May 2008

In the years that I've been keeping a journal, I have, on occasion, written short autobiographical pieces about my life before prison. And this is what I am going to do now. Because at this moment I'm thinking of my adolescent years as a result of a letter I just received from a friend who lives on the west coast. Her name is Lucy. When we were kids Lucy and I both attended the James M. Kieran Junior High School (JHS #123) in New York City's borough of the Bronx. We attended JHS 123 from grades seven thru nine. We were also in many of the same classes together. And we also grew up in the same neighborhood, too. Lucy lived around the corner from me.

I knew her only slightly. Then, upon graduation, Lucy and I, like so many of our fellow students, went our separate ways. In fact I forgot about her. Later, however, I'd learn from Lucy herself that she got married, moved to California, and raised a handful of children, all of whom are now grown and on their own.

But as things would go, Lucy was saddened to learn of my fate. Back in 1977 the news of my arrest went around the world. So she was aware of what had become of me. Yet in time Lucy became a Christian, and so did I. And when she heard about my salvation experience, Lucy decided to write me.

When I received Lucy's first letter, perhaps some fifteen years ago, it took awhile for me to jog my memory and recall who she was. Finally I did remember. And now we've been exchanging at least several letters per year ever since.

As Christians often do, Lucy and I try to give each other spiritual encouragement through our correspondence. These days she has a handful of grandchildren to help care for, as well as an ailing husband. Lucy has a busy life.

And this brings me to the days of my youth. I grew up in the Soundview section of the Bronx. My street address was 1105 Stratford Avenue where I lived with my parents on the top floor of a six story apartment building. Our building was located just off the busy intersection of Watson and Stratford Avenues.

Since my bedroom window faced the street corner, I had an unobstructed view of a big swath of the neighborhood. I could see a large portion of the Bronx for miles in different directions. I loved looking out my window and I did this a lot. And when I'd stick my head out the window and turned to my right, I could see the Bruckner Expressway, one of the main vehicular arteries that traverses the borough. It was only one block away. Furthermore, I was also able to see beyond the Expressway and view the Long Island Sound. Then, beyond this large body of water, I could see the Queens shoreline in the distance. It was a spectacular view to have from an old roach-ridden tenement building.

But, best of all, far off in the distance, across the Sound, I could see the lights of Shea Stadium whenever the New York Mets had a night game at home. Those brilliant lights would beam upwards to illuminate the dark sky. For me, because I loved baseball, these lights were the beacons of dreams. Like most boys my age, it was a fantasy to one day become a professional baseball player.

In Lucy's latest letter she wrote about some things concerning our old neighborhood. It caused me to reminisce about this period of my life, which I'm doing now.

I recall Lou's Candy Store (formerly known as Morris' Candy Store) near the end of the 1100 block of Stratford Avenue, just off Westchester Avenue. At Lou's I'd purchase ten cent Marvel action comic books, an array of penny candies, and loads of ten cent candy bars. Lou's was the summertime oasis for all the local kids like me, plus being the hangout for the local Mafia-types. The bookies were always busy using the telephones that were inside the premises. From these phone booths they'd call in their bets and make their deals. At Lou's, kids and low level criminals mingled together in the comfort of this small establishment, oblivious to each other. It was a safe place with an old-fashioned soda fountain and hand-scooped ice cream cones. For a young boy a quarter went a long way.

And next to Lou's was a big fruit and vegetable stand, the stopping point for countless housewives in search of a bargain. While those who wanted to walk passed the stand had to carefully navigate between the baskets and boxes of fresh produce that would extend almost to the curb. Then, along the main thoroughfare itself, which was Westchester Avenue with its dozens of stores of all kinds and sizes, was Teddy's Toy Store, a Carvel ice cream shop, a Jewish delicatessen, a popular Chinese restaurant, Woolworth's, the Y&S Pharmacy, Pyramids (which was a general merchandise store), and a John's Bargain Store, which was a once popular chain store that featured thousands of items for a dollar or less.

Best of all, however, was my favorite lunch spot, Yankees Pizzeria with its terrific pizza and its soft Italian ices that came in assorted flavors. The ices were scooped into a white paper cup by hand and served fresh. A double scoop of chocolate ices helped to keep me active during the hot summer months when the blazing Bronx pavement baked the bottoms of my Converse "All Star" sneakers.

