I have received many e-mails over the past couple of years as I have been writing here. Several of these have been from the children of incarcerated parents. I have never published their e-mails because they have been so personal and often emotionally raw. I have also not wanted ask for permission to share them on the blog. The e-mails have felt private.

Some children of the incarcerated (at least the ones who have reached out to me) seem to live difficult lives. One particular young woman and I have struck up an e-mail pen pal relationship. She has struggled to move past the hurt and harm caused by her father’s estrangement. He has been locked up for most of her life. She is dealing with unresolved anger and grief from his absence. Yet at the same time, it seems to me that he actually occupies an outsized space in her world too. She thinks of him constantly. She feels a lot of rage. This idea of the gaping hole that can be left in a child’s life when he or she has an incarcerated parent is well illustrated by Tupac’s “Papa’s Song.” The accompanying video paints a searing portrait of how the absence of a father through incarceration can negatively impact a child’s life.

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Not a Life Sentence
By Marilyn Buck (November 2000)

only a few years to do

the prisoner’s health crumbles
her complaints callously dismissed
shut up in correction’s closets

only a year left to do

the prisoner dies

My friends Lewis Wallace and Micah Bazant have updated their original Miklat, Miklat zine and I am happy to share the new version HERE (PDF). I am incredibly grateful to Lewis and Micah for creating this excellent resource. I am always asked by folks to “define” transformative justice. I mostly resist those efforts.

I have offered a page of some resources for those who want to explore the concept of transformative justice. I have also wrestled quite a bit on this blog with the question of how transformative and restorative justice look in practice. I will continue to do so here while still resisting the urge to offer an definitive answers (since I don’t think that there are any because TJ is so situational).

If you have been considering the concept of transformative justice in your own life and work and have developed your own resources (reading lists, zines, essays), please do share them with me. I would be happy to post them on the blog so that others can learn from your experiences.

Once again, you can download the updated zine HERE (PDF).

10.4 percent of the African-American male population ages 25 to 29 is incarcerated. More than 3 million Black households have a close relative currently or previously on parole or probation.

(Source: Reed, 2012)

I have not written about the Marissa Alexander case on this blog though I have been closely following the developments in her trial. Well on Friday, Ms. Alexander was sentenced to 20 years in prison.

For those who are unfamiliar with the case, here is a very brief summary. Marissa Alexander is an African-American mother of 3 who tried to protect herself from an abusive husband by firing a warning shot into the ceiling after he had beat her up again. There is of course much more to the case including the fact that her attorney tried to use the infamous “Stand Your Ground” law as her defense and was prohibited from doing so by the judge. You can read much more about the case here.

This is another example of the system re-victimizing survivors of violence and speaks to what I wrote about on Monday with respect to the inadequacy of the efforts to actually support survivors of rape and domestic violence. This case brings to mind countless other stories of battered women and rape survivors who I have known over the years. But there is also something more…

Danielle McGuire has written in her excellent book “At the Dark End of the Street” that there was a time in this country when it was presumed that black women could not be raped. The idea was that they were naturally promiscuous and that their bodies were inviolate. In other words, no never meant no for black and brown women (and some poor white women). This idea has carried over, I think, to the concept of “self-defense” as applied to women of color. If black women’s bodies can always be violated and if black women are easily killable, then the notion of self-defense can never apply. Black women do not have a “self” worth defending.

A poem by Toi Derricotte titled “On the Turning Up of Unidentified Black Female Corpses” is one of my favorites. It captures the idea that black women in our culture are so thoroughly devalued that our deaths go unnoticed and unpunished. One particular stanza is especially moving for me:

a black woman, there is a question being asked
about my life. How can I
protect myself? Even if I lock my doors,
walk only in the light, someone wants me dead.

Read the entire poem if you have a moment, you won’t be sorry.

The Marissa Alexander case brings to mind another instance of self-defense by a survivor of sexual violence. Inez Garcia was a 30 year old Latina who had a child and was profoundly Catholic. Inez was an illiterate woman who had moved to California to be closer to her husband who was incarcerated in Soledad prison. In March 1974, she was beaten and raped by two men in California. She was tried for first degree murder for shooting and killing one of her rapists. A flyer created by her defense committee in the 70s describes the details of the incident.

