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<h1>What It’s Like to Serve a Life Sentence Without Parole</h1>

<p>I’ve been incarcerated for the majority of my life, spending more time in prison than in society. It’s where I grew up. I was arrested at the age of 23, and I’m now going on my 35th year of incarceration. I was sentenced to <a href="https://www.sentencingproject.org/reports/no-end-in-sight-americas-enduring-reliance-on-life-sentences/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">life without the possibility of parole</a> (LWOP).</p>



<p>I don’t think anyone really knew when I was sentenced in 1992 what “life without parole” meant. There was a lot of speculation. The courts said I would probably do 30 years before I went up for some sort of review. That time has passed.</p>



<p>I remember not being able to grow a beard when I first came in. I was so naïve, ignorant, and undereducated. As I was growing up in prison, some of my mentors told me, “Hey, get comfortable. You’re gonna be here for a while.” They were right. We, as a society, sentence people like me when we’re really young to die in prison because we are seen as incorrigible.&nbsp;</p>



<p>When you are sentenced to life without parole, there is a loss of autonomy. You are constantly being controlled. You are <a href="https://www.vera.org/news/prisons-and-jails-are-violent-they-dont-have-to-be" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">surrounded by violence</a>. There is no hope. Either you become resilient and continue to grow and push yourself or you can view life with a fatalistic perspective and be destructive. And I’ve chosen—and most of the people I know who are serving this sentence have chosen—to better ourselves. The rebellious part of us says, “We’re not incorrigible, so we’re gonna do well, and we’re gonna show the system that we are not the worst things that we’ve ever done.”</p>



<p>I was raised in a house with <a href="https://dev-wp.yesmagazine.org/health-happiness/2023/08/15/mental-health-access-survivors-violence" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">domestic violence</a> and verbal abuse. My dad called me “stupid” and “dumb” for doing childhood things that are pretty normal, so I grew up not having a lot of self-esteem. I gravitated toward materialism to feel like I was worth something.</p>



<p>When I was sent to prison, I was encouraged by people who saw my natural talents and said, “Hey, you have some really good critical-thinking skills.” My attorneys told me the same thing during trial, including, “You could have been an attorney.” I wasn’t exposed to that on the outside. I wasn’t exposed to some of the professions I know I could do today, so I gravitated to the underground economy. </p>



<p>In prison, once I was mentored and encouraged to do better, my first accomplishment was a few years after I had been sentenced: I earned my first paralegal certificate and got pretty good grades. I continued to get encouragement from people around me—teachers and sometimes some of the correctional officers. And as the opportunities arose, I continued to take advantage of them.&nbsp;</p>



<p>I have learned I can do so many different things. I have good analytical skills and a great ability to synthesize different topics. I’m good at helping people heal. I’m very good at business. There’s a number of things I could have been had I had the opportunities others have had. Nevertheless, I do take responsibility for responding in a negative way to my environment.&nbsp;</p>



<p>It was pivotal for me to recognize my worth and my potential. It sparked the idea that if I can do this, what else can I do? I have since earned four Associate of Arts degrees, a doctorate in ministries, and a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies from Cal State University in Los Angeles. </p>



<p>I was fortunate enough to start a program at Lancaster State Prison when I was held there. The facility was called the Progressive Programming Facility, and the administrators were open enough to allow us to create our own program. Most of us—about 600—had sentences of life without parole. We agreed nobody could join the program who had a gang membership or used drugs.&nbsp;</p>



<p>For nearly 18 years while I was there, we ran classes, and sometimes we ran a group called Men for Honor. We had 19 different classes at the height of our group, and we had guys cycling in and out, about 150 guys a month. We were just training each other to be better people. It was almost like a college campus, other than the physical layout, and that helped us a lot.</p>



<p>I was selected to teach creative writing, and our group decided to publish an anthology of our stories, of how we came to prison. We thought it would be a good way to give back to society and give kids an admonishment of how we came to prison, either through rebelliousness, not listening to our parents, or listening to older homies who were guiding us in the wrong direction. </p>



