A couple of months ago, I wrote that I was going to be co-curating (with some friends) an exhibition about a history of black incarceration in the U.S. titled Black/Inside.

I haven’t had much time to think about planning the exhibition because I have been consumed with work and other projects. As I come to the end of a major project about policing and violence, I can now turn more of my attention back to Black/Inside.

Some updates on where things stand…

First, I am happy to announce that the exhibition will premiere at the African American Cultural Center at the University of Illinois at Chicago in October 2012. We are designing the exhibition so that it can travel and we hope that other cultural spaces in the city will want to host the exhibition past November.

Next, I am happy to say that my friend Teresa is serving as the co-curator on this project. She was formerly a curatorial assistant at the Jane Addams Hull House museum and is just an all-round terrific human being. It’s a pleasure to be collaborating with her again. Also, I am thrilled to be working with my friend Billy who will be offering design and artistic support for the exhibition. Billy will be designing one of the interactive features of the exhibit and helping with other things too. It’s always fun working with Billy. Over the weekend, I met a new friend, Maria, who is an artist, a friend of Teresa and is also supporting this exhibition.

All of us are volunteering our time to organize Black/Inside because we strongly believe that mass incarceration is a huge waste of resources and also more importantly for us an “immoral destruction of human lives.” We also believe that there is a desperate need to engage more people in the movement to dismantle the prison industrial complex. We need to find multiple ways to capture the public’s attention and to marshal a base of people who will feel empowered to challenge this pernicious epidemic. We need to educate more people about mass incarceration in this moment but we must ground our discussions in a historical context.

Our exhibition is framed by a set of questions that were posed by Michelle Alexander when she was interviewed for a recent article in Rethinking Schools:

1. How did we get here?
2. Why is this happening?
3. How are things different in other communities?
4. How is this linked to what has gone on in prior periods of our nation’s history?
5. And what, then, can we do about it?

There are other related questions that we want to explore too; they are inspired by the late great Manning Marable:

1. Why do black people continue to be marginalized in the U.S.?
2. Who benefits from this marginalization?
3. Who is responsible for maintaining the structure of power and privilege that makes this marginalization an enduring fact of American life?

Over the next few weeks, I will periodically use this space on Prison Culture to muse out loud about various aspects of Black/Inside. For those who may want to more regularly follow the ideas that will eventually form the basis of the exhibition, I have started a Tumblr that will serve as the “container” for my musings. I have no doubt that a lot of what appears on the Tumblr won’t necessarily make it into the final exhibition. I am using the space as a kind of journal since I don’t usually know what I think about anything until I see it written down.

The bulk of the artifacts that will make up this exhibition are from my personal collection. I have not scanned the vast majority of the items that I have collected over the years. Regardless, I have started a Pinterest board that features some of the artifacts from my collection. The board will expand as I have an opportunity to scan and include more artifacts over time.

It should be an interesting next few months and I look forward to sharing some of the journey with you.

I have refrained from writing this post for almost two years but I cannot hold back any longer. Bill Clinton is without a doubt my least favorite President of the last 40 years. You read that correctly. But, but, but, what about Ronald Reagan you might ask? What about George W. Bush you might protest? Well for me, the truth is that I expect Republicans to be detrimental to people of color’s prospects. They do not pretend to be interested in our survival.

Bill Clinton, on the other hand, has actively tried to ingratiate himself to black people by appropriating black culture. Think back to his appearance on Arsenio Hall, playing the Sax. Think back to his post-Presidency move to Harlem to locate his Clinton Foundation office there. Think back to the fact that we are incessantly told that Bill Clinton was the “first black” President. What a massive insult! People who speak this nonsense, say it without irony.

