Today is National Occupy Day in Support of Prisoners. I am glad that folks around the country are coming together to bring needed attention to the plight of those we lock in cages. We should be in solidarity with prisoners every day.

A pen pal of mine who has been imprisoned for the past 10 years once told me that he saw himself as one of society’s “throw away” people. His words have stayed with me. They have pushed me to write letters to incarcerated people even when I have been at my most exhausted. It seems a small thing: a letter. I have learned however that isolation is one of the most difficult parts of being behind bars. The sense that you have been forgotten can sap you of all hope. We are only human in relation to other humans. Our need to be connected to one another is often overlooked but it is essential. Prisoners remind us of this on a daily basis.

So today, if you are not planning to take part in any of the actions that are being planned as part of the National Occupy Day in Solidarity with Prisoners, I make a humble request. Please consider becoming a pen pal for an incarcerated person. Organizations and projects like the Write to Win Collective (here in Chicago), Black and Pink, and Razor Wire Women provide you with an opportunity to connect with prisoners who would appreciate corresponding with you.

I haven’t been well over the past few days. My energy is low so it would be easy to just pull the covers over my head and stay in bed. Instead I’ll be spending my afternoon in a local arts center making cards and writing letters with young people who have incarcerated relatives. “Showing up” is the best way to express solidarity so that’s what I will be doing. As I am writing my letters today, I will keep Jimmy Santiago Baca’s poem in mind:

Letters Come to Prison
by Jimmy Santiago Baca

From the cold hands of guards
Flocks of white doves
Handed to us through the bars,
Our hands like nests hold them
As we unfold the wings
They crash upward through
Layers of ice around our hearts,
Cracking crisply
As we leave our shells
And fly over the waves of fresh words,
Gliding softly on top of the world
Flapping our wings for the lost horizon.

1976, Arizona State Prison-Florence, Florence, Arizona.

Update: A special thanks to my friends who came out this afternoon to help and participate in our card-making event at Rumble Arts Center. I was so moved by the beautiful sentiments expressed in the cards. We heard from a woman who told us that she had been incarcerated seven times and knew how important it was to receive mail while locked up. Here is a photo taken by the amazing Sarah Rhee of some of the terrific cards created by a couple of wonderful girls.

Take a look at the graph below. This is the result of many bad policy decisions but one stands out in particular…

Some months ago, I wrote about the cowardice of Illinois politicians and the corruption of the media in a post about the suspension of the state’s meritorious good time (MGT) program. Sure enough as many (including me) predicted, this disastrous political decision has had the effect of increasing the Illinois prison population by nearly 4,000 at an additional cost of nearly $100 million. I am of course not Nostrodamus. This was a completely foreseeable consequence of a dumb decision made by our Governor.

I attended a meeting about Illinois prison overcrowding on Monday and Malcolm Young once again spoke about the importance of reinstating MGT. He has written a new white paper (PDF) which is essential reading for anyone who is interested in the background on MGT, the political controversy and the consequences of the suspension of the program.

In the coming days, please look out for an opportunity to help push the Governor to instruct the Department of Corrections to reinstate MGT. I will be sharing the template of a letter that you can send to Governor Quinn as well as other ways that you can make your voice heard on this matter if you live in Illinois.

UPDATE: You can urge Governor Quinn to reinstate MGT by e-mailing, calling, sending a letter or signing a petition. Information is HERE.

I think that the re-entry industrial complex is a racket. Yet real people get out of prison and jail every single day and need to navigate hostile waters on the outside. One such person is Tracey Stevens who narrates her story. I think that her words are poignant and should compel us to REALLY focus on providing opportunities for formerly incarcerated people.

Last summer, I decided to curate a photographic exhibition to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the Attica Prison Uprising. The exhibition which included photographs from John Shearer (who kindly sent them to me) and from my own collection of newspaper wire photos was incredibly well received. It culminated with a reading of original prose and poetry written by Attica prisoners and observers as well as a presentation by Michael Deutsch who shared his reflections about defending some of the Attica Brothers.

