CONDEMNED
What is life
on Death RoW?
by ALIM BRAXTON
Rrome Alone (Alim Braxton) is an MC, writer, and reformed prisoner on North Carolina's Death Row.
People ask me all the time: what's it like being on Death Row? What goes on in the mind and heart of someone waiting to die? Is it a life of terror? Do I spend my days weeping in prayer in preparation for the next life? Am I continually fending off killers waiting to stick an ice pick in my face?
Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart famously wrote in 1972 that "death sentences are cruel and unusual in the same way that being struck by lightning is cruel and unusual." I don't know what it feels like to be struck by lightning, but that initial shock of being sentenced to death was accompanied by an explosion of disorienting, soul shattering grief. For weeks, I could hardly get out of bed. What was the point? All I could think about was my impending death. I was consumed by regret for the lives I had ruined, for the lives I had taken. I was plagued by feelings of failure and worthlessness, a lack of purpose. To be condemned to death is to be told that humanity has given up on you. Remorse tore open my heart until I wept with the deepest sorrow for all the harm I had caused. I had forfeited my right to be human. I was no longer worthy of sharing the breath that animates life. I wanted to die.
During the first eight years of my time on Death Row, North Carolina carried out 35 executions.
I felt so ashamed for the pain I had caused my mother. How could I ever again look into her eyes? How could she bear to see the child she knew as kind and loving and sweet now caged in a cell? I retreated inside myself, hiding in a shell, a husk, convinced that I was the abominable thing that the world had judged me to be. It was easier to pretend that the person my mother and family knew was gone.
During the first eight years of my time on Death Row, North Carolina carried out 35 executions. Each was a reminder of my impending fate. There is nothing comparable to the reality of knowing that a man who lives only a few feet away from me is about to be killed. Every tick of the clock caused my heart to swell with dread. To be locked in my cell as I endured this torment 35 times—each time imagining that it was happening to me—was unbearable. It broke down the fortress of my mind and left me helpless and afraid.
Each execution was so clinical and cold. It was as if they were performing medical procedures and not putting humans to death in a chamber hidden from the public eye. Attired in suits and ties, they conducted themselves with somber professionalism. The following day, the staff would report to work as if nothing had occurred. There was no moment of silence. Nothing to memorialize the loss of life. Just one less number to tally at count time. I relived this preview of my own death again and again.
I asked myself if my willingness to accept my own punishment actually legitimized and concealed what was happening to the innocent. I felt an urgency to do something, to at least make some noise.
On November 19, 1999, as David Junior Brown was being executed, he cried out that he was an innocent man. I was shaken to the core when I heard this. Could it be true? I couldn't fathom 12 people sentencing an innocent person to death. But then three days after Brown's execution, another Death Row inmate, Alfred Rivera, was declared innocent and released. Brown's claim reverberated in my soul and troubled me, but I viewed it as an aberration. Then in 2004, Alan Gell was exonerated, followed by Jonathan Hoffman. In 2007, Levon Jones was freed, and the following year, so was Glen Chapman. Finally, in 2014, Henry McCollum was declared innocent after 30 years on Death Row. A veil was removed from my eyes. I realized that I lived among innocent people.
I asked myself if my willingness to accept my own punishment actually legitimized and concealed what was happening to the innocent. I felt an urgency to do something, to at least make some noise. I wanted to alert people that despite the suits and ties and the air of professionalism, this cannot be humane! That's how I became inspired by the Quranic principle that the murder of one innocent person was like killing all of humanity, while the salvation of a single innocent life was like saving the entire human race. I learned that there were indeed other innocent men here on North Carolina's Death Row, and it became my mission to use my voice and my pen as a rapper and writer to alert the world. It started with Stacey Tyler, who I know as Sabur, an innocent man who has been on Death Row for 28 years. My work to bring awareness to Sabur's case has become my passion. This is not merely because of my deep conviction about his innocence but because he is my best friend and my brother in Islam.
I've spent the past 25 years on Death Row. After living so intensely in the shadow of death, I am exhausted. Even though there has not been an execution in North Carolina since 2006, my fear of its resurgence always lurks beneath the surface—and its equally horrifying counterpart, death by incarceration, is my ever-present reality.
While I cannot conceive of another 25 years of what I have endured, a light has appeared in the darkness. The kind, loving person that my family always knew me to be has emerged from his shell to try and save the lives of others. I have come to realize that I might not be beyond redemption after all. My smile has returned, and I am once again able to see my mother's joy.
CONDEMNED
I Dare
Not Dream
by SABUR TYLER
Stacey (Sabur) Tyler is a former construction worker and DJ from Murfreesboro, North Carolina. He has been incarcerated since 1993 for a crime he did not commit.
