Imprisoned Minds: Lost Boys, Trapped Men, and Solutions from Within the Prison Presented by Erik S. Maloney and Kevin A. Wright!

 He convinced himself that he never lied to me and couldn’t understand my disappointment. Self-delusion epitomizes the imprisoned mind.

There’s outright racism, hidden racism, and differential treatment for people of color. It’s all here...

The Imprisoned Mind - Everyone has a story. The stories of men with an imprisoned mind may seem more incomprehensible than others. When you have a comprehensive understanding of the mindset, however, you begin to better understand the actions of the men who are trapped with it. I once came across an episode of the television show Cops. I watched as the police pulled a man from a wrecked vehicle and handcuffed him. The surrounding pandemonium suggested that I’d missed a car chase, and, as was the premise of the show, the “good guys” had nabbed the “bad guy.” The exasperated officer, clearly familiar with the suspect, placed his prisoner in the back seat of his squad car and huffed, “How many times have you ran from the police?” With a smirk on his face and in a casual tone, the prisoner answered, “Twenty-six times.” I can only imagine the average viewer’s reaction to hearing that: “Damn! Twenty-six times? That man’s crazy!” or, “What the hell’s wrong with that dude? He must enjoy getting arrested!” These viewer responses seem rational given the circumstances, but I’ve yet to hear anyone accurately explain why people, such as this man, continue to believe they can get away with breaking the law after having been caught so many times. Clearly, this man wasn’t so crazy that he didn’t know he’d broken the law—he wouldn’t have run from the police otherwise. And I’ve yet to find one prisoner who actually enjoys being arrested, so that must not be the problem. It was obvious to me there was something wrong with this man, and those like him, but what? 

Tracing the development of the imprisoned mind begins with childhood. Stories of unimaginable childhood abuses and neglect are prevalent throughout “the hood” and prisons. Growing up, I remember listening to “homies” openly talk about their adverse childhood experiences. A homey once told me about watching his mom kill his dad. It was chilling to hear him describe seeing the bullet pierce his father’s chest as if it was a scene from a movie and not his actual life. Another spoke of his backside being beaten by his stepdad in such gory detail that I was reminded of hearing similar stories of slaves being whipped by their master. I remember feeling uneasy each time I listened to one of these stories. I mean, what’s a kid supposed to say to someone who’s being so open about such horrific personal experiences? All I’d say was, “Damn! That’s messed up,” or, “Man! That ain’t right.” I thought it was a coincidence when I began hearing many of the same stories in prison. Sure, each story is different, but they’re all still painfully similar. It was clear to me that each individual continued to be plagued by their past experiences as if they had only recently happened. Yet each man had no clue how their past continued to affect their present. It didn’t take long for me to notice how emotionally detached everyone seemed to be while recalling their vividly horrific experiences. Some told their stories as if they were no big deal, casually joking about them. One person laughed about being beaten, at the age of seven, by his mother’s boyfriend. He had a gun put to his head because he’d urinated while asleep on his mom’s couch. “Shit,” the man chuckled as he recalled the story, “it made me stronger, and best believe I didn’t piss myself again after that!” Of everyone who has told me a story of childhood traumas, only one person ever choked up while recalling his traumatic experience. Even then, he continued to tell his story with such numbness that I began to wonder if there was a relationship between childhood trauma and incarceration. By that point, I’d become aware of my own emotional detachment and subsequent imprisoned mindset due to childhood trauma, but I wondered just how common this link was in prison. I set out to find the answer. The development of the imprisoned mind starts with emotionally sensitive children who’ve experienced trauma that is left untreated. The child then begins to experience mental and emotional distress. Without knowledge of healthy coping mechanisms, they eventually turn to drugs and alcohol and begin making other risky decisions. These behaviors don’t heal the trauma; they only serve to temporarily numb or distract from the agony of the mental and emotional distress. The individual becomes so focused on achieving this temporary relief that their willingness to engage in criminal endeavors becomes habitual. With each illegal act, the mindset evolves into a rigid criminal mentality, one that arrests all future development. I recognized prominent and recurring themes in the lives of everyone I believed showed signs of having an imprisoned mind. Like me, everyone readily admitted to being an emotionally sensitive child prior to their initial traumatic experience. My own mother and sisters would describe me as a crybaby. I wondered if this predisposition factored into the intensity of the symptoms of having post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Additionally, the individual with an imprisoned mind often experienced the absence of one or both parents during childhood. This absence, I found, caused some to seek out a semblance of a family or brotherhood, such as joining a gang or the military, to fill the void left by their own fractured family. Being a part of something we feel is bigger than ourselves gives us a sense of belonging to the “family” we feel we never had. The progression of the imprisoned mind is highlighted by denial and deflection. The individual who possesses an imprisoned mind is generally unaware that anything is wrong with them. It’s as if we develop a form of tunnel vision and become hyper-focused on satisfying our desires and needs. The problem with this mentality is its self-deceiving nature: the imprisoned mind causes us to believe that things we simply want are so important that we are required to have them. Our inability to differentiate between our wants and our needs leads to a sense of urgency and a lack of patience when it comes to acquiring what we feel we must have. We then develop an egoistic attitude. Our imprisoned mind leads us to believe that everything is about us and produces behavior that seems rude or inconsiderate. We lie and manipulate to get what we want. We believe that we have honor and integrity, but in reality they’re foreign concepts to us. If there are rules that hinder our ability to do as we feel, then we will attempt to find ways around those rules or just ignore them. It doesn’t occur to us that our actions affect anyone outside of ourselves. When faced with the consequences of our actions, we deny culpability, we feign ignorance, and we deflect responsibility. Saying “everybody does it” is a typical excuse, and one that is indicative of the irrationality of the imprisoned mind, yet it’s suitable enough for us to justify committing unethical or illegal acts. Once we’re caught and suffer the consequences of our actions, the imprisoned mind causes us to see ourselves as victims, virtually blind to our own accountability. The permanence of the imprisoned mind is dependent upon the further traumas we’re exposed to while involved in the criminal underworld. Witnessing violence firsthand as a child causes us to be more likely to engage in violent behavior as adults. The imprisoned mind’s self-deceptive nature convinces us that our learned violent behavior is the only way to respond to perceived threats. We then end up in precarious situations that expose us to more trauma, thus intensifying the mindset. Those who are repeatedly exposed to violence can develop an antisocial attitude that is often misunderstood as sociopathic. In our minds, the violence we engage in tends to be more reactive than senseless. We detest having to engage in it, and we typically only do so when we believe it’s necessary to protect our well-being, our way of life, or the well-being of those we care about. This attitude seems to result from overexposure to hypervigilance and lasts as long as we feel threatened in an apparently hostile environment. Once we’re removed from our hostile environments, this attitude can begin to dissipate and is eventually replaced with shame and a desire to better ourselves. I’ve been interested in human behavior since I can remember. Figuring out why people do the things that they do consumed much of my childhood curiosity. And it continues to this day. I began my informal studies in psychology during middle school. These studies only intensified during my incarceration. I’ve formally taken classes and informally read whatever books I could get my hands on to better understand myself and others. Through my studies, I discovered sociology, and I began research in criminology after taking an Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program class in 2016. I’ve taken human subjects and qualitative interviewing training through Arizona State University, and I’ve personally interviewed over 200 prisoners for two groundbreaking Participatory Action Research projects.1 Together, my studies, my training, and over two decades of experience with prisoners and incarceration make me uniquely qualified to write this book. But I struggled with how to best advance the imprisoned mind idea. I wasn’t even sure who, if anyone, would be interested in an argument from someone who is incarcerated and lacks an academic degree. That is, until a wise man told me, “It’s not about the degree. It’s the experience living that life and with being incarcerated, having the access to prisoners who can support the idea that’s unique.” I decided the only way to lend credibility to my claim would be to tell the stories of the men who I’m referring to as having the imprisoned mind: prisoners. I set out to find those on the unit who had the mindset and were willing to share their life story with me and the world. I was surprised and pleased to discover that many prisoners were eager to have their stories told. I sat with each man and took notes by hand, as recording devices are prohibited, while they recounted their life stories to me. I interviewed in our cells. I interviewed in the middle of the prison yard. I interviewed in the Arizona heat. Each meeting had to be broken down into several sessions as time permitted. We had to work around lockdowns and count times. I processed the information acquired from each discussion and wrote each subject’s story in the first person. Each individual’s story is compiled as a chapter, detailing how instances of trauma can contribute to a singular, common outcome: prison. 

