Unpacking “Chiraq” #2: Repression, RICO, and War on Terror Tactics
by nancy a heitzeg

What does it mean to call a city a War Zone? To write entire Black and Brown neighborhoods – and all their inhabitants – out of the United States of America and into a script that so effectively “others” them that they are now a foreign enemy state? What does it mean for public perception? What does it mean for police state response?

While the term “Chiraq” may have one set of meanings for those who survive Chicago’s high gun violence rate (see Unpacking ‘Chiraq’ #1: Chief Keef, Badges of Honor, and Capitalism), it serves to legitimate, without question, already solidified stereotypes of youth of color. “Chiraq” also links, per usual this violence to gangs. “Chiraq” implies that the already draconian domestic police approach to gangs is insufficient, and that a military response is now needed.

What other message could one take from the recent edition of HBO’s Vice Episode #9 Chiraq ? Where segments of a major US city are described like this — “The South Side of Chicago is basically a failed state within the borders of the U.S.”? Where viewers are blithely taken from Chicago’s Southside to then “hunting oil pirates in Nigeria”?

The lethal combination of gangs and guns has turned Chicago into a war zone. To see why the Windy City, now dubbed “Chiraq,” had the country’s highest homicide rate in 2012, VICE visits Chicago’s most dangerous areas, where handguns are plentiful and the police and community leaders are fighting a losing battle against gang violence. In the neighborhood of Englewood, we patrol with police, visit with religious leaders, and hang out with members of gangs – soldiers in a turf war that has spread into new communities as projects are destroyed and residents are forced to move elsewhere.

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Part 1 of the interview is here.

by Alixa Garcia – Arise for Assata Project

Q: Could you tell us exactly what happened when you first went to court in your first trial? What were the charges that were brought against you and exactly how did the state deal with prosecuting you in this particular case?

AS: The first trial that I participated in was the New Jersey trial. They put in a whole lot of other charges like armed robbery – I was supposed to have robbed the police of guns – and then assault, and whole list of charges. But the main charges were murder of a New Jersey state policeman and wounding another one. We were on trial, we were in the jury selecting process.

Q: When you say “we,” could you state exactly who –

AS: Sundiata Acoli and I were on trial together. We had the same charges and we decided that we would go on trial together. They didn’t oppose that.

Q: Had you recovered from your wounds at the time?

AS: I was still wearing a brace for the broken clavicle, but the problem was mainly my right arm. I was basically paralyzed. And I was a wreck. I’d broken out in a rash, I was very thin… Anyway, we started the jury selection process. And in the middle of it the trial was stopped. It was postponed until January, 1974.

Q: Why?

AS: Because it was found out that there was such a racist climate in the jury room that the trial could no longer proceed. There was like this lynch mob atmosphere, there was no way we could receive anything resembling a fair trial. So they gave us a change of venue to another county – Morris County – where we were supposed to resume the trial. Morris County happened to be 99% white and one of the richest counties in the state of New Jersey, as a matter of fact, in the whole country.

Q: What evidence was presented to indicate that there was a racist climate at that time?

AS: There was no evidence presented, but the press had been trying me for years. I was turned into a monster. They pictured this vicious woman that goes around terrorizing police, this madwoman essentially… They had created this whole mythology in order to destroy me. They started this whole mythology in order to destroy me. They started building this whole campaign in the press in 1970-71. The press were free to say anything and the police, the FBI, the CIA were the ones who were feeding the press information. No one ever asked me any questions and even attempted to deal with the fact that we were human beings, people who had a long history of struggle. It was just overwhelming, and people believed that.

Q: You notice that there was a correlation between the information the police had in their possession and the information and the distortions in the press?

AS: It wasn’t information. They just fabricated things, and fed them to the press. They would accuse me of having I don’t know how many pending charges, and none of that was true. Anybody reading the paper would think that we had been convicted of committing so many crimes all around the country and never was there a mention that we’d never been found guilty of any crime.

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I’ve written a lot about the TAMMS Year Ten Campaign on this blog. It’s because I have such admiration for my friends and allies who were involved in the (more than) decade long struggle to close that torture chamber. Anyway, artist Paul Kjelland has created a poster to celebrate the closing of TAMMS Supermax prison. You should read his description of the process for creating the poster.

by Paul Kjelland

“I should write something to mark the beginning of the George Zimmerman trial” is the thought rattling through my mind incessantly over the past couple of days. But I fear that I have run out of words… I’ve written about both Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin many times on this blog. No more words are forthcoming. I’ve been doing my best to ignore Sybrina Fulton’s daily tweets about her son this week. Today, she wrote: “You don’t have to know me to know my pain, use my pain & my lost to stand up for something.” It pushed me over the edge and I felt compelled to call forth Trayvon’s spirit.