Finally, there was the blind man who sold newspapers and magazines from his small wooden shack. The shack was built underneath a long flight of steps that led to the "Number Six" subway train's elevated platform station known as "Soundview." My mother would buy her daily paper here because she felt sorry for him. Obviously, a man with such a handicap had to trust that his customers were honest enough to put the exact amount of coins into the metal pail which he kept directly in front of him at all times. My mom's compassionate heart drove her to bypass two other newsstands that were closer to home. She'd insist on walking an additional city block to make sure it was the blind man who got her money.

These are some of my precious memories of growing up in the Bronx. Yes, I do get homesick, but in a good way. And who could forget such things?

D.B.

Many years ago, shortly after I was sentenced to life in prison, I unwittingly and unconsciously began to destroy the relationships I had with the members of my family. They were lovely people who didn't deserve my abuse. Then, as one might expect, I lost contact with almost all of them with the exception of my adoptive father, and the uncle who was my adoptive mother's brother. But within several years my uncle would die leaving my father as the only remaining family member to stay in contact with me. All the others both from my birth and adoptive families exited my life, and I cannot blame them.

However, after a decade in prison and after I became a Christian, I began to long for contact with my estranged family. In fact I missed them from the outset. But as time went on my yearning for them intensified. And as the years passed I would fervently pray that, somehow, I'd have the chance to make contact with my loved ones again. I was also hoping for the opportunity to apologize for the shame, grief and pain I caused. And now, some thirty years later, this may become a reality.

For it so happened that I recently stumbled upon the phone number of a cousin whom I was once close to. It's a very long and private story, and I won't go into the details as to what I did in the past to cause our separation. But I have a friend by the name of "Sister Debbie" who has a ministry to prisoners and their families. Deb is very gifted at bringing about reconciliation. And she told me, much to my joy, that she'd be happy to help in this matter.

Now, God willing, some time in the near future, my friend Debbie will try to call my cousin. If permitted, Debbie will read a letter of apology which I prepared for the family. It's a letter that I prayerfully composed through much soul-searching and many tears. And if all goes well this could result in a miraculous healing of a tremendously damaged relationship, with the hope of restoration, as well.

Of course, it is possible that, after thirty long years, my cousin will not want to hear from me. Perhaps she's moved on with her life and has no desire to rekindle the relationship. If this is the case, I will never trouble her again. It will be her choice, and I will respect her for it. But at least I gave my best effort to invite forgiveness. Now it's all in the Lord's hands.

D.B.

I want to continue from where I left off yesterday regarding the possibility of reconciliation with those whom I've been estranged from for thirty years. However, I now wish to include the insights God had given me about why I tried to push my family away shortly after coming to prison. It was self-destructive and self-sabotaging behavior. It was done unconsciously. Yet there were reasons why I acted this way, although the understanding did not come until many years later.

At the time of my arrest, and in the months that followed, while I was confined in New York City's jail system as I awaited trial, my family remained very supportive of me. They were, of course, hurt, saddened and bewildered to learn of my arrest. But they continued to love me and offer their help.

Then, about a year later, after I pled guilty to the crimes I'd been accused of, I was subsequently shipped to a New York State maximum security prison hundreds of miles away to begin serving my sentence. By now I had lost all hope. I was convinced I had come to prison to die, that this was the "last stop" of my life. I was only 25 years old at the time.

Actually the first year of jail, with occasional trips to court, and visits with lawyers and psychologists, kept my mind occupied even though I was in an isolation room with a 24-hours per day watch by a rotating crew of New York City correction officers. But eventually the guilt and shame I tried to suppress began to rise to the surface. I could not live in denial forever.

Then, while in prison far from home, and thinking I was now buried alive, forever, the walls of my cell seemed to close in on me. My mind also began to awaken to the reality of my situation. I was depressed and suicidal. There was nothing but monotonous work to do, too, which mostly consisted of sweeping and mopping the tier of the cell block I was confined to.

Most of all, I started to analyze my life. As a result, I became filled with disgust and self-loathing. I was also missing my family terribly. By now, however, they were hundreds of miles away. Yet my family would still write. They even visited me a few times having to travel hundreds of miles back and forth to get to and from this remote place. Nevertheless, by now the guilt had become overwhelming. Not only when I thought about the victims, but also when I saw the hurt and pain in the faces of my loved ones. It was a nightmare.

