Writing My Wrongs

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 hate 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

Shaka Senghor

[A] harrowing [portrait] of life behind bars . . . Gritty, visceral . . . Senghor writes about the process of atonement and the possibility of redemption, and talks of his efforts to work for prison reforms that might turn a system designed to warehouse into one aimed at rehabilitation. Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

My first glance at the person on the book's cover a dreadlocked, tattooed, heavyset black male left me skeptical. Full of judgment. Why should I be interested in the story of a murderer? But as [Senghor's] words unfolded, so did my understanding of what it means to fall short, to go astray, to lose your way . . . His story touched my soul. O: The Oprah Magazine

[A] powerful memoir. The Washingtonian

No one has forced us to look at the core questions about humanity and our broken criminal justice system with more authenticity and clarity than Senghor . . . If Senghor s tale is any indication, redemption, mercy and grace aren t just emotional ideals or spiritual buzzwords. They are the sharp, effective tools that can be used to rebuild lives and communities, one person at a time. Erica Williams Simon, Time

Probably the most important book I've read in the past few years . . . Few people, sadly, come out on the end of two decades of hard time and find their way back to the life Shaka is now leading. Here, he tells us why that is, and why it doesn't have to stay that way. Shaun King, New York Daily News

Extraordinary . . . You will reconsider everything you ve ever thought about poverty, the prison industrial complex and the connection between the two. Essence

[An] inspiring book that gives hope for those who believe in the redemption of the incarcerated. Publishers Weekly

A necessary reminder of the deep humanity, vulnerability and potential that lies within each one of us, including those we view as 'thugs' or