“The project is in 10 women’s prisons throughout the state. I’m part of a group of Baytown volunteers who serve two women’s facilities in Dayton. On the third Saturday of the month, we carpool up there with books and recording devices, and we assist mothers as they read a book they selected for their child. They write a little note in it before we mail it to the child’s caregiver, along with a URL to access the recording.

“What got me hooked is the simplicity of the project and how powerful it is. The kids get a book of their own, and they get to hear their mom’s voice. Some of these mothers don’t get family visits very often. Sending the books and letting those kids hear their mom’s voice often triggers the family to stay in communication.

“One month when we had a new group of moms participating, you could just feel the anger rolling off one young woman. We were like, why did she even sign up? But she stuck with us. As we wrapped up the project with them, we asked what they were going to take away from it. We got answers like, ‘I learned that my little girl likes books about trucks.’ Or, ‘I learned that my child reads at a higher level than I thought.’ Women will say, ‘I’m going to get a library card when I’m released, so that I can get books for my children.’ These are all great things, and they touch our hearts.

“When that one young mom raised her hand to share something, we were surprised she wanted to participate. She said, ‘It’s a beautiful Saturday morning out there. You ladies could be home having a barbecue with your family. You don’t have to be here. But you come here and do this for us and our children, without expecting anything in return. I didn’t know there were people like that in the world.’

“At a different setting, another mother said, ‘I learned that I don’t have to sell drugs to buy expensive clothes or tennis shoes for my kids. They just want to hear my voice.’

“We understand that we are not going to touch every mom who comes through the program. But if we can reach just one mother who then reaches her child, and that child develops a love of reading, the ripple effect is just like throwing a stone into a still pond. It has an amazing impact.”

— Rhonda Chandler

Rhonda has been involved in Women’s Storybook Project of Texas for about 15 years. You can register to volunteer through the website at www.storybookproject.org.

The post Reading connects incarcerated moms with kids appeared first on The Baytown Project.

“My mom and dad had 11 kids. I’m the baby. I’m 38 years old. I’m single. I’m homosexual. And I’m the only one who doesn’t have any kids. Altogether, there are like 65 grandchildren.

“I fight a depression sometimes because I feel like I’m missing out on parenthood. I do have this freedom. But I’m also jealous because they have kids. It’s kind of weird.

“I love all my nieces and nephews. I’m even a great uncle. I have a great niece who is almost 20 years old. But I don’t have any biological children. That’s something that I want to kind of do before I turn 40. I’ve really been thinking about it, like having one naturally with a female. Or I could donate to a couple. But I really want my own.

“Either way, it’s going to hurt because my dad met all his grandchildren. And if I have a child, he wouldn’t be able to meet him or her. My dad passed away last year from the coronavirus. It was the day after my birthday. What’s crazy is my mom has a lot of heart and health problems. She caught the coronavirus and fought it off like within two weeks. But it killed my dad within 21 days.

“He was in the penitentiary for about 20 years of my life. He was out only two years before he passed. It was hard because we couldn’t wait for him to get out. When he finally did, we all celebrated with him. He was getting to enjoy life and do the dad thing again.

“My parents had separated when I was 12. All my brothers went with my dad, and the girls and I went with my mom. I was raised with the girls.

“When I was a child, my mom realized that I was gay. And she was like, it’s OK. I feel like she raised me as a female. She acted like I was a girl in a little boy’s body. She was like, if that’s how you feel, and if you want to wear dresses or whatever, then go ahead.

“I love that little woman. She’s always been my backbone. She taught me how to stay strong. I continue to draw my strength from her.”

— Martin Caldera

(Note: Martin Caldera passed away on Dec. 6, 2021.)

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“You see where you found me. I’m here at a basketball court, shooting hoops, listening to music. In the past, I probably would have been at a friend’s house, figuring out how I’m going to make my next buck. Or I would have been somewhere smoking weed with my friends, trying to figure out where the chicks are for tonight.

“But now I know they can strip that freedom from me at any time. Now, whenever I get pulled over by cops, it’s no longer, ‘Hey, put your hands up.’ It’s automatically weapons drawn, because I’m a felon. So all the decisions I make are based upon that.

“Now when my friend hits me up and asks if I want to go to a bar, I’m like, ‘I’m cool. I’m going to be at the house.’ Now when my friend asks, ‘Hey, bro, you want to make some money?’ I’m like, ‘No, I’m cool. I got a job.’

“A lot of that is hard to break because of the connection you have with these people. Since the playground, I’ve been with these guys. So for them, it’s like I’m turning my back on them. But I’m trying to look out for me.

“They may not understand that. But it’s because they’ve never been put in the position I was in. They didn’t get everything stripped from them in 2.5 seconds. And it’s hard to come back from that.

“Right now, I’m unemployed. If you have a theft on your record, it’s especially hard. They don’t know if they can put trust in you. That’s totally understandable. I can’t be mad at that. I mean, I put myself in that position.

