Writing My Wrongs Read online

  Copyright © 2013, 2016 by Drop a Gem Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Convergent Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CONVERGENT BOOKS and its open book colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Originally published by Drop a Gem Publishing, LLC, in different form, in 2013. Selected material originally appeared on the author’s blog at medium.com/​@shakasenghor.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9781101907290

  eBook ISBN 9781101907306

  Cover design by Christopher Brand

  Cover photograph by Northbound Films

  v4.1_r1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part Three

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Recommended Reading

  About the Author

  To Ebony, thank you for everything you do to support

  my dream and vision. You are my rock, and I deeply appreciate you for being the rare jewel of a woman that you are.

  You truly are my everything, and it’s an honor to be sharing

  this journey with you.

  To my children Lakeisha Todd, James Angelo White II, and

  Sekou Senghor, I love you more than words can express.

  To my parents James and Marie White and Ronald (RIP) and Arlene Howard, thank you for your love and support.

  To my brothers on lockdown who are working hard

  to make a difference and transform their lives,

  you inspire and motivate me.

  To the victims of crimes throughout the world,

  your pain will never be forgotten.

  The unexamined life is not worth living.

  —Socrates, Plato’s Apology

  FOREWORD

  On July 1, 2012, the MIT Media Lab announced that we would be creating an Innovators Guild—a team of scholars, executives, and designers that would go to communities around the world using the power of innovation to help people. Our first focus was Detroit.

  Three weeks later the Knight Foundation, which was funding our trip, organized a meeting with the city’s community leaders. We gave presentations about MIT and the Media Lab and about how we had come to Detroit to explore how we could create innovative solutions to long-standing problems.

  Then, during the Q&A, a tough-looking Black man with dreadlocks stood up. “Many well-meaning people come to Detroit with a missionary mentality,” he said. “Then they get discouraged when they realize just how tough our problems are. If you want to make a real impact, you have to go out among the people in the communities and not buy into the romanticized view of Detroit based on midtown and downtown.” Although there were other comments expressing skepticism toward our efforts, this one stood out. We realized we were staring reality in the face.

  After the meeting, the man introduced himself as Shaka. He said that if we were willing he would show us the real Detroit. We immediately accepted the offer. On our next trip, we avoided downtown altogether and went straight to Brightmoor on Detroit’s West Side, a neighborhood full of burned-out, vacant homes and liquor stores fronted with bulletproof glass. Shaka told us stories that had none of the romance, but they were true.

  We quickly realized that we couldn’t just fly in, do good, and go home. We needed to introduce ourselves to the community, learn about the people who lived there, and build trust. If we wanted to have a positive impact on Detroit, we had to be there for the long haul.

  In the following weeks, my team from the Media Lab and creatives from the design firm IDEO flew to Detroit, working with Shaka and others to come up with a plan for how we might be able to join the community and work together. We then invited Shaka and the Detroit team to the MIT Media Lab to meet students and faculty and see and learn about what we do. Bonds began forming between the Lab and the Detroiters.

  In October, we all converged on Detroit, setting up a base at the headquarters of OmniCorpDetroit, a vital local organization. We were an eclectic group of community leaders, chief innovation officers, students, and designers. Each team started working on projects ranging from solving the streetlight issue to urban farming. Shaka emerged as our natural leader, keeping the energy high and the teams working together.

  By the end of an insanely productive three days, I had a plan. I would make Shaka an MIT Media Lab Fellow. He’d be our man in Detroit—our connection to the incredibly important world he represents. Since then, Shaka and the Media Lab team have started to work together extensively, and Shaka continues to inspire and challenge us.

  In December, Shaka e-mailed me that he had a rough draft of his memoirs and asked if I was interested in reading it. I read the entire book in two sittings. Shaka is, among his other talents, an amazing storyteller. The book is funny and moving and astute, and by the end I felt as if I had been the one convicted of murder, as if I’d spent seven years in the hole, and gone through the dramatic transformation from angry, scared young boy to enlightened teacher and leader.

  And by the end, I could begin to see how a generation of bright children full of promise are channeled into a system that sees them as little more than felons-in-waiting. Yet again, Shaka has inspired me to help right the wrongs, in this instance by helping him write the wrongs.

  The book may be about Shaka’s past, but it points to a future in which we all take the next step to build a more just society.