The chapters that follow are real-life accounts based upon the lives of six men who were emotionally damaged during the most vulnerable time in their life. Each chapter provides detailed descriptions of the harm, pain, and anguish some boys have experienced, and then later caused. I believe all six men have an imprisoned mind, but each of their stories better represent different stages of the mindset. In the first part of the book, Kidd’s and Sergeant’s stories epitomize the childhood trauma and neglect that contribute to the development of the imprisoned mind. In the next part, Oso’s and Dee’s stories show how denial and deflection contribute to the progression of the imprisoned mind. In the last part, Oakland’s and Unique’s stories demonstrate how the mindset can be fortified through continued victimization and trauma. These stories are not told to excuse our behavior or to justify our incarceration. Rather, the following brief life histories are meant to highlight the origin of the irrationalities that drastically influence the criminal mind, and to educate those who believe they have criminality all figured out. At times, what’s told here isn’t pretty. But sometimes the most meaningful lessons are born from ugliness. Dr. Kevin Wright joins me in the final part of the book on outside and inside solutions. Kevin and I have worked together on this book for over seven years. He has provided feedback and assistance on all aspects of the book, from helping me to refine the idea of the imprisoned mind to leading our efforts to secure a publisher to copyediting all drafts of the book. Here he contributes a chapter that leverages his outside knowledge as a correctional scholar to complement my inside knowledge as someone who has lived through an imprisoned mind. Where “imprisoned minds” could suggest an individual pathology, Kevin’s chapter makes clear that our life circumstances—especially our adverse experiences as young boys—limit our opportunities for healthy physical and mental development. He writes about the value of combining his outside knowledge with my inside lived experience to suggest solutions to enhance the lives of people who are living and working in the correctional system. I conclude the book with a chapter that identifies what needs to happen outside of the correctional system to prevent the development, disrupt the progression, and reverse the permanence of the imprisoned mind. In simplest terms, we need to support both the lost boys and the trapped men—especially when they are experiencing and working through the trauma that can derail their opportunity to find purpose and meaning as humans. I never thought I’d end up in prison. Nobody with an imprisoned mind ever does. We’re perpetually caught up in a moment that is our life. For me, that moment was proving that I was “a man” and making money. Others’ form of self-deceit differs, but the results are all the same. Days, weeks, months, and years go by without us even realizing that all aspects of our personal development have ceased. Once you have the imprisoned mind, I believe that there are only two destinies: death or incarceration. Unfortunately, we’re unable to comprehend that we’re blinded by our own compulsions, slaves to our impulses, while deceived into limiting our own options in life. When our perceived options are limited (and none of them seem good), then it stands to reason why we make the wrong decisions. We become trapped by an irrational mindset. While I’m unable to tell the stories of the men whose mindset led them to their demise, I can tell the stories of the men.

!!!!

As far as I am aware, Johnny Cash is the only music artist who specifically provided a prison program during his active performing years... So immediately I remembered how those who listened to his shows were so involved and excited to hear what he had to say... When I saw this book advertised, I knew I wanted to read it. The first and only contact I'd made was through a book, of course... But in talking with the young man, he happened to mention that even when he got out, he would not be allowed to vote! To me, that just seemed wrong. If somebody has fulfilled the court's requirements, then that individual should return to the same rights available to all of us--if the prison system was doing what it was meant to do...

But this book clearly shows that the evolution of what occurs in prisons has been steadily going downhill in relation to helping our citizens to move back into a meaningful life.

The other involvement I'd had was with the WV Prison System when as the manager of classrooms on the WVU campus, we at one time had our wooden classroom seats cannibalized for ongoing use. Again, that type of program which helped provide both income and a work program apparently no longer occurs. The impression provided was that those in prison these days have little opportunity to occupy their bodies and minds... 

Finally I want to highlight my personal response as I read this book. The title has a much farther possible use than for those intended by the book. I found myself responding, based upon today's world, as well as from other books, that there could be many people locked into an imprisoned mind. In fact, it could be used by those women who have experienced rape or physical assaults which have traumatized them thereafter. I quickly note that this book does not cover women--purely because of the circumstances of the writer and his location. I remember, however, when I went into burnout based upon my job, there was No term available for a medical diagnosis other than clinical depression. I was not depressed. My mind was burnt out and could no longer function... Thus, I could easily have defined my feelings as a my mind being imprisoned... Job Burnout has since then been added as a specific diagnosis for purposes of diagnosis of simply a very tired mind... PTSD is also one of those which is used across multiple mental results faced either by those in the military, or, for instance, after a rape or other traumatic event.

So, why am I beginning this discussion with this highlight of Imprisoned Minds? Because I want readers to know that this book can be valuable to other people who have never actually been in prison. Consider all of the individuals who commit crimes for which we never determine the background, the reason, or the individual who committed the crime never gets to prison...

Also not covered in this book is the major issue of gun control, drugs, sexual or physical abuse, or political influence. Be aware, however, that the individual stories by those interviewed will be discussing these issues... A final note: The number of interviews were limited by the space available for the entire book covering this important subject. Erik was responsible for identifying what he had determined to be his own diagnosis/identification of what he called how he felt. Only those identified as having "imprisoned minds" were included...