Furthermore, I was in denial. I didn't want to believe I had hurt people and taken lives, and that I had given myself to Satan to be used as an instrument for evil, and in the process, I had somehow lost my mind.

And because I did not know how to handle my growing levels of guilt and shame, I unconsciously tried to find ways to punish myself. I unwittingly tried to create more pain and anguish for myself than the prison environment already provided by running off those who loved me the most. Obviously I had a need to create a self-imposed, self-punishing loneliness by driving away my family. In this way I would pay for my crimes by making my life as miserable as possible. How foolish!

Yet I eventually succeeded in driving my family away by falsely accusing them of betraying me and using me. I was trying hard to convince myself that their intentions were bad; they weren't. It's just that at the time I couldn't understand this. I could not see that the problem was really with me. My actions were done out of guilt and from an unconscious need to punish myself. Nevertheless the damage was done.

More importantly, all the pain I caused myself never did alleviate those feelings of guilt. In fact it wasn't until I asked Jesus Christ to forgive all my sins did my self-destructiveness come to a stop. In Christ I have obtained forgiveness, and I've made my peace with God. Now, however, I'd like to do the right thing and, hopefully, make peace with my loved ones, too.

D.B.

On Monday night, while I was in the recreation yard, I had such severe shortness of breath along with sharp pains in my chest and along both of my shoulders as well, that I had to stop walking. I had to lean against a wall as I gasped for air. It was scary! Even several inmates stopped to ask if I was okay. I spent most of my allotted 90 minutes outdoors just leaning on a building.

I think I may be developing chronic asthma because of a long term exposure to secondhand cigarette smoke. Besides, there are more smokers in the cell block now as men leave and new ones arrive. A non-smoker, it so happens, gets replaced by a smoker, thus increasing the amount of noxious fumes which hover in the air.

So I think I'll make it my business to speak with a prison official here to find out why two of the three overhead exhaust ventilators that are built into the ceiling of my housing unit have been inoperable for more than a year. As is often the case in the prison system, some things stay broken for a long time. But even with three fully functioning ventilators, they may not be enough to eliminate all the smoke. Obviously, being locked up is hazardous to one's health.

D.B.

Yesterday I got a surprise. At approximately eight o'clock in the morning, only minutes before my cell door was to open for breakfast, I was informed by the housing unit's clerk that I was scheduled to appear before the parole board at 8:30. I told him that it must be a mistake because my scheduled hearing day was June 10th. "I'm not supposed to appear before the parole board for another month," I pleaded. But he showed me the list and sure enough I was on it.

So, at approximately 8:15, unprepared and bewildered, I walked across the prison complex to the visiting room area where the hearing was to be held. There were at least fifteen other men there too. We were all told to wait in the hallway right outside the doorway which leads into what is known as the "Frisk and Search" room, which is the area an inmate must pass through first before he could enter the visiting room itself.

Here, however, only a short distance away but out of sight, sat three parole commissioners. These commissioners are appointed by the governor to review and then decide each man's eligibility for release. They have the power to determine who leaves, and who doesn't.

As expected, everyone was nervous, talkative and fidgety. I found myself among men from diverse backgrounds with all of us having been found guilty of various crimes ranging from burglary to homicide. I wasn't expecting any mercy, either. This was my fourth parole hearing and, for me, it was routine.

Because I am serving an initial sentence of 25-years to life, I automatically get a parole hearing every two years after having completed my first 25 years. This is the way it works in New York State.

So I stood outside the door to await my turn. It finally came about 10:30. The door to the Frisk and Search room opened and out stepped a parole officer who called out my name from a list of names he had in his hand. He would ultimately escort me into the large visiting room itself. Then, once inside, I had to walk to the opposition end of the room where three well dressed commissioners sat side-by-side along a wooden table. Their faces were expressionless. They watched my every move as I approached them. It's part of the procedure. They always try to size up every inmate who comes into their presence by reading his body language.

My destination, however, was a plastic chair that was centered about eight feet in front of the table where the commissioners sat. While flanking me on each side was a stenographer to my right and several other parole personnel to my left. A correction officer stood directly behind me. I was surrounded. A parole hearing is designed to be an intimidating experience.

But as for the hearing itself, it lasted not more than six to seven minutes. It certainly wasn't worth my having to stand in line for two hours, either! The commissioners took their turns asking me some basic questions. Then the senior commissioner asked if I had anything else to say. I didn't.