Louis Castillo and Miguel Jimenez came to Inez’s house at 8 p.m., allegedly to talk to Fred Medrano, who was also renting the house [that Inez lived in]. While waiting for him, the two men started drinking and taunting Inez. When Fred arrived home, he was harassed and threatened and beaten up in the fight that followed. Inez, frightened, told Louis and Miguel to leave, and stepped outside to make sure they left. They forced her to come behind the house with them where, trapped, she was beaten, her clothes torn, and she was raped.

In a state of shock and hysterical from the attack, Inez went back inside and loaded her .22-caliber rifle. At this time she received a phone call from the two men who had just attacked her. They threatened to make it worse for her if she did not leave town. About one half hour later she found her attackers five blocks away, beating up Fred a second time. She saw Jimenez draw a knife and called out. Jimenez turned and threw the knife in her direction. Inez fired, killing Jimenez and missing Castillo completely.

Women’s rights advocates and others seized on the Garcia case as an example of the “justice” system run amok. Her Defense Committee (comprised of local feminists and other community members) maintained that it was unjust that Inez was accused of premeditated murder “for defending herself against brutal and senseless attack” while her rapist remained free. They added:

“Thousands upon thousands of women have been attacked and raped, and countless more live in fear of rape. Inez is one of the few to defend herself so bravely. Her case is an example to everyone, for until men stop attacking women, women must be free to defend themselves by whatever means necessary.”

Inez Garcia was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to five years in prison. This sparked several “Free Inez” demonstrations. She spent two years behind bars until her conviction was reversed on appeal because the judge had instructed the jury not to consider her rape. Her case was retried in 1977 and she was acquitted. The Garcia case and the Joan Little case offer examples which illustrate that it matters what people on the outside do when unjust charges are brought against individuals. If you doubt this, I suggest that you read Vikki Law’s interview about three cases (including Garcia’s and Little’s) where outside pressure and activism helped to overturn convictions of women survivors of violence. Let’s hope that those fighting on behalf of Marissa Alexander will also be successful in securing a reversal of her conviction on appeal. You can sign a petition to Free Marissa Alexander here

I am currently re-reading Eldridge Cleaver’s “Soul on Ice.” This is partly because it’s been a long time since I first read the book and also because of a current project that I am working on. Soul on Ice is a series of letters and essays that paint a portrait of Cleaver’s life before and inside prison. It was written while he was incarcerated for nine years at San Quentin and Folsom prisons. Published in 1968, the book was celebrated for its honesty and hailed as a powerful expression of protest. With Soul on Ice, Cleaver reminds people that just because one is living on the outside of prison doesn’t mean that you are free.

I have written about the special influence that Malcolm X’s story has had in the lives of incarcerated young men. I am reminded of this again in re-reading Cleaver. In the following passage, he explains what drew some black prisoners to Malcolm:

Malcolm X had a special meaning for black convicts. A former prisoner himself, he had risen from the lowest depths to great heights. For this reason he was a symbol of hope, a model for thousands of black convicts who found themselves trapped in the vicious PPP cycle: prison-parole-prison. One thing that the judges, policemen, and administrators of prisons seem never to have understood, and for which they certainly do not make allowances, is that Negro convicts, basically, rather than see themselves as criminals and perpetrators of misdeeds, look upon themselves as prisoners of war, the victims of a vicious, dog-eat-dog social system that is so heinous as to cancel out their own malefactions: in the jungle there is no right or wrong.

Rather than owing and paying a debt to society, Negro prisoners feel that they are being abused, that their imprisonment is simply another form of oppression which they have known all their lives. Negro inmates feel that they are being robbed, that it is “society” that owes them, that should be paying them, a debt.

America’s penology does not take this into account. Malcolm X did, and black convicts know that the ascension to power of Malcolm X or a man like him would eventually have revolutionized penology. Malcolm delivered a merciless and damning indictment of prevailing penology (pp.58-59).

