Tortured at 13. But I'm Still Here!
Donation protected
My name is Marcus Wiggins. When I was 13, a crew of Chicago Police officers tortured me.
They slapped me. I wouldn’t talk. They punched me in the chest. They didn’t want the truth. They just wanted me to confess.
They brought in a black box with cords snaking out of it. They slammed my hands on the table and put these metal cords on my hands. And they electrocuted me until I passed out.
I woke up to them punching me again. Passing out had only infuriated them further. They asked me again to admit to the crime. I still had no idea what they were talking about.
I would later find out that this was something they did all the time.
It would later be revealed one of the officers there Michael Kill (not a joke, that’s his real name!), constantly used the N-word and had a 90% CONFESSION rate in murder cases. It’s not surprising since he and his crew were literally beating those confessions out of people.
I didn’t even consider myself a person. I was still in middle school.
They left me with PTSD and a stutter which I still have to this day.
My mother was so incensed by this, she sued the city of Chicago. This only angered the Chicago PD more. They would get their revenge when I was 19. They framed me for a murder I once again had no clue about.
I would spend the next 23 years in prison for a crime I was innocent of. I was released just a few months ago. I have no money. No job lined up, nothing.
But I do have one thing: I have hope.
When I was locked up, I wanted to be useful to somebody. To see if my life mattered. So I started cutting my fellow inmates’ hair. I got better at it every month, and it left me in awe.
The inmates there, friends and enemies, when they left my barber chair, they felt lighter, happier.
There’s something transformative about a haircut that makes you feel hopeful. Introduces you to your younger self. Makes you feel that you can bound out of that chair and grab a future with your name on it, even when you’re locked behind bars.
I’m now living in Wisconsin with my sister. I just got my driver’s license (barely!), and I want to enroll in barber school. And then open up my own shop. I want that feeling I had on the inside when people left my chair better than when they first sat in it.
I don’t want to beg for a donation. I know there are a lot of sad stories out there. If you want to give, I’d consider it an honor. Even if it’s just a dollar.
I would just like to see as many donors as possible. Because I don’t really have any friends on the outside, I’m just going to pretend that you are my new circle of friends. Because in some sense, for me, that’ll be the truth.
Thank you and come in for a trim one day. You kinda look like you need it. And the first cut is on me.
Your friend and new barber,
Marcus
They slapped me. I wouldn’t talk. They punched me in the chest. They didn’t want the truth. They just wanted me to confess.
They brought in a black box with cords snaking out of it. They slammed my hands on the table and put these metal cords on my hands. And they electrocuted me until I passed out.
I woke up to them punching me again. Passing out had only infuriated them further. They asked me again to admit to the crime. I still had no idea what they were talking about.
I would later find out that this was something they did all the time.
It would later be revealed one of the officers there Michael Kill (not a joke, that’s his real name!), constantly used the N-word and had a 90% CONFESSION rate in murder cases. It’s not surprising since he and his crew were literally beating those confessions out of people.
I didn’t even consider myself a person. I was still in middle school.
They left me with PTSD and a stutter which I still have to this day.
My mother was so incensed by this, she sued the city of Chicago. This only angered the Chicago PD more. They would get their revenge when I was 19. They framed me for a murder I once again had no clue about.
I would spend the next 23 years in prison for a crime I was innocent of. I was released just a few months ago. I have no money. No job lined up, nothing.
But I do have one thing: I have hope.
When I was locked up, I wanted to be useful to somebody. To see if my life mattered. So I started cutting my fellow inmates’ hair. I got better at it every month, and it left me in awe.
The inmates there, friends and enemies, when they left my barber chair, they felt lighter, happier.
There’s something transformative about a haircut that makes you feel hopeful. Introduces you to your younger self. Makes you feel that you can bound out of that chair and grab a future with your name on it, even when you’re locked behind bars.
I’m now living in Wisconsin with my sister. I just got my driver’s license (barely!), and I want to enroll in barber school. And then open up my own shop. I want that feeling I had on the inside when people left my chair better than when they first sat in it.
I don’t want to beg for a donation. I know there are a lot of sad stories out there. If you want to give, I’d consider it an honor. Even if it’s just a dollar.
I would just like to see as many donors as possible. Because I don’t really have any friends on the outside, I’m just going to pretend that you are my new circle of friends. Because in some sense, for me, that’ll be the truth.
Thank you and come in for a trim one day. You kinda look like you need it. And the first cut is on me.
Your friend and new barber,
Marcus
Organizer
Stacey Ryan
Organizer
Quincy, MA
