility. I’ve got to admit, as I sliced the letter open, seeing that new return address sliced right through me. As I already told you, I was at a loss.

  You know what I did after I shoved that letter in a drawer? I shoved you in a drawer. Yep. I completely shut you out of my mind. You know what I did next? I did what I like to do when I’m trying to clear my head. I went to look at cars. I’m a car fanatic, got it honest, too—my dad loved cars. He even quit his job to sell cars at a dealership when I was in middle school. Anyway, I headed to the Pomona Swap Meet. A place with a low-rent name, but badass aftermarket cars.

  Have you ever wanted a new car? I mean had your eye on a specific model that got your blood boiling and motivated you to fantasize about having the means to get that whip? Well, I know some people who have all the money in the world and prefer to buy a used car and add aftermarket parts as opposed to buying a car new off the lot. Have you ever seen the cars that come off of that show Pimp My Ride? These people ride in with clunkers and they ride out with Class. A fresh candy-coated paint, ice-cream leather, a set of rims (dubs and up), a custom wireless hotspot in your dashboard, a Fosgate amp, these things can alter the entire perspective of the driver and the outside world. I like to think of myself as an original composition of aftermarket parts that create a custom person, my best me showcasing my own unique style. My coat of paint may be learning another language, or my rims may be my ability to write, but all of my custom parts have to be found, acquired, learned, and earned like looking for the right set of speakers at a swap meet. But none of my aftermarket skills equipped me on how to answer your letter.

  So what, right? I don’t even really know you, right? At least that’s what I tried to convince myself. So I started looking for another way to escape dealing with you. I had some friends heading down to Daytona Beach, Florida. They asked me to roll, so I went.

  PIT STOPS

  After I connected with my friends in Daytona, I was surprised when they said we were heading to the Daytona International Speedway. Never been there before, didn’t know they let Brothas in. Ha. In the parking lot on the way in we saw a sweet 1969 Camaro Z28. Out of curiosity I asked my boy how much one of those would run on the open market. My jaw dropped when he told me he had just seen one sell at the Barrett-Jackson auto auction for fifty thousand dollars! A quick Google search found the original sticker was less than three thousand bucks. Talk about return on investment. Ever seen any race-car driving? I like fast cars myself, and I like to watch the pros race. It may sound stupid, but for some reason endurance racing is my favorite. Little did I know, the best endurance racing in the country is in Daytona, Florida. In the course of a twenty-four-hour race, every car covers more than twenty-five hundred miles. Around and around they roar on a 3.56-mile closed-course track within the Daytona Beach speedway arena—right through the entire day and night. My buddies and I saw about eight hours of it because I wanted to see if Porsche, which has the most overall victories of any manufacturer, could add to its lead.

  Doing anything with cars is one of my escape hatches when there’s too much of the world coming at me, and I suppose part of what I wanted to escape was feeling shitty about a letter from someone I’ve never even met. But guess what? All that race did was bring me right back to thinking about you. You quoted back to me that I’d said you and your generation were “the newest perfect models.” Just as each year’s car model gets better than the previous—more powerful, easier to handle, more endurance—you, my brother, the newest generation, are the most brilliant, the most perfect model of the human species. You know more than any generation before you did, right? You’re the 2014 Porsche GT of the human species. You are the human equivalent of Internet-enabled entertainment systems, adaptive and responsive suspensions, and dual-gear, seven-speed tiptronic transmissions. You are turbocharged, even if you don’t believe it.

  So the sight of those Porsches, Aston Martins, and Ferraris roaring around that track like lions reminded me of you. Suddenly I realized that your incarceration hadn’t changed anything. I still believed you were the newest perfect model. Nothing—not even prison—can take that away from you. I know your options have changed, but you’re still that sam
e person with the same potential. And I still love you and still believe in you.

  Since we’re on the subject of endurance racing, let me hit you with something else: At Daytona, as those incredibly well-tuned machines roar around the track and day changes to night and back to day again, every single car needs to stop, to get out of the race for a time. They call ’em pit stops. It happens over and over during those twenty-four hours. Even the greatest of the race cars can’t make it without those stops.

  During a pit stop, each car needs five to twenty mechanics to put it back in shape. After a pit stop, the car is renewed; it’s faster and performs better. The new tires and mechanical adjustments are made in the middle of the race. And often those adjustments are more important than the shape the car was in initially. The same holds true for you. I don’t give a damn about all the mistakes from your past. I only care about you . . . your future . . . and how you can move forward.

  What’s more, no single driver can make the entire twenty-four-hour race on his or her own. Each car has several different drivers. At some of these pit stops, the new driver is waiting to change places with the old driver. It only takes a split second. One jumps out, and the other jumps in.

  I see the span of a person’s life in kind of the same way. Short, flashy bursts of performance usually don’t count for much. It’s all about managing to make it over the long haul. Brother, you are exactly like those Porsches and Aston Martins and Ferraris, but you are worth more. They’re true performers, but like any machine, they need their pauses. As you go through prison time, the same holds true for you. You’re not out of the race yet by any means. You’re just off to the side to refuel and make a few tune-ups and adjustments.

  Remember, even if a dude can’t afford the best car off the lot, as he gets more ends he can add to it in the aftermarket. He can improve it slowly, one new piece at a time. He may say he’s trying to “trick it out,” but if you really break down what he’s replacing the original parts that are either worn out or not the best design and replacing them with these aftermarket improvements. And sometimes after enough improvements are added you can’t even recognize the car anymore. I want you to think about your life the same way. What aftermarket parts do we need to add to your education, spirit, finances, family, faith, discipline, courage to change you for the better? So many that others might not even recognize you when we’re done. That’s right—we gonna upgrade you through the aftermarket and like that Camaro your value will skyrocket!

