The Night Shaka Senghor, a Man Convicted of Second Degree Murder, Changed My Life
A few months ago, I offered up my home for a small gathering of interesting people to talk about criminal justice reform. I have worked on this issue my entire adult life and wanted to bring together friends and acquaintances who are also passionate about fixing our broken system. Van Jones and his team from cut50 helped organize the evening, and I was humbled by the presence of Debbie Allen, Matt McGorry, Natalie Maines, Shepard Fairey, Taytana Ali, Alicia Silverstone, Michael Ealy, and so many others. There is a fierce urgency of now to address these problems, as President Barack Obama has made it clear that he would like to pass legislation in Congress before his term ends. So we sat around my home and discussed complicated problems with sensible solutions that would end the nightmare of mass incarceration.
As always, Van Jones was on point, delivering a passionate plea to those in the room to get involved or more involved with this issue. Jessica Jackson, the co-founder of cut50, spoke emotionally about being the spouse of someone incarcerated and how she has committed her life to closing prisons and reuniting families. But the room came to a standstill when Shaka Senghor stood up to tell his story.
With brutal honesty, Shaka recounted the 19 years he spent in prison for second degree murder. He talked about the years he spent in solitary confinement, where all he had was time to think about what had happened to his life. Leaving behind a son when he was incarcerated, Shaka received a letter one day from him that rocked his world. His 10-year-old son asking him about the murder he had committed changed the entire trajectory of his life. It led him to writing, writing everything down, his inner-most thoughts, his regrets, his mistakes, his apologies. Which led him to writing his first book, Writing My Wrongs, in which he recounts the moment he got the letter from his son:
My son was 10 years old, and the sight of an envelope addressed in his squiggly handwriting filled my spirit with joy. But as I tore open the envelope and began reading, I saw that this letter was different from the ones he had sent before.
In the top right-hand corner, Li’l Jay had written in big, capital letters:
MY MOM TOLD ME WHY YOU’RE IN JAIL, BECAUSE OF MURDER! DON’T KILL DAD PLEASE THAT IS A SIN. JESUS WATCHES WHAT YOU DO. PRAY TO HIM.
I stared at the small paragraph for what felt like hours. My body trembled violently, and everything inside of me threatened to break in half. For the first time in my incarceration, I was hit with the truth that my son would grow up to see me as a murderer.
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about it before. It’s not that I was planning to hide my past from my son — it’s just that I thought I would be able to sit down and explain it to him when I felt he was mature enough for the conversation. But as I read Li’l Jay’s words, reality kicked me in the gut, and the pain of not knowing what to say spread through my body like cancer.
I didn’t know the context of the conversation that he had with his mother, so I wasn’t sure how to respond. The only thing I was sure of was that I had to do everything in my power to turn my life around. It was the only way I could show my son that I was not a monster.
His letter continued:
Dear daddy, I wonder how you’re doing in there. I’m doing fine. When I think about you, it makes me feel sad with no daddy around to wake me up and go work out and be strong like you. I have to do it all by myself. It bothers me the way I miss you. I pray and pray one day my prayer may come true and we’ll be together 4 life. It’s the anger in my heart that hurts me most without a dad in the house. My mama said I am the man of the house. She tells me I have to take over the anger so I won’t be in jail.
Each word seemed to scrape away the scar tissue that had formed around my heart. The words tore off my façade of ‘hood toughness and prison savvy. My crime was no badge of honor in my son’s eyes — it was a scarlet letter that signified how badly I had failed him and the other young Black males in my neighborhood, many whom would die or spend their lives in prison for trying to emulate me.
My son’s words made me take that final step on my road to redemption.
I sat his letter down and grabbed a pen. I owed my son the truth, but more than this, I owed him a father. Tears ran down my face as I began writing back. I told him the whole story. I explained how and why I had come to prison. I explained to him what it felt to be a confused teenager, drunk on anger and malt liquor. I told him how it felt to be shot at the age of 17, and how that feeling had distorted my thinking. I made a vow to him that I would not murder again.
He had the whole room in tears. Not just for him and his child, but for the victim of his crime and the pain the victim’s family has endured. There were tons of questions, about Shaka, about what’s next, about Washington. We all left that night feeling a sense of responsibility to fix our broken criminal justice system, our broken communities, and our broken families.
Since that night, I have read Shaka’s book, and it is remarkable; I couldn’t put it down. It is written from the perspective of a group of people we rarely hear from, the violent offender. It is a book of redemption, of remorse, of hope and of forgiveness. I strongly urge you to pick up a copy and learn from this courageous man who has put his entire truth in his book for all of us to read. And if you have an extra 30 seconds, sign this petition, urging the President and Congress to reform our criminal justice system now!