After this I was quietly escorted out of the room by the same parole officer who had brought me in. I then returned to my housing unit.

Later, though, at approximately 12 noon, a different parole officer appeared in front of my cell to hand me the board's decision. She was crisp and professional looking, and didn't say much. I had to sign a form she carried with her to verify that I was indeed handed the decision. Then it was up to me at my leisure to open the sealed envelope to see what the verdict was.

The Parole Board's decision reads as follows:

"After a review of the record and interview,
parole is again denied. You continue to
serve an aggregate sentence of 25 years to
life for 5 counts of murder, 6 counts of
attempted murder, 6 counts of CPW and 4
counts of assault. The panel notes your
good disciplinary record and programming.
Despite these accomplishments, however,
the panel finds that your release at this
time is incompatible with the public welfare
as it would so deprecate the seriousness
of the offense as to undermine respect
for the law. PAROLE DENIED! HOLD FOR
24 MONTHS. NEXT APPEARANCE DATE: 05/2010."

D.B.

Note: "CPW" stands for Criminal Possession of a Weapon. Also, the last several sentences of the decision were all in capital letters just like they appear above.

It's three o'clock in the afternoon on a rainy Friday. The weather has been wet and gloomy, but all is well with my soul. I can say this because of the encouragement I received while pondering the above Scripture from John's gospel account. "Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world," says the Lord.

I know I must face an array of challenges and difficulties due to my prolonged incarceration, and also because I am a Christian. Yet I cannot forget that Jesus has already overcome the world with its temptations and discouragements.

In addition, I know as well that the prayers which my friends say in my behalf help me immensely. And I am deeply grateful for both my friends and their prayers. Therefore, with this in mind, I continue onward in my journey toward heaven.

D.B.

I consider this to be one of the most beautiful and profound verses in the New Testament. It tells me that, as a Christian, not only have I been set apart for the Lord's use and cleansed from my past sins, but that Jesus Christ is not ashamed to consider me His brother. He is not embarrassed to have me as a member of God's family.

I know, however, that many people, when they think of prisoners and those who possess criminal records, find it easy to view such individuals as worthless. They see us as having little if any value to society. But this is not how Christ sees us. He looks beyond one's sins and failures. Instead, the "King of the universe" beholds a rebuilt and restored life that's useful to both society, and to the church. For in Christ there is hope for transformation and rebirth.

Yes, as this Scripture in the letter to the Hebrews reveals, Jesus is not ashamed to include me as one of His brothers. I'm a blessed man!

D.B.

One of the most inspirational books I have ever read is ANNE FRANK: THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL. I also believe it's an important book because, not only does it portray the strength of the human spirit, but I think there is a deeper prophetic message that can be found within its pages. Yet when Ann Frank penned her diary while hiding from the Nazis, she had no idea of the impact her writings would have upon future generations.

Besides, concerning the prophetic aspect of her diary, history tends to repeat itself. In addition, both the Old and New Testaments reveal a future time of persecution of the Jewish people unlike no other in the past. Thus her book, which is still in print and has been widely circulated, may provide hope for my fellow Jews. For these Jews will be seeking escape from the one whom the Bible calls the Man of Sin, The Beast, and the Son of Perdition. Titles of the coming world ruler, known to Christians as the Antichrist, who will seek to exterminate every God fearing person of the planet.

Anne Frank was a fourteen year old girl living in Holland when World War II began. And as Adolf Hitler and his forces began to overrun many of the nations of Europe, his soldiers tried to round up and arrest as many Jews as possible and ship them to various concentration camps, where many of the Jews would die.

Some Jews, however, tried to hide themselves from the Nazis hoping that the war would be over before they were found. Anne and her family were among these. With the help of a few Gentile friends, the Frank's were permitted to hide in a warehouse where there was a maze of small rooms that were in the rear of the building. While their friends who arranged all this kept the Frank family fed and supplied with whatever items they needed, even in war torn Holland where it was hard to obtain even the most basic necessities.

But as things would go, as the war was nearing its end the Frank's were discovered. The "secret annexe" as Anne nicknamed it was a secret no more. Because on or about August 4, 1944, on information provided by an unnamed informant, the police raided the building where the Franks were living. They were quickly dispatched to concentration camps.

