Walk to Beautiful: The Power of Love and a Homeless Kid Who Found the Way

by Wayne, Jimmy

  All kinds of trash? I couldn’t believe what I had heard!

  I wanted to say something to this man, but I was reluctant to speak up. I had not shared my story with anyone, not even the people closest to me. And no one knew my story, not Bea, not my girlfriend, not my best friend, Josh—no one. I thought people would judge me if they knew where I’d been or the lifestyle I had led.

  But something was welling within me. I stood there fuming as the officer continued explaining to all the college students what the detention center was and how it operated. I had zoned out of his speech by this point, and all I could think about was this man calling the youth behind these walls trash. Finally I couldn’t take it any longer; I knew I had to say something to the officer.

  I was so nervous, my body was shaking. My mouth was dry, and I could hardly form a word, so I simply yelled out, “Sir!” Several of my fellow students whirled around in surprise at my outburst, but the officer was still spewing out his spiel.

  I raised my hand and shouted loudly again, “Sir!” More students turned to look at me, and the officer heard me this time.

  “You may not remember me,” I said, “but the last door on the right was mine. And you were the officer who checked me in that night, on my fifteenth birthday.”

  I noticed the students’ expressions suddenly change, as more of them turned and stared at me in disbelief. I could imagine them thinking, How can a guy who looks like you say that you ever spent time in a place like this? They knew me as Jimmy Barber, the quiet, studious guy with an Eastpak bag and a nice haircut. They didn’t know the hurt little boy who lived deep inside me. They could not even imagine the heartache I had experienced. But I didn’t have time to address all that.

  I continued talking to the officer, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “I’ll never forget what you said to me and the way you treated me that night, and I just want you know . . .” I could feel my voice cracking with emotion, so I took a quick breath and forced myself to keep going. “I just want you to know that some of these kids in here have been abandoned by their own families. We all make mistakes, but there’s one thing we’re not. We’re not trash!”

  The officer glared at me. For a long, awkward moment, nobody made a sound as the entire class stared at me. Then someone clapped, and in another second the whole class began applauding, including Mr. Lawrence, while the officer just stood there glowering at me.

  The officer hastily concluded the tour. Afterward a number of my classmates approached me and wanted more details. “Were you really in this detention center, Jimmy?” I answered their questions as honestly as I could.

  This was the first time I had ever shared any part of my past with anyone, but I knew I had to speak up because that officer said the same hurtful words to me the night he checked me in, making me show him all my scars and tattoos, making me strip naked. That was his normal routine.

  I knew that if I didn’t confront him, he would continue saying those hurtful words about other kids, and people who didn’t know any better would believe him.

  More than that, I knew that if I didn’t raise my voice in those kids’ defense, I couldn’t live with myself.

  When we returned to Gaston College, Mr. Lawrence called me into the hallway and asked more questions. He gave me an open invitation to share any relevant parts of my story during his class, at any time, depending on the topic he was teaching.

  That was the day I decided that I would do whatever I could to help the youth living in various forms of government care, especially kids like me, who were bounced around through the foster care system.

  Although I didn’t know how I could make it happen, I made a promise to myself that I was going to move to Nashville, get a record deal, and write songs that speak up for the kids whom some people regard as trash. And I wanted to tell those kids, and anyone else who would listen, it’s not where you’ve been, but it’s where you’re goin’; it’s not who you were in the past, but it’s who you are today—that’s what really matters.

  Twenty-nine

  WORKING INSIDE

  BESIDES BEING THE GUIDANCE COUNSELOR WHO SAVED MY education, Cindy Ballard was one of the earliest and most enthusiastic encouragers of my music. She was not bashful about recommending me for every sort of performance, whether for a wedding, karaoke fest, or backyard concert. I appreciated her confidence in me, especially since my guitar playing was still horrendously rough and I had written only a few songs of my own. Nevertheless, Cindy saw potential in me, or perhaps she realized that even if I could never turn my music into a career, it kept me motivated and out of trouble.