Interestingly, the Autobiography of Malcolm X is still one of the top books that youth in conflict with the law request from me. It seems that the story of his transformation, his personal journey from a kind of mental slavery to an enlightened liberation has resonance for these young people. The Autobiography traces Malcolm’s evolution from a pedestrian street hustler to an internationally renowned leader. Nathan McCall’s memoir “Makes Me Wanna Holler” is another favorite among the young people who I work with. McCall expresses better than I can what appealed to him about Malcolm’s story when he was growing up: “Malcolm’s tale helped me understand the devastating effects of self-hatred and introduced me to a universal principle: that if you change your self-perception, you can change your behavior (p.165).” That captures it perfectly, I think.

About three months ago, I received an e-mail from someone who was furious at me. Apparently, she read a post that I wrote about the reaction of a rape survivor to her assault. She railed at me for being “dangerous,” and for re-victimizing rape survivors by “expecting” them to “forgive” their rapists. She called me naive and wrong. She ended by suggesting that I get some “help.”

I didn’t respond to her e-mail. I honestly don’t think that she wanted or would have welcomed a response from me. I don’t feel the need to explain myself though I do want to clearly state that I NEVER suggest that survivors of any type of violence must “forgive” their perpetrators. While it is true that I write often about forgiveness on this blog, I always do so from the perspective of my own personal healing journey. I believe that no one is entitled to your forgiveness. It is your choice as a survivor whether to bestow that grace. We all do what we need to do to survive and that is at it should be. The harmed party should never be asked to give away her power to the person who did the harm.

I have also written about my thoughts regarding sexual violence, restorative justice and community accountability. I won’t rehash those ideas again. You can read them here if you are interested.

One more thing about the e-mail. It came from someone who described herself as being a rape crisis counselor. At this point, I want to share a few words about my exile from the anti-rape and anti-domestic violence movements. I got involved in anti-rape organizing when I was in college. I tried to become involved earlier while in high school but I was turned away (and that is a story for another day). After graduating from college, I continued to first volunteer and then work at rape crisis centers and in domestic violence organizations. I have over 20 years of experience in this work.

By the time, I started my anti-rape activism in the late 80s, the anti-violence against women and girls movement was already on its way to becoming a professionalized field. We were far removed from the origins of the contemporary movement of the early 70s. Today, the field is replete with well-meaning therapists, social workers, and others who have come to this work with a social service orientation. Additionally, the field has, in part, enabled and strengthened the current carceral state.

I am now an exile of the anti-rape and the anti-domestic violence movements. From my position of exile, I am committed to reclaiming a model for addressing harm that does not rely on the punishing state as the first resort to mete out “justice.”

It is important to remember that the anti-rape movement of the early 70s emerged out of the radical women’s movement which was suspicious of relying too heavily on the apparatus of the state to address its concerns. Early grassroots rape crisis centers explicitly operated outside of the social service paradigm and did not rely on law enforcement and the courts. They worried that accepting money from the state would make the movement beholden.

Early on though, the anti-rape and anti-domestic violence movements were riddled with internal tensions between those who worried that the movements would be co-opted by the state and those who deeply believed that the state needed to be responsive to the demands of penal punishment. The latter group won the day as the anti-rape and anti-domestic violence movements have been incredibly successful at passing laws and at creating new categories of “crimes.” The focus on getting the police to become more responsive to these instances of violence has led to a symbiotic relationship between anti-violence advocates and law enforcement. I believe that there has been nothing more destructive than the collaboration between these movements and the police for the safety of survivors of violence. I cannot tell you how many survivors of violence tell me regularly that they DO NOT want to involve the police or the courts in their business. They just want the violence to end.

Current anti-rape and anti-domestic violence organizations are unrecognizable to the pioneers and veterans of these movements. The good news is that we have models from our past that can be revived in the present. Organizations like the Bay Area Women Against Rape relied on community accountability models for addressing harm in the early 70s. We can rely on their examples to build a model that can work for us in the 21st century. The current model is bankrupt and dying. Funding cuts are leading to the closing of domestic violence shelters and rape crisis centers across the country. It is unfortunate that it will be outside forces that will lead to the revolutionary change that is needed to truly address harm. But we have an opportunity in this historical moment. I hope that we can seize it.

