M.E. - My experience E-Book

Chris A. Young

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: Death row poetry
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 169

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

I am sitting in a concrete cell, stranded on Texas death row, waiting to be murdered by the state. I was convicted of murdering a convenience store clerk while attempting to rob him, if you let the state tell it. But none of that matters now. I am here, captured by four walls that have defeated some of the strongest men. The fight is not only for my life but for the preservation of my sanity. Sitting on a steel makeshift bed, I look in retrospect at the long journey that has brought me to this situation.

Leseprobe

Dear reader,

I, as the publisher, may or may not agree with the content of this book, or parts of it, but it is and remains the unadulterated words of the author himself, edited as little as possible. I believe in freedom of speech and that the death penalty is wrong without any exception. There is a saying, "You can tell the value of a society by how it treats the weakest of its members." I believe that to be true. That’s why I give these members of society the opportunity to raise their voice. Most of them have undergone a transformation for the better. They have developed a mental strength in prison that we can’t even imagine due to being locked up and forgotten about. Even after all these years they are still there; living, learning and rising beyond themselves. We can learn from them as much as they can learn from us. To silence one of them would be to silence all of us.

Stefan Heikens

DEDICATION

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY GRANDMOTHER CHERYL, MY BEST FRIEND SONDRA AND MY BABY GIRL CHRISHELLE. THE THREE OF YOU HAVE POURED SO MUCH LOVE INTO ME.

GRANDMA, YOU ARE MY ROCK. THERE ARE NO WORDS TO EXPRESS HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU AND APPRECIATE ALL YOU HAVE DONE FOR ME. YOU KNOW HOW TO MAKE ME LAUGH AND MAKE ME CRY.

SONDRA, YOU ARE MY VERY BEST FRIEND. THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVE, YOUR SUPPORT, YOUR VISITS, AND ALL THE WORK YOU HAVE PUT IN TO HELP ME WITH MY PROJECT TO REACH THESE KIDS. YOU ARE MY RIDE OR DIE GIRL. YOU HAVE SHOWN ME WHAT REAL TRUE FRIENDSHIP IS.

CHRISHELLE, YOU ARE MY BABY, MY PRINCESS AND YOU HOLD THE REINS TO YOUR DADDY'S HEART. YOU LIGHT UP MY WORLD, GIRL. I WANT YOU TO HAVE THE BEST LIFE HAS TO OFFER. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND I AM SO LUCKY AND BLESSED THAT YOU ARE A PART OF ME. I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER AND DON'T EVER FORGET IT. YOU BRING SUNSHINE INTO MY LIFE. DADDY LOVES YOU.

SPECIAL DEDICATION: LAURENCE, THANK YOU, MAN FOR EVERYTHING. I LOVE YOU, BRO.