Kidd - I was never allowed to have closure, and because of that, it still doesn’t feel real to me. I was born in Tucson, Arizona, in 1993. I’m the second youngest child of five kids. I have one older brother, two older half-sisters, and one younger half-sister. Two of my siblings have the same father, and the other three—including myself—have different fathers, so my mom had four different “baby daddies.” All of my mom’s kids are biracial. My mom was white, so my siblings are both Filipino and white or Mexican and white. I’m her only child who’s half Black and half white. We moved to Mesa, Arizona, when I was two years old. My earliest memory is of my first day of kindergarten when I started at Harris Elementary. I remember going out to play during recess. I didn’t know anyone at the school and just wanted to be a kid and play. I spotted some kids playing soccer and wanted to play with them, so I went onto the field and asked if I could play. I remember a Mexican kid telling me I couldn’t play with them because I was Black. I didn’t understand, but I knew I didn’t like it. So we fought. After fighting with the kid, we became best friends. One day I went to his house to play video games and his dad came into his room and began beating him for playing video games with me because I was Black. That wasn’t my first experience with racism, though. My own mom used to discriminate against me. She used to tell me, “Quit acting like a n——boy!” It wasn’t until I learned to read, at the age of four and a half years old, that I realized what the word “n——” meant. Even then, I didn’t fully understand. I knew it was a bad thing said to Black people by “ignorant” racist people. It really hurt me to be called that by my mom, and it made me feel as if she hated me because I was Black. I began noticing how she looked at me differently than my siblings. She also talked to me and treated me differently. There were times when she fed my siblings, yet withheld food from me. She once tried to drown me, and she’d even locked me in a closet for long periods of time and spanked me for the smallest things. My siblings received no such treatment. Each time my grandparents (my mom’s parents) would come to visit, she’d find a reason to punish me before they arrived. Once I was withheld food for three days. The hunger became so bad that I had to go to the store and steal candy to eat. I was about five years old then. Even my grandparents were racist. They treated me differently than my siblings too. My grandfather accepted that I was his grandson, but it seemed to me like all he wanted to do was “customize” me by changing me into one of the “good n——s.” This made me feel bad for being Black. I never felt like I fit in with my own family. I felt alienated. I used to wonder why my mom even gave birth to me if she didn’t want me. The best excuse I could come up with was maybe she became pregnant by a Black guy because of a one-night stand—of course, I was a little older when I came to that conclusion. I knew Mom drank and did drugs. I began using this to excuse her behavior toward me. I’d tell myself, “She’s only acting like that because she’s drunk or high.” I never knew how true (or how far from the truth) that was. I’ll never know for certain what the answer really was. One morning, when I was nine years old, I awoke to find my mom had cooked a big breakfast for all of us kids. It was unlike her to cook breakfast. She made pancakes, eggs, and bacon that day. She even had a box of my favorite cereal just for me—Cookie Crisp. My siblings and I normally took the bus to school, but this morning she drove us. We were shocked, but I thought nothing of her behavior at the time as being out of character. I was just excited I was being treated normally. She even let me sit in the front seat. That’s something I’d never been able to do. It felt great riding in the front seat of my mom’s Mustang too. I remember feeling like I was the man! I was shocked when she said to me while driving, “You know that I love you a lot?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I liked it. She went on to tell me that I had to be there for my brother and sisters. She told me, “They’re not gonna survive like you will.” She told me I was strong and independent. It was weird hearing her say these things, but I dismissed it. I was just happy to live in the moment. I remember leaving the car feeling as if everything, from that moment on, was about to get better. I was upbeat and jovial at school that day. We had what was known as a “fun run”—kind of like a mini-carnival. There were a lot of games like slip-n-slide, basketball tournaments, and all sorts of fun stuff to do. It turned out to be one of the best days at school I’d ever had. My friend Kelsie and I rode the bus home from school together. Kelsie lived a few houses down from me, so when we arrived at my house he and I parted ways. I went to the front door and knocked, thinking it was locked, as usual. I’d never been trusted enough to be given a key, so I waited for my mom to open the door. There was no answer after what must have been five or ten seconds, but it felt like forever. I tried to turn the door handle and, to my surprise, it turned. I pushed the door open and yelled, “Mom, I’m here!” I closed the door behind me and walked into the living room. There I found my mom’s body lying in a pool of blood. She had a gun in her hand and a hole in her head. I don’t know how long I stood there looking at her before I panicked. I remember realizing I needed to get help, so I ran to the neighbor’s house. My mother had committed suicide. My best day had become my worst day—I felt betrayed and left behind. To make matters worse, Child Protective Services (CPS) separated me from my siblings. My oldest brother and sisters were sent to live with their uncle. My younger sister was sent to a foster home, and I was sent to a group home. It was very difficult for me to be separated from the only family I had left. I was nine years old, and I quickly missed my family. I desperately wanted to be with my brother and sisters, so I began running away from my group home to be with them. My group home was in Tempe, Arizona, so one evening I decided I was going to live with my siblings. I began walking from Tempe to Mesa at five P.M. and arrived at my siblings’ uncle’s house at approximately three A.M. In my mind, I thought I’d be welcomed and celebrated for being there. But my siblings’ uncle called the police. He told me he had to because if he didn’t, he’d get in trouble. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. When the police arrived, they called my group home and told them to come and pick me up. I felt restricted from my family, like I was being punished. I blamed the police and CPS for my mom’s death. I didn’t know my dad, and I couldn’t be with my brother and sister. I was alone, with no home and no sense of belonging. I can’t even count how many group homes I’ve been in. I was treated like shit in most of them, like I was a burden or a nuisance. I really hated the second one that I stayed at. The staff would talk to me crazy all the time. One day, I ended up getting into an argument with a staff member. They said I disrespected him. The staff member responded by hitting me so hard that I bit off part of my tongue. I threw a tantrum after seeing all the blood coming from my mouth—it reminded me of finding my mom’s body. I don’t remember much about the tantrum except for them saying I threatened to kill myself. I only said that hoping it’d force them to remove me from the group home and send me to a better one. I wanted to be someplace I felt I belonged; instead, I was taken to Arizona State Hospital—a mental health facility. I was thrown into a cell and placed on suicide watch. I still remember the sound of the first time the door slammed shut behind me and locked. I flipped out! Before, I could always run away, but in the cell I was stuck. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t see my brother and sisters. I was locked up. I cried so much that I stopped producing tears. It was there they convinced me something was wrong with me. Although I was only there for a couple of weeks, the experience left me feeling as if I was more of an outcast. To be fair, not every group home was bad. I stayed in two that treated me well. I always behaved in the ones that treated me well. I didn’t want to give them a reason to ship me off to a group home that was worse. I also found that if I behaved, I could earn a home pass that allowed me to see my brother and sisters. On my tenth birthday, I was moved to Kenwood group home. It was there I met Miss Bobby. Miss Bobby was the manager of the group home. She was an older Black lady. She brought me in and welcomed me. She even recognized it was my birthday and cooked me hot dogs and macaroni. She took me shopping for clothes and had my hair cut. On our way back, she took me to ride go-carts. It was the first time anyone took an interest in me and recognized it was my birthday. I felt special. It was a whole new experience for me. I remember thinking the lady was an angel. I’d never had anything special done for my birthday prior to that day. I’d been to other kids’ birthday parties, but I’d convinced myself I wasn’t special enough to have my own. It was obvious to me I wasn’t loved enough to enjoy the recognition of the day I was born. Because of Miss Bobby, my tenth birthday has always been a special memory to me. It was the first time I really viewed a woman as a mother figure. I spent about three months with Miss Bobby. The entire time I was on my best behavior. I didn’t want Miss Bobby to be disappointed or angry with me, I was happy there. Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. Miss Bobby received a promotion and was transferred to another group home. Around the same time, I was assigned to a new CPS caseworker. The guy who replaced Miss Bobby turned out to be alright. His name was Mario. He was a younger Black guy. The first time we met, he quickly eased my concerns about the type of person he was. He handed me his phone and let me listen to rap music on it. Under his care, I wasn’t abused or made to feel like I was a burden, but I wasn’t at home either. When I was eleven, my caseworker established contact with my dad. I was able to meet him for the first time and get acquainted. Like any young boy who never knew his father, I always dreamed about meeting him. I remember being nervous and excited while waiting for him to arrive. When I saw him for the first time, it was unreal. I immediately noticed I looked like him. It kind of scared me, too. I knew he was my dad, but I didn’t know if he’d love me or treat me like my mom did. We were accompanied by my caseworker for our first meeting. We went to the mall and ate at a place called the Rainforest Cafe. After that, we went to a place called Dave & Busters and played games—Dave & Busters is like a sports bar and arcade combined. I had a great time that day, but it was awkward because I didn’t know how to express myself. It made getting acquainted quite difficult. I did ask my dad how he felt about meeting me. He explained that he’d known I existed since I was two years old, but my mother had told him I wasn’t his child. He seemed excited to have a son, but we never talked about what I’d been through. After meeting my dad, I had an incentive to stay out of trouble—staying out of trouble meant I could get a home pass and be with him. The next time we met, I was taken to meet his whole family. I met his mom, my grandma, her sister, my great aunt, and a few cousins. It was the first time I had a family that looked like me. I even met my dad’s daughter, my older half-sister. They made me feel so welcomed. I finally felt like I belonged to a family again. Soon after my dad was awarded custody of me, I was allowed to go home with him. Having a father was unreal to me, after not having one the first eleven years of my life. I’d been in so many group homes that I began to believe I’d never have a home—that I’d always be unwanted