Joseph Tremaine Wilson
Joseph Wilson, known to his friends as “Big Fella” and “Big Spank,” with his wife Deborah. Obtained from Nyvall News & Notes.
Remembering Big Fella
By his friend Howard
I’m really devastated by the loss of Big Fella, one of my closest friends here in the institution. I’ve known him for many years, but for the last 10 years we got real solid. He was a really good person. When you hear this guy laugh, you literally draw near. He’s got the Santa Claus laugh. It was like, yo, what’s so funny? He was the big dude that always smiled and was always laughing. He invited you to friendship without even asking. You talked to him today, you wanted to talk to him tomorrow. And the next thing you know he’s your homie, and that’s how it was for me.
I remember about 7 years ago when I started barber college, I was sharing with him how I was hoping to learn a skill to provide for myself and my family when I’m out of prison. It was a really big deal, and he offered to come over to let me cut his hair. I was like, “Nah man, I can’t even really line my own beard and mustache. Y’know what I mean? That’s why I shave it all off, y’know what I mean? So, I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
And he was like, “Yo, you gotta learn somehow, right?” […] He was like, from what he knew about barbers the most important thing is confidence. “So don’t worry about messing my hair up. You need to develop confidence and get good.”
So I’m looking at the dude thinking like, okay, yeah that makes sense. But, so not only is he Santa Claus, but he’s like, the Buddha or Confucius or somebody, right? Droppin’ wise jewels on me, y’know what I’m saying? So I took him up on his offer, and he came over and I sat him in this chair and we were kicking it. And I gave him a haircut. It wasn’t a good haircut at all, y’know what I mean? We looked in the mirror, we both laughed. But he said he would come back the next week and I’d try again.
And he came to that barber shop every week for me to cut his hair, [...] for about a year, maybe like, nine months to a year. And he didn’t get a good haircut at all, y’know what I mean? That was the kind of person he was, y’know, that was the kind of friend he was. He sacrificed himself so I could become a better barber and develop the confidence that I needed for that trade. And that meant a lot to me.
Portrait of Big Fella by Asha Edwards, originally published by Parole Illinois.
This was the kind of thing that Big Fella did often. He wanted to support you, he wanted to be a part of your success. Not for selfish purposes. He was a selfless individual. And he was very creative.
Listen to this, this some real stuff right here though, right? He actually taught dudes in prison how to make friendship bracelets, right? I’m talking about like with bright, cute colors, like pink, yellow, pastel, purples. All that, right? With little hearts on ‘em. And so, the thing is, right, that’s not the type of thing that you expect, to see guys in prison, right, guys got tattoos on they face, they got shaved mohawks, and—-y’know what I mean—-gang signs all in they head, everything, right? He got like four or five of ‘em sitting around him on the yard, with, like, really vibrant colors of string, weaving little bracelets. […]
He was teaching them how to do that so they can have a way to connect with their family members, y’know what I mean? Especially like a lot of us who had daughters, that was like a really big deal. It was a way for us to stay connected to our kids, right? And to develop that softer side that everybody say that we ought to have, y’know what I mean?
And so, it was funny, though, because, after he got good at it, he’d just sit there, right? Cause he a big fella, now, don’t get me wrong. So he’d just be sitting on the edge of his bunk, with his arms folded, and there’d be like three or four guys huddled over in front of his cell. Y’know what I mean? And he’d be sittin’ there saying, “Mmm hm. Mmm hm. Yeah. You got it. Yeah. Like that. […]”
Yeah, that was my dog, man. That was what he did to help people connect. Both inside and outside the prison.
Imma miss him dearly. […] I wish I had a chance to tell him that I love him, and that I appreciated everything that he did. […] It’s kinda like taboo for guys in prison to say, you know, I love you to one another, right? We regarded each other as a friend. But even though that’s something that’s understood, I wish that I had the courage, right, to kinda like buck against that taboo and tell him that I actually loved him and appreciated all that he did. Cause I wonder […], how often has he ever heard that, from his male friends, y’know what I mean?
I owe a lot of my maturation to him. He showed me what a friend should be. He will be greatly missed by me and other guys around here. Imma try my best to carry on his legacy, and I hope his family can find some kind of comfort in my words.
Rest in Peace, Big Fella.
Transcribed by MOL volunteer Kirsten Pickering.
Gone but Not Forgotten
By Robert Boyd, Joseph’s friend
Joseph Wilson or Big Spank was a friend that lost two fights in one night. COVID-19 robbed him of the opportunities that he had been preparing himself to use under different circumstances. He received his G.E.D. months ago which allowed him to be accepted into North Park’s Master’s Program. This was a personal goal, investment into his growth.
Life chooses to live its own way, and all we can do is try to find understanding in the scenes projected to us. This reasoning is something he promoted because it gave value to something so fleeting and was his way of staying connected to what meant the most to him, family and friends. Death stole all opportunities from him, ending the hurt and pain while delivering the smallest amount of relief. This relief just so happens to be freedom, no more confinement, no more restrictions; just freedom for a friend.
The Tears Stream Down
By Demetrice Crite
For his friends, Joseph “Big Spank” Wilson, James “Baldy” Scott, and Gary“G-Jones”
These are the times that try men's Souls. Thomas Paine must have foreshadowed COVID-19 when he wrote these words. My soul aches, but I do not display it publicly. Those I mourn would want me to put on a brave face, trust me, I know.