CHRIS

Table of Contents

FOREWORD

by Valerie Harris

---

M.E. – MY EXPERIENCE

---

LAST RIDE – LAST WORDS

---

EPILOGUE

by Stefan Heikens

---

FEBRUARY 17, 2019

by Valerie Harris

---

CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

by Perry E. Williams

FOREWORD BY VALERIE HARRIS

In the year 2004, I walked through the doors of Polunsky alongside my daughter Sondra for the very first time. Polunsky is a prison located in Livingston, TX. We were there to visit my nephew, Christopher Young. This would be the first time I would meet him as an adult because the last time I saw him, he was sitting on the steps of his home, after the funeral we attended of his best friend, his dad – my nephew. Chris did not attend the funeral. He was close to his dad. He waited for him to come home, and he never did. He was the tender age of 8 years old. Within the pages of this book, you will read the story of the life of Christopher Young and how he ended up on death row at Polunsky. When we sat down for the first time to visit him and our eyes met, I saw a boy. Through the years, as Sondra and I would visit him, I watched him grow into a man – a man with a vision. He had found his purpose. He had found a reason to fight to live. An artist, a scholar, a father, a nephew, a brother, a son, a friend, a mentor, a writer, a man who was locked up behind the prison walls who poured his life into a dream. This desire of his was to reach beyond the prison to effect change in the community in which he grew up. He learned that a life within this prison was not a place for young boys or troubled youth to come and live out their days. You will find within these pages how he rallied his prison brothers together to reach beyond the prison walls to effect change in the lives of troubled youths. He wanted to convince them that there was a better way and to motivate them to live, to grow, to heal, to thrive, to better themselves through education and non-violence, and to let them know that they were not alone. There were people who would listen, hear them, and help them through their inner struggles so they could become productive citizens instead of destructive, broken men and women. As you read this book, please listen to Chris' heart. Listen to his story before you judge the man. His life here on earth is gone, but his vision lives on. What was important to him was young people, so he planted the seed of change through what he called “Reaching Our Young from the Inside Out”. It has now grown to a legacy for youth as it is being formulated as a Foundation for young people called “Love, Forgiveness, and Second Chances”. The love of people, the love of life, the love of his children will never die. His love lives on. The vision lives on in the hearts of those who are still behind the prison walls who are working to fulfill the vision. Obie Weathers III, Tony Egbuna Ford, Tomas Gallo, Howard Guidry, James Broadnax, and Perry Williams have picked up the torch to reach and work beyond the prison walls to change young lives and to help heal the brokenness of a community. Love is the key. Forgiveness is the door. Second Chances is our hope and goal for a troubled generation of young lives. Reaching our Young from the Inside Out.

Valerie Harris

M.E. - MY EXPERIENCE

CHAPTER 1

2011: I am sitting in a concrete cell, stranded on Texas death row, waiting to be murdered by the state. I was convicted of murdering a convenience store clerk while attempting to rob him, if you let the state tell it. But none of that matters now. I am here, captured by four walls that have defeated some of the strongest men. The fight is not only for my life but for the preservation of my sanity. Sitting on a steel makeshift bed, I look in retrospect at the long journey that has brought me to this situation.

I was born on September 24, 1983 to Dannetta Brown and Willard Floyd “Chuck” Young in San Antonio, TX. Mom was only 17 years old when she delivered me into this world. She already had another child, my older sister Tasha, who was 3 years old. Dad was 21 years old and he already had another son, my older brother Donta, who was 2. Mom and dad conceived and delivered one more child together before they split. She is my younger sister Charlotte.

When I was 5 my mom packed us up and moved us to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Mama has a couple of sisters that stayed there and she wanted to get her life on track. Mama met a new man named Clarence, who would play a significant role later in my life. Mama married Clarence and they produced my little brother Tyrone.

Because I was really young, a lot of my memories of that time are a blur. There is one experience that stood out to me, though. While living in Milwaukee, one day my aunt sent me, both of my sisters, my little brother and her daughter to the store. She had given us one quarter each. My aunt is a beautiful woman inside and out. She was the type of person that would do anything for her kids, nieces, and nephews. Her only problem, or so I thought, was she was a strict disciplinarian. She would whoop our ass for anything and she did not play when it came to an ass whooping! Whether with a belt, switch, extension cord, paddle, or her hand, you knew that ass whooping was going to hurt. As we were walking to the store, I was holding Tyrone’s hand and his quarter. I was around 7 at the time and Tyrone was about 2. We all walked in the store and went our separate ways towards the goodies we wanted. I ran straight towards the ice cream freezer. I love ice cream. I looked around the freezer, rummaging through the different varieties and found a Nestle Crunch bar. I had to have that Nestle Crunch bar. It was calling my name. I had one problem. It was fifty cents. I was 7 and I was just learning how to add. I knew that my quarter and Tyrone’s quarter would equal fifty cents. I grabbed the ice cream, even though I did not have enough money, but I had the intention of sharing the ice cream with my brother for the price of his quarter. I looked at Tyrone; showing him the ice cream bar, waving it in the air.

