Soul writing (8:01am)
By Brandon Astor Jones
It is only what is written upon the soul of man that will survive the wreck of time. — Francis J. Grimke (1850-1937)
People often ask, "What is a day on death row like?" Knowing that the state of Georgia has mobilised all of its judicial resources to kill me puts an urgency into everything. I live in constant fear that there is never sufficient time to accomplish the tasks before me. Because I do not have the time or space to present honestly what goes on during the course of a day in this cell, I will write about the next half hour:
I try to make all of my actions serve more than one purpose. For example, shortly, I will be getting up to use the toilet ... Now seated, my pants are around my ankles; on my left there is a five gallon plastic bucket that at one time, I suspect, contained a water-based paint. It now contains two pairs of socks and an undershirt. Earlier, I poured hot water and soap into the bucket. While sitting here, with my left hand I am dunking and squeezing the socks and undershirt into the soapy suds. I do not always do my laundry while I am using the toilet, but I do try never to sit on it simply idle; I sometimes read or write during such times.
Directly in front of the toilet I have situated two cardboard legal cases, one atop the other, in which I keep a lot of my court documents. On top of those I have placed a thick cardboard folding chess board. It doubles as a writing/work station. I am still dunking and squeezing my socks and undershirt with my left hand, as I simultaneously write the words you are reading now, with my right hand. Because there is no chair or table in the cell, the work station and seat do duty at meal times too.
After the necessary hygienic manoeuvres, I rise to pull up my pants, I buckle my belt and bend down to pick up the bucket. I pour its contents into the tiny sink on my right. I then sit down again upon the toilet to continue my washing in earnest. After two slow drainings/rinsings, I hang my wash on the string I have tied to one of the bars at the front of the cell. The other end is tied to the gray steel cabinet that is bolted to the wall about 50 cm from that bar.
Feeling a sense of multiple accomplishment, I turn to my calendar. I have previously noted that my young friend in Vermont has a birthday on July 4. I pick up a tablet that has but one sheet of paper left. I bend, rip and fashion it into a card that will fit perfectly into a small envelope (while wondering why the prison does not sell greeting cards).
It occurs to me that the young friend is on the verge of being a teenager, and that I have not figured out what I am going to say other than "Happy Birthday!" Nevertheless, I address and place a stamp on the envelope, knowing that I will eventually think of the appropriate wish to put on the crude but sincere card.
Meanwhile, I have several letters in need of answering. I will go back to the one I started a couple of hours ago, as soon as I have completed this article.
I am now back in a prone position, with my writing arm hanging over the end of the bunk. The deputy warden has just walked into the cell block on one of his many so-called "inspection" tours. Passing this cell quickly, he says, "Hi, Brandon". I nod in the direction of his back, wondering what is written upon his soul. Half an hour is a long time on death row; it is now 8:31am.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to receive letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]