The experience that most impacted me though was the visit that I facilitated for a group of middle school boys from a local after-school program. As the young men walked around looking at the photographs, I watched their faces closely. Some seemed perplexed, others were clearly fascinated and a few were upset.

After they had seen the pictures, I asked how many of them had ever heard of the Attica Prison uprising. Out of the group of about 16 young men (all Black and Latino), not one hand went up. None had heard about the Attica rebellion. This was not at all surprising to me. Most people haven’t. But it was the response to my next question that really shook me. I asked how many of them knew a friend, relative, or neighbor who had been or was currently “locked up.” Every single hand in the room went up. Every single one. 16 out of 16.

This happened in September of last year and I haven’t written about it before today because I have been trying to process the experience since then. What does it mean when young men of color grow up not knowing the history of Attica but knowing so many people in their lives who were or are incarcerated? How do they make meaning of this experience? What lessons are they learning about how the world works for black and brown people?

After a few months of consideration, I have decided to take on an ambitious project. With the help of my friend Teresa Silva, who is a museum curator and scholar, I plan to organize some sort of an exhibition this year that will narrate a history of black imprisonment in the U.S.

I may have mentioned here in the past that I am a collector of prison-related artifacts. I have been for over 15 years now and have amassed a treasure trove of items relevant to the history of black people’s relationship to the criminal legal system in the U.S.

So with Teresa’s help, I am hoping to offer an opportunity for young black people in Chicago to interrogate themes related to the prison industrial complex: past, present, and future. My intention is to help young people to develop critical thinking about the experience of incarceration in the U.S., to identify its root cause, to consider resistance efforts, and to apply the experience to their own current circumstances.

I heard Rinku Sen recently say that: “Information is not power. Power is power and action makes information a conduit to power.” My challenge in co-curating this exhibition will be to make sure that young people don’t simply walk away with information but with a real desire to take ACTION today to address the epidemic of mass/hyper-incarceration which is ravaging black and brown communities across the U.S.

Stay tuned to hear about our progress in organizing the exhibition which I hope will open in October or November of this year. Much remains to be done, to start with, I need to find a venue for the exhibition. More details will be forthcoming and I welcome your ideas about what you might include in such an exhibition. How would you tell a history of black imprisonment in the U.S. in a way that would be empowering rather than dispiriting? I’d love to hear any thoughts about this.

I am dedicating this project to my young friend who committed suicide this past November.

In the meantime, I wanted to share one piece of my collection of stuff. Below are a set of vintage original mug shots from police records in Pennsylvania in the 1930s through the 1950s.

Also, here is Angela Davis making an important point about the failure of the educational system to teach about history and literature. This is why I have always worked to develop opportunities outside of the classroom to share historical knowledge with the broader public. It has been a motivating factor in my work since I was a teenager:

Occupying Mumia’s Cell
Copyright©2011 by Alice Walker

I Sing of Mumia
brilliant and strong
and of the captivity
that
few black men escape
if they are as free
as he has become.

What a teacher he is for all of us.

Nearly thirty years in solitary
and still,
Himself.

He will die himself.
A black man;
whom many consider to be
a Muslim, though this is not
how he narrows down
the criss-crossing paths of
his soul’s journey.
Perhaps it is simpler
to call him
a lover of truth
who refuses
to be silenced.
Is anything more persecuted
in this land?

No boots will be allowed
of course
so he will not
die with them on;
but there will always be
boots
of the mind and spirit
and of the heart and soul.

His will be black and shining
(or maybe the color of rainbows)
and they will sprout wings.

Mumia
they have decided
finally
not to kill you
hoping no blood will
stain their hands
at the tribunal
of the people;
but to let you continue
to die slowly
creating and singing
your own songs
as you pace
alone, sometimes terrorized,
for decades of long nights
in your small cage
of a cell.