<p>Our book was called <em>Horrors From the Hood for Kids to Beware</em>. It’s part of the bigger picture of us trying to show we are redeemable and we’re not the worst decision we ever made. </p>



<p>It’s been phenomenal to contribute to other people’s growth, to watch each other grow in here, because we’re basically growing up together. Even with a life without parole sentence, having an education has kept us out of trouble, kept us productively busy.&nbsp;</p>



<p>I think accountability is really important, because we’re being punished and there’s an aspect of revenge to that. But our punishment does nothing for the people who we’ve harmed. I know victims and survivors want to understand what happened to them. They want to have questions answered, such as: Why did it happen? Why were they chosen? Will it happen again? Do we realize the impact and chaos we’ve created in their life, the losses we’ve caused them to suffer? Are we remorseful? </p>



<p>Those of us with LWOP aren’t allowed to go before parole boards. And because of that, we can’t be examined and have experts tell us where we stand or give us some kind of feedback on our rehabilitative efforts. Our victims don’t get to have accountability.&nbsp;</p>



<p>Therefore, before I even talk about me getting out of prison, I want to acknowledge that accountability is really important for us and our growth. It’s a measuring stick, and it’s a motivation to do better. But it’s also important for people who’ve been harmed. </p>



<p>One of the things I study is trauma. We have a lot of systems that are well meaning, and they might have worked well in the 14th or 15th century because we didn’t understand trauma. But today we understand it, and what I see is we just keep harming one another. </p>



<p>We’ve come a long way with recognizing trauma in the legal system. For youth offenders and anybody who doesn’t have LWOP, trauma is considered a mitigating factor. People consider the fact that trauma survivors don’t have great impulse control or don’t think through consequences. But people with LWOP are excluded from such considerations. Had I not had that sentence, I would have been given a chance to go to the parole board and make my case.</p>



<p>I’m almost 60 years old now, and there’s also <a href="https://prisonjournalismproject.org/2023/01/10/the-graying-of-americas-prisons/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">a consideration for elderly parole</a>, which is another mitigating factor. Behaviorists have said our chances of recidivism are much lower. But, again, people who are sentenced to LWOP are excluded from that. </p>



<p>If I could design a better system, I would want us to at least be heard so we’re not constantly and eternally invisible, which is a kind of trauma in and of itself. We’re existing but not existing.&nbsp;</p>



<p>I hope that if I am able to earn my freedom, I can help my family through a current crisis. I have a 13-year-old nephew who is going in the same direction I was going in. He is curious about street life and hustling. I talk to him over the phone and I write him letters and do the best I can to steer him in the right direction. He’s really phenomenal, a smart kid with a lot of potential. But too often I feel like it comes off as me preaching to him. </p>



<p>In here, we <em>model</em> good behavior to one another, and that really works well because situational learning is key. You can tell someone in abstract terms all day long about different philosophies of living, but when you can actually show it and model it, I think that’s what makes the difference. And I can’t do that for my nephew while I’m in prison.&nbsp;</p>



<p>I think that that’s one of the reasons why we have a generational problem of people coming to prison and making bad decisions. There is a “brain drain.” People who are educated and affluent move out of neighborhoods and don’t come back. So I didn’t have the mentors I needed. And then there are people who educate themselves and transform themselves while in prison, but then we’re stuck in here and can’t give back to our community and be models and mentors in our communities. </p>



<p>My family is harmed with me being in prison all this time, even though they consider me rehabilitated. My nephew is suffering. So you have this continual cycle. I wish we could be more oriented toward helping people heal.</p>



<p>I wish we could design our systems to be more restorative justice oriented and to focus on healing, because it <em>is</em> possible. They say “hurt people hurt people,” and a lot of that is because of traumatic reenactment. But “healed people can heal people.” And that’s what I try to do in prison, that’s what I do through the phone with people in the community. </p>



<p>I hope one day society will open its mind to the possibilities of such a world instead of the philosophy of punishment and revenge.&nbsp;</p>