and unloved. My dad was a successful businessman. He owned three businesses and lived in a three-bedroom, two-bath house in a small community situated on the outskirts of Tucson called Vale, Arizona. He had a fiancée and a daughter who was a few years older than me. I was excited to have a new big sister, and she seemed excited to have a little brother—as excited as a teenage girl could be given the situation. My dad’s fiancée seemed pretty cool. She welcomed me into their home, and I was given my own room. Prior to that day, I’d always shared a room with my older brother. Having my own space felt great. My dad bought me posters so I could put my personal touch on the room. It was nice, too. I had a bunk bed, a computer, and an entertainment center. I felt like my life was finally perfect. It didn’t take long for reality to set in. I thought my dad and I would be able to make up for lost time and be together all the time. I had a list of all sorts of father-and-son things we could do. However, my dad worked a lot and I barely saw him. I didn’t understand why he was never home. To make matters worse, it turns out the neighborhood we lived in was predominantly white. I began to feel like an outsider again. Much like my new neighborhood, my new middle school was predominately white. There were a handful of Mexican kids, but I was the only Black kid. I met a kid named Jesus, and he seemed pretty cool. He was my age, so we hung out at school a few times. One day, he asked if I wanted to go to his house and play video games. Of course, I had nothing else to do, so I accepted. As we played video games in his living room, a light-skinned Black kid walked into the room. I pretended as if I didn’t see him and just kept playing the video game. I was excited to see another Black kid, but I did my best not to let on. I was curious who he was, so I kept glancing over at him. He looked to be a few years older than me, and he carried himself with a certain swagger that I immediately admired. Once the video game had ended, Jesus introduced me to his big brother. His name was Rico. When his brother introduced us, Rico flicked his head upward, saying “What’s up,” and with a smile asked, “What’cha doin’ hangin’ with this lame?” referring to his brother. I knew I liked him from the moment I met him, and we instantly became friends. Rico was half Black and half Mexican and, much like me, he was the only mixed-race child of his mother. He and I connected because we were the only two Black kids in the neighborhood. The fact we had similar backgrounds, given our family dynamics, only strengthened our bond. Rico was only two years older than me, but at thirteen he was already an imposing figure. He stood about six feet two inches tall and dressed in that New York “gangsta” style T-shirt, baggy jeans, and signature Timberland boots. He didn’t go to the same school as me because he was kicked out prior to my arrival. I was impressed. He was tough, cool, and for an eleven-year-old boy who’d never really had a Black friend, he was THAT DUDE! My dad was at work all the time. Because of that, I always hung with Rico when we weren’t in school. I became popular with the girls at my school, but that seemed to only make the boys dislike me even more than they already had. I started getting into fights and began getting suspended from school. It was cool, though, because each time I was suspended Rico and I would end up skipping school and partying. He smoked weed and drank alcohol, so naturally I smoked weed and drank. And even though I hadn’t smoked or drunk before meeting Rico, I acted as though I had. When I was with Rico, I felt like I fit in. My dad purchased my clothes from either Ross or Walmart. For an adolescent, that gear wasn’t cool. I had to keep up with my popular image, and the gear I wore wasn’t helping. I decided I needed to get better gear. To do that, I needed money. At first I started raking people’s yards for money. That, however, wasn’t cutting it. Rico suggested we sell weed to make money, which I thought was a good idea. I also thought it’d further my “rep.” We started selling small amounts of weed, and I was able to start buying better clothes. My “rep” began to grow thanks to the gear. I figured out the larger amounts of weed you buy, the cheaper it was. I wanted to make more money, so it was only logical to buy larger quantities. I suggested to Rico that we save our money and buy a pound of weed. He agreed, and that’s exactly what we did. After doing that, we started making pretty good money. I felt like the man when I hung with Rico. Selling weed and wearing fresh gear made the girls love me more. The boys hated me, but they couldn’t beat me up, so I didn’t worry about them. I had an established “rep,” so everybody began to know who I was. Rico and I started buying larger amounts of weed after a few years, and our clientele grew. At fifteen, Rico had enough money to buy himself a car. We also bought dirt bikes so we could go out in the desert and ride with other kids. My dad would ask me about my new possessions, and I just lied to him. I’d tell him they belonged to someone else, which he seemed to believe, or maybe he just didn’t want to know the truth. Perhaps he did know and was cool with not having to spend money on me. I don’t know. I was providing for myself, so I was cool with him not pressing me too hard. By my sixteenth birthday, I saved up enough money to buy myself a car, a Honda Civic. I also found out my dad’s businesses weren’t doing very well. I was surprised to find out he smoked weed too. When I found out, my dad seemed cooler to me, but finding out his businesses weren’t doing so well made me feel like I was a burden on him. By then I’d been providing for myself for some time. I sold weed, so I convinced myself I had to step up my game in order to take care of myself. By this time, my dad’s daughter had been doing drugs and had gotten pregnant. My dad was helping her with money, so I felt like I was doing him a favor by not having to spend money on me. I began selling different types of drugs in order to make more money. I grew to six feet tall and had the build to go with it. Together, Rico and I were imposing figures. This only seemed to bring more hatred from the white and Mexican guys. We were getting into fights all of the time—mainly when someone would call us the N-word. And we won every one of our fights. Our opponents always outnumbered us, so at some point they just started to jump us. One night after getting jumped, these guys tried to rob us of our money, so Rico and I decided to buy guns. That was the game changer. We now had protection. Having a gun proved to be a deterrent, but thankfully we never had to use them. A few months before my seventeenth birthday, my dad told me he was breaking up with his fiancée, and they were losing their house. This news was devastating to me. While I hated the neighborhood, I had a good thing going on. I had a family, a friend, and I was making money. I finally felt like I fit in somewhere, and now I was losing my sense of security. My dad told me I had to move to Tucson and live with his mom. He ended up renting a one-bedroom townhouse, and, once again, I felt abandoned. It was all good, though, I thought. I could be going to someplace worse, I told myself. In the five years of knowing my grandma, I’d come to love and appreciate her. She’d made me feel special since day one. Each time my dad went to the city, I enjoyed going to visit her. While I felt abandoned by my dad, I knew living with my grandma would be a safe place for me—at least it wasn’t a group home. My grandma was pretty cool. She was born in England and had a British accent. I always got a kick out of hearing her speak. Until then, I’d never heard a Black lady speak with a British accent. Every time I saw her, she was the typical Black grandmother—you know, churchgoing, welcoming, and always offered to cook something to eat if I was hungry. At the age of seventy-six, she continued to work as a registered nurse. She’d always taken good care of people regardless if they were family or her patients. One thing that always stuck out to me was the fact she was a no-nonsense type of woman. My grandma did not play. Knowing I was going to live with my grandma meant I had to be proper. I knew I’d have to go to church and go to school. I knew I’d have to do my homework before I even thought about going anywhere. It felt good to have someone who cared about me like that. I didn’t hate the structure, but it did take some getting used to. The problem was I felt stuck in my ways, so it was difficult for me to get used to. It didn’t help that I had trust issues. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my grandma would die or leave me like everyone else. I became determined not to get used to the structure, or even to try and embrace it, because it was temporary. I did everything asked of me while I was in her house, but I continued to “do me” once I was outside of her house. My grandma lived in a four-bedroom, two-bath house. She used to be a certified foster parent, so I guess she was accustomed to keeping a full house. When I moved in, my cousin had already been living there. He was twenty years old at the time and thugged out. He was a light-skinned Black man who stood about five foot nine inches and was very stocky. He had green eyes, wore his hair in cornrows, and had a cocky demeanor. One glance at his brand-name clothes, new shoes, silver chain, and expensive watch told me he sold drugs. I knew he belonged to a gang, and I knew he had “connections.” I saw him as an opportunity to establish myself in this new city. By then, I treated selling drugs like it was my job, and I had work to do. I still had some money from selling drugs at my dad’s house, so my cousin helped me to buy a half ounce of coke. I was excited because I was in a bigger city, and that meant more people. And more people meant more money. My cousin was a Crip, so naturally I wore blue all the time. I began going to Palo Verde High School while living with my grandma. There were a lot of Bloods there, so I began getting into fights because I wore blue. Those fights led me to the principal’s office often. The principal came to really dislike me because of my attitude—and for the fact that it appeared as if I caused all of the trouble. I wasn’t about to snitch on anyone, so I always refused to cooperate with the principal. I just took the suspension rather than telling him what’d happened. For some reason, people never seemed to like me due to how I carried myself. That’s always been something I could never quite understand. It wasn’t as if I walked around like I was some kind of tough guy. I was just determined never to back down from anyone. One day while I was in school, I had words with a guy who made a remark to me. I could have ignored his remark, but if I had it would have made me appear weak. I said some disrespectful things back to him, hoping he’d fight me. He didn’t respond. I thought it was the end of it as we went our separate ways. After school, he was waiting for me with some of his friends. They ended up jumping me and beating me up pretty good. The minute I stepped foot on campus the next morning, security grabbed me and took me to the principal. Apparently, the school received a report that I was going to bring a gun and use it on someone. They searched me, my locker, and my book bag but found nothing. The situation, however, was the perfect excuse to kick me out of school, given my history of suspensions and my attitude with the principal. Grandma wasn’t too pleased with me. She immediately enrolled me in a school for troubled kids called Southern Arizona Community Academy (SACA), and I decided I’d really try to keep up with school in order to make my grandma happy. The problem with SACA was nobody there tried to understand me, what I’d been through, or what I was going through. To their credit, when I brought this to their attention, they tried to help me. They sent me to a place called La Frontera after school each day....

