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

by Hill Harper

  Listen, Hill. Just a little bit a bad shit going on and I wanted your take on it. I had this fucking argument today. Nothing serious, just shouting, but it bummed me out, and I don’t know how to deal with it when that happens. Yvette come into the supermarket when I was stocking the soup section. First she’s acting all surprised and friendly, like “Oh, I didn’t know you were out. How you doin’!?” And that kind a bullshit. But suddenly she remembers you gettin’ R. J. out of there to come and visit me, and for some reason, she lost it. Shit came out of her mouth even I wouldn’t say. Says she was gonna get custody of him no matter what! When I came back with, “Fat chance!” she starts cussing more and calling me a goddamn jailbird. Says to me, “You think they’re gonna let a loser like you get anywhere near R. J.?” Then she comes out with some half-assed threat that she’ll come up the fire escape at night and carry him away from the group home.

  I hadda laugh when I heard that. R. J.’s almost ten now. She couldn’t even lift him, much less deal with any fire escape. She could hardly stand up straight right there on flat ground. Worst was, everybody was looking. Thankfully, the manager was on lunch break. But I’ll tell you, I don’t want her type around me. She had these pinhole eyes, totally high. Hot pants like some whore, too, though I guess that’s her business.

  I calmed down after she left. But just a little while ago, I was trying to fall asleep, and I started thinking, what would happen if that skank gets her hands on R. J. again? Over my dead body! I don’t want to say it, but I think I’d even do a crime to protect him from her if I had to. I just don’t want her messing him up, know what I mean?

  So, that’s really why I’m e-mailing you. I could call, I thought. But then I remembered you were away for a few days filming Covert Affairs again in Colombia. You told me that and I put it on my calendar when I was at the halfway. I’m organized now. Anyway, it’s buggin’ me out. What should I do, bruh? I mean, she can’t do nothin’, can she?

  Your homie,

  IB

  P.S. Haven’t seen R. J. yet, but that’s almost all I think about before I doze off. Parole officer says something like I need a year to “demonstrate stability,” or something like that. All right, I know I got to establish trust again, and I damn well will. Just tell me what to do about this bitch. Sorry for the word choice. I’m pissed.

  LETTER 38

  Childhood Eyes

  I watch people coming in out of prison with the prison face, the prison attitude, the prison fears—their fear of society, of not making it, not having the stuff. Then seeing them in The Castle, our living facility that’s supportive and safe . . . well, if you remember those time-lapsed high school biology class movies showing flowers that slowly blossom, that’s what you see with these people who come in. They’re angry and dislocated from their community, but now they’re in an environment that’s safe, and they suddenly have a chance in their lives.

  —David Rothenberg, founder of the Fortune Society, with a mission to support successful reentry from prison into the community

  First days you face after prison may be worse than the sentence.

  —Demico Boothe

  Hey, Brotha,

  I am so wired right now it’s insane. I can’t sleep, so, although I just saw you, I decided to write. I’m still buzzed off the fact that after five years of exchanging letters and then calling, we finally met! Feeling like you know someone so well, but meeting them for the first time in person, wow, I hope I didn’t seem weird. There are so many thoughts running around in my head. There’s so much I want to say and I don’t know where to start. I’m so proud of you, man. Shit, I’m proud of us. I feel like I got to walk with you through your prison journey, and today I got to walk with you through the front door of your apartment. Can you imagine that? You’re in your own spot. Your place to think, your place to meditate, your place to work your plan.

  After all the fucked-up shit you went through—cellmates trying to get you in the gangs, dudes getting shanked right before your eyes, not being able to get online to research the resources I was sending you—you’re finally free. I have to say, I’m really proud that you freed your mind while your body was still behind bars. There were times I thought you weren’t going to make it, but it was all about your choices. You chose freedom, and now you have it.

  You got a nice spot, too. It’s small but neat, and you got it pretty hooked up with your drawings on the wall. Have I told you before how talented you are? Have I told you before how much I believe in you? Yeah, I have. I know it’s going to take at least three more years to finish your degree, but please, don’t quit. Please, man, I’m telling you. The few graphics, games, and web design clients you have are just the beginning. Just think, if you’re able to book small jobs now, there’s no limit to what you can do once you finish your degree.

  As I sit here writing, I’m thinking about several moments throughout the day. You know what really got me? When R. J. came over. I have to be honest, fam, sitting there watching you two read from the comic book you designed for him made me get a little, you know, verklempt (that’s Yiddish for choked up . . . and no, I didn’t cry, so don’t try to tease me). Did you see R. J.’s eyes? Did you see the way he looked up at you? Later, when we were playing video games at Chuck E. Cheese, I had to stop for a minute and ask myself, “Isn’t this moment, right here, right now, exactly what we had planned?” Yes, blueprints can turn into reality. Plans can become structures.

  I know you’re a little frustrated that you don’t have custody of R. J. yet, but it’s a big deal that you do have unsupervised visits. Be patient because the more responsibility you show, the closer you’re going to get to that dream. The good news is you’re in his life now. You’re one man who’s going to be there to leave a thumbprint on his son’s future. You’re one man who’s breaking a generational cycle.

