After George Jackson was shot and killed at San Quentin Prison on August 21, 1971, Angela Davis wrote a tribute to be read at his memorial service. At the time, she herself was incarcerated and awaiting trial. Today is the 41st Anniversary of Jackson’s murder. Below is her eulogy to Jackson.

An enemy bullet has once more brought grief and sadness to black people and to all who oppose racism and injustice and who love and fight for freedom. On Saturday, August 21, a San Quentin guard’s sniper bullet executed George Jackson and wiped out that last modicum of freedom with which he had persevered and resisted so fiercely for eleven years.

Though deprived so long of the freedom of movement enjoyed by his oppressors, even as he died, George was far more free than they. Like he lived, he died resisting. A field marshal of the Black Panther Party, George belongs to a very special breed of fallen black leaders, for his struggle was the most perilous.

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In a recent essay, Nicholas Brady laments and explains that black people are being killed with impunity by law enforcement. There is, however, little outcry by the general public against what amounts to a form of genocide. Brady offers an explanation for this:

The reason that nobody wants to touch this issue is that it calls into question the ethicality of the entire criminal justice system. When we talk about individual cases we can deal with rogue cops acting in ways “unbecoming” for the police. Yet, returning back to the aforementioned Chamberlain case, we can see how focusing on “rogue” cops mystifies the real problem. Originally all eight officers were exonerated by the grand jury, but now only the officer Hart is being charged for calling Chamberlain a “nigger.” What about the other 7 cops, especially Cantrelli who actually shot Chamberlin for no acceptable reason? The murder cannot be called into question, only the racial epithet used on the scene. The conclusion of the investigation can be summarized as this: the murder of a black man who committed no crime is fair to our procedures. In all of the 120 cases of black people being murdered by the police, security guards, or vigilantes all were either exonerated or were not punished for the murder itself. 120 lives lost are not exceptions, they are the worst statistic of a total system that abuses black people nationally. Whether it is “stop-and-frisk” in New York, “stand your ground” in Florida, or the blue light cameras in Baltimore, the law is systematically and gratuitously watching, intruding, violating, and murdering black people across the nation. It is no longer the lynching rope, but the badge and the gun that is the symbol of violence against black folk.

It’s important to underscore that while there is a lack of outcry in the general population, people of color have been, are, and will continue to agitate on the issue of systemic police violence. We have no choice.

Whenever I ask a young person of color (particularly black youth) to narrate a personal experience of injustice, almost all (with few exceptions) tell a story of police harassment and violence. The youth who I work and interact with, as I have written in the past, mostly want to talk about the police. This is part of the reason that I have been focusing so diligently for the past couple of years on developing tools and resources that can be used by educators, organizers, and community members to address police violence and structural oppression.

A conversation that I had with a young black man who has been recently released from prison produced a light-bulb moment for me. He casually said the following words:

“You know Ms. K, when I was growing up in the hood, I wasn’t afraid of the bogeyman, I was afraid of the 5.0. In the ghetto, the police are the bogeyman.”

The young man’s framing has really stayed with me for the past few weeks. I am once again reminded of why it is so important to listen to the stories and voices of young people. What does it mean for the psyches, health, and well-being of our young people when the bogeyman is real and has almost limitless power?

Below is a short clip of black youth talking about the impact of their encounters with the police. Please take three minutes to listen to what they have to say. Then recall the words of the young man cited above. For many black youth, the bogeyman is very, very real…

Impact of Policing on Youth of Color from Mariame Kaba on Vimeo.

Besides bringing the sexy back (kidding, of course), I see the purpose of this blog as amplifying and sometimes re-introducing the words of former and current prisoners. Today, I want to share some wise words from the always thought-provoking Huey P. Newton, co-founder of the Black Panther Party.

Below is an excerpt from his essay “Prison, Where is Thy Victory?” written while he was incarcerated:

“The prison operates with the idea that when it has a person’s body it has his entire being — since the whole cannot be greater than the sum of its parts. They put the body in a cell, and seem to get some sense of relief and security from that fact. The idea of prison victory then, is that when the person in jail begins to act, think, and believe the way they want him to, then they have won the battle and the person is then ‘rehabilitated.’ But this cannot be the case, because those who operate the prisons have failed to examine their own beliefs thoroughly, and they fail to understand the types of people they attempt to control. Therefore, even when the prison thinks it has won the victory, there is no victory.

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When I was in College, I organized a “Heritage Fair” for local elementary and middle school students. At the time, I was co-leading the Black Students’ Network on campus. The Heritage Fair featured exhibits depicting key moments in African and Afro-Canadian history as well as various performers. My idea was to bring youth of color from the surrounding communities in Montreal to McGill University for the day so that they could be exposed to black culture.