Each story takes a chapter--this is not the total first story since copyright has stopped further sharing... In my opinion this book is a must-read... The remainder of the book gets into a review of the issues within and without the prison, including support changes for programs necessary. At this time, in this political climate, it is questionable whether any of the proposals would even be considered given the racial discrimination mentioned earlier and the present DEI mandates... 

But this is not a singular issue, or a single book. This issue cannot really be addressed pre-prison, in my opinion, since drugs and guns are preventing what the majority of people want to change... There are other books related to guns, for instance, that should be considered. Most importantly is that what I saw in this book was a total lack of interest on the part of too many people. Dare I say on the part of one political party in particular. We already know that even school shootings has no effect on republicans. Certainly, caring for those in prison would never be on their radar...

You know folks, I still have NO answer as to why pro-life can be considered a mandate for republicans, while at the same time, they could care less about what happens to those children once they are born. There is always talk about drugs by that party, but bombing boats really has little to do with access available in the U.S. When somebody turns to selling drugs to be able to survive, which ultimately turns into a desire for making lots of money and fighting over territories/gangs... there has to be full awareness at the state level that these issues must be addressed...

We've talked about the fact that children learn how they will live based upon their early home life. I come from a poor background, but what I saw was my widowed mother working 24/7 to feed and shelter us. When the U.S. is the only major country that allows mass shootings to continue, then each of us has to realize that something is very wrong... And it doesn't mean that more guns is the solution...

This nonfiction book should be in every library. It is published by a university, based upon the content being of value to be shared across our land... When you read an individual's story and see that they live based upon what their environment has taught them, then, in my opinion, the United States should be embarrassed that what you will read and learn about those with imprisoned minds, is very possibly NOT the fault of the individual...who...is...imprisoned...

GABixlerReviews

Angie Stone: Queen of Neo Soul - May She Rest in Peace - A Fan Tribute by Carol Denise Mitchell

 “When I was younger, I was taught that a winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.” --Angie Stone

“Funk You Up,” has lost its glowing star 

in Angie Stone.

...it ultimately led to the creation of the R&B/hip hop group It's Us, which was later renamed Vertical Hold. In 1988, they released their debut single "Summertime" under Criminal Records.

After Mack departed from the group, Stone, Bright, and Bruno secured a new recording contract with A&M Records. Their first album, A Matter of Time, released in 1993, was preceded by the top 20 R&B hit "Seems You're Much Too Busy" and reached the top forty on the US Top R&B Albums chart, selling over 62,000 copies in the United States.

Angie Stone was like us - Her beautiful dark skin complimented all colors. Her love for The Lord was unmatched. Now, that you know all about how Angie became The Queen of Neo Soul, let’s go back to see how this great entertainer is just like you! Rodney Stone, Lil’ Rodney C entered the scene, and he was affectionately known as Little Rodney C. This young man would soon capture Angie’s heart, leading to marriage and the birth of their child. Initially, he educated Angie, and they eventually tied the knot. Although Angie remarked that they conducted business well together, she felt their marriage was flawed. Despite this, the couple collaborated on three self-written albums in 1984. When Sequence sought answers, Rodney and Angie welcomed a daughter named Diamond. Angie found opportunities performing in commercials and playing the saxophone for Lenny Kravitz. Subsequently, MCA Universal signed her to write songs for another artist, earning her $25,000. In 1993, Angie joined Vertical Hold, channeling her emotions into her music. The song "Seems You’re Much Too Busy" solidified her musical career. Despite facing challenges, Angie persevered in pursuit of her aspirations. After releasing two albums with Vertical Hold, she ventured out on her own but also contributed to D’Angelo’s "Brown Sugar," recognizing their deep connection. However, falling in love meant that Angie had to pause her career. By the late 1990s, her relationship with D’Angelo had ended. Angie recorded demos that reached Arista Records, eventually catching the attention of Peter Edge and Clive Davis. This led to a deal for her first solo album, "Black Diamond," which included the hit "No More Rain." After two decades in the industry, Angie finally embraced her identity as a solo artist. "Black Diamond" achieved gold status, and as Clive Davis launched J Records, he brought Angie along. She later found success with the powerful track "Brotha," dedicated to Black men, and although it didn’t make it onto the album, "Wish I Didn’t Miss You" soared to number one on the dance charts. Angie is known to have said that this was a song she didn’t even like. Angie Stone was amazed how popular it became. We learned this tune was inspired by the O’Jay’s' "Back Stabbers." Angie Stone celebrated two gold albums by the year 2000. She advised Jazzy not to revisit her earlier work, leading to the creation of another single, "I Wanna Thank You," which also reached number one on the dance charts... 

Music: “Love Language”  - Angie did an interview that showed her softer side and I really want to share this with you.  On June 20, 2023, June Archer did a charming interview with Angie Stone. She was a remarkable woman. She told Archer that one notable aspect of my mother was her ability to stay true to herself. She navigated life on her own terms, never intruding on others' paths. She discovered her niche, focused on it, and pursued her endeavors in her unique way. As a result, she found great satisfaction in her life choices, and I believe I have inherited that trait from her. 