“the mysterious connection
between whom we murder
and whom we mourn… – Audre Lorde (Dear Joe)”

I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts about his soul but also our country’s collective one. Does Trayvon’s soul rest easy? Or is it caught in the space “between whom we murder and whom we mourn” like thousands of other black people who have been tragically killed over the years in this country? Audre Lorde has written that: “Our dead line our dreams…” Unfortunately, too often black children are more likely to embody this country’s fears and nightmares.

Across time and space, my mind travels to Baton Rouge, Louisiana in December 1912. Simon Cadors, a black man, is convicted of killing a rich white planter. He’s sentenced to hang. As he awaits his appeal, he is kidnapped from his jail cell by a white mob and lynched. His body is found hanging from a telegraph pole on Christmas eve. Around his neck is a placard that reads: “The inevitable penalty.” It’s a warning to every black person in Louisiana; it’s southern ‘justice.’

A hundred years later, in my mind’s eye I see Trayvon. He’s lying on the cold concrete. As I get closer, I notice a placard hanging from his neck that reads: “The inevitable penalty.” It’s a warning to every black person in Florida; it’s southern ‘justice.’

There is a continuity between Simon Cadors and Trayvon Martin. Both exist in the space “between whom we murder and whom we mourn.” Despair and hope are once again at war within me. Audre whispers in my ear: “Despair is a tool for your enemies.” I decide to search for signs of hope. I find it once again in the voice of our youth:

I tell ‘em listen
I don’t fit your description
I don’t think that I embody this picture that you all are depicting

Lamar Jorden is a Chicago poet, writer and rapper. He has been part of the Louder than a Bomb (LTAB) poetry festival and appears on this year’s LTAB Mixtape. His song “Listen” is an exhortation for his peers to define themselves and to reject the negative stereotypes that society imposes on them. Jorden has taken on Sybrina’s Fulton’s call to use our pain and to stand up for something. He is also concerned with questions that Audre asked in 1977 (many years before he was born): “In what way can we cease to contribute to our own oppression? What hidden assumptions of the enemy have we eaten and made our own?” These are questions worth wrestling with as we work to build the world that we want to live in; a world free of oppression where true justice is possible.

I featured a poem titled “Chicago (Keef)” by Kevin Coval last year. It is from his chapbook “More Shit Chief Keef Don’t Like.” Today, I’m featuring another poem from the collection. It’s called “We Real” and is inspired by one of my favorite poets (of all time) Gwendolyn Brooks.

WE REAL
The Glory Boys on house arrest

we real. we
steel. we
still here. we
no fear. we
know school lame. we
dope game. we
know gangs. we
Jeff Forte kids. we
jail birds. we
broke, bitch. we
capitalists. we
jupiter gassed. we
murdered fast. we
unseen we
wanting we
something we
more than one thing. we
eastside. we
southside. we
westside. we
on the block, we
high noon. you ravinia picnic and air condition. we
fire hydrant & fire, cracker. we
hot hell in June. you nap noon. you spoon. we
rap. we
die, soon

My colleague and ally, Brian Galaviz, posted some words on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. They are below. He also shared a letter written by some students at the school where he works. I asked for permission to re-publish that letter. The students and their teacher granted my request and I hope that you will take the time to read and think about what they have to say about how the media’s coverage of violence impacts their lives.

Reflecting on being part of healing after Chicago lost another warrior, the word that comes to mind is Grace. It is my favorite Christian word, though I am not. Watching staff and students deal with pain in a way to flip violence. Students using his life and transformative process to continue their trajectory for self/community-realization.

Rudy Lozano Leadership Academy – IDPL is a beautiful organism, and though we lost an Angel, we fight on in his spirit and light.

One way students responded to their friend being murdered was by calling out the Tribune for dehumanizing both our lost loved one and the young man accused of the murder. I am still struggling with sending love to the person who kills and the victim. But I am trying in struggle with students and staff. This is what they wrote:

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I read this blog post yesterday (it was published in the Washington Post):

Americans are familiar with stories of dissidents fleeing repressive regimes such as those in China or Iran and seeking asylum in the United States. Snowden is in the opposite position. He’s an American leaving the land of his birth because he fears persecution.

