Writers Without Borders
Entry by: Mackemwriter
4th March 2016
Writers...Without....Borders
I responded to an advert in my church's weekly newsletter. Writing was never my strong point at school, but something from the advert drew me in. I was intrigued. Pen-pals, that was something I did when I was in junior school and the letters, I sent, consisted of an exchange of family life and hobbies. At thirteen, the most exciting thing to happen was my selection on to the netball team. This, though, would be an exciting exchange of letters, my words crossing borders and slipping so easily through security checkpoints. My words would end up in the hands of someone unable to function in normal society due to the dire decisions they had made perhaps ten, twenty, thirty or even more years ago. That made me excited, breaking through the taboo of communicating with those condemned to a lifetime of incarceration.
Conformist. That is how my family and few friends would describe me. Always the wallflower, never the centre of attention. Plain Jane. I was always overlooked for the main part, losing out to the prettier girl, despite my superior drama skills. Loneliness was standard issue throughout my teenage years. Looking back I wish I'd pushed the boundaries a little and experienced my parents displeasure at me coming home half cut. That just didn't happen – I didn't go anywhere or have friends who were in to that sort of thing. Church was the pinnacle of my social life. Singing in the choir and the weekly coffee morning the highlights of my mundane, boring life.
For years I have dutifully stood in between my mother and father reciting the mass without thought. I'm now in my fifties and I've literally never put a foot wrong all my life. Any invading thoughts of rebellion were always thrown out. The fear of disappointing my parents was too much to bear. Now they are gone, I'm alone. The most alone I have ever been. The years of servitude to my parents has deprived me of a future. I feel 'over the hill' unable to recapture the essence of youth. Those who were 'friends' are now more acquaintances whose children I know from the umpteen pictures they upload on Facebook. Relationships are almost impossible when the furthest I venture is still church. You don't find many eligible bachelors hanging around at 9.30am mass. It's all families and old people and the solitary figures, like myself, who are a mainstay of the church community – keeping it from extinction.
The first letter I sent contained some general information about myself. That wasn't much. My name, age, job title and hobbies. Much the same as when I was a teenage pen-pal. Hopefully the reply would prompt me to open up more and give me the chance to reveal my true self to the recipient.
I didn't have to wait long for the reply to travel back to me. It fascinates me how a piece of paper, slipped inside it's protective envelope, can travel thousands of miles, fingered by numerous individuals and be pushed through a small slit in a door and yet still remain untarnished, brand new, perfect. Knowing the words inside are only known by two people in the entire universe thrills me. Imagine my anticipation awaiting my letter from America. Not anywhere in America but a top security prison in Ohio housing death row inmates.
Death Row seems like a secret place that people do not like to think about. Criminals who have committed the most heinous crimes, live there for decades awaiting the day when they will be led to the bed, strapped down and injected with a lethal substance that will render them lifeless in minutes. My brain cannot comprehend how one human can end another humans life no matter what the circumstances. I was brought up to believe that life was given by God and could only be taken by God in God's time. My belief in this remains despite knowing the extent of the atrocities some people can perpetrate. Yet, my fascination with the complex lives of those who live there continues to grow. Now I have a direct line in to the heart of this intense facility. My relationship with an inmate is nurtured through the letters we exchange that cross over borders, English counties, European countries, continental divides, American states and high security prison walls.
The first letter I penned ended up in the hands of Chris. Inside, I told him about my background and other bits and pieces of information – the type you might share on a first date. Writing down my age, job and hobbies sounded so boring but I was conscious that the person receiving my letter had probably not seen much more than an hours worth of sunlight a day for however long they had been locked up. My letter, no matter how dull, would likely be the only access to the outside world this man would receive. I'm not great at selling myself so thought something was better than nothing!
About a month after my letter departed I received my first reply from Chris. It was short and to the point. He told me that he spent most of his time in his small cell and enjoyed painting. Painting, he wrote, passed the endless time. The favourite part of his day was his hour in the exercise yard and even though he had to go alone he enjoyed the feeling of fresh air on his face. The letter touched me. He felt alone and trapped. A life of routine, where the days ran in to each other and the monotony drained every last drop of energy. After reading Chris' letter I felt calm, pleased he had responded, despite my unambitious opening. Signing off by scribing, write back soon, I felt compelled to immediately delve into the bureau, for a crisp, white sheet to begin penning my reply.
Sitting down to begin I suddenly felt anxious. Not about Chris, I was still unaware of his crime; but about me. How I could brighten up his days? My life, as it was, couldn't. I began to write and the words flowed from my biro like a stream devouring the land across which it travels. My imagination let loose. To Chris, I could be anything, anyone! There were no constraints to my being. I could be a writer without borders – he would never know.