The agonizing loss I endure stains my pillow with salty teardrops. I steal moments of privacy in the quietude of late-night, then I bawl. I’ve experienced death, sometimes it has a profound effect on me. I was unprepared for the flurry of furious blows that this pandemic, COVID-19, would bludgeon me with.
I am old enough, strong enough, and mature enough to handle and accept death and loss, but it is the memories that seem to uninterruptedly tug at my heartstrings. This is the case with the loss of three warriors that I have had the honor to call friends. James “Baldy” Scott, Joseph “Big Spank” Wilson, and Gary “G-Jones”. Their memories have impacted and affected me deeply.
When I was quarantined for the virus myself, I received the horrible news about “Big Spank.” The news hit me like a ton of bricks and made me take a pause to count my blessings. “Spank” as he was called by many, was soft-spoken, but his words were loud with guidance. I met him at a reckless moment in my life. He showed me that despite my situation, I was not the chaotic nature of my actions. He put his arm around me, walked and talked with me, and reassured me that the mountain was not mine alone to climb. The tears stream down my face, but I hear him say: “It's gonna be okay.” Through him, I met James “Baldy” Scott.
“Baldy,” now this old man was as smooth as Tennessee whiskey and his personality was as warm as a glass of Brandy, to quote Chris Stapleton. He seemed to always be unnerved by all the constant chaos around him. He was the epitome of unscathed, in my opinion. We shared a love of baseball, softball, and football. Most importantly, he had a way of calming me. I guess it was because he had traveled the road I was headed down. I received the news about his demise from his cellmate. Ironically, I had made an inquiry about his well-being hours earlier. I was devastated to hear later that day that the same man who had kicked cancer's ass had died. The tears stream down, but I can hear his voice saying, “Keep playing the hand that they dealt you, eventually it will be the best hand at the table,” an inside message we shared.
Gary “G-Jones,” I met this fogey when I arrived back at Stateville in 2017. His ability to talk smack and tell it like it is drew me to him. On a walk to the healthcare unit from the cellhouse, I learned all of the dos and don’ts and ins and outs of Stateville. This all happened in a five-minute trek. “G-Jones” was worn down and long-in-the-tooth, but he had a resilience of a prize fighter and the mouth of a young Muhammad Ali. If you listened and let him talk long enough, nothing or nobody could whip his ass. If he thought you could be the one, he’d talk enough shit to sway your thoughts on winning. He loved life, lived a life the way he wanted, and changed lives, mine included. The tears stream down, and I hear him saying, “Dry dem tears up, I’m gon be O.K.”
In a place where you can seemingly grow numb to pain life throws your way, I’ve learned to accept that some pain is for growth. Some people are placed in your life’s path at the right time. Many of them you meet halfway, but then there are some who meet you where you are. These people leave the most lasting impressions. Sadly, when they go on to sit and sup with the Creator, you realize that for that moment, they walked with you and even sometimes carried you on your journey. I do not cry for these men and mentors out of sadness or sorrow, but the tears are joyful. They are for the memories I am blessed to have, the brotherly love we shared, and the immense honor I had to call them “friend.” The tears stream down.
Author Bio
Demetrice Crite is an aspiring prison writer. Born in Kentucky, he strives to tell the story of the past, present, and future of prisons and prisoners. He also believes that his pen will one day free him.
From Mourning Our Losses:
Joseph Tremaine Wilson, known as “Big Fella” and “Big Spank,” passed away on April 13th, 2020 after a battle with COVID-19. He was 44 years old. He is mourned by his wife Deborah Wilson, their children, their family, and his many friends.
Big Fella was an accomplished artist and poet, a student of theology, a beloved husband and father, and a valued friend. He was also a first-year Master’s student in Christian theology at Stateville Correctional Center’s School of Restorative Arts. His professors remember him as a compassionate listener, an artist, a lover of the work of Angela Davis, and a light in their lives. His fellow students remember him as a joyful person who was always there for others.
In a commemoration of Big Fella, his friend of many years Howard describes him as “a really good person. When you hear this guy laugh, you literally draw near, he’s got the Santa Claus laugh. He was the big dude that always smiled and was always laughing…He invited you to friendship without even asking. You talked to him today, you wanted to talk to him tomorrow. And next thing you know he’s your homie, and that’s how it was for me.”
Original Sankofa art by Joseph Tremaine Wilson, photograph obtained from Nyvall News & Notes.
Big Fella supported Howard during his barber’s training in Stateville, insisting that Howard practice on him to gain confidence.
“[H]e came to that barber shop every week for me to cut his hair [...] for about a year, maybe like, nine months to a year. And he didn’t a good haircut at all, y’know what I mean? That was the kind of person he was, y’know, that was the kind of friend he was. He sacrificed himself so I could become a better barber and develop the confidence that I needed for that trade. And that meant a lot to me.”
Big Fella’s close friend Willie remembers him as “a great dude. Always had a smile on his face.”
“He was a good guy, always jolly, always helpful,” Willie recalled. “[His death] really hit home. It was like I lost a family member. You create your own family in here, and he was definitely like a family member to me.”
In response to remembrances of Big Fella published by Parole Illinois, Deborah Wilson, his wife of 17 years, thanked those who became his family on the inside.
“One thing I would always let Big Fella know,” she wrote, “never give up, we will fight together.”
“Thank you for sharing his fight.”
This part of the memorial was written by MOL team member Kirsten Pickering, with information from a remembrance of Big Fella by his friend Howard, from a memorial by Bekah Lindberg of the North Park Theological Seminary (NPTS) Nyrall News, a post on social media by Deborah Wilson, and an interview by Lee V. Gaines of Illinois Public Media.