There are so many ways that the Clinton Presidency was toxic to black people in particular and people of color in general. I will periodically highlight some of his greatest hits against black people in the coming weeks. Today I want to focus on one piece of legislation that the U.S. Congress passed in 1994 which is still reverberating in 2012. The 1994 Omnibus Crime Bill (spearheaded by Joe Biden and Bill Clinton) cost $30 billion dollars and helped to accelerate the growth of the prison industrial complex in ways that we are only just beginning to understand. The bill’s provisions included:

1. $10.8 billion in federal matching funds to local governments to hire 100,000 new police officers over 5 years.
2. $10 billion for the construction of new federal prisons.
3. An expansion of the number of federal crimes to which the death penalty applied from two to fifty-eight (the bill also eliminated an existing statute that prohibited the execution of mentally incapacitated defendants).
4. A three strikes proposal that mandated life sentences for anyone convicted of three “violent” felonies.
5. A section that allowed children as young as thirteen to be tried as adults.
6. The creation of special courts able to deport noncitizens alleged to be “engaged in terrorist activity” on the basis of secret evidence.
7. Established guidelines for states to track sex offenders. Required states to track sex offenders by confirming their place of residence annually for ten years after their release into the community or quarterly for the rest of their lives if the sex offender was convicted of a violent sex crime. [This sex offender registry law has caused havoc in the legal system]

These are just a few of the greatest hits from the 1994 Crime Bill.

Progressives who are loudly complaining about President Obama’s record on civil liberties (which is abysmal) were overwhelmingly SILENT about Clinton’s dramatic expansion of the prison industrial complex. I remember that period of time clearly. I invite you to send me your own examples of the many ways that Bill Clinton’s presidency was destructive to people of color and I will happily post them here. I think that this is a period of history that many people either don’t know about or are willfully choosing to forget. It should NOT be forgotten since we are living with the consequences of that era today.

Stop the Criminal-Black-Man Narrative 2012
by nancy a heitzeg

“Trayvon Martin was killed by a very old idea..”
~ Brent Staples, New York Times, 4/14/2102

The Black Man as Dangerous is a lethal idea, ironically, not to those who perpetrate and fear, but especially to those to whom it is attached. It is indeed also a very old idea, one that has evolved over centuries. The Savage, The Brute, the Defiler of White Women — honed and solidified in the Post Civil Rights Era into an archetype that scholars and activists now refer to in aggregate short-hand:

The Criminal-Black-Man.

This image is ubiquitous — it is the text and subtext of all crime-reporting and “reality” cop/prison programing. It shapes the contours of everyday racism, the school to prison pipeline, police patrols and profiles; it offers the framework for both creating and then perversely justifying the demographics of both the prison industrial complex and the face of death row.

At times, as in the Trayvon Martin case, the archetype and its’ consequences are, at least briefly, openly examined and discussed. More often, as with the noxious Kony 2012 campaign, it looms just below the surface with an eerily subconscious pull.

The Criminal-Black-Man is the visible yet untouchable specter that lies at the center of fear and violence. It is personal and yes it is political.

Read more »

My friend, the talented Rachael Hudak, has written a poignant poem based on the theme of what we all “miss” (in our neighborhoods, in our communities, and in our lives) as a result of the epidemic of mass incarceration. Rachael works at the Neighborhood Writing Alliance and facilitated a workshop this week based on a project that we are both involved in called “The Missing.”

what’s missing
by Rachael Hudak

in the last letter he wrote to me, Martin told me to
slow down
everything in the prison was starting to burst
into anger and he needed his friends on the outside to
keep peace

I’ve been thinking about how to keep peace
when there are so many pieces
missing from the whole
so many lives thrown into holes
wells dug so deep
that I can’t even dream of the day they all dry up

what is missing is
the ability to pick up the phone and call my friends
on their birthday
when they are dying
when I miss them
the ability to make them a handmade card
(the glue on the page questioned as a vehicle for drugs)
bring them soup when they are sick
hug them for longer than three breaths

what is missing is
Shaneka’s bond with her baby, taken from her three days after birth
what is missing is
Martin’s honeymoon with his wife after thirty years of love
what is missing is
the freedom to use a roll of scotch tape to patch things back together
(one piece at a time from a guard
more than one could be melted and shaped into a shank)
what is missing is
open spaces where I can talk about how much I miss Kinnari
who was deported back to India after serving 11 years
for defending her body against sexual assault
what is missing is
open spaces where we can talk about
how bad it hurts to have friends and family
in prison
who we can’t visit
who we can’t call
who we love and
miss

fathers and mothers
and so many black and brown fathers
so many women
and so many babies who have grown up to be women
and so many babies who have grown up to be men
without their black and brown mothers
without their black and brown fathers
and white men and women
and poor men and women,
so many without money
locked away without enough to their name
to make a phone call
(in Chicago it costs $7 to make a 15 minute call)
I miss them in this city
I write poems every day
about how to keep peace in my heart
while this war eats my people