I have been incarcerated since 1993. November of this year will give me 30 years. I have been on North Carolina's Death Row for 28 of those years. My legal name is Stacey Tyler, but I go by Sabur. When you become a Muslim—or as we say, when you revert back to Islam—you are given a new name. The name is supposed to be in line with your personality, your character. My Imam chose "Sabur," which is one of the 99 names, or attributes, of Allah. Sabur means patient, humble, meek, and kind.
I was born in 1969 and grew up in Murfreesboro, a small town in eastern North Carolina. One of my favorite childhood memories is when my family used to go out into our yard and play softball. My mother, father, and siblings would all be together having fun. Another favorite memory of my time before prison is when I used to visit an old folks home. I was 21 or 22. The first time I went was with a friend who was there to see his father. While I waited for him, I seen these two guys playing checkers, so I went over to watch them play. I sat with them for almost two hours. When it was time to leave, I told the guys, "I really appreciate y'all talking to me," but they was like, "No, we appreciate it. People don't really come to see us, so it's always good to see a new face." I asked if I could come back, and one of them said, "Sure, any time." But the other was like, "Everybody says they're going to come back and they don't come back." "No, I'm coming back, really," I said. And I did. From that point on, I started going to see them every week—twice a week, if I had the time. Their names were Mr. Jones and Mr. Cooper. I used to sign them out and ride them around town in my car. I became pretty good friends with them.
One of the worst things you hear is someone telling you, "Man, shut the hell up. I don't care about you being innocent." It's something that a lot of people ain't trying to hear.
After six months of me going to see them on the regular, Mr. Cooper told me he had cancer and didn't have long to live. Then he told me, "Man, I wish you was my son." I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't know how to process that. Sometime after that, I visited on a Saturday and his family was there. When I came in, he said, "There he go!" and I went over to shake his hand. And then he said, "If I had you as a son-in-law, I could die happy." So we pretty much made that happen. It wasn't real, but we put on a formal wedding with me and one of his four daughters, who I knew from school. We had tuxedos and a wedding gown. He didn't know that the preacher wasn't really a preacher. He got to walk his daughter down the aisle. Shortly thereafter, he died.
I don't talk much about my innocence. Everybody has their own problems that are on their mind, and they get tired of hearing people say the same thing over and over. One of the worst things you hear is someone telling you, "Man, shut the hell up. I don't care about you being innocent." It's something that a lot of people ain't trying to hear. I can't make nobody believe it. So I don't really talk about it.
It's very hard to cope when you're innocent on Death Row. I try to occupy myself with other things, like studying my religion. But no matter how hard I try to take my mind off it, being here is a constant reminder. You have very few options. People tell you what to do all the time. A lot of the things people on the outside take for granted, I can't do, like opening a refrigerator or going to a park because it's sunny out. They don't realize that seeing daylight is a really big thing. People treat you inhumanely here. You are not looked at as a human being. Some things you can never get used to. It's been an extremely hard 30 years. I shouldn't be here.
We make each other laugh to ease the pain of life. We help each other.
Hanging with Alim is one of the ways I cope with being in here. Alim Braxton is my best friend. We first met five or six years ago when we was in line at the chow hall. We got to talking about music, and it just grew from there. Alim is a very special person, one of a kind, a true brother.
We talk about so much. We call it "choppin' it up." We chop it up about everything. About the deen (the way of life of a pious Muslim), about family. We share stuff about things we did when we was kids. We make each other laugh to ease the pain of life. We help each other. Sometimes when I'm in my feelings, Alim will come and talk to me, and I'll tell him, "Thanks, man, I really needed that." He can take me out of a bad place.
Alim is a rapper. When you listen to his music, you can hear how deep the brother really is. You can hear how passionate and compassionate he is. A lot of rappers talk about things you can't relate to. If you ain't never had a Lamborghini or a Benz, you can't relate to how it feels riding down the avenue in one. But every song Alim's got, everybody can relate to it. That's what makes him such a great rapper. Listen to how his stories parallel yours. That's what I want people to understand about him. That's my brother, that's my man!
See also:
Alim is a dreamer, and he ain't got no problem telling you how big his dreams is. Once he dreams something, his mind starts working at how he can bring that dream to fruition. That's what I love about the brother.
Alim is a dreamer, but I'm not. Recently, someone asked me if I ever think about what it would be like to be free, to be on the outside, and I said, "No." I have been let down and hurt by so many things. I just prefer not to put myself through that again. I'm afraid to dream. I dare not dream.