I’ve been meaning to write about this new amazing project called the Knotted Line.

The project is described as follows:

The Knotted Line is an interactive, tactile laboratory for exploring the historical relationship between freedom and confinement in the geographic area of the United States. With miniature paintings of over 50 historical moments from 1495-2025, The Knotted Line asks: how is freedom measured? Just as importantly, The Knotted Line imagines a new world through the work of grassroots movements for self-determination.

I want to warn you that you should not look through this online art project if you are in a hurry. I have literally spent several hours looking through everything on the site. This project basically examines the historical relationships between incarceration, education and the economy in the U.S. As I am working on creating an exhibition about a history of Black confinement and captivity, I am grateful to be able to explore this new project. It is giving me some excellent ideas for the exhibition that I am developing.

I cannot imagine how many hundreds of hours of work have gone into creating the Knotted Line but I am incredibly grateful to the creators of this project. It is invaluable.

As I begin to think about pulling together an exhibition about confinement and captivity in black life, I am re-reading several books and articles about slavery and emancipation.

In Alabama, even before the Civil War, prisoners were responsible for their own court and incarceration costs at the county level. After the Civil War, this continued with one day in prison costing thirty cents. If prisoners could not pay, they served extra time and labored to pay the fees. While Alabama state prisoners had always worked, the state had never made a profit off their labor. This changed in 1875 when the state began to lease out prisoners for their labor to coal mines and to railroad companies. This money was essential to Alabama as the state was broke in the 1870s and prisoner labor helped to fill its coffers.

Alabama like many other Southern states desperately needed laborers for the lease system to work and they used the criminal code as a tool of racial discrimination. One cannot understand the racial subordination of black people post Emancipation without also exploring its links to the need in the south for a cheap and stable labor supply. Adolph Reed (1996) has described the state post-Emancipation as a “collective slavemaster.” This is an important insight that underscores the link between slavery and the continued criminalization of black bodies.

Post-Emancipation the criminalization of black people found its best expression in the Black Codes. In his book “Worse Than Slavery” (which I think is a must read), David Oshinsky suggests that the goal of the Black Codes was:

to control the labor supply, to protect the freedman from his own “vices,” and to ensure the superior position of whites in southern life…The Black Codes listed specific crimes for the “free negro” alone: “mischief,” “insulting gestures,” “cruel treatment to animals,” and the “vending of spiritous or intoxicating liquors.” Free blacks were also prohibited from keeping firearms and from cohabitating with whites…At the heart of these codes were the vagrancy and enticement laws, designed to drive ex-slaves back to their home plantations. The Vagrancy Act provides that “all free negroes and mulattoes over the age of eighteen” must have written proof of a job at the beginning of every year. Those found “with no lawful employment…shall be deemed vagrants, and on conviction…fined a sum not exceeding…fifty dollars.” The Enticement Act made it illegal to lure a worker away from his employer by offering him inducements of any kind.

Another example of manipulating the criminal code to control and subordinate black people is Mississippi’s 1876 “Pig Law” which lowered the threshold for grand larceny and resulted in a quadrupling of convicts in the state in just a few years. The “Pig Law” is discussed in the excellent recent documentary “Slavery By Another Name.”

Watch Pig Laws and Imprisonment on PBS. See more from Slavery by Another Name.

Using the criminal code to steal free labor from black people allowed many Southern states to recover economically after the civil war. The convict lease system was brutal and the lessees had little incentive to safeguard the lives of prisoners. If one died, he/she could easily be replaced by another. The Lease system engendered a great deal of resistance from black people and their allies. For those who are interested, you can read Frederick Douglass’s words about the cruel system here. In the early 20th century, Alabama women were actively struggling to end convict leasing. I’ve written about some of those efforts here.

I will have more to say about the convict lease system in the coming weeks…