One day in 1982, in the small Ozark Mountain community of Rogers, Arkansas, twenty eight year old Frankie Parker murdered his ex mother-in-law and father-in-law, shot his ex sister-in-law, kidnapped his ex wife, Pam Warren, dragged her to a police station, and there in a stand off, also wounded a police officer. He had eavesdropped on a telephone conversation and heard that Pam wanted to kill him. They had divorced six months earlier and he was still in a desperate rage over her loss. Bolstered by massive doses of cocaine and drunk with alcohol, he decided to buy a gun and pay a friend to kill him for $300. Clever in his insanity, he reasoned she would be suspected of his murder and would go to prison. When that plot failed, he took the gun to her parents' house to frighten them. The next day, he found himself in a hospital bed whoozey from drugs. The television was on and he watched a news report describing the horrendous events that he had wrought. That was the first awareness he had of what had transpired those last 48 hours.
Probably, no one was very surprised. Frankie had flaunted a disregard for the sanctity and fragility of life since his late teens. Married, fathering his first son at the age of 16, he divorced his first wife. In Korea during a stint with the army, he had a lucrative sideline selling drugs and black market booty. He married again, had a second son and then another divorce. All told of his race towards disaster. Then, he married Pam. When she also divorced him, he went wild with threats. The town knew of his craziness but was still shocked and enraged at the deaths of two good people. Frankie was the most horrified of all. Unfortunately, but predictably, he dealt with his guilt and pain with the only emotional tool he had, anger.
Sentenced to execution by lethal injection, Frankie went to what would be his new home for fourteen years, Death Row at Tucker Prison, Arkansas' Maximum Security Unit. While appeal after appeal was filed, Frankie fired lawyer after lawyer, yelled at the guards, and succeeded only in being a most difficult prisoner. Frequently thrown into 'the hole' for punishment, the first four years were an unending cycle of attacks on everyone and then viscious retaliations which fueled and justified his bitterness. Frankie knew the greatest hell realms but hardly could identify that he lived in them, much less see an escape.
On yet another thoroughly justified visit to this dark cell with no amenities, Frankie demanded to have a Bible, the only book allowed in the hole. The spiteful guard grabbed a nearby copy of the Buddhist text, The Dhammapada, threw it into the cell, slammed the door before it could be thrown back out, and yelled, "Here's your goddamn Bible." He chuckled mercilessly.
A year later, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, Frankie said to that guard, "You gave me the greatest gift I have ever received." For, on that day, Frankie had yelled himself into exhaustion and then finally picked up The Dhammapada. He began to read:
1. Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Suffering follows an evil thought as the wheels of a cart follow the oxen that draw it.
2. Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Joy follows a pure thought like a shadow that never leaves.
3. "He was angry with me, he attacked me, he defeated me, he robbed me" - those who dwell on such thoughts will never be free from hatred.
4. "He was angry with me, he attacked me, he defeated me, he robbed me" - those who do not dwell on such thoughts will surely become free from hatred.
5. For hatred can never put an end to hatred; love alone can. This is an unalterable law. People forget that their lives will end soon. For those who remember, quarrels come to an end.
Frankie recognized himself for the first time ever and the words said to him in an epiphany, 'there is a way out'. Those months in the hole were spent consuming Buddha's teachings as though they were speaking just to him. The text was indelibly transcribed in his mind when the guard opened the cell door. Not only was he leaving that cell of darkness, he was also leaving behind a life of the greatest of darknesses. He would say frequently, shackled and locked behind a succession of security doors, 'I escaped from prison when I began to practice dharma.'
With more conviction than he had ever had, he started waking up at 3 AM. He followed the directions in Bo Lozoff’s, We're All Doing Time, and tried to meditate. Clumsy, at first self-consciously staring at the walls, little by little, he found a stillness. Incidents which would have brought immediate anger were opportunities to practice mindfulness. The changes were slow and he wondered if he was making any progress. Renewed determination came when, after about a year, the other inmates began to comment on how he was different.
Frankie began to learn the meditative arts of origami and calligraphy. In the exercise yard, he taught himself Tai Chi. A martial arts movie had been an evening recreation feature after which his friends on the row said to him that he was like that guy in the movie. They began to tease him by calling him by the hero's name, SiFu (teacher), which became his new name. He suspected that he had read every book in the prison library on Buddhism, all world religions, and philosophies throughout the ages. Financially, Frankie received $15 a month from his mother. With these meager resources, he bought books not available at the prison and did without other necessities. Diligently, Frankie educated himself as thoroughly as one accomplishing a doctorate in philosophy and religion. More importantly, he put the teachings into practice and mindful moment by mindful moment his heart changed into one of compassion and his actions became acts of kindness.