Martin, I miss you
Kinnari, I miss you
Jamal, I miss you
Phil, I miss you
Lala, I miss you
Shawn, I miss you
and for so many friends I have not named
those who wake and breathe dreaming of streets
that welcome them home
and a place at the table with food that steams the words
eat, you deserve to be nourished
I love you
I miss you

Regular readers of this blog know that I have been writing about an early 20th century black woman prisoner named Laura Scott quite a bit. I haven’t written very much about her in the past few weeks as I have been waiting for some court transcripts and other documentation to arrive from California. In the meantime though, I have been reading more generally about the plight of black women prisoners in the 18th and 19th centuries.

You won’t be surprised to know that the numbers of black women prisoners were insignificant until after the Civil War. Almost immediately, existing prisons began to see an increase in the number of former black female slaves. In Illinois for example, in the 1850s, 75% of female prisoners were foreign-born and of the total over 50% were Irish immigrants. In contrast, although black women were only 2% of female prisoners in the late 1850s, they were 25% of all commitments in the five years after the Civil War. By the 1890s, black women represented 2/3 of the daily prison population in Illinois (L. Mara Dodge, 1999). Between 1890 and 1930, the proportion of black women in Ohio state prison increased from 26% to 52%, while the percentage of blacks in the total population of the state rose only from 2% to 3% in the same period. In Tennessee, over 70% of the women committed to the penitentiary in the late 19th century were black (blacks only made up 26% of Tennessee’s population).

It is not difficult to understand why this increase occurred. Once black women could no longer be exploited as slaves for their labor, it was easy to incarcerate them and find a new way to lease them out as free labor for corporations and state governments. As Nicole Hahn Rafter (1992) has written about the southern prison system:

“[It] was a form of labor exploitation as well as racial control. States used the growing pool of black convicts to increase public revenues by leasing them to private employers. Black prisoners, both men and women, were forced to participate in the convict lease system, where they faced brutal living conditions and labored long hours at backbreaking field work (p.356).”

Reflecting on the treatment of black women imprisoned in the Midwest and the North, Rafter (1992) suggests that while “racial discrimination was less overt, black women faced harsher punishments for violating the criminal law than did white women. They received higher fines and were more likely to face incarceration than were white women convicted of similar crimes (p.356).”

The stories of female prisoners in the 19th through early 20th centuries have mostly been ignored by historians and social scientists until recently. One of the reasons for this is because their numbers were small relative to male prisoners. Another reason is that these women were seen for the most part as “fallen” women whose lives were not particularly valuable.

A few scholars have begun to reclaim the lost stories of female prisoners of the 19th century. In particular, I recently read an essay by Leslie Patrick (2000) about one of the first female prisoners incarcerated at Eastern State Penitentiary. In 1831, two years after Eastern State Penitentiary was opened, four black women were sentenced to join the 83 men who were incarcerated there. One of these women was a female convict named Ann Hinson who had been convicted of manslaughter. Patrick uses the story of Ann Hinson to illuminate the contradictions that were inherent in the imprisonment of women in the early 19th century. Hinson’s incarceration at Eastern underscored the extent to which female prisoners were neglected in early Penitentiaries. There is hardly any mention of her in official prison documents. What we know about her time at Eastern mostly comes from documentation from an inquiry into some scandals that occurred at the prison during her incarceration there.