  I want to say this and I want to make sure you hear me—I believe in you. You have a strong framework and a clear blueprint and I know you can do this, bruh. That’s what you have to keep in mind. If you do, you won’t be fazed by scenes like poor Yvette caused. That’s a powerless person talking, Brotha, and she was pouring out her pain. That’s all. I’m sorry it had to be poured on you. But deep down, I think she can see that you’re moving toward a surer place of responsibility for R. J., and unfortunately she isn’t. I think that’s why she’s so pissed. She’s feeling shame. But you can still love her even if you two aren’t meant to be together. Just always remain calm and loving with her. The last thing R. J. needs to see is his parents going at it.

  I’m not a complete stranger to that kind of tension, you know. My parents went through a breakup, and as it was happening, the arguments I witnessed as I grew up made me start blaming myself. That’s one thing to keep R. J. from going through. He mustn’t feel like he’s between you and Yvette in that fight. Or, worse, feel like he’s the reason for the fighting. The best thing to remember is not to let guilt make you take the rap for anybody. That doesn’t lessen the responsibility you should feel for your son. It should only alleviate the guilt. You got a plan to take care of your son. Hold on to your belief in it.

  To me, belief seems like the most important thing in the world right now—for both of us. I recently was cleaning out old boxes my mom had kept in storage. She was moving to a smaller place and wanted to get rid of old things. She asked me to come help her and check a few of my childhood boxes to see if I wanted anything. Most of the things I just threw out because they held no sentimental value. But just as I opened the last dusty box, I saw an old notepad and scrawled on the front in my own childhood handwriting was the word “POETRY.” The stiff, old notebook almost cracked as I opened it, and I turned to the third page. And in the middle was written a simple poem that ended with this line:

  Goals and dreams are one in the same. Just say you believe and both you will attain.

  I felt that same verklempt feeling and looked at the date in the upper c
orner. I wrote that poem when I was about the same age R. J. is now. If you don’t believe, he never will learn to, either. This is the time. This is your moment, for you and your son. I’m so happy to be a small part of it. Let’s both believe and move on to write the next great chapters of our lives. Love you, man.

  I’m writing all this as a way of saying that whether it’s my belief that the young man who wrote that poem, way back when, is still somewhere inside me or the belief in your feelings for R. J. and the possibilities for your future, let’s never let the naysayers, haters, and obstacles get us down. They will always be there but we have to hold on to that inner child who believes that anything is possible and sees wonderment everywhere. Hold on to your belief tight and never let go! And if you can do that, you give me permission to do the same. All right?

  I believe in you,

  Hill

  BELIEF

  LETTER 39

  Six Months Later

  One Day at a Time

  Sooner or later, all peoples experience this transformation. It is through some kind of radical moral conversion that a people finally become fully aware of, and assume total responsibility for, themselves—for everything about themselves, including their past, however racked with subjection; and their present, however constrained by circumstances; and their future, however bleak.

  —Orlando Patterson, PhD, quoted in African American Core Values: A Guide for Everyone, by Richard Rosenfield

  Hey, Brotha,

  Happy Easter! I’m back in L.A. I stuck those financial charts that you asked me for in with this letter. Okay? Glad you asked me for ’em. Know why? Because I’m hoping your financial sense will improve a little. Things have changed, haven’t they? I’m so glad you were able to get into that upholstery course and that you’re making pretty good money now. Your crib sounds cool, man. A flat-screen, huh? And a laptop instead of the good old Raspberry Pi? Bet you can’t keep the ladies out, ha! But the best thing is that you’ve managed to save enough money to take two night courses in programming at the junior college. You’re on the path!

  Also, I’m glad to hear Yvette is in residential treatment for her habit. No, that doesn’t mean I think you should try to get back with her. Just that she deserves to heal like anybody does. See how it goes. . . .

  Just one thing: No, I do not think you should let that dude who works at the upholsterer’s with you sell you that living room set. Do you realize what you could do with that $500 dollars? You’ve got to sock it away, man. When you get R. J. back in a couple of years, think of what you’ll need: clothes, food for him, probably transportation to his school, a sitter for the nights you’re at the college. You should forget about new furniture for the time being, don’t you think?

  You never reach the end of your accomplishments while you’re alive.

  You know, I get the idea you think there’s an end point to life’s journey. That once you get there, everything is taken care of. You’ll have all you want, and there’ll be no more struggling. Well, I don’t want to disappoint you, but you never reach the end of your accomplishments while you’re alive. That’s what’s so exciting about life.

  And you won’t have everything in life figured out by the time you turn forty. Nobody does! Just keep making decisions with a pure heart, a clear mind, and a prayerful spirit, and God or the universe will give you all the information you need to have at just the right times. Things will take care of themselves.