  I’m telling you right now, if you’re willing to trust me again—I promise—we can do it. Do I have all the answers? Hell no. But if we work together and access our resources, I know we can help each other. Oh yes, this isn’t a one-way thing. I will rely on you to look out for me, too, because there are a lot of areas in my life where I need to be a better man, and by no means have I figured it all out yet.

  Are you ready to ride with me? Let’s go on this journey together. Shit, what have you got to lose? Don’t let fears and doubts stop you. Fear is just an acronym for “False Experiences Appearing Real.” Let’s do this: Hit me back when you can, and let me know if you’re in or not. Time’s wasting. And BTW, I don’t be sittin’ in hammocks!

  Take care,

  Hill

  P.S. You know how there are little fortunes in cookies you get at a Chinese restaurant? When I was a kid I used to tape the good ones up on my walls. But then I decided, why not make my own fortune!? Since then, I’ve been writing and taping up motivational words and sayings on my mirror, cupboards, walls, and even on the dashboard of my car. I usually write them on an index card of some sort. I do it to elevate my frame of mind and spirit. I do it because words are powerful, and if I put enough positive ones in me,

  REFUEL

  I get refueled, like a car at the pit stop. Even the Bible tells us, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit” (Proverbs 18:21). Writing down positive words is something I want you to get in the habit of doing. Come on, at least try it. I put one of mine in this letter so you can see what I mean.

  LETTER 2

  The Nature of Freedom

  The preparation and experience most necessary for understanding and valuing a great gift is experiencing its opposite.

  —Anonymous

  Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better.

  —Albert Camus

  Dear Brotha,

  I’m gonna keep it 100 with you, fam—I’m pissed off. And you might be reading this saying, “Awww, Hill Harper is pissed. I’m real sorry; some actor in his fancy apartment is pissed—fuck him!” Whether you’re thinking that or not, I want you to know it’s true. I’m fed up because we’ve been exchanging letters for a while now, and I get a letter from you telling me again how you don’t see or believe that you can break the cycle you’re in. And you finish it in your own classy way:

  You know what? Fuck it then. I quit. I guess I can write to you till my hand is sore, but if you don’t want to help yourself, then ain’t shit-else I can do. If you want to see change in your life, then you need to be prepared to change. It’s that simple. And, to be fair, I know that we all go through periods of doubts where we question ourselves. We let the fear (False Evidence Appearing Real) rule our egos and the voice of doubt and anxiety drive out all the other sounds. Most fears we carry are faker than a cheap weave. You have to use techniques to quiet the voices of fear and doubt in your head before they make you think that you can’t do something. That you can’t break the recidivism, the revolving door that keeps so many Brothas locked up for their entire lives.

  Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

  —Marianne Williamson

  Last night, for some reason, though I was home in L.A., I couldn’t sleep. I’d finally answered your first letter, but you hadn’t answered me back. I began to believe you really had written just to tell me I had failed you.

  I kept thinking about your situation and the ways it mirrored the hundreds of thousands of other newest perfect models of your generation who are stuck behind bars in a six-by-nine. I began thinking about your feeling that everybody, including me, has let you down. I found myself trying to imagine what it might be like to be locked up. I began imagining what it’s like to be known as a number, not a name; what it’s like to be told what to do every minute of the day, what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night, roll onto your back, and stare at bars. What it’s like to be told when to shave, sleep, and shit.

  The other day I had asked a smart Brother I knew who had done an eight-year bid what was the worst thing about prison. And he said: “For me, prison was terrible because I was idle. For eight years, I had to wait for my life to start again. The day they sentenced me I felt like a ghost, not real. As if I didn’t exist anymore. . . . You are expected to be willing to fight in prison, but it’s not about winning or losing. It’s more about standing up for yourself. Opportunity is low in prison, violence is high, there are mental patients everywhere, gangs, racism, but worse than that, it is just being frozen in time.”

  I couldn’t sleep, so finally I turned on the lamp and reached for the book that was lying half-open on the side table. I hadn’t touched it for a long time and I’d forgotten what it was. Turned out it was the lif
e story of a guy who’s suffered some pretty rough pit stops on his race through life, some of them just as rough as yours. When he was just a little younger than you, he nearly lost all hope, all belief. He even spent some time behind bars.

  I’m talking about Sidney Poitier, the Oscar-winning actor. I should be finished with his book, The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography, in a few days, and if you want it and they allow it, I’ll send it to you.

  I myself consider Sidney Poitier a first-class mentor. He’s the coolest cat for any generation—smart, classy, successful. He represents strength through intelligence. The thought of what he’s achieved, compared to the way he started out, keeps me afloat during difficult situations, especially when I begin to question myself. We all, no matter who we are—no matter where or from what circumstances we come—find ourselves in need of inspirational guidance. I have tried to build my own “personal board of directors” made up of people I know and others, like Mr. Poitier, that I read about.

  Sidney Poitier was the very first Black man to win an Academy Award, back in 1964. Almost fifty years later, in 2009, President Barack Obama pinned the Presidential Medal of Freedom—our country’s highest civilian honor—on him.

  Sounds like somebody born under a lucky star, right? But Sidney is no stranger to fear and doubt. By the time he was sixteen, he was often homeless in New York, sleeping on roofs and doing freelance gigs as a dishwasher whenever he could grab one. Winter came, and he found himself facing it without a hat, a scarf, boots, or even a coat. So he joined the army, just to get out of the cold and have three squares a day. Army discipline only ended up igniting his rage and leading to him throwing a chair at an officer. He admits it was a foolish decision, a stupid way to try to get out of the army. That’s when they locked him up while they determined whether he was a nutcase or just a bad guy. If the verdict had been “bad guy,” he could have been court-martialed and sent up for twenty-five years.