“Even though it’s been hard for me to find a job, I’ve been blessed to have people in my life who are not constantly saying, ‘You need to find a job. You need to find a job.’ Instead, I have people telling me, ‘You need to find what you love, and do that. You need to find what you want to do in this life, and you need to do that. You need to find your niche, whatever that is, and follow it.’

“Right now, as a 24-year-old, I’m still trying to find myself. Trying to find where I can fit in as a productive member of society.”

— Sergio Yepez

Related:

• Staying strong key to surviving in jail

• Gang tattoos lead to jail confrontations

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“Before I went to state jail, I knew that two of these tattoos were affiliated with gangs. The dog paw print is for the Bloods. The star is for Tango Blast. But I was never gang affiliated. That’s never been my M.O.

“They told me, ‘You know what this means, right? If you get these, and if you ever get put down, they’re going to take them from you.’

“The paw print is for a dog I had named Diablo. Someone shot and killed him. I had another dog named Ava. Someone ran over her. My people are real dog lovers. That’s why I got the tattoo. And the star, I just liked it. It looked cool.

“So I knew going in that I’d have to fight for the right to keep them. When I got there, I decided to find out who the boss of each gang was, and talk to them. I told them, ‘Look, I’m not gang affiliated. But you’re not taking my tattoo. Whatever we’ve got to do, we can rock and roll.’

“What they did was put me in a restroom with three other guys, and we had to fight for 30 seconds. Then a second group of guys came in for another 30 seconds. I had to take a beating for carrying that tattoo without being gang affiliated.

“I fought back. Because if you just sit there and get your ass beat, they’ll know you’re weak. That’s called a heart check. I had to do that for one gang, and then the same thing for the other gang.

“The way they put it to me was, you knew what you had to do to get that mark off you. Now they let every group in the pod know, hey, he already got his 60 seconds. So anybody else who sees me with that tattoo, and they try to shake my hand but I don’t shake properly, they’re not going to look at me no crazy way. They’re going to be like, OK, he’s the guy from that pod who already got his 60 seconds.

“To be honest, it went a lot better than I thought it would. Some people were like, ‘You just got in here. Why are you already fighting?’ Well, because I got these tattoos, and I’d rather get it all out of the way early on.

“Although I was just a young guy, I was able to handle my business. People came up to me after that with a lot more respect. It made my time go by a lot easier.”

— Sergio Yepez

Related:

• Staying strong key to surviving in jail

• Finding a job, while trying to find himself

The post Gang tattoos lead to jail confrontations appeared first on The Baytown Project.

“In my 24 years, I’ve been to state jail twice. The first time, I was 16 or 17. My mother had three other kids to worry about. I started hanging around with the wrong people. Started making some decisions I shouldn’t have made. I ended up doing 16 months.

“I’d been to Harris County and the Baytown precinct, but not state. People were telling me, they’ve got nothing but time on their hands down there. All they do is fight.

“Obviously, you get a little nervous. But I couldn’t let it show. I had to act a little tougher, that there was no fear in me. If you don’t, people will take advantage. Like, we can apply a little pressure, and he’s going to break.

“That’s not something you want to happen. Especially in a place where you’re supposed to be protected, but you’re really not. There’s nobody in there to actually hear you. Anybody you tell, they’re all employees. You think they’re going to look out for you? The other person might be in the wrong, and they may tell him to stop, but that’s as far as it goes. He’s going to continue doing what he wants. So you just have to be in survival mode. You have to focus on making it through until you get out.

“I have a couple friends in there right now. They weren’t the friends who lived over here. They were from the good area, in the good houses. They saw how me and my friends lived, and they thought that was the thing to be in. And it cost them a good part of their lives.

“One of my friends is sitting in there for 24 years. The first car he got was a Mercedes-Benz that his mama gave him. All the good things. But he saw the type of lifestyle we were living, and he thought it was cool.

“It hurts me because he calls and says, ‘Hey, bro, I want to come home.’ All I can tell him is, ‘You’ve got to be strong. You can’t show emotion while you’re in there.’ I’ve got to keep him in that mentality where you show no weakness. Because if you do, they’ll take advantage of you.

“It’s definitely hard. Nobody’s really trained to be in an environment like that. But to survive in there, you’ve got to stay strong.”

— Sergio Yepez

Related:

• Gang tattoos lead to jail confrontations

• Finding a job, while trying to find himself

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“By the time I was about 25, I started running around with people who did things that were just unheard of when I was growing up. That’s how I got into drugs. Except for the four years when I was bringing my children into the world, I had never been clean. Because of that addictive lifestyle, I had 26 arrests and 23 felonies. The only thing I was doing successfully was going to prison. When I was arrested for my 24th felony, I was looking at a 20-year term. Prison would have been a retirement home for me. I would have died there.

