Think about the past 31 years of your life.

That’s 31 blazing summers where fireflies danced through twilight evenings and crickets fiddled through the night. Camp outs, cookouts, and 31 Christmases that gifted way to hopeful new years.

I recently started my 31st year in prison.

To put this into perspective, I have watched dozens of men start and finish life sentences.

I live my life. I don’t dwell on time, nor do I feel my life is at a standstill. Where I am does not define me.

When I’m not writing, I’m engaged with amazing organizations within and outside of prison, all of whom are on missions to help incarcerated people.

One such organization is Columbus, Ohio based Harmony Project. Harmony works within Ohio prisons, instilling a message of hope while showing outside communities that the incarcerated are people too. Most of us will return to our communities as neighbors, coworkers, and friends.

In the three short years I have been singing with Harmony, my life has been transformed.

Once a week, a select group of men at my facility come together with Harmony and outside volunteers. We sing contemporary songs that are then showcased to the public at Harmony’s amazing community concerts, in choreographed music videos and snappy documentaries, on YouTube, and once a year at the highly anticipated Sunflower Arts & Music Festival.

The festival is held at the Ohio Reformatory for women and brings together Harmony’s prison choirs — two men’s, and one women’s — for a day long celebration of life and humanity.

The first festival was held in 2023  again in 2024 and this year on June 03, 2025.

Correctional leadership, invited guests (without all of whom make the festival even possible), and hundreds of incarcerated men and women gathered for this unique event.

The morning rang out with choir and music solos, spoken word, poetry, and group performances. The afternoon jammed to a lawn concert on the prison yard headlined by Ohio bands and more spoken word, poetry, and choir performances.

Each year, I performed a spoken word piece to the expectant crowds that captured our lives and struggles in prison. For incarcerated people, my words hold shared pain and struggle as much as they do hope and strength. For outside guests, our stories often move them to tears.

The theme of this year’s festival was ‘humanity’ and ‘being human’ and so I wrote a piece capturing this. I titled it We Are Only Human.

The festival left me emotionally spent as it does every year. For one day, I forgot I was in prison.

—Christopher

We Are Only Human

It is hereby ordered that the defendant be sentenced to a term of no less than–

gut wrenching days of missing your children

And no more than—

chronic crying, depression, and mental distress

For the crime of—

Being Human.

And so I was sentenced, discarded into a world I knew not. Just another intake—

whose pleas mattered not.

“Face the camera–

look left,

look right,

You are now this number—

today, tomorrow, every night.”

No…no. This had to be a bad dream!

but no one cared

Another voice lost in the chorus of screams.

Being human in prison is sometimes rough,

We are lifted by what’s good,

and knocked down by what’s tough,

but I am here to tell you,

I never give up.

I once knew a man behind these gates,

seven to ten was his sentence

But it was longer than seven,

before Ohio accepted his repentance.

He often struggled,

for he loved his daughter and son

At night I’d hear him crying,

yearning for his Angel and Number One.

He battled depression,

struggled to get out of bed

Everyday the long walk to pill call,

so he wasn’t trapped in his head.

Yet, day in and day out,

his feet still hit the floor

His only focus his children

today and forevermore.

I watched from afar,

as he struggled on his own

Surrounded

by thousands of people,

yet, so alone.

He once voiced a fear that,

tragedy could strike because he wasn’t home

The thought nearly broke him,

and it chilled him to the bone.

But–he made it!

With his head held high he walked out that front gate—

reunited, father, daughter, son

Into his arms ran his Angel—

and Number One.

Being human in prison is sometimes rough,

we are lifted by what’s good,

and knocked down by what’s tough.

I’m here to tell you—

he never  gave up.

“They’re just ‘murderers’, ‘thieves’, and ‘drug addicts’—”

Stereotypes that keep us down.

“Inmate”, “Convict”, ” Prisoner”,

we are none of these.

We are—

brothers and sisters,

fathers and mothers.

We are—

Amber, Brandi, Christa, Deborah, Emily, Felicia,

Jodi-Kathy-Lisa-Michelle-Nicole-

Patricia-Sarah-Tammy-Victoria-

Aaron-Brad-Chad-David-Eric-

Frank-Greg-Henry-John-Jim

Larry-Michael-Keith!

We are only human,

like anyone else.

I am Christopher,

or, if you prefer, Mr. Monihan

But please don’t call me “inmate” or “prisoner”

for I am none of these

Being human in prison, yes it’s sometimes rough,

I am lifted by what’s good,

and I’ve been knocked down by what’s tough.

I wrote this because,

being a number—

can never be us.

*Christopher is a writer,  journalist, and a Stillwater award recipient. He writes to draw attention to incarceration.

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