April 13, 2006 Issue                                               

©2006 The Chestnut Hill Local

Courageous ‘Broken Wing’ seeks freedom, like inmates
by REGINALD S. LEWIS

Reggie Lewis, Mt. Airy native, Death Row inmate and highly acclaimed poet and author

The morning began with a cluster of dark, dreary clouds hovering above the hulking castle that is Graterford maximum-security prison. But the gloomy weather did little to dampen my spirits soaring with the excited anticipation of my visit with my friend, Gretel, a member of the FUMCOG Committee Against the Death Penalty.

A nature lover, she extolled the plush green countryside she’d driven through on her way to the prison. She said she was also surprised to see flocks of geese, and I told her they’d flown in from Canada and made Graterford Prison their home all year round.

Prison inmates had nicknamed one particular Canada Goose “Broken Wing,” because he had a handicap that prevented him from flying. His left wing was permanently broken. No one seemed to know the real story of what had actually caused his crippling injury. Of course there was a gaggle of wild, extravagant rumors floating about the cell blocks — and the lively discussions in the yard about Broken Wing’s struggle being connected to our own.

But of the many stories and their different versions, most inmates chose to believe that it was an abusive prison guard who’d inflicted the poor bird’s debilitating injury. The guard had caught him grazing out in the open and ran him over with the prison transport van.

Was Broken Wing among the birds who advertised their disdain for our captors by swooping down during vicious attacks? They also were known to pelt their targets with fusillades of nasty bird dung.

They were witnesses to the guards’ hateful racist remarks, slanderous gossip, cruel and petty psychological games and the verbal and physical abuse of inmates hustled from general population to solitary confinement.

Was Broken Wing in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was this another case of mistaken identity? Don’t all geese look alike?

The birds knew we had nothing to do with this cowardly crime. We would never harm them. We were caged comrades in solidarity with our liberated friends. They depended upon us to feed them everyday. When we went out to the yard, we’d sprinkle all kinds of exotic goodies on the ground. They swung their long black necks towards us, studying us with kind little beady eyes. Small bulbous heads seemed to nod thankfully.

One day, it was the birds themselves who identified the culprit who tried to murder one of their most notable comrades. They descended upon him with a fury; we saw the guard racing frantically towards the infirmary after that.

Broken Wing has adjusted quite well to sedentary prison life. He refuses to allow his handicap to limit him. He has fathered several little healthy geese. He has an almost majestic air about him.

Head held high, back arched, he struts about the prison grounds with the authority and confidence of a general. He stands on one leg, shifts, surveying the perimeters of his territory. He watches his friends entertain us with acrobatic pinwheels, propel skyward, swoop low, land gracefully, dive headlong or streak across the sky in a magnificent display of unity.

Every morning, his crew unfailingly visits him on the ground. He settles disputes, turf wars and obstreperous bird quarrels.

They seem to consult him before taking off on some mission or excursion. He cocks his head defiantly, turns away, as if to say, “Well, Go on. I’ll be all right. Go.” They fly off, leaving him standing by the outside radiator, where during winter he seeks heat flowing up from the plumbing pipes.

He stands there for hours on end.

Does Broken Wing dream of one day being reunited with his family — like countless prisoners on death row — or doing life without parole? Does he fear, as most prisoners do, dying in prison?

The other day, as I was being escorted to the dentist’s office, I gazed across the dusky prison grounds.

“Where’s Broken Wing” I asked.

“Dunno, Lewis,” one guard replied. “Haven’t seen ’im in several days.”

“Maybe they took him out, “ the guard on my right said.

I smiled. Yeah. Maybe they took him to a veterinarian. Or a retirement home for old wounded birds.

Perhaps he’d made parole. Or received a pardon from Governor Edward G. Rendell. Or maybe, just maybe, ole Broken Wing’s crew scooped down, raised him up and carried him over the high stone wall to freedom.

Reginald Sinclair Lewis is a widely-published award-winning poet, essayist and playwright on Pennsylvania’s death row. He is the author of two books of poetry, Leaving Death Row (AuthorHouse.com) and Inside My Head (www.iUniverse.com.) His newest book is entitled Where I’m Writing From: Essays from Pennsylvania’s Death Row (Publish America, 2005).

For more information, visit www.ReginaldSLewis.org.