"What," he would say later, "is the greatest act of kindness? A smile. Greet everyone with a smile. Meet everything with a smile."
Living as a Buddhist on death row was a challenge. Yet, his role with his fellow inmates and with the guards changed from the angry antagonist to a man who befriended those in the same pain that he had once known. Frankie would read to the illiterate. He would protect the mentally retarded. He would joke with the guards who trusted and appreciated him enough to share their life's dilemmas. When situations would erupt into a potential for violence, it was usually Frankie who would step into the role of mediator. Most of all, he was notorious for his jokes and the playful tricks he played on his friends. Death row was a riot when Frankie Parker was around.
A moment of immense pride was when the warden said to him, 'I wish all the prisoners were Buddhist if that meant that they would be like you.' Frankie felt that he was representing his heart's tradition honorably.
He became clearly the most powerful person on death row and he used this power with wisdom, prison wisdom and spiritual wisdom, and with compassion.
Yet, for seven years, Frankie felt very alone. He had only a few visitors and most were Christian preachers wanting to convert him. His family (two sons, his parents, and four siblings) rarely came to see him as they were limited by money and distance. In his Buddhist practice, he thought he was the only such oddity in the state of Arkansas.
Although he barely had glanced at a newspaper in years, he happened to scan the Religions Page in the Arkansas Democrat/Gazette one Saturday morning in January, 1994. Reading that The Ecumenical Buddhist Society in Little Rock was sponsoring a retreat in February, he dashed off a letter to 'anyone' and eagerly asked for support and help with his Buddhist study. I happened to be the Society's president at the time and I wrote back. As quickly as my letter arrived, he wrote again with more questions. And, so it went with eager letters full of apologetic requests, hoping that he was not a nuisance. There was no other way he could fulfill his deepest longings for texts, instructions, and most importantly, a Shakyamuni Buddha for his simple alter. He already had incense and candles that he had made, a picture of a Buddha, and beads of multicolored plastic that a friend had strung for him. But, he wanted a Buddha and the warden would only let him have a plastic one. In one letter, he joked, 'I can't imagine why I can't have a metal Buddha. I guess that they think I would use it as a weapon. Can you see it in the paper, 'Death row inmate kills guard with Buddha statue!' He eventually got his brass Shakyamuni Buddha after it traveled with me as a special purchase in Nepal, sat in the prison mail room waiting for approval for four months, and finally found its home on his alter.
I visited Frankie that spring and he filled the three hour visit with unceasing dharma talk, so delighted was he to have someone to share his path. We talked of his pain and guilt and did a cleansing series of repetitions of the Tibetan Buddhist, '100 Syllable Mantra'. We talked of practices and meditations which he could do to prepare for his death, the thought that never left him as he lived this most unusual life on Death Row. In February of 1995, Lama Tharchin Rinpoche, a Tibetan Nyingma Lama from Pema Osel Ling in California, came to give a teaching in Little Rock. In his great kindness, he came with me to visit Frankie. The connection was electric and Frankie was ecstatic. Later, he was to say that that was the most important moment of his life.
"It was like a visit from the Buddha himself," he said. "To me, Lama Tharchin is the Buddha."
Another year and a half passed and Frankie's appeals had run out. His execution date was set for May 29,1996. I suspected we had some pretty intense weeks ahead and wanted Frankie to have all the support he needed. Although, other sangha members were aware of Frankie and appreciated his many gifts, there had been some fears about getting too close to him. There were those who had written to him and I urged them to please write and maybe go for a visit. Once the visits began, the sangha truly discovered Frankie and were amazed to find a Bodhissatva. Immediate love developed between Frankie and so many that there was now a necessity to schedule visitors with skill and fairness. A visit to this remarkable teacher was a rare and wonderful blessing.
Kobutsu, a western Zen priest from New Jersey, had talked to Frankie on the phone and had volunteered to be spiritual advisor. He had immediately felt a strong connection and commitment to this inspiring brother. Kobutsu began a massive campaign on the internet for support and to fight the execution.