<p>What could my life have been had I lived in such a world? Throughout history Black people have always had to prove they’re human. Remember <a href="https://www.nypl.org/events/exhibitions/galleries/fortitude/item/5500" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">the placards from the ’60s that said “I am a man<a href="https://www.nypl.org/events/exhibitions/galleries/fortitude/item/5500" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">”</a>?</a> We need to live in a world where there’s more compassion, where there’s more empathy, and where we all see each other as human beings. </p>



<p><em>As told to Sonali Kolhatkar</em></p>



<p></p>

<p>This article originally appeared in <a href="https://www.yesmagazine.org">Yes! Magazine</a> at <a href="https://dev-wp.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2025/01/16/life-without-parole-oped">https://dev-wp.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2025/01/16/life-without-parole-oped</a>.</p><link href="https://dev-wp.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2025/01/16/life-without-parole-oped" rel="canonical"/><p>Yes! Magazine is a nonprofit, independent media organization dedicated to telling stories of ... . Learn more at <a href="https://www.yesmagazine.org">Yes! Magazine</a></p><img id="republication-tracker-tool-source" src="https://dev-wp.yesmagazine.org/?republication-pixel=true&post=123368&ga4=G-74QJNNY44Z" style="width:1px;height:1px;">

What It’s Like to Serve a Life Sentence Without Parole

I’ve been incarcerated for the majority of my life, spending more time in prison than in society. It’s where I grew up. I was arrested at the age of 23, and I’m now going on my 35th year of incarceration. I was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole (LWOP).

I don’t think anyone really knew when I was sentenced in 1992 what “life without parole” meant. There was a lot of speculation. The courts said I would probably do 30 years before I went up for some sort of review. That time has passed.

I remember not being able to grow a beard when I first came in. I was so naïve, ignorant, and undereducated. As I was growing up in prison, some of my mentors told me, “Hey, get comfortable. You’re gonna be here for a while.” They were right. We, as a society, sentence people like me when we’re really young to die in prison because we are seen as incorrigible.

When you are sentenced to life without parole, there is a loss of autonomy. You are constantly being controlled. You are surrounded by violence. There is no hope. Either you become resilient and continue to grow and push yourself or you can view life with a fatalistic perspective and be destructive. And I’ve chosen—and most of the people I know who are serving this sentence have chosen—to better ourselves. The rebellious part of us says, “We’re not incorrigible, so we’re gonna do well, and we’re gonna show the system that we are not the worst things that we’ve ever done.”

I was raised in a house with domestic violence and verbal abuse. My dad called me “stupid” and “dumb” for doing childhood things that are pretty normal, so I grew up not having a lot of self-esteem. I gravitated toward materialism to feel like I was worth something.

When I was sent to prison, I was encouraged by people who saw my natural talents and said, “Hey, you have some really good critical-thinking skills.” My attorneys told me the same thing during trial, including, “You could have been an attorney.” I wasn’t exposed to that on the outside. I wasn’t exposed to some of the professions I know I could do today, so I gravitated to the underground economy.

In prison, once I was mentored and encouraged to do better, my first accomplishment was a few years after I had been sentenced: I earned my first paralegal certificate and got pretty good grades. I continued to get encouragement from people around me—teachers and sometimes some of the correctional officers. And as the opportunities arose, I continued to take advantage of them.

I have learned I can do so many different things. I have good analytical skills and a great ability to synthesize different topics. I’m good at helping people heal. I’m very good at business. There’s a number of things I could have been had I had the opportunities others have had. Nevertheless, I do take responsibility for responding in a negative way to my environment.

It was pivotal for me to recognize my worth and my potential. It sparked the idea that if I can do this, what else can I do? I have since earned four Associate of Arts degrees, a doctorate in ministries, and a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies from Cal State University in Los Angeles.

I was fortunate enough to start a program at Lancaster State Prison when I was held there. The facility was called the Progressive Programming Facility, and the administrators were open enough to allow us to create our own program. Most of us—about 600—had sentences of life without parole. We agreed nobody could join the program who had a gang membership or used drugs.

For nearly 18 years while I was there, we ran classes, and sometimes we ran a group called Men for Honor. We had 19 different classes at the height of our group, and we had guys cycling in and out, about 150 guys a month. We were just training each other to be better people. It was almost like a college campus, other than the physical layout, and that helped us a lot.

