The Good Men Project

The following two essays were written by inmates of Sing Sing Correctional in Ossining, New York. Both are graduate students at the New York Theological Seminary at Sing Sing and are members of a class taught by Julio Medina, a former inmate who founded and is the executive director of Exodus Transitional Community in New York. Medina also is the author of “Blood-Spattered,” an essay about his incarceration and transformative experience in prison, for The Good Men Project anthology. In December, Good Men Project cofounder Tom Matlack visited Sing Sing, spoke in Medina’s class, met the students/inmates, and invited them to write essays for the Project.  

 

 

The Joyful Burden

By Paul Cox

There comes a point in everyone's life when a moment arises that will change their course of life, hopefully for the better. Some will have this moment occur and not heed its message. Others will embrace their epiphany and move forward in life with a renewed purpose.

My life path has held numerous points of illumination; however, I was not able to see the spiritual light before me until I was handed the greatest burden a man can receive.

During my junior year of high school, I became spiritually bankrupt and was already in the throes of alcoholism. I felt as if everyone and everything in life was turned against me. I made a serious attempt at ending my life. I spent almost two weeks in the Children's Intensive Care Unit (CICU) at Jacobi Hospital, in the Bronx, NY. 

I will never forget three other children in that room. First, there was Rene. He was two years old and afflicted with a rare disease in which his mind would forget to tell his body to breathe. He had a permanent tracheal tube and could never be far from a respirator or breathing bag. 

Second was Karen. She was eleven years old and suffering the effects of a diabetic stroke. Her every need had to be cared for by either a nurse or family member. Every day I was in that unit, family members who seemed to be filled with joy at the fact that their child was alive visited these two.

The final child was Julie. She was a premature birth whose mother abandoned her. 

Because I was mobile after two days, the nurses decided to put me to work in the CICU. I would feed and change Julie. I was asked to read to Rene and Karen. I would watch as medical exams and procedures were preformed on each of them. I came to care for these children.

On the day that I was discharged from the hospital, I arrived home to a small gathering. My family wanted me to know I was loved and missed. My grandmother embraced me and said, "It was not your time yet. God loves you and still has plans for you." 

These words were both a comfort and frightening. I could not see anything positive in my life's future and I did not like the thought of any unknown plans that were being held for me. 

A few weeks after my discharge I returned to the CICU with flowers to thank the nurses. It was then that they told me that I could have been removed from the unit after my second day. However, they kept me there so I could learn a lesson. That is exactly what happened. I learned how lucky and privileged I was. I saw the real struggles that people had to deal with every day.

As I looked around the unit, I did not see any of the three. I could not bear to ask what had happened to them as I realized that life was a gift and I should not waste it. 

Unfortunately, my disease would soon wash the light of this lesson away.

I had a reoccurrence of suicidal thoughts toward the end of my senior year. I was frustrated with my school failings and felt my future was hopeless. However, this time I reached out to my parents for help. Along with psychological issues, it was also discovered that I suffered from learning disabilities. 

With less than a month to go until my scheduled graduation from a Catholic high school, I was finally vindicated in my assertions that I had tried in school. This revelation also unleashed anger inside of me. I was mad at teachers, schools, parents, and even God. No one had believed me during my years of suffering. Where was the Christian compassion when I was told that I could not graduate with my classmates because I failed senior English by less than half a percentage point? These men of God turned out to be real SOBs. 

My thinking was so distorted by alcohol that I could not perceive anything for what it really was. I was hurt and found it easy to turn against those I thought caused my pain. 

The next four years of my life were filled with nothing but one failure after another. I got a job in downtown Manhattan. I quit that job. I enlisted in the Air Force. I was kicked out of the Air Force. I enrolled in college. I drank my way out. I enrolled in another college. I was academically dismissed from that college. I was a lost soul wondering the earth. I bounced from relationship to relationship without concern for anyone's feelings. I made excuses to avoid family gatherings. I was physically, mentally, and spiritually broken.

In May of 1990, I woke up one morning, after a blackout night of drinking, and realized that I could not live my life like that any longer. I do not know where that thought came from; however, I acted on it. This was the beginning of my path of sobriety.

With my sobriety and renewed faith, my life was traveling along a smooth path. I had a good job, an apartment of my own, and I reconnected with family and friends. Finally, my life was moving in a positive direction. However, there was a bend in my path that I could not see.

On the morning of May 20, 1993, I left my apartment to go to the store. I had traveled no more than a block when my truck was corralled between two unmarked police cars and I had four guns pointed at me. Without going into details, I will say that I was being arrested for the killing of two individuals that occurred five years earlier, while I was still an active alcoholic, in an incident that I still cannot recall.

As I was being brought to my arraignment, I thought of my grandmother's words years earlier. Was this God's plan for me? 