Ann Hinson (#100) was sentenced to Eastern for manslaughter and received a two year sentence. Records indicate that she and the other three women who were the first to be incarcerated at Eastern were engaged in cooking and/or washing clothes as part of their daily work. Records and first-hand testimony indicate that Ann Hinson was basically allowed to freely roam through the prison; she was not confined to her cell. She seemed to have become friendly with the underkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Blundin, who had been hired by the prison board to keep an eye on the very small number of women incarcerated at Eastern. Ann Hinson is said to have curried special favors from her and the two of them were accused of having sexual relations with several male prisoners. It is difficult to ascertain whether this portrait of the two women as depraved and immoral is the truth or a figment of the prejudices of the male authors of various reports about the scandals at Eastern Penitentiary. William Griffith, who worked in the shoemaking department, described some of the activities that occurred inside the prison:

“Mrs. Blundin gave a dance party inside the walls. It happened on a night that I was on duty till 10 o’clock. Mr. Wood came up and told me that if I wished to go down and see how they were coming on in the front part of the building, he would spell me awhile — I went down — I found at least thirty persons there, male and female, they were dancing to the music of the violin — a black woman played the violin for them, not an inmate at the Penitentiary — a black woman by the name of Anne, think [sic] No. 100, a convict, was present when I first went down. She appeared to be sitting looking on — dressed in a calico dress with a turban about her head. There was pretty plenty drinking going on — some of the females I found pretty well intoxicated — I saw them drink (Patrick, 2000, p.369).”

These activities seemed to be happening with the full knowledge and consent of the prison warden. They provide an interesting window into an aspect of prison life in the early 19th century. It does seem clear from the available information that Ann Hinson had an unusual amount of “relative freedom” during her incarceration at Eastern. This seems to have derived from her interesting relationship with the prison matron, Mrs. Blundin. If you will recall from a previous post, some white women prisoners at San Quentin in the early 20th century made some similar claims of favoritism for black female prisoners by a prison matron there. I find these contentions endlessly fascinating and it makes me wish that more had been written about the conditions of incarceration for women in prisoners in general but particularly black women in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

I am reading another biography of Ida B. Wells-Barnett. This is the third one that I will have read and I continue to learn new things. If you live in Chicago and work on issues of criminal justice, then you should be required to become an expert on the life and work of Wells-Barnett.

I have long wondered why the Negro Fellowship League (NFL) hasn’t received more scholarly attention. The NFL was founded in 1908 by Ida B. Wells and a group of her Bible study class students. Wells built the organization into a reading room and social center which moved into a rented space in 1910. She received seed money for the move and to establish early programming from Mrs. Victor Lawson (wife of the owner of the Chicago Daily News). Wells biographer Mia Bay (2009) describes the activities of the NFL reading room in her book “To Tell the Truth Freely:”

“Staffed by one employee and a roster of volunteers, the NFL’s reading room was open from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m, and housed a ‘selected library of history, biography, fiction and race literature especially.’ It offered visitors a place to read, study, write letters, and pursue a’ quiet game of checkers, dominoes or other games that would not interfere with those who wished to read.’ Nonalcoholic refreshments were available…Visitors were also encouraged to attend weekly lectures by a variety of prominent speakers, ranging from white reformers such as Jane Addams and Mary White Ovington to black intellectuals such as William Monroe Trotter, Garland Penn, and the historian Carter G. Woodson. Free and open to the public, these events attracted local people as well as league members (p.285).”

The NFL was much more than just a reading room and social center though. It began to offer lodging to young men who had just migrated to Chicago; visitors could rent a bed for 50 cents a night. They offered food to those who needed it and helped people to find employment. In just its first year of operation, the employment bureau placed 115 men in jobs (Bay, p.286).

However, for me, the most interesting aspect of the NFL was its work to support prisoners and to protect black men in particular from injustice. This focus seemed most important to Ida B. Wells. She and her husband worked through the NFL to represent many young black men who were falsely accused of crimes and also to secure the release of convicted individuals.

While reading a local newspaper, Wells-Barnett’s attention was captured by the story of Chicken Joe Campbell. Campbell was already incarcerated at Joliet Prison when, in 1915, the warden’s wife was killed in a fire. He was accused of murdering her.