On May 22, one week before the scheduled execution, Lama Tharchin Rinpoche paid Frankie a second visit. He gave him the Phowa transmission and a teaching about death. The Phowa meditation practice is said to optimize the possibility that one may go to complete enlightenment at the time of their death. Rinpoche gave Frankie the Phowa practice connected to the dakini, Yeshe Tsogyal.
Meanwhile, Arkansas governor, Jim Guy Tucker, was deeply entrenched in legal scandals of his own and waiting for a jury to return with his verdict. He alone had the power to commute Frankie's sentence to life in prison without parole or to let the death sentence be carried out. While his jury was still in deliberation, he decided to postpone the execution, perhaps because it would be unseemly to execute someone while a jury was deciding on one's own guilt or innocence. The new date was set and reset a number of times, and finally scheduled for September 17. Jim Guy Tucker was found guilty and resigned his governorship and seceded to the new governor, a fundamentalist Baptist preacher named Mike Huckabee. Huckabee assumed the office on July 15. His first official act as governor was to reset Frankie's execution date to August 8. Frankie's life was shortened by a month and a half. Auspiciously, August 8 was a Ganachakra Tsog feast day to the dakini, Yeshe Tsogyal.
Letters of appeal, including one from the Dalai Lama and another from Thich Nhat Hhan, had been flooding the governors' office. Frankie, also, received letters of support and promises of prayers. Sanghas all over the world held special meditation days. Yet, August 8 approached and it was clear that Governor Huckabee was most determined to carry through with the sentence in order to 'alleviate the pain and suffering that the family had endured for 14 years.' Never did we stop our prayers for a miracle.
When Frankie's parents and sister arrived for their last visits, it was he that gave them teachings and courageous encouragement. He explained that his death was, to him, leaving on the journey for which he had prepared for eight years. He was not leaving them; he was only leaving his body. Sangha members and family visited up until the day before the execution. He said his good byes. Often, he had said that the good byes were going to be the hardest thing about dying. Our last glimpse of Frankie was as he was escorted away from us, across the prison yard, arms and legs shackled, going back to his 'death cell'. He could turn and watch us but could not return the waves of goodbye which we sent to him.
On Thursday, August 8, he was placed in the holding cell, a stifling place without air conditioning on that humid 95 degree day. He meditated. He made final phone calls to all his friends and family. Lama Tharchin Rinpoche called him from Switzerland to say good bye and to review the Phowa practice. He made origami animals and flowers for the guards while he told them jokes. At 7:30 PM, he wrote a final statement which shared his prayer that the tiny flame of compassion that he had kindled out of great remorse for the wrongs that he had done would inspire others to do the same. He hoped one day for a universe filled with compassion for all beings.
As 9 PM approached, the guards came for him in riot gear. He began to chant his refuge vows. On hearing this, they stopped, confused, until the administrator told them to continue. A small alter with his brass Buddha was set up on a cardboard box outside his cell. Tied almost immovably in chains, at his alter he did three bows. Then, he walked the few steps to the execution chamber, bowed to Kobutsu who had spent that last day with him, they hugged, and he walked through the door. His wish was to have the last thing that he saw be a picture of the Buddha and a Shakyamuni Buddha was held up for him by the Director of the Department of Corrections. He was asked his last words and Frankie said, 'I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in the Dharma. I take refuge in the Sangha.' He looked at his beloved Buddha, shut his eyes, and died at 9:04 PM.
Outside, members of the sangha had set up a tent and had been doing prayers since four in the afternoon. In Little Rock, 90 miles away, a community prayer service was held at the Episcopal Church and a vigil was held at the governor's mansion. The rest of the sangha began prayers at 8:30 and we all meditated together until 3 AM. We heard from individuals and sanghas all over the world that had said prayers for Frankie that night.
Saturday, after Frankie's cremation, we had a special memorial service. We wanted to play a song, one that Frankie spoke of often that expressed what he wished he could say to the sangha who was his family. The song was Saline Dionn’s, 'You Were There For Me'.
His sister, Sharon had been most reluctant to come to the service as she was so sad. As she dressed, she happened to listen to a song that so moved her, she stopped and wrote down the lyrics.
"Frankie would like that song," she thought. It gave her the motivation to drive the three hours to Little Rock for the memorial. Arriving early, we were still busy with preparations and we were readying the music. As the tape played, Sharon heard the same beautiful lyrics which she had written down that morning. She burst into tears knowing that Frankie truly had not left her, and had, in his usual way, pulled another fast one.