“Tyrrrooonee, do you want to share this with me?” He eyed it, eyes bulging out. “Yes, I will share it with you.”

We went to the counter to pay for the ice cream bar. The clerk said, “That will be fifty cent.”

I placed my quarter on the counter and then gave Tyrone his quarter to place on the counter so we could both pay for the ice cream. We paid for the ice cream and walked out the store waiting on the rest of the bunch to finish with their purchases. Once outside we started to eat the ice cream. When my sisters and cousin came out of the store they asked, “What did Tyrone get?”

“He got this,” I was holding up the bar for them to see.

I don’t know if they heard what I said but they did not ask any more questions. We walked home. When we arrived home my aunt asked, “Where is Tyrone’s stuff? What did he get?”

Tyrone always was her favorite. I told her, with ice cream around my mouth and hands all sticky, “We shared this ice cream.”

I could tell by her body language that she was pissed. There was no way she could have thought I was lying because Tyrone’s face and hands were sticky too. Aunt Janet told me to take my black ass outside to get a switch. Like most kids, I went to find the smallest switch on the tree. I broke the switch off the branch, cleaned the leaves, and brought it in the house to Aunt Janet. I thought the whooping was not going to hurt as bad since I did get the smallest switch.

When Aunt Janet saw the twig I brought in to her, she snatched it, popped me with it, and said, “Go get another switch and it better be longer than this.”

I went back outside and picked another one. I remember thinking, “I’m picking a switch to get my ass whooped behind a damn quarter.” When I brought the switch back she whipped my ass. Aunt Janet gave us the worst whooping. She didn’t just whoop us and let us go on our way. She made us understand what we did wrong and what we were getting a whooping for. Or at least she thought she did.

When she finished, she had me facing the wall with one leg bent at the knee. She said every time that my leg hit the ground I would get another ass whooping. I don’t know how long I stood there but I don’t remember my leg hitting the ground either. All this behind a damn quarter! To this day, I still love my Aunt Janet dearly and still talk to her occasionally. I still don’t understand why I got that whooping that day.

This was one of the early stages of someone trying to set me straight. Maybe she saw something that day that would affect me in the future. I have never asked her about it since.

CHAPTER 2

After living in Milwaukee a few years, my mom moved us back to San Antonio. I was in the second grade and we lived on a street with exactly four houses on it. Across the street was a Mrs. Baird’s bakery. Every morning we would wake up to the smell of fresh bread. My mom would send us to the bakery to pick up milk and bread occasionally. Because the store workers knew us, we’d leave with bags of “day old” pastries, bread and rolls. Sometimes when we were outside playing with the other kids we would sneak off to the bakery knowing they would send us off with plenty of goodies.

Before we left Milwaukee my mom married Clarence, Tyrone’s father. Clarence was real cool. I cannot remember Clarence ever giving us any whooping, but if he did, it wasn’t anything serious because I have had some horrible whoopings! Clarence was a big kid who liked to sit in front of the Nintendo and play Super Mario Brothers for hours. Sometimes he would even let us play with him, but most of the time we would just sit and watch. My dad would come by and pick us up all the time. He would either take us to my grandmother’s or my great-grandparents’ house. My great-grandmother, “Nan-Nan,” was a saint! She used to spoil us crazy. When we went to her house we would all sit with her and play Keno for pennies. She always put dollars to our pennies and we played for hours. After letting us win the money she was going to give us anyway, we would sit and watch television and/or crochet. My great-grandfather, “Granddaddy,” really was a character. He was a World War II vet. After being discharged from the military he became a chef on the Southern Pacific Railroad. He did this for forty years. This man could cook. He loved cooking so much that if he asked if you were hungry and you told him no, he would curse you out. I mean he did not care who you were or how old you were. He would curse you out as if you stole something from him. After he finally calmed down and stopped cursing for about ten minutes, he’d ask if you were hungry again, as if you didn’t say no the first time. This might have been a part of his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from the war and the cooking probably was therapy to him. This time when you answered you already knew the consequences of saying no, so the best thing to say was yes and let him do his thing. This started a whole round of other questions. He asked what you wanted to eat and you had better think of something or suffer his next flurry of verbal blows again. The best thing about his meals was that he spared not one ingredient in his recipes. If he made you some gumbo you would have the whole sea in the pot and it was all finger-licking good. Plus, you would lick the bowl without a care in the world even if someone was watching.

