A Pa. lifer's view from the inside: Time does not happen in a vacuum
It was 35 years ago but I can still remember the day I went to prison for life without the possibility of parole. It was a Tuesday morning: Sept. 29, 1987. I was 23. I opened my eyes to the sun shining in through my bedroom window, and wondered what the day would hold.
I was up late the night before watching Monday Night Football. I got out of bed and got ready for the day. Today might be the day, I thought — then tried to distract myself from thinking about the trial verdict. Walking out of my bedroom earlier, I had looked back to take it all in. I wondered just briefly, "Will I be sleeping here tonight?"
Thirty minutes later, my mother and I were standing out on the patio waiting for my sister Marcie to pick us up. I could see that my mother was praying; she always was.
I don't remember much about the drive to City Hall. My question, "Will I be sleeping here tonight?" kept coming back to me as we made our way to the courthouse. The jury had begun deliberating on a Monday and the verdict was expected soon.
My family and I huddled together all day. At 5 p.m. the jury pronounced its verdict to a packed courtroom. Guilty.
Guilty. I remember the wailing behind me. Even today, 35 years later, it still makes me want to crawl up in a ball and die. I couldn't move. I didn't want to look up, or behind me. But I did, briefly.
I had no idea what life would be like from that day forward. I never did get to sleep in my bedroom again.
My grandmother died later that night. It was the first of many funerals that I would miss. Prison was new for us. I've learned in over three decades in prison that there is no such thing as a typical prisoner or a typical family.
What's typical is family itself. Family matters; whether you are getting together at home or visiting a loved one in prison. I couldn’t have made it this long without my family.
More than 1,500 visits later, I wish I had the time to tell you about our conversations, about the laughter and tears that followed. We continue to celebrate holidays and birthdays at the prison. Life happens for us in the visiting room.
Before coming to prison, I had this idea that if I messed up my life it was on me. I wasn't hurting anyone but myself. I learned too late that my life wasn't my own. When I came to prison, I figured out quickly that I took my family with me.
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Eighteen months into my sentence, I got in trouble and went to the Restricted Housing Unit, also known as the "hole" or "isolation." My mother was devastated. My family couldn't visit me or talk to me on the phone. They didn't know how I was and could only imagine what the hole was.
This incident in 1989 marked the turning point in my incarceration — the point where I realized that my life wasn’t my own. Whatever happened to me also happened to my family. Every decision I made from that point forward centered on this fact. I never went to the hole again.
I began to change and grow up. I began to take responsibility for my life. I got involved with education and earned a college degree and certifications in various vocational trades. I became a tutor, and joined pro-social organizations in and outside of prison. I took programs and developed programs.
Today I'm still involved in project after project, and I've been doing so consistently for decades. I haven't committed a violent act against anyone since my crime at 22 years old. I could not have done any of this without my family.
I've been going to sleep in a strange place that is not home for 35 years. There are visits, phone calls, and my work. But, there’s no escaping the isolation, depression, and the loss of dreams that have become our lives.
What I'd like the world to know is that our families are heroes. They do the time with us even though they didn't do the crime. And they make us better people for it. Family impacts us during incarceration; and they are impacted by our incarceration.
Very little is known about the families of incarcerated individuals. I often refer to them as the other victims. I'm asking everyone to check out a documentary called "Time." It features Sibil Fox Richardson, a mother of six whose husband, Robert, went to prison 20 years ago. She chronicles her life and her children's lives while they do time alongside their incarcerated husband and father.
The men where I am, State Correctional Institution (SCI) Chester, want to recognize our families and let them know just how much we appreciate them. I hope that when people think of the criminal justice system — arrests, convictions, punishment — they don't lose sight of the back end of the process.
We know that people change. What are we accomplishing when men and women age out of crime and pose no threat to public safety? What do we do to families after 20, 30, 40 years? Time doesn't happen in a vacuum. Behind every incarcerated person, there is a family doing time with them. Please remember that.
Richard "Richie" Marra has been incarcerated for first-degree homicide since the age 23 in 1987. He was sentenced to life without parole after being convicted of fatally shooting a 24-year-old man during a fight at a Philadelphia nightclub in January 1986. He is now 58 years old and was recently denied commutation. His request had the full support of the Department of Corrections, which chose him to anchor its new Scandinavian Unit at SCI Chester.
This article originally appeared on Erie Times-News: PA 'lifer' shares journey, explains toll on prisoners' families
