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My Mother has moved to heaven,
and its there she waits for me.
And at the end of my life's journey,
her's is the first face that I'm sure I'll see,
My Mother has moved to heaven,
where her struggles are no more.
The pain and sickness that bound her here, were
laid to rest for sure.
My Mother has moved to heaven,
her work on earth is done.
She raised her children and saw us grown, each
and every one.
I loved that woman and that's a fact,
and miss her I always will.
But now she lives in heaven,
and I know she loves me still.
by J. Doughtie
One of the few values, functions of my life at
this point is to write
about what I see from my perch on San Quentin's
death row. What value my
observations are I can't say, I only know I feel
the need to write as
much for myself as anyone else.
You must understand when you read my thoughts,
my view is through the
distorted lense of my functioning dysfunctional
beliefs. I'll try to be
as sincere as I am capable, but I'll be the
first one to advance the
concept that truth can be selective, and I want
to own up to my own
limitations of truth before I proceed.
If they're honest, anyone who has killed humans
on more than one
occasion will tell you it becomes easier with
each death. It's a
powerful truth, strong words just to hear, now
imagine living this
truth, feeling this truth, intimately embracing
this truth.
When I was young, thirteen, I was
impressionable, confused, and direct
experiences led me to devalue human life.
By twenty-three, I was at rock bottom, my life
ruled by anger,
loneliness, and fear.
At twenty-four, I was put on trial for murder
and this experience made a
deep impression upon me. It wasn't the
prosecutor, judge, jury, or the
possible penalty of death that made such a huge
impact on me. It was the
cardboard boxes stacked high inside the
courtroom that so deeply
affected my life. My whole life had been
gathered up and placed inside
those boxes, no stone left unturned, no fear or
secret of mine left
undiscovered. I was the contents of the boxes,
the contents of the boxes
were me. Each day at trial as yet another box
was opened and the ugly
contents revealed to the light, viewing what I
had made of my
twenty-four years was the emotional equivalent
of slamming into a brick
wall at a hundred miles per hour. Nightly, lying
awake in my cell in
chaos, I wondered how I was going to survive the
opening of the next
box, and then the next, and the next. . . . the
boxes had forced
me to
look squarely at my worst enemy -- me.
Amid the turmoil of this experience, I
discovered a yearning, not for
freedom because I knew I'd forfeited my right to
walk within society;
but a desire to reconnect with humanity. I
wanted to find inside myself
something I had lost, I wanted to once again to
feel in full awareness
-- love.
Now at thirty, after years on Death Row, I find
myself beginning to feel
the value of life growing inside me. this, of
course, does nothing for
those whom I have killed.
But then again, unless I kill myself today, I
must either stagnate and
regress toward chaotic emptiness or progress
toward humanity, and I very
much want to progress. I want to leave San
Quentin, in death, a better
man than the day I walked on to Death Row. I am
ready to pay my debt.
But in the meantime, while my legal appeals wend
their way through the
courts, I want to give back what little I can
and also find out if I can
develop Tom into someone I can live with.
Simply, I'd like to find out
if the capacity for humanity is within me before
I die.
I owe a great deal to friends, they've seem me
through my years on Death
Row, they gave me encouragement when every good
reason to continue
caring was long gone. As I've begun to remold
myself from the wreckage
that has become my life, they gave me models to
reflect upon. In
essence, they have lent themselves to help me
build something
recognizable from the ashes.
I know I will not ever fully understand the
sanctity of life, not like
normal people do
-- do they realize how lucky they are? I will
die long short of
the
mark, but until that they I intend to be a work
in progress, forever
with a hope to get as close to the truth as I
can.
Dare I have a hope?
Tom Walker committed suicide on November 18,
1997, in his cell at San
Quentin State Prison. This article was edited
and organized by Michael
Hunter, from pieces that Walker wrote shortly
after Bill Bonin was
executed in 1976.
© Michael Wayne Hunter.
This is a letter written by a inmate who wishes all to read
John Alvarado #926648
Native American Prisner
WCF
Mrs Doris Woodruff
Director Religious Services
IDOC
Mrs. Woodruff
This letter is to voice my concern for the lack of action
by your department to comply to the Religious needs of
Native American [American Indians] Prisoners
at level two facilities not just Westville.
This failure to provide us with a level two sweatlodge has Mrs. Woodruff this started before 1996 I, myself have been incarcerated since 1990 In 1994, at CIF Rev. Hackett, did everything in his power to desercrate our sacred religious beliefs, In 1998, I was transferred to westville (thanks to Rev. Hackett). At all the above institutions We are put out of the chapel,put in a storage room, hallway. We are given old tape players that eat up our learning tapes (the christians have all new up to date equipment. Mrs. Woodruff, we are the oldest religion on this continent, there is no older here. I'm requesting that a sweatlodge be built this year here at Westville, There is a first amendment law against action of discriminating and the new law "S2869. Mrs. Woodruff the time is now, not in two more years. Spring is with us and the best time I will be awaiting your reply, Thank you for your time and aid on this matter of up most importance.
been going on for overfive years
you and your staff have ducked this issue with replies like:
"We are looking into a facility to have the sweatlodge"
"A full blood is needed"
To the words of Rev. Aicher that:"Westville will never have a sweatlodge"
and the last one," Get a court order" (her words to me).
and in IDOC since 1992, at IYC. There! the brothers and myself
was told by Mr. Trigg and Rev. Brown that IDOC has no program for indians
to go to church. Later one was started.
he closed doors, opened doors, turned up the TV on a christain channel ( as we began our ceremony),
refused to let us speak on traditional teachings, he once slept in a chair in our prayer circle.
He fought tooth and nail against the sweatlodge and tried to close us down.
I have wrote in unity groups and or on my own, expressing the need
for the sweatlodge. I have requested a transfer to PCF, But I was not a high level threat.
The time only a low three, now I'm a low two. Still no lodge
year after year. We are disrespected, our ways are desecrated, our herbs, items and drum is mishandled by offender chapel clerks.
Our Honoring ceremony/feast are not honored here. The past two years, one we had been given three day old coffeecake and koolaid.
Let me state the above action is much like the christians of past and other do gooders passing out bad meats and flour to my ancestors.
that Mr Dick Ferrer be approved to conduct this ceremony, he is a carrier of the pipe
and we agree that he can do this ceremony.
There is no law that statesone must be a full blood to hold a sweat.
I believe you heard of this law, if not let me know I will send you a copy.
I feel, as if your staff feels the same way as their ancestors did about us, we are a bunch of dirty indians to be delt with and robbed.
How am I being robbed? I'm being robbed of the peaceof my spirit, that the sweatlodge
will bring. I'm being robbed of my spiritual balance, of my right to rehabilitation.
Of my right to return to my family tribe and nation
as the strong spiritual being, that is my heart I know I can be.
to cut the willows for the lodge. You will have no cost on this.
You have the power to correct this matter and help us heal and return
to our people strong men.
In spirit
All my relations or all are related
mitakuye oyasin
Respectfully
John Alvarado
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