I, too, carve out my own space, finding happiness in my independence and the decisions I have made. Then Archer said: “You have also made remarkable choices, Angie, and I must commend you for your body of work, which has helped many individuals through challenging times. When you share your experiences, people turn to you, your music, and your lyrics, finding hope and inspiration. Thank you for your resilience and for being a strong,  unapologetically remarkable Black woman.

I would like to discuss your new album, "Love Language." To begin, I want to ask you: what is your love language, Angie? Is it expressed through music, food, a stroll in the park, or something else?” Archer asked. And then Ms. Stone chimed in: “It’s interesting that you pose this question, as many have been inquiring about it since the album's title is "Love Language." My love language encompasses all of those elements. Each track on this album reflects my essence—how I move, act, and think, as well as what stirs my emotions. You can gain insight into who I am simply by listening to my music. My love language embodies a humble spirit, one that seeks to avoid unnecessary drama and instead fosters joy and generosity. I resonate with those who are eager to give and share abundantly. 

Angie Stone’s Famous Quotes 

“Let us have some more fun with some very interesting quotes we found on line by Angie Stone. Be prepared to laugh and remember Angie Stone the way she’d love for her fans to remember her. 

Because I am just a giving person spiritually, I feel that if your intentions are to use or abuse or take advantage of, then you might get what you’re getting in the meantime; but there’s still a price to pay.”

“Music always hits me when I’m driving so, I keep a recorder in my bag.”

“I’m the kind of woman you might say is too good. I’ll massage a man’s feet, have dinner cooked when he gets home. But once they leave, the door is closed, and the locks are changed.” “They always come back when they learn that no other woman’s going to treat them this good!” – Angie Stone

After I had finished Carol Denise Mitchell's latest book about Angie Stone, I wasn't quite sure how to begin to share about the book... You see, given my emphasis on reading/books, I don't have the knowledge to talk about those who specialize in other creative arts... People like Angie Stone... But, after reading what Mitchell had written, I knew two things: that Carol was one of the greatest fans Angie Stone had ever had... And, two, when a fan like Carol Denise Mitchell gets angry about what was done to a friend, she's going to write about it... after doing a lot of research!

At one point in her book, Carol writes to her readers that she knows she's repeating herself. And then adds, she is so shocked that she can't ever forget all that she discovered, or similar words... Now, from a book reader, I noticed more about her format rather than repetition of material. And, to me, that was more important...

 

She started out by talking about her own relationship with Angie... and shares as much as she wants. She has titled each chapter and becomes repetitive as she "bundles" material to talk about in each chapter... thus, each reader may decide a chapter is more significant and want to emphasize it more. One of the things that I didn't know even at hearing of the tribute being made was the breadth and scope of Angie Stone's accomplishments! 

Carol talks about each of her activities from songwriting, singing (on Soul Train and other shows) as well as television performances, being spotlighted by Rolling Stone and so much more...

If you have not heard of author Carol Denise Mitchell, you will learn that her writing is more based upon what she wants and needs to write about rather than one or two genres... She's written fiction as well as nonfiction and so you will find that her books can be separated by topic as well as reading straight through. But no matter how she presents it, Mitchell has a specific purpose to writing this tribute--that is, besides expressing her emotional feelings about Stone.

Mitchell has experienced much abuse as we all know happens with those who are different in some way... meaning, not being a white man... And, she has written enough and done research to show how Black people, in particular, can be scammed by those individuals who are producers and/or hired to take care of specific duties and financial affairs while the creative artist does what she is being paid to do.

Mitchell refers often to what is found as  documentation on YouTube. I found quite a bit that was not allowed to be shared from that site, including several recent posts to followup after Stone's accident. . I made no effort to learn more than the fact that I saw that there were many people talking about Stone's beginning to speak out about where her money had gone... And, a possible correlation to the fact that she was killed in a car accident...

What I do know is that, although I had never heard of Angie Stone before, I took the time to listen to her wide variety of music and I found her, in my opinion, a wonderful multi-talented role model for young girls and others. I was totally entertained by spotlighting all that I've shared with you all today! Angie's ability to move from one type of music to another, without any problem reveals just how much her talent exceeded many other singers who stick within, say, a country genre... Her obvious writing skills in poetically setting thoughts to music places her, also, above those who did not write and sing her creations... In fact, from what I've read, it is quite easy to see just how others had decided to, on an ongoing basis, take advantage of her generous nature, so much so that, as she was looking toward retirement, she was unable to do so because of lack of money... I couldn't help but think of similar situations where young, beautiful creatives have been manipulated to the point that they are being ignored once the funds begin to run dry... 

While I am making no accusations myself, I suggest to those who are close to Stone, that they find somebody to trust and start looking, based upon the groundwork in this book... Carol is a great researcher--she's found more to write this book than necessary as a fan... But, Carol, is not just a fan of Angie, She's a black woman that cares about how all women and others who are being ignored or purposely taken advantage of based upon some bias or prejudice that has no foundation of Truth... To find her on this blog, you may need to use a variety of her name in the right column--I read Carol's first book and as many as I've been able since then... I've been honored to support her writing career... 

For those those who are interested in music as a career, or music in general, this book will be fascinating for fans of Blues, R&B, Jazz and just about any beat, including one that sounded Latino... Stone had no limits to what she was able to "dream up..." This would also be a valuable educational book for those in the music business... There is every evidence from her "sound" as well as how she was "slid out" on some activities for one reason or another, that this woman could have been even more of a star than she was as evidenced by this Fan Tribute! At a minimum, have as much delight as I did as I listened to this playlist I was able to find relatively easily... Each recording was an amazing discovery of a supremely talented female singer! And I didn't even get into her television and other activities! Angie Stone deserves to be remembered! And she's probably already singing in the heavenly choir!

GABixlerReviews

Focus on New Book! A Christian Case Against Donald Trump by Patrick Kahnke

 

So why did I immediately follow the author's announcement with the video of another pastor? Well, think about it! God is speaking to many in these days of turmoil and confusion. Most of us know that MAGA/Donald Trump is using religion as a tool...with some of those who claim to be Christians, accepting him as if he actually was...a...christian... If he had at some point during the past 8 years showed some sign on actually becoming a follower of Jesus, don't you think we would already know that? But, even as questions were specifically asked, he dodges the question because he can't answer anything about the Bible... Like, a simple question: What is your favorite scripture... No, he couldn't say, even the shortest one ever written--"Jesus Wept." Me, I like singing the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23, but my two favorites are: "Be Still and Know that I am God." and "I will lift up my eyes unto the hills from which cometh my help. My help cometh in the name of the Lord."

So why this particular video by Pastor Tim? Because he is talking about discernment as a gift of the Spirit. When he mentioned smell, I immediately remembered two different times and places where the smell was so overpowering that I had to walk out... So, with this new contact, I want to explore my gifts to verify that I am NOT using God in any way; but to share His words as given to me...

But let's go on to the new book I am reading... The title is clear. I immediately wanted to read it. What I found was the book reading as if we were talking to a pastor about our concerns, our worries, about what has happened... So far, as I told him in a recent email, I've been highlighting most of the book--it is thankfully confirming what I have come to know... God is speaking to many to let them know, to confirm that what is happening is NOT of God...

One final note: I'll be spending quite a lot of time on this book. The author has recently moved but he has given me authority to use his words as I find important to share and we will be doing an interview sometime in the future, format undecided at this time.