  Joi Ito

  Director, MIT Media Lab

  January 2013

  PROLOGUE

  OAKS CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

  Manistee, Michigan

  2001

  I stared at the mirror, watching the tears roll slowly down my face, each drop carrying the pain of my childhood. I was on my second year of a four-and-a-half-year stint in solitary confinement. It was my deepest moment of reflection, a sacred moment of clarity when I came face-to-face with true forgiveness.

  I walked over to the steel sink-toilet combo that was next to my cell door. The cell was spartan in appearance, with a brick slab and a plastic green mattress for a bed. The mirror was a sheet of polished steel, because in prison they didn’t allow real mirrors.

  I stared at the battle-scarred image in front of me and knew I needed to begin the long, tedious process of making peace with my past. I opened up deep wounds that had been stuffed with the gauze of anger and self-hatred. I forgave all of the people who had teased me in my childhood, making fun of my jack-o’-lantern-sized head by calling me Pumpkin. I forgave everyone who had made fun of my gap-toothed smile. I ran my hands through my long dreadlocks and forgave everyone who ever called me nappy-headed, making me feel insecure abou
t the crown my Creator had bestowed upon me. The words from my past ricocheted around in my mind like errant bullets, hurting no less now than they had back then.

  I forgave my mother for all of the ass whoppings she gave me, remembering the fire of the belt cutting into my tender flesh. I forgave her for all of the moments she wasn’t there when I needed her. I forgave the guy who shot me when I was seventeen and made me feel like I had to carry a gun. I forgave my siblings and homies for abandoning me at the lowest point in my life.

  The levees broke, and I began sobbing harder than I ever had before. But I could also feel a deep, abiding peace rushing over the toxic hatred from my past.

  People had told me about the healing power of forgiveness, but it had taken me until now to understand that forgiveness wasn’t only about letting other people off the hook. It was about me. I had to free myself from the anger, fear, and hurt of my past. I had to forgive the people I hated. Most important, I had to forgive myself.

  This was one of the hardest things I had ever done, because I didn’t feel I was worthy of forgiveness. I was a murderer. Guilt from the destruction and disappointment I had caused clung to me like a sweaty T-shirt, but I knew in my heart that if I wanted to make things right with others, I had to make them right with myself. In order to feel like I was capable of forgiving them, I had to release myself from the burden of all the hurt I had brought into the world.

  James Allen’s book As a Man Thinketh had helped me to see that I was responsible for my thoughts and the feelings that they produced. It didn’t matter what other people had done to me; ultimately, I was responsible for my anger, and for the actions that I took in response to it.

  All of which brought me to this moment, staring at a broken man’s face in the scratched steel mirror of Cell 211, in the solitary confinement wing of a correctional facility in western Michigan. It was the beginning of a journey that would culminate eight years later, when I wrote a letter to the man I had killed.

  By then, I was finishing up a therapy course for violent offenders and preparing to see the parole board for the second time, to make the case for my release. But I realized that if I wanted to move forward with my life, there was one more thing I needed to do. I needed to come to terms with the man I had taken out of this world. (Out of respect to my victim’s family and their privacy, I have changed his name.)

  Dear Mr. Clarke

  I am writing this letter to share with you what has been on my mind and heart for several years now. For the last few nights, I have stayed awake writing this letter in my head, and each time, I found myself mentally balling up the pages because I couldn’t find the right words to convey how deeply sorry I am for causing your death. Somehow, no matter what words I use, saying I am sorry for robbing you and your family of your life seems too small of a gesture.

  Every time I think back to that night, I find myself asking the question, “Why didn’t I just walk away?” When I finally found the answer, I understood for the first time the true meaning of the words “weakness” and “strength.” See, all my life, I had confused their meaning. I thought walking away from an argument would make me appear weak and make me a loser. But in reality, it takes strength to walk away from conflict. Back then, I didn’t have that strength. I was afraid, and I allowed my fears to dictate my actions. Sixteen months prior to the night I shot you, I too was shot in a similar incident. I survived, but I became consumed by fear and paranoia. I thought it could happen again at any given moment. I became desperately angry, because anger was the only emotion that could conceal the fear.

  When you and I encountered each other, I was already programmed to kill. I had convinced myself that it was better to shoot than to be shot; that the handgun in my pocket was the only thing that could protect me. In my mind, it was easier to shoot than to walk away, and I have spent the last 17 years learning just how wrong I was.

  For years, I blamed you for making me mad enough to shoot you. Now I realize that no one can make me feel anything I don’t want to feel. I blamed your death on the fact that we were both intoxicated, but now I recognize that the instinct to shoot anyone I perceived as a threat had been planted long before we met. Even though I pled guilty in court, I blamed everything and everyone but myself. Pleading guilty was easy because I knew I had violated the law, but it didn’t mean I was taking full responsibility for having caused your death.

