VOX Press to Publish “Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison” December 2024

Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison is a collection of writings from over 30 Mississippi inmates housed in the infamously brutal Unit 29 at Mississippi State Penitentiary, better known as Parchman Farm. The book is not a comfortable literary work, but rather a cry for help from deep within a monstrous and insatiable beast known as Unit 29, Parchman.

The book will be available in December 2024, with additional information to follow.

Read more about the Mississippi Prison Writes Initiative here: Coming in January 2021: “Mississippi Prison Writing” Features Poetry, Essays from Inside the State’s Prison Community

“Scars,” by Steve Wilbanks is an excerpt from the forthcoming book.

Content warning: This collection may contain graphic depictions of violence, drug abuse, and self-harm.

SCARS
by Steve Wilbanks

A scar is an interesting thing. Some look cool. Some look ugly. But the scars that affect us the most can’t even be seen. They cut deep, down to the bone, and often break our hearts. Indeed: Sticks and stones can break our bones, but words can hurt forever. And the pen is mightier than the sword. 

My deepest psychological scar occurred February 15, 2018, when a jury of my peers sentenced me to Death by Lethal Injection. “Don’t worry,” my attorney said. “It’ll be quick and painless.” He got my vote for Sympathizer of the Year. I simultaneously experienced my first out of body episode where my astral presence stepped back and to the left of my physical body and watched myself nod numbly along as the judge explained my “rights” and the fact that the death date was to be set for September 24, later that year; four days before my mom’s birthday. 

I was whisked out of the back of the courthouse and rushed straight to my cell on Death Row in Unit 29, J-Block, Parchman, MS. I was still wearing my Men’s Warehouse suit that I had on in court, but I did not like the way I looked—I guarantee it. I remember sitting alone in the back of the transport van. Watching myself look out the window as they made this special trip for me. Usually, they only take full loads of inmates from the county jail to the prison, but I didn’t even get back to the jail to get my property or change clothes.

“Security risk.”

Arriving at Parchman, we were met by a dozen K9 officers, the warden, the assistant warden, a psych doctor who asked if I was suicidal, a nurse who drew eight vials of blood, a social worker whom I never saw again, a photographer, the superintendent who looked bored, and the deputy superintendent who looked worried. 

You would have thought they had Hannibal Lecter. The K9 officers formed a circle around me—facing me—welding various weapons and riot shields. And there I am, shackled hands and feet in a light blue $700 suit. The proverbial deer in the headlights. 

Over six years ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday. 

My consciousness rejoined my body when they brought me my red jumpsuit about an hour after being put in a cell. I had been fielding questions from my new peers, like “Where you from, 36?” Obviously, I was put in cell 36. “Who’d you kill? The Governor? And “You want to sell that suit, 36?”

Nobody asked me my name.

Incidentally, I don’t know what became of that suit. My family didn’t get it, and I never saw it again. But it was a head turner. I remember joking that the newspaper headline would read: “Man in Nice Suit Sentenced to Death (Did Not Get Refund).”

Solitary confinement has broken many people, but I didn’t let it break me. Or maybe I was already broken. I never noticed a difference, either way. I’m still the same positive, helpful, happy go lucky guy that I’ve always been—except for that one fateful fifteen-minute snapshot episode of drugs and alcohol that caused all of this unpleasantness.

God knows how I wish I could take it back.

One positive about solitary confinement—If you can get past the boredom, and if you can get along with yourself—is that it gives you time. Time to think, time to learn, time to grow, and time to heal. I took a Paralegal Certification course and learned a lot about the law. A quick nearing death date works wonders for generating a sense of urgency.

In studying the law, I learned that I could possibly find a way to live. I had a rock-solid case for an appeal. 

Not only was my counsel’s assistance completely ineffective, but the judge had trampled over my rights this way and that. 

I wrote an eighteen-point appeal…and won. Woo!

Conviction overturned! I’m free!

No, you’re not. Huh? Nope. Whereas I did not win my freedom, I did win a new trial.

We gotta do it all over again.

Trials are hard on anybody, whether you are guilty or not.

They are emotionally draining, and they will put a strain on all of your relationships.

My trial created a rift in my family—a permanent scar—that has refused to heal even six years later. I guess time doesn’t heal all wounds. At least not yet. Certain of my family members still refuse to talk to each other—let alone be in the same room with each other—due to the pain and hurt caused during various testimonies. 

I grieve over this falling away—this acrid bitterness which flares up at the mere mention of a name; at the question, “How is so-and-so doing?” 

“Oh, don’t you ask me about her.” The word is spit out like a curse. “And do you know she….”

Here we go; I pay for my faux-pas with a ten-minute tirade about how badly my sister hurt my mother when she said this-and-that on the stand, always with the uncomfortable undertone of blaming-not-blaming me for the whole thing. 

And the worst part of it is the fact that it is my fault. Without the trial, such exchanges would have never happened. 

Being sentenced to death was not the worst thing that happened to me that day; witnessing the utter destruction of my family was.

The funny thing about winning an appeal is how much it feels like a loss. It took me four years to get back in court. Another trial, another wound. At least this time my family was spared; my psyche would take the brunt of this blow. 

“Since you finally beat it,” the District Attorney told me on the eve of the trial, “we’re taking the Death Penalty off the table. If you’re found guilty, you’ll just get life. Maybe with parole, maybe not.”

“If I plead guilty, none of my family will have to testify?”

“Right. There would be no trial at all. The judge would sentence you himself. And that would be that. You’ll go back to prison and keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing. We can actually knock this whole thing out before lunch.  If…that’s what you decide to do.”

I did not want to put my family or the victim’s family through another arduous, heartbreaking trial—plus, the possibility of getting Life with Parole was very appealing. 

So, I plead guilty. A self-inflicted wound to spare two families from unnecessary pain and suffering. 

“You will be remanded to the custody of MDOC until the time of your death,” the Judge said.

Life without parole. Ouch!

Cue my second ever out of body experience. 

Despite it being the second worse day of my life, something positive did come out of it for which I will forever be grateful: I was finally allowed to apologize to the victim’s family, which I did, from the bottom of my heart.

There is no way to be certain, but I feel that they appreciated my apology. More importantly, I feel that they accepted it. 

It has now been eleven years since the crime, and, surely the pain will last forever—for all involved. My hope is that the victim’s family has been able to recover from the initial shock and subsequent anger that has been so understandably felt and find a semblance of peace in this life.

I know how hard my incarceration has been on my mother; she used to break down and cry quite often. I’m her baby. And I can’t even imagine how the victim’s mother has been able to cope with the untimely, unfair loss of her baby.

I hope my apology helped. It was sincere and heartfelt.

My trials and tribulations have certainly been painful, and have left deep psychological scars which have shaped who I am today. As have the years I’ve spent in prison, which have indeed left me with more physical scars than I came in with.

The best thing I can think to do with all of these scars—psychological and physical—is to learn to live with them; embrace them; accept them for what they are: Proof that I am human.

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