PROLOGUE 

A Confrontation in Church 

It was a typical Sunday morning. I wrapped up my sermon and joined the worship band to lead the congregation in a final song. When we finished I dismissed the people with a blessing, then I turned my back to the pews to set my bass guitar on its stand. When I turned around a few seconds later I jumped, startled. A man from the congregation had bounded onto the platform and stood mere inches from me. I’m an introvert even by Minnesota standards, and I covet my personal space. He was a large, athletic guy who’d recently started attending the church, and he towered over me as he held out his hand. I took it and said, “Good morning!” But he wasn’t in a “good morning” sort of mood. He gripped my hand tightly and emphasized each word. 

“Pastor,” he said, “You. Need. To shape. Up.” 

“Oh?” This is my go-to response when a person says something strange or out of character. I’ve found that a simple “Oh?” invites them to rephrase and take another run at it. But he squeezed my hand harder and pulled me closer to himself, his eyes boring into me. “You need to start preaching the truth. You need to expose what’s going on in this country — no more excuses — no more of this watered-down stuff.” He’d said things like this before, insisting I speak out about this or that cultural or political issue roiling the country. But this felt different. This felt like intimidation, plain and simple. I don’t remember all his words, but I remember his anger. He glared down at me as he spoke and held my hand hostage until he’d had his say. 

He ended with something like, “I’m giving you one more chance. You need to start telling the truth. I’ll be watching what you say.” He released my hand, and I felt the blood surge into my fingers as they pulsed back to life. He walked away. I stood silently for a moment — puzzled — trying to make sense of what had just happened. This was December 2015, a few months before I retired from pastoral ministry. Over a dozen Republican candidates were gearing up for the primaries that would eventually make Donald Trump the GOP nominee for the 2016 presidential election. But I knew little about that. I couldn’t have picked most of those candidates out of a lineup. And that’s what bothered this fellow. He wanted me to care as deeply as he did about the hot-button cultural issues these candidates were hyping as they tried to position themselves within that lineup. I couldn’t have known, back then, just how appropriate the “picking out of a line-up” metaphor would become to describe the eventual winner. 

From Conservative Activist to Apolitical Pastor

As a pastor I never talked about politics in church, and I barely followed the news. It’s not that I didn’t care. Far from it. It’s because I used to care too much. Before I entered pastoral ministry, I’d been quite active in the pro-life movement. I spoke in churches and public schools on behalf of the unborn, and I volunteered to help elect pro-life candidates. In those years, I saw the Republican party as an ally in fighting for the sanctity of human life. And coming from a conservative Republican family, the marriage between my pro-life convictions and the GOP felt like a natural fit. 

I grew up in rural Minnesota. My parents were public school teachers, farmers, and devout Catholics. In Minnesota in the 1970s, those three identities usually meant a person would vote for the Democrats. But my parents had their own ideas. They followed their convictions to the Republican party, and I followed along. I don’t want to oversell my conservative leanings as a lad. After all, I was reading Tolkien and C.S. Lewis in elementary school, not William F. Buckley. But I did have a poster of Richard Nixon on my wall in second grade, and I did wish they’d all just leave him alone about the Watergate stuff. But the abortion issue, far more than my parents’ Republican leanings, drove my early political beliefs. 

I believed at a young age that unborn babies deserved the protection of law. I saw it as an issue of justice and basic human rights long before I could have expressed it in those terms. I studied the issue in more depth during my high school years. While other kids did normal things, such as their assigned homework, I worked on developing a “consistent human life ethic” that could guide my future political involvement. And I landed on some positions regarding the sanctity of human life back then that I still hold to this day. While I’m no longer convinced the realm of law and politics will solve our divisions regarding abortion, I still believe the unborn child is a human being. I still want desperately to do my part to foster a culture of respect for human life in our nation. I also developed some other pro-life views in high school that I still hold to this day. For instance, I still oppose capital punishment — not because I think it’s unwarranted in some cases or unbiblical, but because I’m skeptical that our system of justice can be trusted to enforce it in a fair manner. And I’ve always favored, from my earliest memory, some common-sense form of what we used to call “gun control.” I grew up in an extended family of sportsmen and NRA members. I had unfettered access to a small arsenal of hunting rifles, shotguns, and pistols from the time I was old enough to enroll in a gun safety class. And I still think it’s insane that our political system can’t find a way to protect the ownership of those sorts of weapons, while banning the ones that enable an untrained teenager to hold dozens of police officers at bay. 

As you’ve undoubtedly noticed, those three issues don’t sit well together in the platforms of either of our major political parties in America. So I found it difficult, from the start, to align my consistent pro-life ethic with support for one political party over the other. Even back then, they were drawing the battle lines in ways that made little sense from my perspective. In recent years I’ve come to see that I ignored, or explained away, whole sets of additional issues that I would now place under the banner of “pro-life.” But in 1984 the anti-abortion issue carried the most weight in my thinking, so I cast my first presidential vote for Ronald Reagan, who spoke directly to that concern. And because I agreed with him on the sanctity of life I found it easier to buy the rest of the package. And by casting that first vote and participating in Reagan’s landslide victory over Minnesota’s own Walter Mondale, I solidified my personal attachment to the GOP. 

Over the next several years I married Jane, my high school girlfriend, started a family, and grew deeper in my faith. And my pro-life convictions grew, as well. But even though I was raised as a Catholic, I didn’t link my views on the sanctity of life as tightly to my faith as one might imagine. In fact I remember arguing once with some friends who said my pro-life convictions were simply a way of pushing my faith onto others. I insisted that my religious beliefs had nothing to do with my concern for human life. And whether that was entirely true or not, I believed it when I said it. I didn’t start linking my pro-life sensibilities to my faith in a conscious way until January 1989, when I attended a service at Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis on pro-life Sunday. 

Pastor John Piper delivered the best biblical defense that day that I’d heard for the sanctity of human life. I started attending his church because that message resonated with me, and I eventually joined the church and began to identify as an evangelical. But I don’t blame my involvement at that church for the narrow and strident political person I became during the next few years. In fact I think the preaching I heard at Bethlehem kept me from going off the rails, and it provided a framework for the much healthier approach I developed later on. I think my time at Bethlehem prepared me, years in advance, to say “no” to Donald Trump when he arrived on the scene. 

I respected the fact that Pastor Piper cared deeply about the sanctity of life, and he spoke about it and took personal actions to lift that value in the world. But he modeled a careful approach to preaching that kept the ultimate focus on God and God’s kingdom. I took his preaching as a warning against the idolatry of placing our hope in some ideal “Christian” kingdom on this earth. He called us to live and to speak prophetically within the culture, but not so we could seize the levers of earthly power. He challenged us to live sacrificially — to faithfully display the values of another kingdom. 

I bring this up because I want people to know this sort of teaching can be done, and done well. My six years at Bethlehem gave me a model for how believers can work passionately for justice in this world without placing our hope in building an earthly kingdom through political means. But that’s not to say I was the best listener in those years. Despite the warnings I’d heard about attaching too much hope to my political involvement, I still managed to get myself deeply entrenched in what I now see as a right-wing echo chamber. During a stint as a courier driver I got in the habit of listening to people like Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity on the radio. And I started getting my written news from some of the early online message boards. These sites fed me article after article from a conservative perspective, and I read nothing to counter those arguments. So by the time I entered pastoral ministry I’d become deeply committed to the conservative movement and emotionally invested in the success of the Republican party. I was giving huge amounts of emotional and intellectual energy to people who made their living stirring up my anger for profit. 