We lament our impotence: that we have failed
to get you out of there.

Your regal mane may have thinned
as our locks too, those flags of our self sovereignty, may even have
disappeared;
waiting out this unjust sentence,
until we, like you, have become old.
Still,
if you will: accept our gratitude
that you stand, even bootless,
on your feet. We see
that few of those around us,
well shod and walking, even owning, the streets
are freed.

Somehow you have been.

Enough to remind us
of freedom’s devout
internal and
ineradicable seed.

What a magnificent Lion
you have been all these
disastrous years
and still are,
indeed.

Yesterday, the Sentencing Project released a new report about private prisons titled “Too Good To Be True.”

The report details the history of private prisons in America, documents the increase in their use, and examines their supposed benefits. Among the report’s major findings:

1. From 1999 to 2010 the use of private prisons increased by 40 percent at the state level and by 784 percent in the federal prison system.

2. In 2010 seven states housed more than a quarter of their prison population in private facilities.

3. Claims of private prisons’ cost effectiveness are overstated and largely illusory.

4. The services provided by private prisons are generally inferior to those found in publicly operated facilities.

5. Private prison companies spend millions of dollars each year attempting to influence policy at the state and federal level.

The following table shows the dramatic increase in prisoners held in private prisons in the U.S. over the last decade:

Prisoners Held in Private Prisons in the United States

	1999	2010	Change 1999-2010
Total Prison Population	1,366,721	1,605,127	+17%
Total Private	71,208	128,195	+80%
Federal Private	3,828	33,830	+784%
State Private	67,380	94,365	+40%

 

 

Read an analysis of these charts by clicking here.

(h/t Megan for posting this poem by Vanessa Huang on Facebook)

Dear Executioners,

This the year angels unravel
your promise; enduring prayer hearts
fly home for holidays, stay
for each and all the days,
where bread for all reign free.

This the year no angel
sacrifice your pain, no plea
for life need breath, your swollen
feet return to visit each one
you’ve put away; this
the year you resolve to face
each sin, confess
humanity with the rest
of us, pilgrims
each and all.

This the year angels
lynched by your pen
and coffee, angels
still keeping
watch inside
return
and bless each memory.

This the year all earth’s
children witness
your prison, secrets
broken so no child know shiver
of hunger, shame,
mumstealing, the year each child
remember what it is
to be curious, free from
judgment gaze, relearn
home in body.

This the year we uproot
toxic spread barbed wire
watch tower, pray for each
serving lie
of lock and key; this
the year each immigrant
shriveled under gavel’s learned
command lay to rest, medicine
earth’s palm massaging
temple our sky, the year new
days rain your wildfire.

This the year strip
searches and forced sterilization
become sorrows
of our past, doctors
and warden find their own
forgiveness enough
to imagine reparation
for war on baby
breath, the year we each find
breath enough
to imagine new
practice, collect
bouquet for each
fallen soldier who
brave this trespass.

If we have learned to hear
prayer of ghosts on Angel Island, then
this is the year; if we felt pollution
from Alcatraz enough to shut
a prison down and dandelion
still root, then
this is the year; if Attica reminds us
that patience shake
foundation enough to threaten
your hold, wake sun
gods, know freedom
for a moment, then
this is the year.

So may each finger’s sorrow find
joy enough to loosen your mallet
grip and rest
in prayer
with the angels.

after Martín Espada’s “Imagine the Angels of Bread”

I occasionally get e-mails from people who ask me about how prison abolition looks in practice. I have decided to share some examples here today.

First, here is an introduction to the context within which we are operating.

Critical Resistance is one of the organizations that is actively operationalizing the concept of prison abolition:

Vikki Law does an excellent job of providing an overview of community-based alternatives for addressing harm. These models of intervening when harm occurs can and should form the basis of prison abolition.