The only person he would bow down to was Nan-Nan. My Nan-Nan was in some type of accident in her younger days that left her paralyzed from the waist down and confined her to bed. This took nothing from her but her ability to walk. I’ve seen this woman conduct business from that bed that will make any corporate CEO of a Fortune 500 company envious. I remember when my Nan-Nan and Granddaddy used to argue. Usually Granddaddy would get tipsy from the Schaeffer’s beer that they used to drink and say something to us about running around the house. Once Nan-Nan would hear that she would say something to him and they would start cursing at each other. Granddaddy never won! We’d sit in the room with her while she would go off on him and we would laugh. She laughed right along with us. Eventually, Granddaddy would shut up. They were a lovely couple. Looking back on them, I know that my Granddaddy loved her dearly. I wish I would have learned love on that level when I was in the world.

A few months after I turned eight, it was Martin Luther King’s birthday. The Martin Luther King march in San Antonio was the largest march in America. It was a major event in San Antonio. Later in life, I would spend most of the year getting ready for the march, painting my car and making sure I had rims on it like other individuals would. My dad planned to pick us up early and take us to Nan-Nan and Granddaddy’s house because the march would pass in front of their home. He watched the march and then dad would take us where the march ended and the festivals began. The first part of the day went as planned. Dad came and picked us up and we watched the march pass in front of our great-grandparents’ yard. Then my dad took us home and said he would be right back to pick us up to head to where the march ended and the festivals began. I protested. I wanted to go everywhere with my father. Usually, he would take me. This day, he said he would be right back. Dad never came back to pick us up. I was pissed. I wasn’t mad that I missed the Martin Luther King festivities. I was mad because I felt like my dad lied to me, something he never did.

We waited all day for him to come back for us. He never returned. When night fell, the police showed up at our house. They talked to my mom for a moment and I saw her break down crying. At that time, I still did not know what was going on. When the police left, my mom sat me down and told me what happened. I don’t remember if I cried or not, but I do know a huge part of me died that day. The next day, mama told me I did not have to go to school. I went anyway. I refused to sit around all day and do nothing. That would have left me too much time to think about my dad. School was the closet I went to hide in. On the day of my dad’s wake I saw his body for the last time. I remember walking inside the funeral home up to the casket. I seen him laying there made up from the make-up the mortician caked on him. I turned around and walked out of the funeral home. I sat on the steps for the rest of the procession. I couldn’t see my father like that. It was too much of a realization that he was dead. I think I wanted myself to believe that he was still alive. The next day was his funeral. I went to school instead. A few months later, my mom found out that my sister Tasha was pregnant. My sister was only 12 years old, so I could only imagine what was going through my mother’s head at the time. I would think that she was furious, that is, until my sister dropped a bomb on her. Clarence, my mom’s husband, had been raping my sister and had impregnated her. I was too young to understand at the time but I remember us moving again, and Clarence going to jail. It seemed like life was going downhill. Too much was happening at one time. When my dad was murdered, I didn’t talk to anyone. I would bottle up my feelings and walk around like his death didn’t bother me. Everybody could see it in my face, but in my mind I was hiding it.

I spent weeks at a time at my Aunt Velina’s house. She had four children at the time and I enjoyed being around family. I remember I would wake up in the middle of the night screaming out for my daddy. All of the emotions I was repressing would manifest themselves in my dreams and hunt me like the fictional character Freddie Kruger did to his victims.