I’m ashamed to admit how much of that scene I bought into. But by God’s grace, when I became a pastor I did recognize, early on, that I had to lay down my political involvement. It’s not that I immediately saw how distorted my thinking had become. I simply realized I couldn’t serve two masters. If I brought my partisanship to the pulpit it would endanger my call to serve the flock that Jesus had entrusted to my care. The most serious alarms went off in my spirit when I found that my political views were affecting how I saw the people in my congregation. I knew this couldn’t be right. It simply had to be wrong to find myself judging the people I’d been called to serve, simply because they came to different conclusions about politics. 

So I made a conscious choice to put my political views aside. That proved to be more difficult than I thought, though. Given the deep partisan hole I’d dug for myself, I found the only way to climb out was to stop following politics altogether. So I entered what became a nearly twenty-year, self-imposed exile from the daily news cycle. And that two-decade fast from politics worked wonders in my life. It detoxified my soul from the poisons I’d been taking in for so long. By the time I retired from ministry in 2016 I’d spent years focusing on the kingdom of God without the added layer of distortions I’d been getting from conservative media. 

So it’s no surprise that when I started paying attention to politics again, I took a hard pass on Donald Trump. But other than Trump, I still voted a straight Republican ticket in 2016 — back in the before times[1]. I was only starting to dip my toes back into politics and I didn’t realize how the pro-life movement was being manipulated to keep people like myself on a team that no longer suited us. So I voted third party for president that year, rather than voting for the pro-choice candidate, Hillary Clinton. I assumed most Christians agreed with me about Trump. I was naïve, back then. That was 2016 — the last year of the before times — the year when everything changed for so many of us. In 2016 my naivete died. I’d kept it alive for fifty years — a good run by anyone’s standards. It died hard — a long, drawn-out, painful awakening. But I do still have hope — and hope is far more useful than naivete. I’ve been promised that hope doesn’t disappoint.

Some of you may realize that the background of Patrick Kahnke is similar to mine. Not in content exactly but my background was in a small Christian Church where I was active all my life and I worked at the university for 37 years. My political involvement was minimal, if almost non-existent until hearing the Donald Trump tape about grabbing women... As Kahnke said, it was a painful awakening. Perhaps if I had paid a little more attention to... no, I'm not going there... My life was in the church and then in working in an honorable profession... I had welcomed Christ into my life at age 13 and have never lost contact, even if I was the one turning away from His guidance... But let's go on to the next part; I think it is an important statement of fact...

A Caution About the Lesser of Two Evils 

Before I go further, I have to say something I’ll repeat and expand on later in the book. Please resist the urge throughout this book to reflexively go to the lesser of two evils argument, or to focus on the deficiencies of the Democratic candidate. The only reason Donald Trump is the Republican nominee again this year is because conservative Christians overwhelmingly supported him — in the primaries. Christians tell me every day that they have no choice but to vote for Trump. “You don’t expect me to vote for the Democrat, do you?” All I can say is, poll after poll shows that conservative Christians preferred Donald Trump over every other candidate — in the primaries. 

We’ve got more going on here than the lesser of two evils. If we truly don’t want candidates like Trump to represent us we have to be willing to do two things. The first is to start caring about the primary elections as much as the extremists do. And second, if they do give us an extremist candidate, we must vote against that candidate in the general election. Otherwise we perpetuate a system that only feeds more extremism. I’ve walked the talk on this issue. I don’t care for Nikki Haley — I think she’s one of the more cynical politicians in the nation, as evidenced by her entirely predictable endorsement of Donald Trump in the end. Apparently she draws the line somewhere south of being repeatedly called “Birdbrain” and hearing her husband’s military service mocked by a man who turned in a doctor’s note about bone spurs to avoid Vietnam. Even so, she’s not Donald Trump. So I walked down to my primary polling station in St. Paul this spring, asked for a Republican ballot (which, in St. Paul, is a bit like ringing a bell in front of myself and crying “Leper! Leper!”) and I voted for Nikki Haley. 

I’m not a purist — I’m not an idealogue — I’m willing to vote for imperfect candidates. But Donald Trump is not a merely “imperfect” candidate. He poses a serious threat to the nation and to the Christians who fall for his appeals. Voting for Trump is exponentially more corrosive to our conscience than voting for any other candidate on the ballot. 

Trump is not different by degree from the rest of the imperfect candidates we choose between, every time we vote. He’s different in kind. That’s why his superfans love him. Heaven help us if we let Donald Trump’s superfans set the direction for Christians in America. 

Why Christians Must Oppose Donald Trump 

The issues that drove my parishioner to confront me aren’t new. Donald Trump didn’t invent them. Trump has used those issues to capture the support of believers. He’s learned that as long as he gives us what we want on some cultural issues, we’ll work hard to keep him in power — no matter how depraved and abusive his tactics might be. 

Followers of Jesus aren’t designed for such twisted arrangements. A vote for Donald Trump is not morally neutral. It comes at a devastating cost to our inner person. For many followers of Jesus their first vote for Trump pricked against their conscience. I know this because they’ve told me. Some even felt a little dirty, like they were slipping behind the curtain into a peep show rather than a voting booth. It felt a bit humiliating, but they decided that voting against their beliefs on some cultural issues would have felt worse. Many of them watched Trump’s actions as president, though, and vowed not to make the same choice in 2020. And some followed through on that vow. 

But many others listened to their friends and spiritual leaders who rationalized Trump’s corruption and lies, and they stayed on the team. And by the second time they voted for him they could almost convince themselves that, just maybe, in some three-dimensional chess version of kingdom politics, all their misgivings and compromises might someday add up to having served God by voting for Trump. 

My fear for many Christians in America this year is that the third time will be the point that confirms their trajectory. I don’t know how followers of Jesus come back from voting for Trump a third time, after everything we’ve seen. I’m not talking about anyone’s salvation — I’m talking about the serious damage it does to our conscience to suppress what we know to be true. Donald Trump demands allegiance to a false version of reality. Jesus demands that we walk in truth — He is the Truth. 

That dual allegiance can’t coexist in a believer unless we do some serious, destructive work to divide our own mind. It's a soul-destroying practice, dividing our mind, but I get why we do it. I understand the problem — and I think we can fix it, together. The problem is that we’re operating out of a false view of the kingdom of God and a false understanding of our mission in this world. Our minds are divided because we’re trying to make sense of a broken, faithless theology. We’re doing our best to live in a way we’ve been taught, but we didn’t learn that way from Jesus.

Some wealthy and powerful political and religious leaders have gotten their wealth and power by keeping us confused about these things. As long as we remain confused about our calling in this world, Christians will continue to empower people like Donald Trump. And that’s a problem. 

The world knows that followers of Jesus are Donald Trump’s most important voting bloc. When we vote for him we confirm what the world believes about us — and more importantly, what they believe about our faith. 

We prove the tight association between Christians and a demagogue who is understandably feared and reviled by a strong majority of our neighbors. Trump claims to speak for us. And when we vote for him we tell the world that he’s right. But does he speak for you?

Can you see why I've highlighted almost everything I've read thus far? For me, this is God's giving me, personally, a confirmation that everything I've believe was correct... He's provided this book that says it is alright to question, even when my own family said I was wrong... He's confirmed that he too questions how this could have happened, while not (yet?) giving us an answer... But one thing I do know, this man is not only a Christian--he's a follower of Jesus! And He believes what Jesus died for... and it didn't include bringing religion into politics for power... I know that there are others out there who are in the same situation, not knowing whether to speak out...Read this book, I already know it will help and respond to your concerns.

God Bless

Gabby

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