Finally, the great Angela Davis brings it home as she asks us to re-imagine our ideas and understanding of “justice.”

I have been working for the past six months on a long essay about how policing and prisons figure into the modern black freedom movement. I often use this blog as a way to work out what I think about certain issues. This is one of those times so please forgive the disjointed nature of this post. I am thinking out loud…

Police, prisons, and jails (basically the apparatus of the carceral state) figure prominently across the history of the black freedom movement. Since slavery, black people in the U.S. have found themselves in conflict with the instruments of state power which have sought to control our bodies, our labor, our families, and our very freedom.

I have been reading quite a bit about the modern civil rights movement again (1945 to 1975) and am struck by how prominently police brutality and prison/jail figure in the narratives of that struggle. Police harassment consistently triggers riots in Harlem, Chicago, Rochester, Watts, & L.A just to name a few cities. People fed up with unrelenting police brutality find ways to lash out and/or to resist.

I have written about how the Black Panther Party centered the problem of police violence in their analysis and in their organizing. Their Ten Point Program titled “What We Want, What We Believe” advocated an end to police harassment and a reliance on self-defense to counter the brutality that people of color were subjected to on a daily basis.

Aside from the centrality of police violence in narratives of black protest, I am struck too by the prominent leaders in the movement who find themselves repeatedly jailed during this period: Martin, Malcolm, Bayard, Diane, Fannie, Rosa, Huey, Stokely, H. Rap, James Farmer, John Lewis… The list is so long as to seem interminable. In fact, Malcolm makes the point in a speech that:

“You can’t be a negro in America and not have a criminal record. Martin Luther King has been to jail. James Farmer has been to jail. Why you can’t name a black man in this country who is sick and tired of the hell that he’s catching who hasn’t been to jail.”

It’s important to say that Malcolm went to prison for criminal activities as a young man. He experienced his incarceration as oppressive and was radicalized by the experience. He was not, however, a political prisoner. While some of the Panthers were imprisoned for political reasons, others were incarcerated for criminal activities ranging from fraud, robbery to sexual violence. These experiences of incarceration were qualitatively different from the direct action and intentional strategy used by Dr. King and other black activists to dramatize the injustice that black people experienced daily.

Henry David Thoreau is credited with having said that: “In an unjust state the only place for a man is in jail.” Bayard Rustin reinterpreted that concept and wrote that “it is an honor to face jail for a just cause.” Dr. King embodied this idea in his repeated trips to jail from the mid-50s to the mid-60s. In his famous “Letter from A Birmingham Jail,” he wrote:

One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.

This is not to say that Dr. King enjoyed the experience of being locked up. Quite the contrary. In fact, I have written previously about Dr. King’s fear of solitary confinement. For King, Parks, and the young people from SNCC and CORE, going to jail was about civil disobedience. It was a strategy for gaining public support for the cause. For King, it was critical that his direct action be nonviolent in nature even when he was met with violence. This enraged other black activists including Malcolm X who frustrated by the images of police violence against peaceful protestors in Birmingham uttered the following words in his famous speech titled “The Ballot or the Bullet:”

Whenever you demonstrate against segregation…the law is on your side, and anyone who stands in the way is not the law any longer. They are breaking the law, they are not the representatives of the law. Any time you demonstrate against segregation and a man has the audacity to put a police dog on you, kill that dog, kill him, I’m telling you, kill that dog. I say it, if they put me in jail tomorrow, kill—that—dog. Then you’ll put a stop to it. Now, if these white people in here don’t want to see that kind of action, get down and tell the mayor to tell the police department to pull the dogs in.

I am thinking more deeply about all of these cross-currents in the history of the modern black freedom movement. I am left with a couple of over-arching questions: 1. How did the centrality of the carceral experience impact our community during that period? 2. What is different today in the era of hyper/mass incarceration?

As I continue to read, think and learn more, I hope to develop some satisfactory answers to these questions. It is a work in progress…