  It was Ms. Ballard who recommended me to perform at an outdoor event in Gastonia, known as The Volunteer Roundup, where I sang some songs with karaoke machine backup music and some of my first original songs. Bea went along with me and sat in the front row.

  The event took place August 25, 1993, with temperatures soaring to nearly one hundred degrees; everyone was dressed casually, so I performed in shorts and a tank top. There were a lot of distractions outdoors, and I worried that some of the adults and kids weren’t really listening. But they were. Afterward one of the sponsors of the event, Anne Elam, sent me a card with a check for twenty-five dollars. In the memo line of her check, Ms. Elam had written, “Professional Entertainment.” It was my first paid gig, and the organization for whom I performed was the Alliance for Children and Youth, a group that assisted at-risk kids.

  I graduated from Gaston College in August 1994, with a degree in criminal justice. Bea was once again there for the ceremonies. The first call I made after graduation was to Charles Mears, the superintendent of the prison. I reminded him about his job offer he had mentioned several years earlier. True to his word, Mr. Mears recommended me for a job as a corrections officer—a prison guard—at the medium security prison in Shelby, North Carolina.

  THE FIRST DAY ON THE JOB, THE SERGEANT ORDERED ME TO distribute the mail to the inmates. I began calling out the names on the envelopes.

  “Speak up!” yelled one of the prisoners.

  I increased my volume as I called out the names, but it still wasn’t enough.

  “Louder!” another inmate demanded. An officer standing nearby took the mail from me and loudly called out each name. He’d been in the military and had a drill-sergeant-type voice. He looked at me and said, “You ain’t gonna last a week in here.”

  For the next two months I was locked in a cellblock with sixty inmates. I didn’t realize how dangerous the conditions were and how alone I was until one night I was surrounded by a gang of inmates, and one of them threatened me. I looked around for backup from the relief officers, but they were nowhere in sight. I didn’t have a radio or pepper spray. Fortunately the inmates merely harassed me, but it spelled the end of my time in that facility.

  Within several months I was transferred to Dallas, unit 4515, the same unit in which Jody Hager had once been incarcerated.

  Sergeant Jeff Newton was my commanding officer there. He was a no-nonsense sort of guy who had served in the air force. Sergeant Newton called me into his office the first night I was on duty. He sat at his desk while I stood in front of it. He didn’t offer me a seat. “I’ve already received word from someone at the Shelby unit that you are no good as a corrections officer,” he said flatly. I thought of protesting but held my tongue.

  “But I’m going to give you a chance to prove them wrong,” he said. “You have my support one hundred percent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t blow it.”

  “No, sir. I won’t.”

  Sergeant Newton continued, “Just remember to always be firm, fair, and consistent.”

  “Yes, sir.” I knew instinctively that I was working for one of the best bosses anyone could ever have.

  Sergeant Newton’s patience with me far surpassed anything I expected. Many times I deserved to have been fired from that job, but Sergeant Newton kept giving me chances to redeem myself. For
instance, a few months after I started working for him, he got a tip that a convict was planning an escape. Sergeant Newton wanted me to be the officer who intervened and foiled the escape. He could then tell headquarters what a fine officer I had become, and of course, he’d get the credit for training me.

  He planned the sting and told me to wait in a particular spot on the prison yard. “Watch that back door of the chow hall, and when you see the convict come out, bust him!”

  The other officers were positioned and guarding other exits. Twenty minutes went by. It was deathly quiet when I put in an emergency call for help to Sergeant Newton on the walkie-talkie. Every officer involved in the operation could hear the communication.

  “C-18 to C-10.”

  “C-10, go ahead 18.”

  “I sprayed myself with pepper spray, and I need help!”

  “10-4, C-18.”

  Sergeant Newton wasn’t surprised. Instead of bragging on me to headquarters, he had to write an incident report. The convict had gotten word that we were lying in wait for him, so he nixed his escape attempt. Everyone was safe, except me. My eyes stopped burning a few hours later. Sergeant Newton gave me a three-hour knee-buckling lecture, during which I had to stand at attention in his office while he droned on and on about the proper use of pepper spray and why it is unwise to jostle the container during a sting operation. I already knew that part.