In my head I believed there was no harm in pretending my life was something other than a beige, empty canvas. Letters to Chris were filled with my travels to foreign cities, meals out in Michelin starred restaurants, friends in high places and my children studying degrees at Oxbridge. Chris responded to all of my letters explaining how they were the highlights of his time on death row. They shed light on his bleak existence. His appreciation of my letters kept me going. Little did he know that I awaited the delivery of his letters with the anticipation of a schoolgirl on Valentine's Day.
For years my letters gave me the chance to escape from my life. All the things I had wanted to experience suddenly could be brought to life. I spent hours researching my next story, hoping to impress Chris, hoping to save him from his misery as much as he saved me from mine. His letters remained short, but appreciative. I never discussed his offence – I didn't want to know and it wasn't important. He never offered an insight in to why he was there, surviving on death row.
Ten years passed. Each month a new adventure crossed the borders into Ohio State Penitentiary, and a standard, prison issue, envelope would land on the welcome mat at my front door in return. As soon as I'd read the few lines within, I would set to work on my next instalment. Then the letters ceased. I waited a couple of weeks, expecting one to show up, late, due to a glitch in the mailing system. It never did. I sent a couple more letters, imagining that Chris was poorly or maybe did not have the access to writing materials for one reason or another. After six months of waiting the dark thought entered my head that perhaps the end had finally come and Chris had walked the Green Mile. I didn't want to believe it but my curiosity was piqued.
Googling, Christopher Henderson, death row, Ohio, I held my breath. I'd never seen his picture but suddenly I could put a face to a name. Christopher Henderson, convicted of homicide in 1998, released from Ohio State Penitentiary having been cleared, on appeal, of any wrongdoing. Forensic evidence proved beyond any doubt that Chris had no connection to the deaths of his wife and three children who had been gunned down in their own home. Chris was a free man. I felt a mix of overwhelming happiness for him but devastation for myself. Chris had filled a void, or should I say our exchanges had. Now, the only thing to land on my welcome doormat would be the utility bills.
Late in the evening, six months after learning of Chris' innocence and subsequent release, my doorbell rang. Unusual. Expecting a pizza delivery man for the flat upstairs, I narrowly opened the door. Christopher Henderson. Opening it wider, Chris took a step inside, wiping his shoes on the welcome mat.
I responded to an advert in my church's weekly newsletter. Writing was never my strong point at school, but something from the advert drew me in. I was intrigued. Pen-pals, that was something I did when I was in junior school and the letters, I sent, consisted of an exchange of family life and hobbies. At thirteen, the most exciting thing to happen was my selection on to the netball team. This, though, would be an exciting exchange of letters, my words crossing borders and slipping so easily through security checkpoints. My words would end up in the hands of someone unable to function in normal society due to the dire decisions they had made perhaps ten, twenty, thirty or even more years ago. That made me excited, breaking through the taboo of communicating with those condemned to a lifetime of incarceration.
Conformist. That is how my family and few friends would describe me. Always the wallflower, never the centre of attention. Plain Jane. I was always overlooked for the main part, losing out to the prettier girl, despite my superior drama skills. Loneliness was standard issue throughout my teenage years. Looking back I wish I'd pushed the boundaries a little and experienced my parents displeasure at me coming home half cut. That just didn't happen – I didn't go anywhere or have friends who were in to that sort of thing. Church was the pinnacle of my social life. Singing in the choir and the weekly coffee morning the highlights of my mundane, boring life.
For years I have dutifully stood in between my mother and father reciting the mass without thought. I'm now in my fifties and I've literally never put a foot wrong all my life. Any invading thoughts of rebellion were always thrown out. The fear of disappointing my parents was too much to bear. Now they are gone, I'm alone. The most alone I have ever been. The years of servitude to my parents has deprived me of a future. I feel 'over the hill' unable to recapture the essence of youth. Those who were 'friends' are now more acquaintances whose children I know from the umpteen pictures they upload on Facebook. Relationships are almost impossible when the furthest I venture is still church. You don't find many eligible bachelors hanging around at 9.30am mass. It's all families and old people and the solitary figures, like myself, who are a mainstay of the church community – keeping it from extinction.
The first letter I sent contained some general information about myself. That wasn't much. My name, age, job title and hobbies. Much the same as when I was a teenage pen-pal. Hopefully the reply would prompt me to open up more and give me the chance to reveal my true self to the recipient.
