And I heard and saw, first-hand, a ton of Hoe Ass Shit behind those Bars…

Offenders-forgive yourself and forgive others. Anyone who cannot achieve forgiveness will hurt with the heavy weight it carries on our Hearts.

The clang of the cell door echoed through the sterile, pale-green walls of the segregation unit, a symphony of isolation that resonated with every inmate within. But for these men, hardened by years of violence and desperation, the presence of Officer John ‘Red’ Redding was a balm against the harsh reality of their confinement.

Red wasn’t your typical prison guard. He’d come to Texas from a small town in East Texas, where the air was thick with the scent of pecan trees and the rhythm of life pulsed slow and steady. A farmer at heart, he understood the resilience of the land and the dignity of hard work.

Ten years in the Department of Corrections had honed his empathy. He’d seen the raw, unfiltered pain in the eyes of men stripped of their freedom, and he knew the agonizing loneliness of segregation. He wouldn’t let them lose their humanity.

He’d started small – a book from the prison library, a shared joke, a genuine smile. But it was the hip-hop music that truly connected him. Red, a man whose playlist usually consisted of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, had learned the lyrics of the latest rap songs, the slang, the rhythm – everything. He’d rap with the inmates, not mockingly, but with a genuine desire to understand their world, their language, their pain.

He’d become a confidante, a teacher, a mentor. The inmates, initially wary, were drawn to his kindness. They started asking him about his family, his farm, his life. They’d tell him their stories, their fears, their dreams, knowing Red would listen without judgment.

One day, Red found a young man, eyes hollow and filled with despair, struggling to breathe, a frayed bedsheet clutched in his hand. He’d seen this before, the silent screams of the incarcerated, the desperation that could only end one way. Red, with his calm, soothing voice, spoke to him, not as a guard, but as a man. He rapped a few lines, a song about hope and second chances, the lyrics resonating through the tense silence. The young man, his eyes slowly finding focus, looked up. He’d found a voice in the darkness, a lifeline in the despair.

And then, there was another inmate, a man consumed by a deep-seated rage, his face twisted in anger. Red, with his quiet strength, approached him. He spoke of the futility of hatred, of the strength that lay in forgiveness. He rapped a song about peace, about finding solace in the face of adversity. The inmate, his features softening, listened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

Red had not only saved lives, but he’d given these men a glimpse of hope, a reason to hold onto their humanity. They were in prison, but they weren’t forgotten.

The clanging cell doors, now a familiar rhythm, didn’t hold the same power. Red, the man from Texas with a heart of gold, had turned the cold steel bars of the segregation unit into a place of unexpected humanity, where the power of kindness, empathy, and a little bit of rap music could still bloom.

And the greatest lesson he learned after all those years of keeping Offenders calm and heard in Ad. Seg. and hardest to do, and he shared this with thousands of Offenders-

was Forgiveness…

Offenders-forgive yourself and forgive others. Anyone who cannot achieve forgiveness will hurt with the heavy weight it carries on our Hearts.

After almost 19 years of Texas Prisons always on the line, he had learned what few ever come to learn.