A Little Piece of Light

by Donna Hylton

  After I spend a little time praying about it, my response is an easy yes. Now, again, I go deeper into learning spiritual counseling, in a way where it’s not guiding an individual or telling them what to do as much as it is to support them in their faith, in whatever stage or experience they’re in.

  My ability to maintain this loving, neutral balance is thrown into action in 2006 when an unexpected catastrophe takes place in the hospice unit. I’m working with a woman who’s coming to the end of her fight with Parkinson’s when a co-worker attacks a unit officer in the room. My ill friend is caught in the middle of it, so by myself, I jump in to protect both the officer and the patient, getting pummeled in the process.

  A few weeks after the incident, I receive a Letter of Commendable Behavior from the deputy superintendent of the prison’s health department. This feels good, but the greater reward is proof that even in a heated split second of danger, I truly have transformed—not into a different person, but like my thesis subject James Baldwin, I was just acting as the “real me” whom I know I’ve been all along. Had I had more faith in my own goodness twenty years ago, I never would have let those people hurt Mr. V.

  12

  WOMEN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING

  In 2010, as I’m nearing the twenty-five-year minimum of my sentence, the politicians in Albany simultaneously encourage and disappoint us. With Sr. Mary, some other women, and myself, we’ve continued to work on the good time bill. The reason we’re pushing for this with so much dedication is that New York is one of the few states in the country in which a person with life at the back of their sentence gets no consideration for any kind of early release. So many of us at this prison are proof of the potential that’s possible when a woman is protected from a sexually abusive situation and given a chance to better herself.

  Every time Mother corresponds with Albany about the bill, she informs us that things look very promising. There are constituents who are strongly opposed to this going through, but the politicians are coming to Mother frequently for recommendations and using language directly from what we’ve written and proposed to the legislature.

  When New York State passes the bill, they have indeed used a lot of our ideas and our language, but the end product is a merit consideration policy that’s far more neutral than what we’ve been driving for. Because Governor Paterson’s goal is to avoid appearing as if his administration is opening the gates of prisons to let people out, they’ve passed the bill through with a much more conservative consideration than we’d asked for. The most that they’ll allow a person with a life sentence to receive is six months off their minimum sentence. Mother is sorely disappointed, as are many of us. “At least we got the door open a little,” I tell my sisters. “We have something to work with, and now we can go forward.”

  We’re about to find out, because by the time the bill goes through, I’m the first prisoner at Bedford who is eligible to apply. When I do, I’m granted a merit hearing, in part thanks to what the prison administrators refer to as my “exceptional institutional record and adjustment.” The prison administrators refer to me as “the model prisoner” and hope to make me an example to other women, demonstrating how going above and beyond to rehabilitate and improve ourselves in prison could come with a reward. To all of us, the possibility of my getting out early could show that there’s progress in our justice system that would acknowledge us not just as prisoners to be punished, but as citizens with productive lives to live. For me, an early release also could finally enable me to forge a strong, permanent bond with my daughter and be present for her. She’s been discharged from the military, but recently I’ve found it as difficult as ever to try to keep in touch with her. When I dug around to try and find her, I discovered that Adrienne has moved to Chicago… and she’s battling a deadly heroin addiction. A pressure builds, and my head feels as though it might explode with worry as I beg God to help me out of prison. I remember Love, how that drug made her so vulnerable to life’s most ruthless predators. Adrienne has already been through enough without her mother to help her. My daughter needs me present to save her life now more than ever.

  By the time I’m approved and granted that merit hearing in December 2009, it’s just one month shy of my initial parole board hearing, which is scheduled for January 2010 for the possibility of my release in spring 2011. We quickly learn, however, that because this merit time consideration is new to the state commissioners and the administration at Bedford, the decision on my merit time turns out to get extremely confused.

  When your sentence is twenty-five years to life, after the twenty-five years are complete, it’s standard that a prisoner goes for a parole board hearing, where a small handful of parole board commissioners will judge him or her all over again. The theory is that at this stage, the judgment will be based on eleven criteria assessing how the prisoner did his or her time. These criteria include the individual’s institutional adjustment; the things they accomplished; degrees, awards, or certificates they attained; activities they were involved in; their disciplinary report; and other considerations along these lines.

  Sadly for me and for thousands of other incarcerated people, New York State is particularly notorious for flaws to this approach. Instead of assessing an individual’s conduct during prison time, what they continue to focus on is the nature of the crime. It’s understandable that they would give the crime some consideration, but after a period of time—certainly after twenty-five years—shouldn’t they just weigh whether and how much the individual worked to change?

  In December 2009 I report to the initial board hearing in front of three parole board commissioners—always an odd number of them, in case a tiebreaker on the vote to release me is necessary. What happens next is a devastation to everyone at the prison, including Mother, who has begun to work gruelingly with the Correctional Association of New York, specifically Tamar Kraft-Stolar, director of the Women in Prison Project, and Jaya Vasandani, Tamar’s co-director. Together, they develop strategies and gather materials that could assist the parole board in making a decision in my favor, while people from the community who have supported me write letters commenting about my personal progress during my time at Bedford. To go with all of this, my parole officer is supposed to have spent a year preparing a packet for me that’s meant to contain all of the technical records about my crime and my time in prison.

