An intimate first person non-fiction storytelling experience about incarceration in the United States.
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.
Continue reading “Where I Am Does Not Define Me by Christopher”
Shortly after 3 pm on April 8, I donned my sunglasses and stood in the center of the prison yard. I watched as the coal-black lunar disc slowly smothered the sun. All around me I heard prisoners clapping and cheering. I removed the glasses, as it was safe to look at the total eclipse.
What I saw left me breathless.
Staring at the sky, I remembered the solar eclipse of Feb. 26, 1979, when I was 7. My father had helped me make an eclipse viewer: a cardboard box with a pinhole punched through it and a sheet of white paper glued inside.
Aimed skyward, our contraption held a perfect black-and-white image of the eclipse, a partial eclipse from our point in its path. I was moved by my father’s ingenuity to capture the moon and the sun together in a box.
The 2024 eclipse experience left some residents of my prison stunned. Todd Sodders said the eclipse left him feeling “wonder and awe juxtaposed with one’s insignificance.”
“It was surreal,” Oscar Santiago said.
The moment the total eclipse blackened the clear blue sky, an eerie 360-degree twilight gripped the mid-afternoon and triggered the yard’s floodlights. I was overwhelmed with feelings of hope for humanity, and felt inspired about our unknown future.
Minutes earlier, the sunshine had caused beads of sweat to dot my forehead. As the eclipse took hold, a strange breeze chilled my skin. Everyone, including the birds, became silent.
The sun had transformed. Red and orange solar flares licked out around the edge of the black disc engulfing it. I saw a flower — then a red, heavenly ring. Finally, the moon slipped slowly away, releasing the sun back to a familiar yellow splendor.
*This piece first appeared in Prison Journalism Project at prisonjournalismproject.org.
Christopher Monihan A310612
Every inmate eventually witnesses a prison murder and has a story to tell. This is mine.
Continue reading “THE PRISON MURDER OF DAMICO WATKINS by Christopher Monihan”
I’ve worked many prison jobs. None have helped me more than working with the dogs. My official job titles have included Dog Handler, Dog Trainer, and for a short one year stint Cat Handler wrangling cats in the now defunct cat program.
Continue reading “Coping With Incarceration Borne PTSD the Canine Way”
Prison does many things to its incarcerated, but the one thing it will never do is define us.I’m a Harmony Project choir singer at Madison Correctional Institution in Ohio.Harmony is a nondenominational first of it’s kind initiative based in Columbus, Ohio. It is the brainchild of charismatic founder and director David Brown. Harmony inspires the incarcerated through community and song, and on a balmy day in late May, held the 2nd annual Sunflower Arts and Music Festival at the Ohio Reformatory for Women.
I’ve been incarcerated nearly 30 years. In 14 short months Harmony has changed my life. For the second time Harmony would touch the lives of thousands at an event others said could never succeed.
On the day of the festival Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction Director Ms. Annette Chambers-Smith, told us that we are showing the world what is possible. “Other states are watching,” she said, and shared how they once told her that an initiative like Harmony could never work. I brimmed with an immense sense of pride at her words.
In the morning we gathered in the women’s gymnasium with invited guests, correctional leadership and staff, for song and spoken word events. I sat side by side with men and women from Madison Correctional Institution, Pickaway Correctional Institution, and the Ohio Reformatory for Women.
Spoken word presentations gripped the crowd and I was deeply moved to witness invited guests wiping away tears. These were our stories. Knowing others connected with them was all I could do to hold back my own floodgates.
Music solos thrilled an expectant crowd. My favorite moments of the morning came when the Harmony choir women sent chills down my spine singing “Fight Song” by Rachael Platten; and when two Ohio Reformatory women performed a beautiful all original song backed with acoustic guitar.
We then linked up via skype with the Sunflower House, a hospice for orphans in Bloemfontein, South Africa where the children sent us a message of hope and love. Harmony has a long relationship with the hospice.
The afternoon brought a lawn concert on the prison yard headlined by Ohio bands the Mark Rhodes Band, and Fya and Sol.
A massive crowd of women waived tissue paper sunflowers in the air to the beat of the music. Harmony passed out the sunflowers and welcoming packs consisting of sweets, sunscreen and lip balm to the thousands in attendance.
Ms. Rochelle Moore is Pickaway Correctional warden and lead singer of Fya and Sol. She rocked cheering crowds to a medley of crowd pleasing favorites leaving everyone in awe.
On stage spoken word presentations again inspired and delighted us, the performers men and women from the three prisons. For the second time in as many years I stood atop the massive stage. I presented a spoken word piece I had titled “What is Prison?”.
What is prison? Prison is an impossible festival on a warm day in May; it is hearing the director tell us we matter and that we hold the key to our futures; and, it is so many dark and difficult things.
As I left the stage invited Harmony guests pulled me aside. “Thank you so much for sharing a truthful window into your lives,” said one grateful woman, whose name I do not know.
I hadn’t thought of it that way, because for us incarcerated “What Is Prison?” is our lives. We live it every day.
I heard so many of my peers both in the choirs and festival attendees, say that the day was the best day of their lives. For a day we were all free and forgot where we were.
*Christopher Monihan is incarcerated at Madison Correctional Institution in Ohio. He is a Society of Professional Journalists Stillwater Award winner and writes about issues impacting the incarcerated and their families.
*Read about the first Sunflower Arts and Music Festival here.