I didn't have to wait long for the reply to travel back to me. It fascinates me how a piece of paper, slipped inside it's protective envelope, can travel thousands of miles, fingered by numerous individuals and be pushed through a small slit in a door and yet still remain untarnished, brand new, perfect. Knowing the words inside are only known by two people in the entire universe thrills me. Imagine my anticipation awaiting my letter from America. Not anywhere in America but a top security prison in Ohio housing death row inmates.
Death Row seems like a secret place that people do not like to think about. Criminals who have committed the most heinous crimes, live there for decades awaiting the day when they will be led to the bed, strapped down and injected with a lethal substance that will render them lifeless in minutes. My brain cannot comprehend how one human can end another humans life no matter what the circumstances. I was brought up to believe that life was given by God and could only be taken by God in God's time. My belief in this remains despite knowing the extent of the atrocities some people can perpetrate. Yet, my fascination with the complex lives of those who live there continues to grow. Now I have a direct line in to the heart of this intense facility. My relationship with an inmate is nurtured through the letters we exchange that cross over borders, English counties, European countries, continental divides, American states and high security prison walls.
The first letter I penned ended up in the hands of Chris. Inside, I told him about my background and other bits and pieces of information – the type you might share on a first date. Writing down my age, job and hobbies sounded so boring but I was conscious that the person receiving my letter had probably not seen much more than an hours worth of sunlight a day for however long they had been locked up. My letter, no matter how dull, would likely be the only access to the outside world this man would receive. I'm not great at selling myself so thought something was better than nothing!
About a month after my letter departed I received my first reply from Chris. It was short and to the point. He told me that he spent most of his time in his small cell and enjoyed painting. Painting, he wrote, passed the endless time. The favourite part of his day was his hour in the exercise yard and even though he had to go alone he enjoyed the feeling of fresh air on his face. The letter touched me. He felt alone and trapped. A life of routine, where the days ran in to each other and the monotony drained every last drop of energy. After reading Chris' letter I felt calm, pleased he had responded, despite my unambitious opening. Signing off by scribing, write back soon, I felt compelled to immediately delve into the bureau, for a crisp, white sheet to begin penning my reply.
Sitting down to begin I suddenly felt anxious. Not about Chris, I was still unaware of his crime; but about me. How I could brighten up his days? My life, as it was, couldn't. I began to write and the words flowed from my biro like a stream devouring the land across which it travels. My imagination let loose. To Chris, I could be anything, anyone! There were no constraints to my being. I could be a writer without borders – he would never know.
In my head I believed there was no harm in pretending my life was something other than a beige, empty canvas. Letters to Chris were filled with my travels to foreign cities, meals out in Michelin starred restaurants, friends in high places and my children studying degrees at Oxbridge. Chris responded to all of my letters explaining how they were the highlights of his time on death row. They shed light on his bleak existence. His appreciation of my letters kept me going. Little did he know that I awaited the delivery of his letters with the anticipation of a schoolgirl on Valentine's Day.
For years my letters gave me the chance to escape from my life. All the things I had wanted to experience suddenly could be brought to life. I spent hours researching my next story, hoping to impress Chris, hoping to save him from his misery as much as he saved me from mine. His letters remained short, but appreciative. I never discussed his offence – I didn't want to know and it wasn't important. He never offered an insight in to why he was there, surviving on death row.
Ten years passed. Each month a new adventure crossed the borders into Ohio State Penitentiary, and a standard, prison issue, envelope would land on the welcome mat at my front door in return. As soon as I'd read the few lines within, I would set to work on my next instalment. Then the letters ceased. I waited a couple of weeks, expecting one to show up, late, due to a glitch in the mailing system. It never did. I sent a couple more letters, imagining that Chris was poorly or maybe did not have the access to writing materials for one reason or another. After six months of waiting the dark thought entered my head that perhaps the end had finally come and Chris had walked the Green Mile. I didn't want to believe it but my curiosity was piqued.
Googling, Christopher Henderson, death row, Ohio, I held my breath. I'd never seen his picture but suddenly I could put a face to a name. Christopher Henderson, convicted of homicide in 1998, released from Ohio State Penitentiary having been cleared, on appeal, of any wrongdoing. Forensic evidence proved beyond any doubt that Chris had no connection to the deaths of his wife and three children who had been gunned down in their own home. Chris was a free man. I felt a mix of overwhelming happiness for him but devastation for myself. Chris had filled a void, or should I say our exchanges had. Now, the only thing to land on my welcome doormat would be the utility bills.
Late in the evening, six months after learning of Chris' innocence and subsequent release, my doorbell rang. Unusual. Expecting a pizza delivery man for the flat upstairs, I narrowly opened the door. Christopher Henderson. Opening it wider, Chris took a step inside, wiping his shoes on the welcome mat.
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