The warden, Edmund M. Allen had been appointed by the Governor of Illinois in 1913. He had very progressive views (especially for the time) about how to treat prisoners. “There is some good in every man…and there exists some influence which will appeal to his heart and reason (cited in Giddings, 2009, p.549).” Allen had instituted an “honor system” at the Prison that allowed inmates to be rewarded with privileges and better job assignments for good behavior. Joe Campbell had through his good behavior been elevated to the status of “trusty” and was assigned as a personal servant to the wife of the warden, Odette. Campbell was scheduled to appear before a parole board in a little more than a week when a fire broke out in the second-floor bedroom of the warden’s house. (Incidentally, Mrs. Allen had apparently agreed to testify in support of Campbell at his upcoming parole hearing). Paula Giddings explains what happened next in her authoritative biography “Ida: A Sword Among Lions (2008):”

“When prison guards and convicts from the volunteer fire department rushed to the residence, they found the lifeless body of Mrs. Allen. A later investigation found that alcohol had been spread over the bedding and that Mrs. Allen’s skull had been fractured. The coroner concluded that she had been knocked unconscious before succumbing to smoke inhalation and the flames. The Allen’s physician, who also had access to the warden’s living quarters and was himself a convict in the prison for killing his wife, claimed that Odette Allen had also been strangled and sexually assaulted — thought he had not made a thorough examination and no secretions were analyzed (p.549).”

Joseph Campbell was arrested for the crime right away. Ida B. Wells read about his plight when the Chicago papers reported that Campbell had been “confined to solitary in complete darkness for fifty hours on bread and water (Bay, p. 292).” After 40 hours of being subjected to questioning, Campbell ‘confessed’ to the crime. Wells was appalled by this barbaric treatment and wrote an outraged letter and appeal to local papers. “Is this justice? Is this humanity? Can we stand to see a dog treated in such a fashion without protest?” she wrote. She didn’t stop there. She sent her husband, Ferdinand, to represent Campbell because she felt that the “prominent people” in Chicago weren’t supporting him. Ferdinand was told by prison officials that Campbell already had an attorney (it turned out that this was not true). Persisting Ida wrote a letter to Campbell himself and went to see him at the prison. She came away convinced of his innocence. When she returned to Chicago, she found a letter that Campbell had sent in response to her original letter to him. It was subsequently published in local and national papers and proclaimed his innocence of the charges against him:

Ida and Ferdinand threw themselves into the defense of Joseph Campbell. Ida tirelessly raised funds while Ferdinand defended him in court. Despite Ferdinand’s best efforts, Joseph Campbell was found guilty and sentenced to death in April 1916. Ida and her husband supported Campbell through three appeals. After the final appeal, Campbell’s sentence was commuted by the Governor from death to life in prison in large part due to the pressure that the Barnetts kept up in this case. Campbell died in Joliet prison in 1950, nineteen years after Ida herself had passed.

On days when I am feeling run down and exhausted from working to dismantle this criminal injustice system, I think of Ida B. Wells. Wells was able to secure individual contributions and some grant funding for the first couple of years of the NFL’s existence but then had to sustain the organization from 1913 until 1916 with her $150 dollar monthly salary from her work as a probation officer. Due to a lack of funding, the NFL had to close its doors in 1920. Some of the reasons that she could not secure funds for her work were because many considered it to be radical and also because she refused to cow-tow for wealthy philanthropists. As someone who has to struggle every single day to sustain a grassroots organization, I can understand the frustrations that Wells must have felt. I am in no way comparing myself to Wells-Barnett (because that would be preposterous) but I do know what it is like to work for “free” and to also have to basically subsidize my activism with my own funds. I know many other friends who are doing the same.

What I respect most about Ida is her integrity and her uncompromising dedication to supporting the most marginalized people “by any means necessary.” I take pride in the fact that I get to live and work in a city where she made her mark and left such an important (yet still hidden) legacy. Here’s hoping that some enterprising scholar is hard at work uncovering more about the work of the NFL.