  It wasn’t until I was ten years into serving my sentence that I began seeing things differently. My healing started when I learned to begin forgiving myself for the wrongs I had committed. However the real change started a year later, when my eleven-year-old son sent me a letter that said he had found out the real reason I was in prison. Knowing my son would see me as a murderer made me face up to the fact that my thinking and my choices had caused your death and led to me losing my freedom.

  Today, when I look back, I wish I could change the past. I wish I could restore your life so that your children could have known the safety and security of having their father in the house. I wish I could bring you back to life so that your wife could enjoy the presence of her husband and your parents could see you reaching for your dreams.

  I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

  I know that saying I’m sorry can never restore your life. But I believe in the power of atonement, and I have taken responsibility for my actions by dedicating my life and talents to making amends for the pain I have brought into this world. For the last five years, I have been actively involved with anti-violence organizations that work with at-risk youth. I have used my talent as a writer to share my story—our story—so that others may learn from it and make better choices with their own lives. It doesn’t change what I did, but I want you to know that your life was not, and will not be, in vain.

  I first learned about the power of forgiveness from your godmother, Mrs. Weaver, who started writing me five years into my sentence. She wanted to know what had happened that night—why I had shot and killed you. It’s one of the hardest questions I’ve ever had to answer, but I knew that I owed your family closure. I told Mrs. Weaver about our dispute, leaving out the fact that it was started by a drug transaction because I didn’t feel that it was necessary for them to be exposed to that part of your life. I told her that you didn’t deserve it; that I wished more than anything else in the world that I could change what happened on that night.

  She wrote back two weeks later. She said that she forgave me and encouraged me to seek God’s forgiveness, and I took her words to heart. It would be five long years before I reached the point when I could truly forgive myself. But I did, and today, I can’t help but wonder if your godmother’s care was the first real step in my transformation.

  I know that even though I have evolved and taken the necessary steps to right my wrongs, I still have a lot of work to do. But each day I am blessed with life, I know that I now have the will to live with meaning and purpose.

  Sincerely,

  Shaka

  PART ONE

  1

  WAYNE COUNTY JAIL

  Detroit, Michigan

  September 11, 1991

  The sound of sirens burst through the quiet morning air, startling me awake. I crawled from beneath the scratchy wool blanket, rose to my feet, and approached the door to my cell, where a chubby roach was navigating its way across the cold, gray bars. I hollered down the tier, trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Yo, Satan, what the fuck they hit the siren for?” I asked, wiping the crust from the corner of my eyes.

  Gigolo, whom everyone called Satan, was one of the few cats I spoke to on a regular basis. In jail, friendliness was frowned upon, so I didn’t talk to anyone unless we had something in common beyond being locked up. Gigolo and I were from different cities, but we had grown up in similar environments and had formed a bond during the time I’d been in county jail.

  “I don’t know, homie,” Gigolo yelled back from a few cells down. “You know how they do around here. They probably ha
te that they ass can’t get no sleep, so they fucking with us.” A few other inmates laughed.

  Gigolo’s statement expressed the sentiment of most of the cats on lockdown. We had come to believe that the deputies would do anything they could to make our stay as unbearable as possible. They would bang their keys on the bars, turn the bright lights on in the middle of the night, and hold loud conversations during hours when we were trying to sleep. But if they had intended for this to intimidate us, it didn’t work. Most of us had come from environments where disrespect, violence, and abuse were the norm. We were used to it—and besides, you can’t change a person for the better by treating him or her like an animal. The way I see it, you get out of people what you put into them, so the officers were only making their jobs harder.

  Another inmate called from farther down the tier. “They might be coming to get y’all and take y’all to different county jails,” he yelled.

  “Come get us for what?” Gigolo asked, a bit irritated.

  “Man, they take that escape shit serious. Ain’t nobody tried to pull off that shit y’all just tried,” he said, alluding to the escape attempt that had landed Gigolo and me in the hole.

  Another voice hollered from the end of the tier. “Bitch ass nigga, mind your business ’cause you speaking on shit you don’t even know about. You working with the police or something, saying some shit like that? You don’t know if them brothers tried to escape or not. You trying to get niggas indicted around this bitch?” Everyone burst into laughter.

  “Man, I was just saying,” the first inmate stammered.