We rented buses to transport students, recruited volunteers to design the historical exhibits, and hired performers including an African American storyteller. The day was a big success for all involved. I am thinking about the Heritage Fair today because over 20 years later, I am working on another exhibition with similar goals in mind. I don’t know what motivated my interest in curating exhibitions about history for youth when I was still a teenager myself. I can only attest to the fact that I have seen the magic and power of young people having a better understanding of themselves rooted in knowing where they come from.

A couple of weekends ago, I met with my friend Billy to go over ideas for designing our Black/Inside exhibition. I am excited to say that we now have a concrete plan for moving forward which is a real relief since the exhibition will open in just a couple of months.

I can’t wait until young people are able to interact with the artifacts and to trace the history of Black incarceration through the exhibition. Someone recently asked about whether I worried that Black/Inside would actually serve to reinforce ideas about black criminality rather than subverting them. My answer was an honest one: I don’t know. I think that if people are looking to have their stereotypes affirmed, there isn’t much that can be done to overcome that. However, I suspect that most of the people who will attend the exhibition will be coming because they are genuinely curious and open to learning more. I am a believer that more information is always better than less.

I think that the fact that hyper-incarceration is so invisible to so many is a crisis and detrimental to our efforts for social change. I hope that the exhibition conveys the fact that black people have ALWAYS borne the brunt of punishment in American society. I hope to convey that resistance to the unjust U.S. criminal legal system has been constant and consistent. Finally, I want to clearly underscore that race and racism have always been organizing principles in the treatment of black people in the U.S.

What I hope this accomplishes is to foster greater community engagement in the struggle to dismantle the PIC. Quite simply, I want new recruits for the anti-PIC movement.

Black/Inside will open in late October at the African American Cultural Center at the University of Illinois at Chicago. I’ll share more information closer to that date.

Below is a vintage original press photo of the last prisoners leaving Alcatraz before it was closed in 1963.

Where I Am
by Akilya H.

I’m in a situation
all alone
trying to find my way home

Stuck between
the midst of
Judge Studdley’s palm
I am a struggling Black sister
in a terrible, deserted place

With a gun on my waist
stuck all alone
In my project home!

I am trapped in the Greazy
until times get easy

Where I am
is somewhere
I hope not to be
tomorrow

(Source: Escape Route Free Write Jail Arts Anthology Vol.5)

Marissa (not her real name) would like you to know that she’s “not just some piece of garbage.” I am meeting with her for the fourth time in as many weeks. I am supposed to be on “vacation.” Her mother reached out to me through a friend. She’s just been released from youth prison. She spent 9 months locked up.

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My first impression was that she didn’t look like she would suffer fools. I was sitting across from her as she eyed me skeptically. We were in a conference room at the juvenile detention center. I was talking about my organization’s work. I could hear myself droning on…

Her phone rang and she stepped out to answer it. This was a meeting for parents who had a child incarcerated at the jail. It was a small group because it was 6 p.m. on a Friday. All of the mothers were women of color (black and latina). This isn’t surprising since 97% of the young people detained at the jail are black and Latino.

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My Window
By Michele Molina

Isolation—Desperation—The hours become days
And the days become weeks.
I look up and the leaves are turning colors once again.
Bright and sunny days make no difference when
My mind is clouded and every heartbeat is like a
thunderbolt of pain.
I tread through the months and the years.
At times I have to scrape up the energy to greet each day.
I see the light out of my window, but only feel the darkness
around me.
My body is listless and my features betray my true age.
It is time to open the window to my soul and let the light in.

On April 19, 1989, a young woman who was jogging through Central Park in New York City was found badly beaten. She had also been raped.

I have written briefly about the case before in comparing it to Scottsboro. However, I want to return to it today because I just saw the trailer for Ken Burns’ upcoming documentary about the case and it brings back terrible memories for me.

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The following is from a pamphlet that I wrote about Resistance to Police Violence in Harlem. It focuses on an incident that brought Malcolm X to national prominence in 1957. It expands on a previous post about the same topic.

**All references can be found in the pamphlet.

1957 Johnson X Hinton Incident

There are many versions of the story of Johnson Hinton. Even his name is contested; in some accounts he is called Hinton Johnson and in others he is Johnson Hinton. There are a few details of the story, however, that seem to be settled history.

In April 1957, Johnson Hinton came upon a couple of police officers who were clubbing a man named Reese V. Poe on the corner of 125th street and 7th Avenue in Harlem. Hinton called out to the officers: “You’re not in Alabama – this is New York! ” The police then turned their nightsticks on Hinton clubbing him and cracking his skull. The officers subsequently handcuffed Hinton and took him to the 28th precinct stationhouse. By the time the evening arrived, there were over 2,000 people surrounding the precinct demanding that Hinton be provided with adequate medical attention.

Johnson X Hinton, it turns out, was a black Muslim who belonged to Mosque Number Seven, the largest mosque in the country – led by a 31 year old preacher named Malcolm X.

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