A couple of years ago, I acquired a mimeographed copy of a letter that H. Rap Brown (now Jamil Al-Amin) wrote from Parrish Prison (New Orleans) on February 21, 1968. The document was circulated during the late-60s across the U.S. I am excited to share the artifact at an upcoming exhibition this fall. In the meantime, I wanted to share the content of the letter here. I am including it exactly as it is written (including any spelling mistakes and/or typos). If you don’t know who H. Rap Brown is, you should read this excellent profile that appeared in the Nation Magazine in 2002.

Being a man is the continuing battle of one’s life: one loses a bit of manhood with every stale compromise to the authority of any power in which one does not believe.

No slave should die a natural death. There is a point where coution ends and cowardice begins.

For every day I am imprisoned I will refuse both food and water. My hunger is for the liberation of my people. My thirst is for the ending of oppression.

I am a political prisoner, jailed for my beliefs — that black people must be free. The government has taken a position true to its fascist nature: those who cannot convert, they must silence. This government has become the enemy of mankind.

This can no longer alter our path to freedom. For our people, death has been the only known exit from slavery and oppression. We must open others.

Our will to live must no longer supersede our will to fight, for our fighting will determine if our race shall live. To desire freedom is not enough.

We must move from resistance to aggression, from revolt to revolution.

For every Orangeburg, there must be ten Detroits. For every Max Stanford and Huey Newton, there must be ten dead racist cops. And for every black death, there must be Dien Bien Phu.

Brothers and Sisters, and all oppressed people, we must prepare ourselves bothe mentally and physically, for the major confrontation is yet to come. We must fight. It is the people who in the final analysis make and determine history, not leaders or systems. The laws which govern us must be made by us.

May the dealths of ’68 signal the beginning of the end of this country. I do what i must out of the love for my people. My will is to fight. Resistance is not enough: aggression is the order of the day.

NOTE TO AMERICA:

If it takes my death to organize my people to revolt against you and to organize your jails to revolt against you, and to organize your troops to revolt against yo, and to organize your children, your God, your poor, your country, and to organize mankind to rejoice in your destruction and ruin, then here is my life. BUT, MY SOUL BELONGS TO MY PEOPLE!

LASIME TUSHINDE MBILASHAKA! (Translated from Swahili) WE SHALL CONQUER WITHOUT A DOUBT!

I didn’t think that I would have occasion to write about Lauryn Hill on this blog. Yet I was sad to hear the news that Hill has been charged for not filing taxes on her income for three years. It is a true tragedy that she is likely to face a significant amount of time in prison in addition to having to pay a hefty fine. Behind bars, she would be part of the fastest growing group of prisoners in America: black women. I sincerely hope that it doesn’t come to that.

Over the past few years, when I have thought of Hill, a Carolyn Rogers poem has been the accompanying soundtrack. The poem is titled “Poem for Some Black Women (1981).”

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I wanted to share another poem by a young person incarcerated at the Cook County Juvenile Temporary Detention Center. This is from “Escape Route” an anthology put together by the Free Write Jail Arts & Literacy Program.

Guilty Til Proven Innocent
by Humberto G.

The system is crooked

Guilty until proven innocent
is how it seems

Many people’s dreams
are to go home from an adult charge

The age 14 to 16
this is what I mean

They hold you til trial
like driving millions of miles

A lot of road to drive
doesn’t even seem like you were alive!
That’s exactly like my mind!

Either you cop out
or you think you gonna win
without a doubt!

Motion after motion
month after month
sitting incarcerated

No freedom.
Don’t even want to go through this!

This blog is titled “Prison Culture” and yet I write relatively little about the actual culture inside prisons. This is primarily because I have never been incarcerated so I only have an observer’s vantage point from which to address the issue. This is necessarily limiting.

On Monday evening, I spent over two hours listening to Bennie Lee break down the concept of prison culture in the late 1960s into the mid-1970s. I so wish that I had brought a tape recorder with me because his stories were incredibly rich and his knowledge very deep.

As Bennie discussed the prison culture of the 60s and 70s which helped to shape his political and social consciousness, my mind began to race about how to present this information in the upcoming exhibition about the history of black incarceration in the U.S. that I am co-curating. What was clear to me in listening to Bennie is that some black prisoners of the mid-60s through the mid-70s were unique. They were centrally engaged in debates and discussions about incarceration, racism, civil rights, & colonialism that were happening both inside and outside the walls of prisons across the U.S during that era.

Bennie spoke about the overt and covert educational groups that prisoners at Stateville and other Illinois prisons organized. As a prisoner, he was steeped in reading books by Khalil Gibran, Don Lee, Malcolm X, Franz Fanon, and more. He recited several oaths of the Conservative Vice Lords, one of which was actually based on Gibran’s “the Garden of the Prophet.” It was mesmerizing and thought-provoking.