Note: For those interested in prison photography, Richard Lawson has curated some images created by Joliet prison inmates from 1890 to 1930. This period overlaps with part of the years that Joseph Campbell was incarcerated there and that Ida B. Wells-Barnett would have been visiting prisoners.

Yes, yes, I already know what you are thinking…

You are thinking: “What is it with this woman and her obsession with James Baldwin?” Well, I won’t give you the one million reasons why Baldwin is awesome. I’ll save that for another post. I will only say that Baldwin was and remains incredibly relevant to understanding America. That should be a good enough reason for my near constant citing of his work. He was one of a kind. Think about it: “Who is our Baldwin today?” It’s a rhetorical question.

Because I am working on something about Harlem community members’ resistance to police violence (set to be released on May 7th), I have been immersed in reading about the neighborhood. Today, I am moved to write about a long-forgotten incident that took place in 1964: the case of the Harlem six.

Baldwin writes about the case in an article titled “A Report from Occupied Territory” that was published in the Nation magazine in 1966. The article opens with these paragraphs:

On April 17, 1964, in Harlem, New York City, a young salesman, father of two, left a customer’s apartment and went into the streets. There was a great commotion in the streets, which, especially since it was a spring day, involved many people, including running, frightened, little boys. They were running from the police. Other people, in windows, left their windows, in terror of the police because the police had their guns out, and were aiming the guns at the roofs. Then the salesman noticed that two of the policemen were beating up a kid: “So I spoke up and asked them, ‘why are you beating him like that?’ Police jump up and start swinging on me. He put the gun on me and said, ‘get over there.’ I said, ‘what for?’ ”

An unwise question. Three of the policemen beat up the salesman in the streets. Then they took the young salesman, whose hands had been handcuffed behind his back, along with four others, much younger than the salesman, who were handcuffed in the same way, to the police station.

The incident that Baldwin writes about took place two years before he published his essay in the Nation and came to be known as the “Little Fruit Stand Riot.” The young salesman that Baldwin quotes in his piece was Frank Stafford, a 31 year old door-to-door salesman, who was arrested and brutally assaulted by police when he and a 47 year old Puerto Rican seaman named Fecundo Acion came to the aid of three black teens charged by the cops with overturning a fruit cart owned by Edward DeLuca. A young man named Wallace Baker also witnessed the incident and jumped in to assist a young man who was being beaten by police; Baker found himself assaulted and arrested too.

Several days after this incident, a white couple who owned a second hand store in Harlem was attacked. Frank and Margit Sugar were both stabbed several times. Mrs. Sugar died from her wounds while her husband would be saved by doctors at Harlem Hospital. Within just a few hours, the police had rounded up several young people who they had identified as having been at the scene of the “Little Fruit Stand Riot” that had taken place days earlier. Included in the group were: Wallace Baker (who had been a witness to the “fruit stand” incident) and a few of his teenage friends – Daniel Hamm, William Craig, Ronald Felder, Walter Thomas, and Robert Rice. Police also brought in Robert Baron, a former prisoner who lived in the community.

The NAACP declined to take on the case, even though it seemed clear from the beginning that the young men were in the process of being railroaded, so a local attorney named Conrad Lynn tried to assemble a defense team to handle the trials of the young men. William Kunstler, who would later become famous for defending Black Panther Party members and Attica prisoners, volunteered to represent the young men at trial. However, the young men were instead assigned public defenders. This fact would prove very important later.

The trial for the young men who would come to be known as the Harlem Six began in March 1965. Harlem was a community that was still roiling from the aftermath of the 1964 riots. It was against this backdrop that the young men were being tried. A black reporter at the New York Times falsely claimed that the six young men had “sworn a blood oath to murder white people.” The Harlem Six then became known to the wider community as the “Blood Brothers.” They were found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.

William Epton, who I have previously written about, helped found the Harlem Defense Council, which took the lead in the struggle to free the Harlem Six. The Defense Council raised money and tried to keep the case in the news.