  WIDER

  My Brotha, I think I should tell you about what I see as the next big step. Ever since I’ve known you, we’ve been talking about taking responsibility for yourself, envisioning your goal of becoming unreasonably happy, which is cool. But there is a big step beyond that, which I think is even more fulfilling. I’m talking about a wider sense of responsibility, the feeling of serving your community. I learned that after I became well-known enough to realize that people were somehow looking to me to define certain aspects of life. Every one of us media types must be completely aware of that influence—whether positive or negative. For a celebrity to walk around and say, “I’m no one’s role model,” is asinine and crazy. Having published those books I did, one thing that’s been proven to me is that young people are watching everything we do on the screen and off the screen. They model their behavior after public figures. If we are given this platform as celebrities, how are we using it? Are we using it to do good? Are we using it to do negative things?

  I’m not saying that you’re a celebrity or that you have to be one. That’s no measure of value—by any means. We all have value. But for everybody, including you, responsibility for others is arranged around you in concentric circles. The nearest circle of responsibility, of course, is your family; the next circle includes friends; then the people you work with; then your entire community; and finally, your entire people, whose fates are inextricably bound up with yours, and not only in the present, but for all of history.

  I gotta run, man. . . . Call me.

  Love,

  Hill

  RESPONSIBILITY

  P.S. I’m enclosing a letter from formerly incarcerated fellow actor Charles “Roc” Dutton. I did Spike Lee’s film Get on the Bus with him. I told him about our friendship, and he said he had some advice he wanted to share with you.

  Dear Brother,

  I’ve been out of prison for almost forty years, since 1976. The difference between my outlaw days, when I was in and out of penal institutions from age twelve to twenty-six, and yours is that mine were in the 1960s and ’70s. At that time, most states were spending tens of millions of dollars on rehabilitation, but the recidivism rate was just as high as it is now. The problem was that when those people were finally released or went out on parole, they went back into the same communities they came from, and those communities were now a thousand times worse off. A lot of guys came home with a degree or a trade and were enthusiastic about being a productive member of society, but when they went back, they faced a worse environment, peer pressure, and their friends wanting them to get back into the life. Not everyone can withstand the pressure that you have to deal with upon release. You have to become a leader, at least in your own life, to be able to deal with what you’ll be facing.

  Before you’re released, making a change in prison doesn’t have anything to do with getting your GED or a skill for a job. Real change has to do with your rediscovering your own humanity. If you haven’t done that, no matter how many degrees or skills you get, it won’t do you any good once you get out. Because if you haven’t touched on your own humanity, then killing someone again, getting involved in the drug game, or committing armed robbery is still easy to do. But if you rediscover your own humanity, your psychology starts to transform because you’re now a human being who’s concerned about other people—not just in your community, but people in other countries who are undergoing hardships, as well. You open up your mind and start caring about other people. That is real rehabilitation.

  People who manage to stay out of prison are those who have really rediscovered their own humanity.

  People who manage to stay out of prison are those who have really rediscovered their own humanity. They may not become rich; they may be bricklayers, truck drivers, or sanitation workers. However, they are taking care of their kids; they’re well respected; they’re not living the criminal life. They’re relaxed and happy now.

  Once you’re incarcerated, it’s easy to become conditioned by prison life, particularly if you start out as a juvenile. You see the same friends you were in juvenile prisons with when you were twelve or thirteen, and now you’re all in your midtwenties or early thirties and are still in prison together; you have been conditioned. Whether you admit it or not, you like that shit. It takes a lot of mental toughness to break that conditioning. But you have to ask yourself, “Do I really want this life or am I really tired of it?” And if you’re not tired of it, then don’t bull
shit people; don’t bother to go to a self-help program. Why bother to get your GED or get a trade? You’re just doing all that to make it seem like you’re being positive. But in your heart, you still are connected with all that negativity, and you haven’t changed. However, once you’re tired of it, then you have balls enough to tell your buddies, “I’m sick of this shit. I’ve been doing this for twenty-five, thirty years, ever since I was a kid—so don’t ask me to hook up with you on those drug deals. I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of my family and myself and being a productive citizen. I’m trying to be a better person.” As soft as that may sound in that warrior world you’re in, if you’re a real tough guy, you’ll be able to say that and still get respect.

  My friend Walter Lomax did thirty-nine years in the Maryland state penitentiary for a crime he did not commit. He was finally released when a judge looked at his case and the DNA. I went in and out of prison four times, and every time, Walt was still in there. He could have been bitter about it, but from the minute he was incarcerated, back in 1966, his sole purpose was to try to get out. He bettered himself while he was in there, because he always had the belief he was going to get out one day. He didn’t join a program just to make himself look good; instead, he discovered his humanity while he was in prison. And once he was released, he didn’t carry a grudge. He went right out and started trying to help incarcerated people throughout the country who were innocent. I’m in awe of his perseverance and discipline.

  I understand how difficult it is to stay out of prison. I understand how the forces beat you down, particularly in these times, which are so much worse than they were when I got out in 1976. Recidivism is the same as a drug addict’s relapse, although drug addiction is a disease. There is nothing you can do to help a drug addict until he wants to help himself. You can do all the talking and crying and pleading in the world, but until he’s ready to get off drugs, there isn’t one single goddamn thing you can do for him. It’s the same way with the returning prisoner; you can get him a job, an apartment, but if he ain’t ready to stay out, then it’s all for nothing.