Sex dating in kirkland illinois
I soon developed an ongoing correspondence with my first prison pen pal, Steven Michael Woods, who was on death row in Texas.
Steven was leading a hunger strike to advocate for more humane—or, at least, marginally tolerable—conditions. (He was arrested at 21.) He worshipped nineties underground rock and had played bass and guitar for “beer party punk bands” in past days.
He claimed he was innocent: His co-defendant, whose fingerprints were found on the weapons, had confessed to being the sole shooter in the murder.
No physical evidence against Steven was ever discovered, although he did acknowledge being at the scene of the crime.
My crime put restrictions on my contact with minors.”Sable writes achingly of how she’s been severed from her three young kids, all under the age of eight.
Prison is built on a logic of isolation and disconnection.
My conversations, correspondences, and relationships with prison-torn families have taught me that separation breeds more separation, that the coldness and isolation of prison breed the coldness and isolation of violence.
And I think about how the one-on-one relationship, in which the prisoner emerges as a person (with thoughts, a personality, a history, hopes, dreams, nightmares), might serve as a model for the beginnings of a person-based, connection-based justice system.
He wrote about the time of enlightenment that would come “after we win better conditions back here.”I avoided the mailbox, falling toward a selfish, gutless conclusion: I didn’t want to watch Steven die. For four years, I quit thinking about Steven, or tried.
But in the summer of 2012, I combed through my letters from pen pal interviews past. And so I took a deep breath and googled “Steven Woods” and “Texas death row.” The Internet delivered the news: My friend had been executed in 2011.