  IF YOU’VE NEVER WORKED WITHIN THE PRISON SYSTEM, you might think that a minimum custody prison isn’t as dangerous as a maximum security prison. Certainly a minimum security facility houses more inmates convicted of misdemeanors, such as embezzlement or drunk driving. But it also houses rapists and murderers. A security level doesn’t define the type of convict; it merely defines the type of prison. Once a prisoner has served most of his sentence, the state begins to prepare him for life on the outside by housing him in a prison with more freedoms. But a murderer in a super max facility is the same murderer in minimum security. It’s still a very dangerous environment.

  In prison all you have is your name and your word. This applies to both inmates and officers. If I told an inmate that I would give him a headache tablet at 11:30 p.m., I learned quickly that I better be giving him that tablet on time, or my word wouldn’t be good. I knew that if my word wasn’t good in prison, it could put my life in great danger.

  More than any concern for my personal safety, seeing some of the same kids who had been with me in various county receiving homes was one of the most shocking aspects of working in the prison. I couldn’t help thinking, That easily could have been me, had it not been for Bea. Some of the kids had aged-out of the foster care system at eighteen, but the day they walked out of group homes or foster care, many of them had few alternatives. With nowhere to go and few resources, their futures were almost predetermined.

  Just as Ms. Friday had predicted, without an education they were destined for prison or the cemetery. I had heard horror stories of kids who left the foster care system at eighteen and had gotten in trouble with drugs, alcohol, prostitution, human trafficking, and all sorts of other evils. Some were homeless, living on the streets; some were in prison; some were dead.

  One inmate I encountered in prison, Decarlos White, was a strong, black guy I had grown up with on Vance Street. Decarlos, known as DD, had made it quite clear to me that he hated white people. I was determined to change his mind about white people, especially me.

  When I became commanding officer (CO) of the community work crew, Decarlos was one of the inmates who had earned enough trust inside to be permitted out to work on my road crew. For an incarcerated convict, to work outside the prison was a privilege.

  One day we were in Kings Mountain, picking up trash on the side of Highway 216. DD was in the back of the line since he didn’t like anyone standing behind him. The only person behind DD was me. DD stopped and turned around.

  “CO,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken to me since seeing him in prison.

  “Yes, what’s the matter, DD?”

  DD nodded toward a house that sat about one hundred yards away. “That’s where my mama lives.”

  “That’s interesting,” I replied, not catching his meaning.

  “I ain’t seen her in years. Can I go see her?” he asked.

  “What? Mr. White,” I said, trying to maintain a sense of decorum with my old acquaintance, “you know I can’t do that. If I let you go see your mother, everyone on this chain gang is going to expect a favor from me.”

  DD simply stared at me.

  I thought about his request. I understood what it was like for a person to be separated from his parents. This might be my chance to change DD’s mind. It could also be risky. I could get fired for letting him out of my sight or assisting an escape. I was the officer in charge, and if DD fled or, worse yet, committed another crime, the burden of his actions would be my responsibility. As I pondered the possibilities, I decided the risk was worth it.

  “Mr. White,” I said slowly, “I’m going to let you go see your mother. But if you’re not back in fifty-nine minutes, as far as I’m concerned, you will have escaped,” I said. “And you know what that means.”

  DD nodded. He understood that if I reported him as an escapee, when the authorities tracked him down, they would either shoot him or send him back to a maximum security facility to do hard time.

  DD ran as fast as he could across the field and up to the front door of his mother’s house. I watched him and remembered a twelve-year-old boy running across a field in Reed’s Trailer Park, hurrying to get to the phone to talk for a few minutes with his mother who was in prison.

  I could see Mr. White’s mother when she opened the door. She grabbed him and hugged him, and they disappeared into the house. Fifty-nine minutes later Mr. White came racing back across the field.

