One Letter at a Time

The thought of changing the world comes to me quite often, when my friends and I are deep in a Dungeons and Dragons campaign and we’re playfully bantering about what direction we should head, as I’m quietly munching on a yummy chocolate chip cookie. The thought of making the world better has risen to my mind more than once. More so, ever since I began my journey of writing letters to prisoners all around the world.

I started writing to prisoners in 2020. 2020 taught many people a bunch of things. For one thing, it taught us that power, and the rush to keep it, kills millions of people as the result of ignoring experts in your ranks who are warning you that a deadly pandemic is coming. It taught us that while there are bread lines a mile long, corporations will make trillions of dollars and pretend to understand what people are going through. 2020 was also the year we learned the value of human beings, not material items, or capital. It may seem like that’s not the case, as materialism has since become an even more destructive force, but it’s true. Many of us learned it, me included.

When I was growing up, I heard people say, “I value men that are tough and resilient against obstacles.” I didn’t even know where to begin with comprehending that because I knew I didn’t fit that mold. I cried when dogs died in movies. I hugged everybody and told them I loved them. I sobbed with joy when others finally got their well-deserved happy ending. In society’s eyes, I was, and still am, the weak one.

I’ve since learned that there are many different kinds of strength and power in the world. Humans have all kinds of strengths and power, both visible and invisible. It’s not about just lifting weights; humans have the ability to listen and learn.

Everybody can learn something. Anything. It may just take some people longer because of a disability or similar. Still, the fault isn’t with the individual, it’s with society because society refuses to give people a second chance; or, in a more microscopic example, society doesn’t willingly let differences flourish, as with Disabled and other marginalized people all around the globe.

My own journey is constantly in flux. Just as I’m sure a lot of people are, I’m just trying to figure it all out. I’ll think I have all the answers, and then, just like magic, I’ll learn something new.

I’ve learned that true strength and grit is the ability to understand and do better. If people can understand why they did something wrong and what they can do in the future to eclipse the pain they’ve caused, I don’t see any reason to keep the death penalty alive.

Recently, I took a chance on people society is more than eager to toss away. Prisoners. I figured that we were in the same boat, actively shunned by society at large. I started writing to prisoners because I assumed they would be far more understanding and empathetic than any corporation or entity.

I was right. It started out with a few one-page letters back and forth, with me telling them about my blindness, cerebral palsy, and stutter. They’d tell me about their favorite TV shows and hobbies and what makes them laugh throughout the day. Soon, introductory letters grew to multiple pages of detailed experiences and thoughts and feelings about our two different worlds. Without fail, we all found common ground, somewhere, without apps begging us to try this new promotion.

I get more than just a companion through my letters to incarcerated people. I’m learning just how ruthless the industrial prison complex is. How the system loves to, once again, punish people, especially those with dark or brown skin, a foreign accent, or a nontraditional body. Day by day, I’m getting a glimpse of what it’s like inside. It’s a carefully crafted machine of punishment rather than rehabilitation.

There are people in prison that have fully come to terms with what they’ve done. I read it in their letters. They are not shy about any of it. They also want to become better people. They want to keep up their education.

I’ve connected with extremely open-minded people. My disabilities never get in the way of us talking about books, politics, love, and more. Our letters are candid discussions, tears, and even laughter. Many I converse with are on death row or have life without parole.

Every federal killing makes me really take a good hard look at people and their strengths and weaknesses. Even though these people have done wrong, I believe they are some of the strongest people I know and shouldn’t be killed because a powerful man of the state wants to uphold a semblance of law and order.

Taking someone’s life never changes anything. Empathy and thoughts change things. Taking someone’s life away doesn’t teach people how to be good citizens. It just teaches people to be afraid of the collective good so much that they only think about the individual and nothing more.

There was a brief period wherein I had doubts. How could my mere words change someone’s life? What could the meandering thoughts and feelings of a person from America—a country so engrained into cultures that people beg to come here—bring to the table? As it turns out, my stories provide hope to people in solitary confinement. My words quench that need for escape when a prisoner reads a lengthy letter about what having a fantastic night out with friends is like for me as a blind gay man. They are swept up in a night of drama, bliss, laughter, and even tears, and by all of these feelings bubbling to the surface, they’re also understanding, day by day, my own life and experiences. With each feeling, they’re empathizing.

One day, one of my inmate friends asked if he could read one of my letters to a group. I said yes, thinking nothing would come of it. It didn’t really hit me how important my words were to people until I received a letter back from him. In part, it reads, “I decided to take you up on your offer. I took some of your letters and made a group activity out of them. We all gather around, and read them in a group, together. You touched a lot of people the other day, and you weren’t even here. We all want to say, thank you, and we love you.”

Sometimes, as I’m munching on a cookie, I’m reflective about how others perceive my words. I went back and read the letter that explained in great detail how a whole group of people jumped for joy when I got a strike in bowling the other day. I marvel at how outcasts like me are able to find their solace through letters and my stories and, yes, sometimes drama.

We all have flaws. Some are visible. Others are hidden, buried deep because our society can’t handle our needs. Even though our flaws are paramount, our strength and resilience will keep us living and loving one another for a lifetime, regardless of the crimes we’ve committed.

Nobody should have to end their life prematurely because of a bad decision. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my letter writing journey, it’s that incarcerated people do something taboo. They have the grit and bravery to open up their minds and hearts to someone on the outside. They allow me to love them and they show me that love comes in all ethnicities, genders, and orientations. They demonstrate that love truly is a kind of magic that keeps people striving for better, even if they’ve made mistakes.

I’ve come to realize that, even though I might never be in the history books, or I might never become famous, none of that is necessary to change the world. I think to change the world, we have to understand each other, and this understanding can take many forms and shapes. Through arts and crafts. Through hugs and kisses. Through hands clasping in love even when worlds are so vastly different. Everybody changes the world in small ways. You do, and I do. We all have a part to play. Maybe you feed the hungry. Maybe you make art. For the longest time, I was lost, and I didn’t know how to contribute to society. I didn’t know how to contribute to changing the world. Now, I know that my letters are doing their part. I know now that my letters give people strength to feel and love, something society claims isn’t possible if you’re incarcerated. Now, I don’t worry about how much I’m changing the world. I just change it, with one letter at a time.

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