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Chapter 23
Gary Tyler
Around that time, between 1974 and 1975, after our constant protests, CCR
prisoners were given yard. Some CCR prisoners hadn’t been outside in
decades. They built six long rectangular pens out of chain-link fence topped
with barbed wire. The pens extended out from one gated entrance. From the
sky it looked like a hand with six fingers. We got yard for one hour—in place
of our hour on the tier—three times a week, weather permitting. It was a huge
relief to be outside. Some days when I hit the yard I ran laps and didn’t stop
the whole hour.
The recreation department put a weight pile at one end of each yard and
gave us small plastic footballs out there to play catch with. We threw the ball
to one another over the fences, but when the balls got caught in the barbed
wire they easily tore and became useless. Herman came up with the idea to
make a ball out of old socks. He put rags in a sock and folded it a certain way
and put it in another sock and that launched the sock ball phenomenon.
Everybody started making sock balls; we called them “big thumpers.” Soon
we were all running behind them when we were out on the yard. I could
throw one over three pens. We always threw them to the opposite part of the
pen from where the prisoner was standing so he’d have to chase after it. If
you missed a catch or dropped the ball you had to do 20 push-ups or bench
presses. For the most part, the freemen didn’t bother us on the yard. We were
loud, trash-talking each other, playing catch. Sometimes in the summer I
went out there, unbuttoned the top of my jumpsuit, rolled up my pants legs,
and lay down on the grass for the whole hour.
One time in winter when I got out to the yard it was freezing cold and the
grass was covered in a light layer of frost. The freeman made some comment
to me like, “Too bad you’re going to miss yard today.” I didn’t like his
condescending tone so I bent down and took off my shoes and ran laps in the
frost with no shoes on. Many of us did this. We did it to give the impression
that we were unbreakable, that we were determined, that there was no
backing down within us, that the value of our struggle was more important
than our own safety, our own comfort, our own lives, and our own freedom.
Eventually they laid a concrete walk on each yard so we could go out even if
the yard flooded with rain. It was great to feel the space of outside and
breathe the fresh air. But none of that relieved the pressure of knowing we
were going back into the cell.
On October 7, 1975, Herman, King, and I heard on the radio that a 17-year-
old black student named Gary Tyler had been convicted of shooting and
killing a white 13-year-old boy. He was sentenced to death and would be the
youngest prisoner in America on death row. They were bringing him to
Angola. We heard through the prison grapevine that when Gary arrived at
Angola some of the freeman were going to put him in the hole with a “rape
artist”—a prisoner who “specialized” in raping young prisoners. We weren’t
going to let that happen.
The day they brought Gary to Angola all three of us checked into the
dungeon. The CCR dungeon wasn’t as crowded as the main prison dungeon,
usually no more than two or three to a cell. They put Gary in the cell next to
us with two other guys. I don’t remember all that was said but we made it
known to those men that Gary was under our protection. One of the prisoners
checked out that night. We introduced ourselves to Gary and told him who
we were: members of the Black Panther Party. He could contact us, and
whatever he needed we were there for him. I think we spent two or three days
down there with him. We told him he now lived in a world of violent
struggle, one we called “armed struggle,” because that’s what it was. They
had blackjacks, bats, and gas guns. We tried to prepare him to survive. We
told him he had to arm himself with knowledge and stay focused on what’s
going on in society and not the bullshit that happens inside prison. He told us
his story, how he was framed for killing a white boy.
Gary was one of dozens of black children put on buses and sent to white
schools in Louisiana to integrate them in 1974. One day more than 100 white
students and adults at Gary’s school, Destrehan High School, stopped the bus
carrying the black students, throwing bottles and rocks and yelling racial
slurs. During the riot a white 13-year-old student in the crowd, Timothy
Weber, was shot and killed. The driver said the shot had come from outside
the bus. The bus and students were thoroughly searched and no gun was
found. The black students were brought to the police station and interrogated.
Gary was charged with disturbing the peace when he resisted being bullied at
the precinct, and then he was charged with murder. He was badly beaten.
Later, a gun was “found” in the seat where Gary Tyler had been sitting. Years
later that gun was identified by officers of the parish sheriff’s department as
having come from a firing range frequented by police. Eventually, the
witnesses who testified against Gary recanted, saying they gave false
statements because they were threatened and intimidated by police.
With grace and strength, Gary endured the unimaginable torture of being
sentenced to death and locked up on death row for a crime he didn’t commit,
at age 17. When his sentence was changed to “life without parole,” he
endured more than seven years of solitary confinement at CCR, then he spent
more than 30 years in the prisoner population at Angola as a mentor, leader,
and teacher. In 2012, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that a sentence of life
without parole for juvenile offenders was unconstitutional, and four years
later the Court ruled that the decision could be applied retroactively. Tyler
was released from prison in April 2016. I’m continually inspired by Gary
Tyler. Upon release, he immediately started working to help people in his
community.
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