  He was out of breath and said, “My mama was making me a shepherd’s pie, but I ran out of time and couldn’t eat it.” He was trying to catch his breath and waiting on me to offer an invitation for her to bring it out to him. When I didn’t respond, he asked, “Can my mama bring me that pie?” I could tell he was serious.

  “Mr. White, you are really pushing it,” I said quietly.

  Again, he just stared at me.

  I looked over at the house and saw his mother standing in the doorway. “Okay, she can bring it to you,” I said.

  Mr. White motioned for his mother. A frail, little black woman wearing a do-rag on her head, tied in the front, slowly walked across the field, carrying a pan with a dish towel under it. She handed Mr. White the pie, and they sat there on the side of the road as he ate and she cried.

  The other convicts continued working and pretended they didn’t see DD and his mama. It was an unwritten rule of prison life that male convicts dared not stare at another inmate’s mother, sister, or girlfriend. A short time later we packed up and drove back to the prison.

  Why would I take such a chance? Because Mr. White and I had grown up together on Vance Street and lived in the county group homes together. I remembered him, and he remembered me. I wanted to help him because that’s what Bea did for me.

  Several weeks went by, and Mr. White never even said thanks for sticking my neck out for him. Then, on an intensely hot summer day, my crew was in Dallas, working on another long, winding back road. As usual, I was at the back of the line, standing behind Mr. White.

  “Don’t go around that corner,” DD said under his breath.

  I thought I’d heard what he said, but I wasn’t sure.

  I asked him to tell me again, but he couldn’t or other inmates would hear him. I realized he was giving me a warning. I waited a few minutes then yelled out to the convicts, “Gentlemen, it’s extremely hot out here, and I’m not feeling well. Let’s get inside the vehicle and cool off.”

  I didn’t have to make that suggestion twice! The inmates piled into the state van—all except two white cons who had been lingering. They finally came and got into the van. I closed the door and immedia
tely headed back to the prison.

  I now knew why DD had warned me not to go around that bend in the road. Those two inmates had planned to jump me and then escape. DD had heard about their plan from other inmates, and that was his way of thanking me for allowing him to see his mother.

  DD served his time and was released from prison on April 21, 1999. Long after we both left the prison system, we kept in touch, and today he is one of my best friends in the world.

  Thirty

  COUNTRY BUST

  I WAS SITTING ON THE BEDROOM FLOOR AT BEA’S HOUSE IN 1994, when a man came on Crook & Chase, a popular country music television show hosted by Lorianne Crook and Charlie Chase. The musical guest that day wasn’t a big name star, but he was one of the most successful songwriters in Nashville. Using only a guitar, he performed three hit songs that he had written—all of which I recognized were recorded by major country stars. I was so naive to the music business, I didn’t know that many of music’s greatest performers didn’t write their own songs. At first I wondered, What’s this guy doing singing other people’s hits? The more I watched and listened, though, I began to let my dreams run wild. I wonder what it would be like to write a song with that guy?

  When the songwriter completed his set, the hosts and audience applauded enthusiastically for Skip Ewing, one of Nashville’s most prolific and most successful writers.

  I had already been writing some songs and performing locally. Anytime I sang someplace, Bea always went along with me and sat in the front row. Funny, though, she hardly paid attention to my singing. She’d just sit in the front row and read her Bible throughout my performance.

  THE FIRST TIME I PERFORMED WITHOUT SOUND TRACKS IN front of an audience was a disaster. My friend Lloyd Kelso married Debra Burns, an aspiring country singer. Debra enjoyed some success with a song called “Runaway Heart,” so Lloyd’s parents scheduled a concert in their backyard, and I asked him if I could sing a few songs to warm up the audience before Debra started. I usually sang using karaoke tapes for background music, but this was the first time I attempted to play my guitar and sing at the same time. I was horrible. I don’t mean that I wasn’t good. I mean I was absolutely awful! The audience was kind, but by the second song, Lloyd stood up and waved his arms and yelled to me, “Stop!”