An unknown student contacted
me out of the blue a couple weeks ago to ask if I’d be willing to contribute to
his research on how prisoners’ art affects those who were, directly or indirectly,
victims of their crimes. He particularly
wanted to know if I would react to the art of Harold Wayne Nichols.
Who is Harold Wayne
Nichols? He’s the man who, under cover
of darkness, broke into our home in Chattanooga where one of my housemates, Karen, lay sleeping. My other housemate, Sue, and I were both working overnight shifts, leaving Karen home alone. He violently subdued her, raped her, and
left her for dead. She died the
following day. He raped 8 more women
over the next couple of months, one of whom was a co-worker of mine. He killed Karen. Sue became an addict in the aftermath of this
event and died prematurely last week at age 50.
My co-worker (ST) never recovered any normalcy in her life.
How do I react to the
art of Harold Wayne Nichols? There’s no
simple answer to that because the truth is, a whole host of reactions
immediately go to war inside me. These internal opponents can be summarily identified as
indignation and mercy and have waged war inside of me since 1988.
There’s one part of
me that identifies with the brokenness of his humanity and feels compassion for
the abandonment and abuse he endured in his childhood, which no doubt left him
unwhole. There’s a part of me that
knows he was created, like each of us, in the Image of God and I genuinely hope and
pray for his repentance and restoration.
But there is that part of me that wells up with anger when I remember
his heartless acts, his temporary remorse, and his absurd attempts to force
re-trial after re-trial with no regard for the peace of dozens affected by his
heinous acts.
That part of me
says, “I don’t give a damn about your art! It’s nothing but hideous child’s play from
the soul of the man who destroyed the lives of many beautiful, young women. Burn it.”
But more than the
art itself, I despise your flippant descriptions of it and of your life in
prison. Your words are laced with undertones of victimization: “I haven’t seen the stars in many years because
the glare of the prison lights and cages and other obstructions meant to keep
me in also seem to keep the stars out.”
Well, guess what, Harold? Those stars have not been
visible from 6-feet under for the past 29 years to a girl whose eyes have long
since been eaten by worms. How dare you bemoan your own hardship when Karen is dead, ST never “lived”
another day, and Sue died a long, slow, tragic death? Not one of them chose the deaths you handed
them…the choices were all yours. They’re
dead at your hands. And yet you live…to
complain about the absence of stars. How
dare you?
“Everywhere I turn, prison is the most prominent aspect of my
existence. No matter what I do, no
matter what color or beauty I attempt to bring into my life, I am always
reminded every day that I am in prison and that I have a death sentence looming
over me and that I will be forever limited in what I can accomplish.” You poor mistreated
soul. How can society be so cruel? After all, it was just a couple of rapes…well 9…and a murder….but you didn’t
really MEAN to kill that 21-year-old Christian virgin. If only she hadn’t fought so hard. Explain to me why I should feel sorrow for
your confinement in a place that provides you shelter, safety, warm meals, a bed, a warm shower, a library, education, counseling, and
even PAINTING LESSONS…all at no cost to you?
“I still have a life and intend to enjoy it as best I can. I think that is the reason I draw and paint –
because I enjoy living.” How dare you brag about how much you delight in living when you
robbed so many others of life? Karen
enjoyed living too until you snatched her breath in a moment of violent
self-absorption, Until you decided you had the right to do as you pleased with her life.
“Does it sound bizarre that a man sentenced to death by
electrocution would work making electrical repairs? Well I guess it is but until the State takes
it away I still have a life and I intend to enjoy it.” You nonchalantly mock
the “irony” of this then follow with a taunt of “Ha! I’m still alive…that is,
until the evil state robs me of my life”?
I hear an undercurrent of amusement, but there is NO humor in this for those of us on the outside who have lived
with the consequences of your choices, Harold. No humor at all.
You know, I might
find your words and art tolerable if there were even a slight hint of humility
in them. I understand making grave
mistakes…I’ve made them. I understand desperately needing a new start…I’ve
needed more than one. I even understand the
lasting effects of abuse…recovery is long and hard. But when your words drip with frivolity and victimization,
I want you to go to hell. Indignation drowns
mercy.
You beg for sympathy. when you should give thanks for mercy. You want sympathy? If you want MY sympathy,
then demonstrate that you have grieved and suffered and carried the weight of
your sins. Talk of sorrow and
repentance. Make things right with those whose lives you shattered. Use your energy to help others avoid your
sins, rather than justifying and dismissing them. Acknowledge the hurt and destruction that OTHERS
still bear today BECAUSE OF YOU. Your
attempts to garner pity leave me cold.
BUT…by virtue of my
confession that Christ is the Refuge, the Shelter, the Savior, the Great
Merciful One…by virtue of my declaration that I am his follower…by virtue of
him rescuing me and forgiving me…I am called to more than indignation. I am called to rescue even those who don’t
yet see their need for it. I am called to extend mercy where it is not
deserved. I find this a fierce and
difficult calling when confronted with your art and your words, Mr.
Nichols. A very fierce and difficult calling.
And THAT, young student, is how the art
of Harold Wayne Nichols affects me.