A few months ago, I came across the list of books that were found inside George Jackson’s cell when he was killed at San Quentin in 1971. I was stunned by the sheer number of books but also by the fact that I had only read maybe 30 of them.

Lee Bernstein (2007), who I have quoted several times on this blog, has written about the importance that the ideas of Malcolm X, Angela Davis, and George Jackson had on the consciousness and the writings of a generation of incarcerated people in the 1970s. In writing particularly about Jackson’s influence, Bernstein (2007) suggests that:

“To prisoners, Jackson was as much a teacher of radical political philosophy and spokesperson for a crisis behind bars as symbol of oppression. His education behind bars and uncompromising politics would come to serve as a model for prisoners (p.312).”

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While my primary focus is to support marginalized young people, I also try to make time to work with more privileged youth too. Given that my time is limited, some may wonder why bother. I truly believe that we live in an interdependent world. Our collective liberation is inextricably bound together. So, when young people who are more privileged approach me with an interest in supporting my work, I try to be as responsive as time allows. These are the young people whose parents are the judges, lawyers, bankers, and power brokers in the world. These young people will reproduce their class status and I believe that engaging them provides some hope for future social transformation.

This year, I have had a great group of five high school students from a local private school in Chicago as interns with my organization. The young women have attended several workshops about juvenile justice and prison issues, they have organized a collection drive in support of incarcerated girls at Warrenville prison, they have co-organized and facilitated a workshop about the racist drug war and the PIC, they have tabled at local events, they have curated and organized an art show about the intersections between mass detention and the PIC and finally two of them have produced a new documentary titled “No Place for Kids” about juvenile incarceration. It has been a busy but very productive year for them. It is my sincere hope that they feel that they have learned and grown during the past few months. I also hope that as each young woman moves on to college, she will remain engaged and involved in the movement to dismantle the prison industrial complex. I believe that they will.

If you are in Chicago today (June 6), please join Nina and Keely as they premiere their documentary about juvenile incarceration “No Place for Kids” at 5 p.m. The film features formerly incarcerated youth, Michelle Alexander, Bernardine Dohrn, Judge Colleen Sheehan, Juan Rivera, and many others. All of the details including location, etc… can be found HERE.

Nas’s new single and video “Daughters” prompts me to write again about hip hop’s stand by your man in prison "problem." In a post that I wrote a couple of years ago, I suggested that young women (in their teens) who have a partner in prison should be afforded the space to make an actual CHOICE about whether they want to stay or leave the relationship. My point was that societal pressure, whether it comes from hip hop culture or somewhere else, should not constrain young women’s ability to decide for themselves what is right for them.

I have ALWAYS been a fan of Nas since my own teenage years and it is wonderful to see the way that he has been able to grow with hip hop and to produce “grown-up” rap music. I put out the call on Facebook for some friends to respond to the song and video. I quote here from Jasson Perez of the excellent Chicago-based hip hop group BBU who I think captures the essence of the song:

…what i like about it the most is him thinking out loud, not having simple answers and recognizing his own contradictions and sometimes real failures. More than anything else though it’s so rare to see any rap videos that center raising children in unromantic lenses. Here Nas seems to really be speaking to the good and the bad [of] parenting but putting primacy on “just being there” for your kid. Even through the failures as a parent or if you feel let down by the decision your kids make. And on top of that to look at your own behavior as a parent and not just hold your kid in contempt.

Jasson did a wonderful job of addressing the overarching themes of “Daughters” both as a song and as a video. Here’s what I would add…

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People who don’t know me well sometimes ask when I have time to sleep. The short answer is that I am an insomniac so I don’t. But frankly, who wants to sleep when there is so much interesting work to do in the world in collaboration with so many amazing people? 🙂

I am excited today to share three new publications that are part of the Historical Moments of Policing, Violence, and Resistance series which I continue to work on.

Olivia Perlow and Lakeesha Harris revisit the Oscar Grant killing. The pamphlet is designed by the talented, Antonia Clifford. Special thanks to Chris Stain for allowing us to use his art work on the cover of the publication.

Elizabeth Dadabo takes us back to 1919 to explore Red Summer in Chicago. The pamphlet is designed by the talented, Madeleine Arenivar.

My friend, the uber-talented Billy Dee collaborates with me to offer an account of the Danzinger Bridge shootings that took place in New Orleans in 1995 during Hurricane Katrina.

You can download each publication at no cost HERE.

Stay tuned next month as new pamphlets are released…

This week has SUCKED on so many levels that it is difficult to know where to even begin… I will limit myself to one particular illustration of how terrible of a week it truly was. I am so glad that it is Sunday and that the start of a new week is just around the corner.