After the proceeding, I was being led out of the courthouse under police escort. A crowd of reporters, family, and onlookers had gathered. As we got to the door, my grandfather, whose 80th birthday was that day, broke through the line, wrapped his arms around me, and said, "God loves you."

My grandfather's words sat with me for the four weeks I waited in jail for my bail to be posted. I thought of my actions and wondered if God did love an individual who had taken two productive lives. Could God love someone who wasted his life reeking havoc in others and caused so much pain? 

When I was eventually released on bail, I was mandated to home confinement at my parent's house. I would have plenty of time to contemplate my past and future as I awaited trial. Little did I know that I would still have more to think about.

On the evening of January 11, 1994, I received a phone call from my younger brother's friend whom he was traveling with in Hawaii. As I listened to the words, tears rolled down my cheeks. My little sister kept pulling at my arm, asking what was wrong. I hung up the phone and immediately punched the nearest kitchen cabinet. I sank to the floor and exploded in tears as I wrapped my sister in my arms and told her that our brother was dead.

How could God do this? I had taken two lives; yet, I was being allowed to live. My brother had harmed no one. Now he was gone. 

My sister’s tending to the cuts on my hand brought me back to awareness. I felt her care for me, knowing she really wanted to care for our brother. When she finished bandaging my hand, I gave her a hug and rose from the floor. I picked up the phone and made the hardest call of my life. I dialed my grandparent's house, where my parents had gone for a cocktail after evening Mass. 

My grandfather answered the phone, and I asked him to tell my parents to come home immediately. As they were only two blocks away, I knew it would not take long for them to get home. I then asked God to give me the strength I needed to deliver the worst news one could give a parent. The thought of a drink never entered my mind as my Higher Power was with me.

My spirituality was now a part of me.

As my parents entered the house, I saw that my grandparents had accompanied them. My grandfather must have heard something in my voice and knew that he would be needed. I asked my parents to sit down on the kitchen bench, and I knelt in front of my mother. I looked in her eyes and saw fear. I could only imagine what she was thinking. What could be worse than what they were dealing with in my situation? 

I took my mother's hands in mine and told her the news. I held her; we held each other.

During the next ten months, as I sat through my brother's funeral and my trials, I thought about my purpose in life. I knew I had to make amends for my actions; yet, how would that be possible? 

I remained sober during this time and realized this was the key to my future. I needed to be clean in order to successfully negotiate my path and finally see the light that would be shown to me.

That moment occurred in the visiting room of Shawangunk Correctional Facility, when I was handed the heaviest load I could ever carry, weighing eight pounds, seven ounces.

On March 27, 1997, I was called to the visiting room. As I entered, my eyes focused on my wife standing there with a bundle in her arms. When I reached her, she stretched out her arms and handed me our three-day-old son, Jacob. No words were said, yet the air was filled with emotion. I looked at Jacob's angelic face, and tears trailed down my cheeks as I recalled my grandmother’s words from fourteen years earlier.

Holding Jacob, I knew what those plans were. I had been entrusted with the most precious gift there is: the nurturing of another human being. No longer was life about me. I resolved to dedicate my life to being the best father I could be, regardless of my situation. I would teach my son how to be a good man through my example. This has not always been easy, but it is continuously rewarding.

His sister, Judine, now joins the weight of Jacob in my heart. At times, this weight may be strenuous, but it is never unbearable. I realized that life is about caring for and helping others. Whether it is unknown children or family members in pain, Love has become my guiding principle. Being a good man is a burden for a lifetime, yet its rewards are everlasting. My grandmother was right: I only had to have faith.

 

 

 

Reading It All Together: Love, Purpose, Self

By Salih Israil

At twenty-one years old, I was sitting on Riker's Island in New York City, awaiting trial for several counts of attempted murder, robbery, and assault, all of which stemmed from what the Atlantic City Press called "a drug deal gone bad." That was 1996. Back then. I had mastered the art of appearing optimistic, but I was really stressed deep down inside. Needless to say that Riker's Island is not an environment that promotes happiness or peace of mind. 

Fortunately, I was privileged to use the phone daily—and not everyone had that privilege. I struck up a long-distance phone relationship (friendship) with an old girlfriend. We had been on and off since I was fourteen years old. Little did I know that she would say something that would eventually change my life.

It happened one day when I ended a phone call by telling her that I loved her. She paused for what seemed like an eternity and then said, "You have to learn to love yourself before you can love anyone else." 

I quickly replied, "I do love myself." 

Without pause, she told me, "You wouldn't have put yourself in the position you’re in now if you loved yourself." 

I brushed off her words without giving them a second thought. We talked on the phone a few more times, and then she politely asked me to stop calling. I honored her request and didn’t call back.