  At the parole board hearing—always held on a Tuesday—the commissioners ask me if there’s anything I want to say. I have thought a great deal about this, and I prepare myself to get it all across: I understand the part I played in Mr. V’s death, but I didn’t want him to die. I tell them that while I’ve been here, if I could have told his family how sorry I am, I would have. I also share that I’ve worked very hard over the past twenty-five years to develop my mind to make better decisions and straighten out my life. “I own it,” I tell them. And I’m sorry for my mistakes. Not another twenty-five years inside this place, or any amount of time at all, could take away the mental torture I will experience every day for the things I was part of long ago.

  Three days after this, I’m in the recreation area when a sergeant comes around while all the women gather and watch his delivery to me with anticipating eyes. I’ve been at Bedford longer than most of them have been, just like Betty Gal Tyson and Elaine Bartlett were in for years before I arrived. What happens to me next could mean hope for many of them… or not. We all have a stake in this decision.

  The sergeant hands me the envelope and my fingers fumble to fight with it, an eternity in only a few seconds. When I open and unfold it, indeed, it’s a letter from the board.

  And it’s blank.

  It’s as if the entire recreation room sinks—into disappointment, confusion, dismay. I, personally, cannot feel a thing. Women gather around me and voice their support in a range of emotions that run from subdued to fiery. In response, I simply put on a strong face. I don’t want them to be crushed.

  The paper was supposed to hav
e stated a simple Yes or No; Donna Hylton will be released six months before her minimum sentence, or she will not. In a way, the blank paper is even more of a letdown than a No would have been. It feels as though we’re forgotten; it’s an indication that the state doesn’t even know yet how to implement the new policy that could lessen a minimum sentence. No one at the prison knows what to do. I do the only thing I can. I pray.

  The following month, in January 2010, I return to the parole board for what had already been scheduled to be my first board meeting to evaluate whether I’d be released after fulfilling my twenty-five-year minimum sentence. From my twenty-five-year-thick packet, they read the singular paragraph that summarizes the crime. If they have a set of eleven different points on which to judge my release, why are they stuck on one that happened twenty-five years ago? I didn’t murder anyone, but they don’t hear that.

  After this January 2010 hearing, I get not one decision in the mail, but two. The first one is from the limited credit time hearing that initially came back to me blank. Not only do they not grant me the limited credit time allowance, they’ve also added two years to my sentence. It’s devastating to all of us—women and staff.

  The second letter is from the January hearing before the initial parole board. Again, they hit me with another two years.

  Now, it’s triple confusion. There was a chance for me to leave prison six months before my twenty-five years were up… but now I have to serve an additional four years?

  No one is more hurt than Mother, who says: “Enough is enough.” The prison administration and the facility parole officer put in a query with the parole board commissioners, and there’s a sigh of relief among all of us when they inform us there was an error. Then the prison administration and the state office of parole contact Albany… and yet another board hearing is scheduled.

  In February 2010, I report for the hearing only to learn that some of my paperwork, the sentencing minutes from my 1986 trial, is missing.

  I’m frustrated, perplexed, deflated. I was there when a man’s life was taken—that’s my role and my responsibility. Now all I’m asking is for the chance to go out in the world and be part of the larger societal solution to all the hurt and difficulty in our world.

  Almost a year passes before they finally get all the confusion straightened out. Mother brings in a young but very bright litigation attorney to represent me. Jeremy Benjamin works for the Manhattan law firm Paul, Weiss, which is one of the top law firms in the country. I begin to feel guilt, wondering who could be funding this, until Mother tells me that Jeremy has taken my case pro bono.

  Together they work very closely with Tamar and Jaya. Mother and I have approached both prison administrators and influential people outside, such as Eve Ensler, to write letters of support for me. On my behalf, Eve graciously writes:

  Donna has been honest in dealing with her crime… I was moved by her seeking spirit, by the depth of her guilt and her profound willingness to walk in the fire of reckoning. Donna is a smart, deeply compassionate woman. She has a gorgeous spirit. She has worked hard to become a new person in prison.

  Bob Dennison—the former chairman of the board of parole—begins to visit me and becomes one of my biggest advocates, finally helping me to recognize my past with a perspective I haven’t seen before when he writes a letter to state: This woman was young, and she did not kill anyone.

  It has taken almost three decades and a great deal of learning, understanding, and therapy to help me heal. Now, Bob encourages me and gets me to understand: You can be responsible without being responsible. You can step up for your part without shouldering the fall for everyone who was involved. This idea brings a depth of healing I’ve sought for twenty-six years.