“So I began praying and campaigning about getting into the STAR Drug Court. With the help of my long-time criminal attorney, I was interviewed and approved. STAR stands for Success Through Addiction Recovery. It’s a very strict drug treatment program. If you complete the four years, then that felony is taken off your record. The deferred adjudication and not going down for 20 years was great. But what meant the most to me was that at age 57, I was finally able to be clean and sober.

“My mantra was, relapse is not an option today. It was a day-to-day, sometimes a moment-to-moment thing. Finally one day I just realized, hey, I didn’t even think about drugs today. That was an eye-opener for me. That was when I realized, hey, I might just have this. Now I don’t get so comfortable as to think that I’ve got this licked. I’m always going to be an addict. But I’m not going to be a using addict. I’m an addict in recovery.

“You know, most people who have even one felony say, ‘Oh, I can’t get a job now. My life is ruined. It’s over.’ Well, it doesn’t have to be. I’m a prime example of that.”

— Karen McKee

Karen, now 63, became a recovery coach. Her first job in that role was with the Houston Recovery Center. She recently began working as residential manager for a safe house at Rescue Us Mission in Houston. The nonprofit organization provides transitional care to survivors of human trafficking.

Related:

• Now she helps others with their addictions

The post From life of drugs to recovery coach appeared first on The Baytown Project.

“We got divorced in 1994, and it was like everything hit the fan. Instead of bucking up and doing the right things, I fell off. That’s when I really got into the alcohol, drugs and stuff. I struggled for years, and I went to rehab in 2008.

“When the police stop you and you ask them to give you one more chance and they say you’ve had enough chances, then you know it’s serious. I faced either six months of rehab and four years of probation, or I could do four years at TDC. That was a pretty easy decision.

“I knew I couldn’t fix things by myself. I needed help. One of the programs I went through was Brigid’s Hope at The Beacon in Houston. That’s when I realized I needed to deal with me. It wasn’t an alcohol problem, a drug problem, sex, money, whatever. It was me.

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“I used to be a pimp. I used to be a drug dealer. I used to be a gangbanger. I used to be a robber; it didn’t matter whether it was banks or other drug dealers. I’m a three-time loser. That’s a slang word. Anybody who’s ever been to prison, or is from the streets, knows that.

“TDC allows people to be rehabilitated if you have the desire to become rehabilitated. But you cannot go down there playing, because you can lose your life. Or you can come back out not fit for society and fall right back into that cycle. If that’s the case, then you’re holding no space for people who want to change. You’ve got one life to live. You need to decide if you’re going to live it right.

“I’ve been out about 10 years. God’s been good to me. He’s been great. I’ve been spreading the word, allowing people to see how my life has changed.

“People will bump into me and say, ‘Hey, man, is that you? I thought you were …’ They see the new me now. And if they start saying they want me to do something, I’ll tell them, ‘Hold on. Don’t start planting those bad seeds. But how are you doing today, man?’ I read them, good and evil.

“Today, I’m all about wanting to save lives. I want to help lives. I’m not trying to be a role model. I’m trying to be a real model. God bless.”

— Tony Brooks, 41

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• He chooses good over evil, preaches ‘don’t give up’

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“I’m not a violent person. It was just a bad situation that I misinterpreted. My anxiety level was so high it was unreal. I wasn’t sleeping. I had heart palpitations. I felt scared all the time. So when the situation arose I just reacted. It was fight or flight, and I took fight.

“I spent 20 years in the joint. It’s so lonely. You’re just surrounded by strangers, and every one of them is a wolf looking for something. You’ve just got to deal with it every day, but it colors your perception for the rest of your life.

“I’ve been out eight years now. As you get older, you learn to care less and less about things that used to get you so agitated. Like, I’m not going to see that guy again. Who cares what he thinks of me. You leave all that foolish stuff behind.

“Obviously, you’re changed because of everything that’s happened. But you learn to accept who you are now, and you just move on with life. I don’t even care anymore how old I am. I just know I’m going to get older. And every day I get older is just like one more day that I never expected to live. I’m just living in the here and now.”

— Mike, 57

Related:

• Life after prison includes plenty of adjustments

The post Prison wolves, loneliness life-changing experience appeared first on The Baytown Project.

“I was in an open setting for the last 10 to 15 years in prison. It’s like you’re living in a glass house. You do anything, everybody knows about it. There was absolutely no privacy.

“That was one of the weirdest things when I got out. I could go into a room all by myself and shut the door. I never had that for 20 years. I never had a private moment.

“It was also weird to be able to just walk down the street whenever I wanted. At first, if I had to cross a four-lane road, I needed a half mile of clear traffic both ways before I felt safe. Just getting used to the speed of things and your own mobility, it was very awkward.

“I didn’t want to drive, either. I was scared. So I took up biking first, which ultimately led to driving. I had to get an ID before a driver’s license. You realize pretty fast that you’re nothing without an ID. I had to become a human being all over again.”

— Mike

Related:

• Prison wolves, loneliness life-changing experience

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