Three years after the young men were convicted, Lynn, Kunstler and others mounted an appeal and were thrilled when the convictions were reversed and new trials ordered. However, Lynn and his associates were again not permitted to represent the young men at their new trials. Two of the six were tried separately and found guilty again. The other four went on trial in February 1971. The trial ended with a deadlocked jury so the judge declared a mistrial. Another trial also ended with a deadlock. Bail was set at $75,000 for each defendant. They could not afford to post this amount and had by this time already spent 8 years in prison. In the end, all of the young men were released from prison after having lost years of their lives unjustly locked behind bars. James Baldwin, Ossie Davis, and many others had played a role in helping to ultimately free the Harlem Six.

For those who want to learn more about this case, you can read Truman Nelson’s article published in Ramparts Magazine in 1965 titled “Torture of Mothers.”

Baldwin always wrote with passion and moral clarity. For me the power of his work is that it always seemed as if he had a deep investment in what he was writing about or commenting on. Below, for example, he explains his interest in the case of the Harlem Six:

This means that I also know, in my own flesh, and know, which is worse, in the scars borne by many of those dearest to me, the thunder and fire of the billy club, the paralyzing shock of spittle in the face, and I know what it is to find oneself blinded, on one’s hands and knees, at the bottom of the flight of steps down which one has just been hurled. I know something else: these young men have been in jail for two years now. Even if the attempts being put forth to free them should succeed, what has happened to them in these two years? People are destroyed very easily. Where is the civilization and where, indeed, is the morality which can afford to destroy so many?

As Baldwin writes about the tactics that law enforcement deployed against black people in Harlem, I dare you not to find echoes in our current situation:

But the police are afraid of everything in Harlem and they are especially afraid of the roofs, which they consider to be guerrilla outposts. This means that the citizens of Harlem who, as we have seen, can come to grief at any hour in the streets, and who are not safe at their windows, are forbidden the very air. They are safe only in their houses—or were, until the city passed the No Knock, Stop and Frisk laws, which permit a policeman to enter one’s home without knocking and to stop anyone on the streets, at will, at any hour, and search him. Harlem believes, and I certainly agree, that these laws are directed against Negroes.

There is nothing else to add. If you’ve never read, Baldwin’s “A Report from Occupied Territory,” what are you waiting for? Do it today, do it now.

Today is Billie Holiday’s birthday and I am currently working on a project about her. I hope to be done with it by the end of this year.

I have always been interested in Lady Day. It began with watching Diana Ross in Lady Sings the Blues when I was probably around 11 years old.

At the time, I think that I was mostly just fascinated by Diana Ross: her beauty, elegance, and those amazing clothes. I hadn’t seen a black woman like her on television before. Anyway, it turned out that my parents had records by Billie Holiday and I began to listen to them religiously. I don’t know why I found her voice so compelling. I had definitely not lived the type of harrowing childhood that she had. We had nothing in common except for our femaleness and our blackness.

The story of Lady Day is familiar to many. Eleanora Harris Fagan was 9 years old when she first came into conflict with the law. She was brought before the juvenile court for being truant and for “being without proper care and guardianship.” She was committed for a year at the House of Good Shepherd for Colored Girls, a Catholic reform school. Incidentally, I am currently doing some research on this reform school and will have more to share about it soon.

She was released on parole in October 1925. She was then raped by a neighbor at 11 years old and returned to House of Good Shepherd under “protective custody” as a “state witness” in December 1926. A couple of months later she was released from the reform school after a lawyer intervened by using the grounds of habeas corpus.

In May 1929, Billie is arrested along with her mother and several other women during a night raid of a brothel in Harlem run by a woman named Florence Williams. She is tried and found guilty of vagrancy by a judge named Jean Hortense Norris (who was well-known for giving very harsh sentences to young offenders). She is 14 years old and sent to Welfare Island (now called Roosevelt Island) first and then to a workhouse.