  Mother’s own letter for me states:

  I have witnessed Donna struggle with her difficult past, make tremendous gains in confronting and reconciling with her childhood abuse, take personal responsibility for her past actions, with deep remorse for the consequences of those actions, and commit herself to improving the lives of those around her.

  Even Alvin’s mother, Dorothy, has written a letter that validates my experiences.

  I have known Donna since she was fourteen years old. She lived with her adopted parents in the same building where I lived with my family.

  Donna was an extremely smart girl in school. However she complained a lot about her somewhat miserable existence at home. This activity led to her running away with my son to get away from the abuse. The relationship resulted in the birth of my granddaughter Adrienne.

  It will be a blessing to see Donna and her daughter reunited once again, as Donna went away when her daughter was still a tot.

  Superintendent Lord also writes a letter on my behalf, stating:

  Ms. Hylton has worked hard at self-improvement… She has truly matured and grown in prison and should now be in the community using the skills she has acquired.

  The progress continues to build, and in late winter of 2011, things in my life start to feel a little different. Maybe it’s my work in the chaplaincy and my own expanding spirituality, as I’ve even begun to study to become an ordained minister. But now, for certain, I very subtly begin to sense that something new is happening.

  Around this time, a friend invites me to a Bible group. In my faith, it’s customary to accept someone’s invitation to attend a gathering for the purpose of worship because we believe there is one God of all. By now, Rev. Lopez has left here as the chaplain, and a new gentleman has taken her place for the interim.

  There’s something unique about Pastor Morris and the way he includes history in his Bible lessons. Since I was nine years old, searching for the answers, I gravitated to the Old Testament, Psalms and Proverbs—and here, Pastor Morris is able to put the teachings of God within a context of what the people were experiencing in that time and in their culture. I’ve read the Bible for almost forty years, but now I’m able to understand the relevance of its teachings in a much deeper way. Pastor Morris’s understanding and passion for the Bible are contagious. Back in the unit, many of us women gather during our free time to review Bible passages together and discuss them in depth.

  In March 2011—twenty-six years to the month since the crime went under way—I enter Pastor Morris’s praise-type gathering, with gospel music playing and women worshiping with deep focus and connection. When I enter, I quietly slip into a pew and take a deep breath. As I settle into prayer, I suddenly begin to feel that there’s something different about this day.

  I glance around, thinking, Is that the smell of roses? I try to identify who’s wearing this pretty perfume, but as I keep searching for the source, the scent is unmistakable: these are fresh flowers. Music is playing, filling my head and my soul; however, I don’t see a single stem anywhere. I return my attention to my prayer, absorbing the music… but the fragrance does not go away.

  The song that’s playing begins to swell with energy—there’s music, more music, just flooding the place. I notice that my vision can sense a certain kind of movement, an energy that my eyes can actually see. It’s like a shadow—not very clear, but a force of physical energy that seems to be swaying.

  The music builds and builds, and the smell of roses fills my senses. One by one, Pastor Morris stands before each woman, pouring a few drops of oil into his palm and placing his hand on each of our foreheads. Now, I’ve seen what happens when he lays his hands on someone: Sometimes there are women who scream and fall down like they’re in pain. Some start to speak in tongues, and this always makes me skeptical. I can’t help but wonder if they’re faking it, showing off for attention. It doesn’t seem real to me.

  But now, with my palms pressed together and my head bowed, Pastor Morris comes to me. Tears have begun to brim in my eyes as the music plays strong, and there’s this feeling in me, so honest and open—

  It’s pure love.

  I’m focused devoutly in prayer, but filled with awe and amazement about the love I’m feeling. Something i
s very different.

  Pastor Morris pours oil inside his hand and places it on my forehead. Nothing happens; it just feels nice to feel the warmth of his hand and the gentleness of his touch. The music continues to play, and the smell of roses is now so strong it’s impossible for me to accept that there’s not a big bouquet sitting right beneath my nose. Around me, women screech and jolt under Pastor Morris’s touch. Dad, I pray. If you’re real, and if you’re present, then let me know.

  When Pastor Morris lifts his hand away from my forehead, I keep my eyes closed but can feel that he’s still standing in front of me. Again, he places his hand gently on my forehead—and right then, a force rocks me backward.

  It’s powerful but gentle, and I have to open my eyes to stop myself from falling. Wait a minute, what was that? When I look up at him, Pastor Morris moves on to anoint the woman kneeling next to me.

  Again I close my eyes and bow my head, tears still spilling down my face. Dad, I pray, if that’s you, please let me know. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I become aware of a burning, tingling sensation from my lower right thigh, which runs all the way up my right side to my neck. My right side is filled with heat, but my body itself doesn’t feel overheated.

  Then, I hear something clear in my head:

  I am here.

  I gasp, and tears pour down my face. Am I going crazy? The smell of roses is to an extreme level. The heat builds and pulses from my thigh to my neck… and then I hear:

  And I am pleased.

  Now, I know: this is the Holy Spirit.

  Pastor Morris takes his place at the altar and asks, “Did anyone know what just happened here?”