67 Years in Prison (part 2)
More thoughts from the second-longest-serving inmate, in his own words.
Hey if you haven’t read part 1, you may want to. The basic gist is I have been corresponding with Kenneth Nicely, who has been in prison in Arkansas since 1958. He has spent more time behind bars than nearly anyone in US history. Here is my first exchange with him.
I wrote back to Kenneth Nicely. I had more questions for him sparked by his first letter to me. Again, like last time I don’t have much commentary to add to what he has written because what could I possibly add? He has been in prison for 67 years and I write a substack and work a job that requires me to be at a laptop for a few hours each day. There is nothing I could say that is more interesting than what is in his letter.
Below I linked my second letter to him which will be helpful context before you read his letter because he is answering the questions I asked him.
Okay, now that you have that context, like last time, here is his letter back to me both in his handwriting and then transcribed if that is too hard to read.
(click to expand)
Now here it is transcribed.
April 14, 2025
Dear Dylan Press,
How ARE you today? Apology for the delay. Some things just come with old age and being in this living hell is no consolation.
I’ll do my best to answer your questions.
First, I have kept my mind sharp by eating healthy and being isolated from all the pain and misery of other men. I read, catch a news program. Most of the time I’m in my cell alone looking at these four walls and trying to get out of this concrete tomb.
I remember that from day one Cummins is hell on earth. Hope is what you make it for that moment. You can hope to NOT get raped. Hope not to be killed. Hope not to be beaten. Hope has to be short‑termed in this hell. Hope has to show up and rescue a person from the right now “because hell is not waiting to inflict its punishment upon the souls in this prison.”
You mentioned a joyous moment. When is a bird ever happy to be locked up in a cage? One cannot confuse the chirping and songs coming from the bird to be happiness. I feel what the caged bird feels, which is great suffering and longing to be free. So, my words are filled with pain and my words shed tears. I could never cry.
Now, dreams when they do come sometimes they are reruns, because I was locked up as a young boy and didn’t have much to live to remember. Sometimes I confuse my dreams with memories.
Dreams are luxury that came later on while doing time. How can one be caught off guard with a knife to their throat and raped, seeking the enjoyment of a dream? NO, I’d rather have sleepless nights and be on guard early on in 1958–’60s than risk the unspeakable. Yeah, I’ll take a rain check on dreaming.
As I got older I dreamed about the free life, happiness and family about as much as is normal. Any late‑night, unconscious wanderings about this place can only be described as horrors and nightmares that I have buried deep within my soul.
I was never a man when I came to this place. I wouldn’t tell that to myself. I was a troubled boy who would grow into a man one day. I didn’t understand that young boy. There’s nothing I could say to that kid back then— that kid in 1958 was subject to the survival of the fittest: poor, ignorant, confused with no help coming over the horizon to rescue him. Even under those dire circumstances he’s still living; he survived, and maybe God wanted me to live to call attention to this type of injustice that is inflicted upon our youth for their adolescent mistakes.
Everything has changed around me. I couldn’t keep up with ’em. They now house blacks and whites together. Guns and drugs are everywhere. Women even work in prison now. Men still are being murdered here. Several men have been murdered by their cellmates recently. One incident, the guards left the dead body in the cell with the assailant until their shift leave, and passed it on to the next shift officers. Could it get worse? Dead is Dead.
Prison policy promotes mass incarceration here. Yes, people have to be dealt with for committing crimes. In the South, this Bible Belt is not progressive as in the North and far West. This prison “meta” wasn’t meant for whites—it’s just slavery with a twist.
Now, some men have got out and I never see them again. Maybe they reformed themselves. How could picking cotton and chopping down weeds with a 25‑pound hoe reform someone?
Death penalty. The death house is at Cummins. I’ve seen a lot of people come here to be electrocuted and get that lethal‑injection stuff. State police all on the roof. They put ’em in those two haunted cells back there next to the death house. Quiet cells is what they call them. Men who go there—I have seen ghosts in their cells. I don’t think the living should kill the living. It happens like in Gaza where those people are being killed. No death penalty for those doing the killing. Men will find reasons to kill, and when they run out of reasons, they will kill for nothing.
I never meant to kill anyone. How I grew up and society ruined my young mind and gave me the option to kill—I should never, as a kid, have had murder as a choice or option to solve anything.
Maybe in my next letter I’ll share an old story—hopefully one that is too dark and violent, because that’s all this Cummins Unit breeds.
I thank you and your readers for reaching out to me. I pray that I awake with enough energy to make it to my walker and, step by step, face this evil place with my head up and eyes wide open.
Sincerely,
Kenneth Nicely
Again, I have nothing to add to this that I think would be useful to you. I hope it impacts you like it has impacted me. Let me know your thoughts or if you have other questions you would like me to ask him.