At around 11 p.m. on Tuesday night, I received a panicked call from the grandmother of a young man (I’ll call him George) who I first met in mid-2010. George was referred to me by a teacher friend because he had been recently released from prison and needed some support. Honestly, what he desperately needed (like millions of others) was a job. There were no jobs in sight. My friend had been his teacher in the 8th grade and he had come by the school where she still works asking for her help. She was honestly very surprised that he remembered her after all of these years. This underscores the truth of the famous quote by Henry Adams: “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence ends.”

At 21, George had spent the better part of 8 years cycling in and out of first juvenile detention, then youth prison, and finally adult prison. He was somehow able to pass his GED examination in between stints behind bars. This gives you a sense of how bright he is. After much stress and some begging, we were able to find him a job at a local retailer. He has been working there since last June. Today he is 23 years old, has a 1 year old daughter and a lovely girlfriend.

So I rushed over to Grandma’s apartment (located on the West side of Chicago). By the time I arrived, it was after midnight. The young man, who I will call George, had locked himself in his bedroom with his girlfriend and daughter, he had a gun and was threatening to kill both of them and then himself. [Honestly, if I were not actually living my life, I wouldn’t believe half of the situations that I find myself involved in. Most of the individuals who I work with are in some form of crisis and I don’t write about 90% of what happens on a daily basis]. The apartment was packed with random family members and some neighbors. Everyone was taking turns shouting through the locked door telling him to release his daughter and girlfriend. I tried to intervene by asking people to stop yelling suggesting that this was not helping the situation but was summarily ignored. At around 1:30 am, George finally allowed his girlfriend and daughter to safely leave the room. He quickly slammed the door and locked himself in the room again. Needless to say that both the girlfriend and the baby were inconsolable. The girlfriend insisted that he would never have harmed her or their daughter. And I believe her. She explained that on Monday, he had received a notice that he would be laid off from his retail job. HE. JUST. LOST. IT.

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I write often on this blog about the intersections between the carceral state and the history of black protest. Today I want to continue that exploration by focusing on the history of the Mississippi State Penitentiary also known as Parchman Farm. The prison has been memorialized by the famous Bukka White song “Parchman Farm Blues.”

Mississippi Governor James Vardaman who was elected in 1903 was an avowed racist but also virulently against convict leasing. His critique was that the lease system enriched specific individuals at the expense of the state. He advanced a proposal to create a state-run penal farm which led to the establishment of Parchman Prison Farm in 1904. So Parchman Farm was conceived as a reform project. Instead, it became notorious as one of the most racist, violent, and brutal prisons in America.

I will focus another day on the actual history of Parchman. Today, I will underscore the prison’s role as a tool to quell the dissent and protests of the Civil Rights movement. David Oshinsky (1996) writes that: “In the 1960s, Mississippi officials used the Delta prison to house — and break down — those who challenged its racist customs and segregation laws (p.233).”

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I am super busy right now and summer is just around the corner. I set a deadline of early July to be done with my Laura Scott research project so I am going to use the blog over the next few weeks to push myself to meet my goal.

Below I continue my chronicles about Laura Scott’s life…

In Los Angeles, the black community grew from 134 in 1870 to 188 in 1880. By 1900 there were over 2,000 blacks in the city; a more than tenfold increase from 1880. This growth took place as Los Angeles was becoming an industrial city. By 1910, the black population in L.A. was over 7,500. Still black people made up less than 2 percent of Los Angeles’ total population until after World War II.

Women comprised the majority of blacks in Los Angeles from 1900 through 1920 (de Graaf, 1980). Most of these black women were married. Historian Lawrence B. de Graaf (1980) explains that: “In Los Angeles, at the turn of the century, single women were so scarce that black men ‘inspected’ incoming trains for possible mates (pp.288-89).” Western black women also tended to be older and more urban than their counterparts in other regions of the U.S.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, blacks in Los Angeles still experienced discrimination in several spheres. Some restaurants refused to serve blacks and some stores would not cater to them. However because of a housing boom, those who had the means were able to purchase and own property. Many black people took advantage of this opportunity. Even in Los Angeles’ early history, there existed a black elite. These free blacks established their own businesses, bought up acres of land, and formed cultural and social organizations. One of the most well-known black Angelenos of the 19th century was a woman named Biddy Mason who was born a slave, became a nurse/midwife and went on to make a fortune by investing in real estate.

We don’t know exactly when Laura Scott migrated from Alabama to California. The first documented sighting of her in California may have been in 1902. According to a newspaper account, a Laura Scott was arrested for shoplifting in San Francisco in December 1902. It is impossible to know if this is our Laura.

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