In May 1947, Billie Holiday was arrested for narcotics use in her apartment in New York City. She was tried, pled guilty, and was sentenced to serve time at the Alderson Federal Prison Camp. She was released from prison for good behavior in March 1948. However, Lady Day would continue to be persecuted by law enforcement and others after her release. She gave an interview to Ebony Magazine in 1949 and spoke of this:

“I came out expecting to be allowed to go to work and to start with a clean state…But the police have been particularly vindictive, hounding, heckling and harassing me beyond endurance…These people have dogged my footsteps from New York to San Francisco…They have allowed me no peace. Wherever I go, they track me down and ask me nasty questions about the company I keep and my habits…

Recently the New York Police Department refused to issue me a Cabaret Performer’s Licence. The pretext used was my prison record…although many other nightclub employees with police records are licensed and working.

I have been caught in the crossfire of narcotic agents and drug peddlers and it’s been wicked…One of the narcotic agents seemed determined to make me the means of securing promotion. The peddlers made vile threats to me in an effort to make me a customer again.

Source: With Billie - A New Look At the Unforgettable Lady Day by Julia Blackburn (p.198).

I have been reading Billie Holiday’s FBI file for the past few weeks. It underscores that there was a “war on drugs” against people of color for decades before it was officially declared by Richard Nixon in 1971. It has been eye-opening and reinforces my belief that state violence against people of color is and has always been destructive. Julia Blackburn (2005) writes about her persecution at the hands of the state: “It is true that after her release from prison, Billie was constantly being brought before the courts of law on one pretext or another, and several people who worked with her attested to the fact that the police and other government agents were always at her shows — heckling, threatening, raiding her dressing room, making embarrassing enquiries at her hotel and spreading rumors at the clubs where she was booked to sing (p.199).”

I look forward to sharing the fruits of my Billie Holiday project with all of you in 2013. In the meantime, Happy Birthday Lady Day!

The past week has just been beyond busy for me. I’ve wanted to participate in several actions that have been taking place across my state of Illinois addressing mass incarceration but have not been able to. However thanks to my friends and to the internet, I have been able to keep up with some of the happenings. It’s not the same as being there by any measure but it allows me to feel connected in some way.

Yesterday, my friends at TAMMS Year Ten organized a powerful and from what I hear poignant direct action to amplify the voices of mothers and family members of men who are currently locked up at TAMMS Supermax prison. This is just part of the many actions that the group has been engaged in for over 10 years now.

The Chicago Tribune covered the Mother’s March:

The group of mothers stood beneath the sun in downtown Chicago on Wednesday, taking turns at a microphone to tell how the state’s controversial super-max prison has changed their sons.

One described her son’s precipitous weight loss since being incarcerated in the facility in Tamms in southern Illinois 21/2 years ago. Another spoke of her son’s slide into depression and hopelessness because of his extreme isolation. And a third detailed a maddening daily routine: In order to stay active, she said her son now spends hours walking in small circles in his windowless concrete cell.

“You did a crime, you need to pay for it,” said Geneva Mullins, whose son was convicted of attempted murder and conspiracy in a murder and is now at the Tamms super-max. “But you wouldn’t treat an animal like this. It is inhumane.”

Read the whole article here. Please also take a moment to visit the TAMMS Year Ten website to find out how you can support efforts to close this torture chamber. We have never been closer to seeing this prison closed. Governor Quinn has recommended its closure. Now it is up to the legislature to make sure that it happens.

My friend Sam took some beautiful photographs at the action and I want to share them with you.

Guarded
(Dropping Daddy Off At Jail)
by Danna Botwick

Good-bye at the gate
We hugged & kissed like families do
He held his youngest daughter,

She wanted to see where he would sleep.

The guard, a black woman
with sunglasses & white uniform,
scooped up his belongings with
long red nails.
It’s just a camp,
no bars, she made light
of our darkness and I hated her
long red nails.

Lucy did not cry
for almost two hours.

When it folded over her,
she was trying to spell
and decided she could not do her work
without him
so she beat the couch
with small angry fists
“I want my daddy, NOW!”
Until she could not breathe,
eyes puffy,
face flushed she raged,

“I wish daddy didn’t do that bad
thing in the first place!”

I paused inside my hurt
and suggested,
“He didn’t know…”

Too smart for me
she smashed her face into a pillow,
“I’ll bet all mothers say that to their children.”