I blew trial about a year later and was sentenced to 20 to 40 years in prison. Yes, 20 to 40 years. That's a lot of time, and there was this brief moment when I though it meant the end of my life. However, slowly but surely, I began to think of it as an opportunity to start my life over. 

I remember sitting in my prison cell, listening to music one evening. I was in Green Haven Correctional Facility, which was where they sent me after I was sentenced. I had been there for about a year. 

So I’m sitting there, listening to music, and bam! My old girlfriend's words exploded into my mind, "You have to learn how to love yourself before you can love anyone else.” l gave those words some serious thought, and then I asked myself, "Do I love myself'?" 

I didn't have an answer. I was stuck, which ignited a flood of tears. Then I asked myself, "What does it mean to love myself?" The more I thought about it, the more her words seemed like a riddle—a riddle that I can't say I solved that night.

My old girlfriend's words stayed with me for the next few days and led me to do some serious self-examination. I looked back at every serious decision that I had ever made, and my old girlfriend's words started to take on meaning. All of the negativity I had participated in—the drug dealing, the womanizing, emotionally abusing women, and destroying my community—was a reflection of my lack of love for myself. 

I can’t pretend that this was an easy thing for me to accept. On the contrary, I was shocked into the realization that every major bad decision I had made was nothing more than a failed attempt at finding happiness and peace of mind in something outside of myself—something besides God or my relationship with God. 

The truth is that I had never been happy with who I was, and I spent a lot of time and effort becoming something that I was not. I was always looking for something outside of myself to enhance my self-image. I never took the time to love and cultivate who I was. In a way, I was a prime example of what it means to practice self-hate.

So there I was, admitting that I had a problem loving myself, but I still didn't know what it meant to love myself. However, I came to an understanding that whatever se lf-love is, it had to impact how I related to other people. Then I made a commitment to cultivate loving myself, to take advantage of every opportunity to better myself. 

I had spent much of my young-adult life destroying relationships and pushing people apart. Now I wanted to build relationships and bring people together. I made a commitment to avoid negativity and stay as productive and constructive as possible. 

I stayed clear of any negative activities at Green Haven Correctional Facility and helped create a positive environment the best way l knew how: I became the Muslim chaplain’s assistant, which gave me the opportunity to give sermons (which I thought of as motivational speeches cloaked in religious talk) a few times a month. 

Then in March, 2003, I was transferred to Eastern Correctional Facility. It's probably the best thing that ever happened to me. They had a college program: the Bard College Prison Initiative. But more important, I was mature enough to take advantage of the opportunity to reap the benefits of a college education that was focused on the humanities. I applied to the Bard College Prison Initiative in September 2003 and was accepted. 

In addition to college, I also participated in the Prisoners for AIDS Counseling and Education (PACE) program. Both of these programs kept me interacting with other positive prisoners. 

Still, I constantly revisited my old girlfriend’s words, took inventory on how everything l was doing helped cultivate my self-love, and continually examined how I treated others.

I eventually enrolled in a literature class that introduced me to a book that changed my life forever: Jessie Redmon Fauset's There is Confusion. It's one of first books published during the Harlem Renaissance. Fauset had a subtle and subversive way of harnessing and launching transformative ideas into the minds of her readers that resonated with where 1 was at in my life, particularly in regards to cultivating self-love.

She utilized literature to inspire a sense of purpose in her readers, and I was inspired. My old girlfriend’s words became crystal clear. I realized that self-love is about purpose and action, and the best purpose is action for others. 

That simple acknowledgment made me feel different about myself. I wouldn't say that I had arrived at self-love, because I now understand that self-love is a never-ending process. But I had arrived at a sense of purpose. I finally knew the good that I was supposed to be doing, and it involved literature. I declared my major in language and literature (with a focus in German) and went on to earn my bachelor's degree in February, 2009.

People may wonder what kind of work I intend to do with a degree in literature. Well, I'm living proof that literature has the power to open minds in transformative ways, and I'm going to use literature, literary theory, and critical theory to assist people (preferably young adults) with transforming their lives for the better. And I would tell anyone who doubts the power of literature to check out the works or the Harem Renaissance, the body of work produced by the Lost Generation of the 1920s, or the masterpieces of Germany's Sturm and Orang (Storm and Stress) Movement of the 18^th Century. 

See, my old girlfriend’s words gave me the spark, but that spark probably

wouldn't have amounted to anything had I never read There is Confusion or F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night or Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms or Richard Wright’s A Native Son or Goethe's The Suffering of Young Werther. 

In other words, that spark was kindled by self-examination and a dialogue with thought-provoking literature. That's what ignited the change that brought me to where I am today: a graduate student at the New York Theological Seminary at Sing Sing Correctional Facility, participating in a healthy exchange of ideas and learning how to touch people's lives through ministry.