Then, in March 1945, in the infamous Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, Anne's older sister Margot was the first to become ill and die. While Anne died a short time later. Their remains buried somewhere on or near the grounds of the camp along with tens of thousands of their fellow Jews, while their mother died at another camp. Only Anne's father, Otto, survived. When, after the war, Otto Frank would make the painful journey back to the hiding place he and his family stayed in for about 25 months. Here, in a pile of rubble on the floor of his daughter's former room sat her diary, untouched. Later he would publish it and Anne Frank would shake the literary world.

So with the possibility of a future holocaust in mind, I would like to quote a portion of Anne's diary for Friday, April 14, 1944 which she penned inside her stuffy little room while hiding from her enemies:

"...We have been pointedly reminded that
we are in hiding, that we are Jews in chains,
chained to one spot, without any rights, but
with a thousand duties. We Jews mustn't show
our feelings, must be brave and strong, must
accept all inconveniences and not grumble,
must do what is within our power and trust
in God...

Who has inflicted this upon us? Who has
made us Jews different from all the other
people? Who has allowed us to suffer so
terribly up till now? It is God that has
made us as we are, but it will be God,
too, who will raise us up again. If we
bear all this suffering and if there are
still Jews left, when it is over, then
Jews, instead of being doomed, will be
held up as an example. Who knows, it
might even be our religion from which
the world and all peoples learn good,
and for that reason and that reason
only do we have to suffer now. We can
never become just Netherlanders, or just
English, or representatives of any country
for that matter...

Be brave! Let us remain aware of our
task and not grumble, a solution will come.
God has never deserted our people. Right
through the ages there have been Jews,
through all the ages they have had to
suffer, but it has made them strong
too; the weak fall, but the strong
will remain and never go under!"

Anne Frank

D.B.

I know that Anne Frank believed in God. Her writings attest to this. Yet I am curious of what she thought about Jesus. Interestingly, her diary may shed some light on this. For in her diary's entry for Wednesday, 3 November 1943, Anne had written the following:

"To give me something new to begin
as well, Daddy asked Koophuis for a
children's Bible so that I could find
out something about the New Testament
at last. 'Do you want to give Anne
a Bible for Chanuka?' asked Margot,
somewhat perturbed. 'Yes-er, I think
St. Nicholas Day is a better occasion,'
answered Daddy; 'Jesus just doesn't go
with Chanuka.'"

Mr. Koophuis was a Gentile businessman and one of several persons who helped hide the Frank family from the Nazis. He would smuggle food and supplies to them. And in 1943, with her father's permission, Mr. Koophuis apparently presented Anne with a copy of the New Testament. Though showing humor about this in the diary, Anne appeared to be looking forward to reading it. And as a Jew who believes Jesus is the Messiah, I found this to be very intriguing.

D.B.

Prison is a place where a man either comes to an end of himself, and his own devices, and admits his wrongs and calls out to Christ, or he allows his heart to harden further as he delves deeper into the darkness of his sin. As the Bible states, after receiving many "rebukes" and wake-up calls from the Lord in His efforts to reach that wayward man - usually over a period of many years - God may eventually choose to end His efforts to save that soul.

I know from my own experience that the Lord is very patient. He is merciful and eager to forgive. But if a man wishes to turn his back on God's mercy, then he will only continue his downward spiral into Hell.

Prison, therefore, is a place where a man will either make his peace with God through faith in Jesus Christ and thus receive God's forgiveness, or he will continue on the path to self-destruction where eternal damnation awaits him in the fires of Hell.

Every man has his own choice to make. But the Lord will not wait for him forever.

D.B.

Right now I am watching a flock of robins as they explore the grassy field that's directly outside my window. They're feasting on fat earthworms, and there appears to be plenty of them. The heavy rains which fell earlier, after about a week of drought, must have lured the worms to the surface, thus making them easy pickings.

Yet as I observe the birds, I am learning a couple of invaluable lessons. First, I must learn to be content with whatever comes my way. For the robins seem to be satisfied with having enough food for the day. They commit nothing to storage. Second, always rejoice when blessings come. No doubt the worms are a treat for these birds. They don't get worms every day.

Besides, I'm sure the robins know that by nightfall the worms will be back underground and well out of the reach of those hungry mouths. Then they may have to go without any worms for awhile.

As for myself, I need to be thankful, always. And to enjoy whatever good things I have, because tomorrow they may be gone.

D.B.