Sigh… Americans fleeing U.S. government repression for other countries is not new. Think Paul and Eslanda Robeson. Think of Robert Williams fleeing to Cuba to escape trumped up kidnapping charges or Assata Shakur currently exiled in Cuba…

The U.S. government has always targeted dissenters. Dozens of political prisoners languish in cages across the country. This should be well-known to most Americans. It isn’t but it should be.

The current case of Edward Snowden seems to have revived (for at least a couple of days) a conversation about dissent, ‘criminality,’ and political imprisonment. It’s a good time to revisit some history…

On January 27, 1966, an American political prisoner stood in a courtroom and delivered a speech titled “We Accuse” His name was Bill Epton. I have written about Epton on this blog here and here. He should be better known to more people.

Below are some words from “We Accuse.” I encourage you to read the whole speech; it is worth it.

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Jerry rode his bike on a sidewalk. He was arrested. At the police station, an officer said that Jerry kicked him in the shin. He was sent to jail. At Jerry’s hearing, the judge ordered a $20,000 bond. He has no money and could not post $2,000 bail.

Mumia by Eric Drooker

At 10 am this morning, Ethan arrived at Cook County Jail and paid $2,000 to free Jerry. He stood in line with dozens of other people waiting for the release of their friends and loved ones. Minutes turned into hours. People who were waiting began to talk about being disrespected and feeling dispirited. There was radio silence; no information about when anyone would be released. The system dehumanizes.

Seven hours later Jerry walked out of jail and Ethan was there to meet him. He waited those long hours for Jerry’s release. Standing with the others who were anxiously and apprehensively waiting the (perhaps temporary) return of their missing…

I’ve been really sick for days and decided to leave my house because I was going stir-crazy. I returned to hear Jerry’s voice on my answering machine and for the first time in days, I felt the knot in my stomach begin to loosen just a little.

Jerry’s next court date is June 24th. He is like countless young men in Chicago ensnared in the web of a corrupt criminal legal system intent on devouring him. The system is voracious and insatiable.

Jerry is unlike countless young black men in Chicago because he had a community who could and did rally to his support. A community that refused to allow the system to feed on his body until he was fully consumed.

As Jerry sat in jail for days, he contemplated his “choices” — plead guilty to a crime that he didn’t commit or sit in jail until his next court date nearly three weeks away. Jerry would have pleaded guilty had he not been informed yesterday that funds had been raised to post bond. He said that he didn’t think that he would have lasted much longer in jail.

So for now, the system has not succeeded in abducting another young black man. Jerry will survive to fight another day against the bogus charges he faces. And I can only say thank you to each person who made this outcome possible. As I sit here tonight to write these words, I am also shedding a few tears for the thousands of Jerrys sitting in Cook County Jail facing a similar ‘choice.’ They’ve been accused and are waiting for their cases to be heard. They are behind bars in a jail that is a living hell. They are mostly black and brown bodies who don’t have a community and who must face the beast alone.

I breathe deeply and recommit to resisting the injustice of this criminal legal system. I vow to continue to fight for all of the Jerrys and the Jennys in this city and I hope that you will too. Thank you and peace to you all.

No one has yet written a biography about Madame Stephanie St. Clair and I can hardly believe it. I was introduced to Madame St. Clair through watching the “Cotton Club.” She’s only mentioned in passing. I was born and raised in New York City and even worked for a couple of years in Harlem. Yet I heard nothing about this amazing black woman’s life and legacy. Her Wikipedia page is woefully lacking and describes her as “a female gang leader who ran numerous criminal enterprises in Harlem, New York in the part of the 20th century.” This description of St. Clair doesn’t do justice to her life.

Stephanie St. Clair (18 Jan 1938)

I am very interested in Madame St. Clair because as LaShawn Harris (2008) has written:

“St. Clair’s life symbolizes the often untold narratives and experiences of black men and women who used the informal economy and crime as ways to creatively confront race, gender, and class oppression (p.70).”

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The New York Times reports on a new ACLU study about marijuana use and enforcement:

Black Americans were nearly four times as likely as whites to be arrested on charges of marijuana possession in 2010, even though the two groups used the drug at similar rates, according to new federal data.

The Times story includes the following map which illustrates the disparities in marijuana arrests.

Please read the entire interactive ACLU report HERE.