I was selected to teach creative writing, and our group decided to publish an anthology of our stories, of how we came to prison. We thought it would be a good way to give back to society and give kids an admonishment of how we came to prison, either through rebelliousness, not listening to our parents, or listening to older homies who were guiding us in the wrong direction.

Our book was called Horrors From the Hood for Kids to Beware. It’s part of the bigger picture of us trying to show we are redeemable and we’re not the worst decision we ever made.

It’s been phenomenal to contribute to other people’s growth, to watch each other grow in here, because we’re basically growing up together. Even with a life without parole sentence, having an education has kept us out of trouble, kept us productively busy.

I think accountability is really important, because we’re being punished and there’s an aspect of revenge to that. But our punishment does nothing for the people who we’ve harmed. I know victims and survivors want to understand what happened to them. They want to have questions answered, such as: Why did it happen? Why were they chosen? Will it happen again? Do we realize the impact and chaos we’ve created in their life, the losses we’ve caused them to suffer? Are we remorseful?

Those of us with LWOP aren’t allowed to go before parole boards. And because of that, we can’t be examined and have experts tell us where we stand or give us some kind of feedback on our rehabilitative efforts. Our victims don’t get to have accountability.

Therefore, before I even talk about me getting out of prison, I want to acknowledge that accountability is really important for us and our growth. It’s a measuring stick, and it’s a motivation to do better. But it’s also important for people who’ve been harmed.

One of the things I study is trauma. We have a lot of systems that are well meaning, and they might have worked well in the 14th or 15th century because we didn’t understand trauma. But today we understand it, and what I see is we just keep harming one another.

We’ve come a long way with recognizing trauma in the legal system. For youth offenders and anybody who doesn’t have LWOP, trauma is considered a mitigating factor. People consider the fact that trauma survivors don’t have great impulse control or don’t think through consequences. But people with LWOP are excluded from such considerations. Had I not had that sentence, I would have been given a chance to go to the parole board and make my case.

I’m almost 60 years old now, and there’s also a consideration for elderly parole, which is another mitigating factor. Behaviorists have said our chances of recidivism are much lower. But, again, people who are sentenced to LWOP are excluded from that.

If I could design a better system, I would want us to at least be heard so we’re not constantly and eternally invisible, which is a kind of trauma in and of itself. We’re existing but not existing.

I hope that if I am able to earn my freedom, I can help my family through a current crisis. I have a 13-year-old nephew who is going in the same direction I was going in. He is curious about street life and hustling. I talk to him over the phone and I write him letters and do the best I can to steer him in the right direction. He’s really phenomenal, a smart kid with a lot of potential. But too often I feel like it comes off as me preaching to him.

In here, we model good behavior to one another, and that really works well because situational learning is key. You can tell someone in abstract terms all day long about different philosophies of living, but when you can actually show it and model it, I think that’s what makes the difference. And I can’t do that for my nephew while I’m in prison.

I think that that’s one of the reasons why we have a generational problem of people coming to prison and making bad decisions. There is a “brain drain.” People who are educated and affluent move out of neighborhoods and don’t come back. So I didn’t have the mentors I needed. And then there are people who educate themselves and transform themselves while in prison, but then we’re stuck in here and can’t give back to our community and be models and mentors in our communities.

My family is harmed with me being in prison all this time, even though they consider me rehabilitated. My nephew is suffering. So you have this continual cycle. I wish we could be more oriented toward helping people heal.

I wish we could design our systems to be more restorative justice oriented and to focus on healing, because it is possible. They say “hurt people hurt people,” and a lot of that is because of traumatic reenactment. But “healed people can heal people.” And that’s what I try to do in prison, that’s what I do through the phone with people in the community.

I hope one day society will open its mind to the possibilities of such a world instead of the philosophy of punishment and revenge.

What could my life have been had I lived in such a world? Throughout history Black people have always had to prove they’re human. Remember the placards from the ’60s that said “I am a man”? We need to live in a world where there’s more compassion, where there’s more empathy, and where we all see each other as human beings.

As told to Sonali Kolhatkar