To Break The Will

The School To Prison

pipe·line  

n.

1. A conduit of pipe, especially one used for the conveyance of water, gas, or petroleum products.

2. A direct channel by which information is privately transmitted.

3. A system through which something is conducted, especially as a means of supply.

Stop.

Go.

Sit down.

Stand up.

Get in line.

Come with us.

The school for the child --

Raise your hand.

Answer me.

Spread your legs.

Open that bag.

Shut up.

Shave.

Don't touch.

Don’t hug.

-- is what the prison is for the convict

Pledge Allegiance.

To A Flag.

Totems of

Assimilation.

Obeying as

Products of supply.

To break the will.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

View the 3 Part StPP Zine Series Here

Meeting at 31st & California - Reflections of a Prison Visit to Brian Church of the NATO4

On May 16, 2012, in the days before the NATO Summit in Chicago, police raided a Bridgeport apartment where activists were staying. The raid began with kicking in the door, handcuffing the residents, and ransacking the apartment. Five activists have been held, with one since deported to Poland, another incarcerated in Pontiac IL, and three others who are charged under Illinois terrorism statues on 1.5 million dollar bonds. They remain in Cook County Jail, awaiting trial.

Despite my love of photography, this place is so vile that this is the only photo I took on the walk to Division 9 Super-maximum security, to visit comrade Brian Church who is awaiting trial.

No amount of education, prison literature, or television show depicting prison life, has been able to sum up for me the way that I feel upon leaving another person behind the bars. In my brief visit to Chicago, I felt it necessary to do the solidarity work that comes with participating in major days of action, for the unwritten social contract that we sign when we gather together denotes that we must not leave our comrades behind. When someone is imprisoned, in this case for a belief that challenges the state, (read about the case of the NATO5 here) this becomes an inevitable reality. My heart has been feeling heavy since the visit. So my mind tells me to write.

I was lucky enough to have a wonderful comrade to guide me through the process of entering Supermax Division 9 on California Avenue & 31st Street on the south-side of Chicago. I've been there once before, last year, looking for a missing comrade who had been arrested. The walk from the Pink Line felt strangely familiar, that feeling of vague recollection, the boarded up houses, the empty businesses, the grassy median.

Entering prison for visitation is like entering a dungeon, underground is disorienting, without our phones it becomes difficult to determine time. The staircase brought us downward where we signed in and moved to the large marble slabs designated for seating. Time ticked on, over an hour at least, others gathered. Now, I live in a primarily black & brown occupied home, as well as living in a primarily black & brown neighborhood. I've grown to feel a part of those spaces, and feel safe in those spaces. Waiting for a prison visitation, I see my whiteness so starkly perceived. In unfamiliar spaces, this is a commonplace experience, yet the reality of confronting my own whiteness and its privileges continues to astound me and furthermore enrage me. This is my experience, it digs in my soul because I want it to be different, yet I know that this is an unquantifiable experience to compare to those that live with the effects of white supremacy in their individual lives and communities.   Feelings of anger towards whiteness and the individuals who refuse to confront the realities of racist, classist, and sexist exploitation bubble up inside of me in a space like that. I can feel responsibility resting itself equally upon my shoulders. I move fluidly between anger and sadness, with hope fastened tightly to both. If I did not keep hope vested within me, I'm not sure I would have the mental capacity to continue doing the work I feel it is necessary to do.

There is a lot of time to think while waiting. I just kept flipping my drivers license, the only item one can take with them inside, over the marble, sliding it through the creases, feeling overwhelmed and constricted by the architecture of the space already. It induced the silent questions which I did not verbalize: 'What the fuck do we do? How do we fix this? Well we know how... but HOW to make the HOW happen...' followed by, 'The person I am going to visit has these same thoughts... and now they are here. What the fuck do we do?'

Rounds of folks, families, children, were called to walk through the security checkpoint for visitation. Once, twice, three times. Our comrade informed us that because of the nature of how Brian is being treated, it would be more than likely that he would be in a visitation room by himself, thus the long wait. Finally we heard 'Church' and abruptly stood up and walked through security. Third floor, elevator down the hall. The door opened and sure enough we had entered into an empty visitation room. A very dirty, narrow, concrete space, lit only dimly with fluorescent light. Nothing living in sight except for a guard blurred beyond the visitation windows.

Brian entered and sat down in one of the middle seats. Our comrade informed him that myself and another friend had come to visit. She said 'This is [redacted], she's OWS.' I looked up and saw a smile. I could probably draw that smile it lies so vivid in my memory. That smile was solidarity. I was excited to see him, and I showed my teeth and said hello. I ran my hand along the cracking paint of the frame of the visitation window, someone had etched 'EVELYN' into it. I wished my hand could have penetrated the window frame and reached out to hug him. He was still handcuffed, wearing a yellow D.O.J. suit, but he has blue eyes, and the complementary color made them shine brighter. I began by asking him how his week had been, and his response was 'Well... you know... I'm in prison." My heart sank a bit as I immediately self-reflected that what I had asked was a stupid question and I needed to be more directive and positive than that. I knew our time would be brief. Brian has been in solitary confinement while awaiting his trial which has been moved from September to January. Even his two 45 minute periods of time in the yard are 'out alone,' and he mentioned no other prisoners speak to him. This means that his contact with other people lies on the work that we do. He can receive letters, read books we send, and see people for visitation. This is why it's so important that we continue steady contact through the avenues within which it is possible. Prison is constructed to break down the individual spirit, and we must use all the available weapons to resist that. I went to the NoNATO2012 action, and it could have been any one of us that was targeted and entrapped. Any one of us could have not returned to our city of origin. Brian and I are both young people who can be, and are, targeted and entrapped for our opinions which oppose the regime and its veridictions. The reality of that also weighs heavily upon me.

I perceived Brian as to have been having a relatively good or positive day, and the best part about our conversation is that the last few minutes with him he was telling us how he will continue to fight for justice. His outlook clearly still contains hope because he is confident in his release and confident that his work will change the world once he is free. That is the best news one can hear from a comrade behind bars. I was deeply moved by his statements and his resolve.

He also mentioned how he wants to help the people of Syria. I find this to be a fascinating comment because today, John Kerry stated that the United States is 'considering our response' to legitimize intervention and occupation in Syria.  The United States, which pays between 1/5th and one quarter of the NATO budget, is now pondering occupation under the guise of humanitarian intervention. Brian, an actual humanitarian well versed enough to know to oppose war and violence that the US/NATO creates, is now subjugated and incarcerated by the same regime. He sits in prison next to many people whose ancestors were captured and enslaved under that regime, and whose policies continue to exploit people as I write today. This is the violence that encourages us to fear one another, whether its which nation state you are from, the shade of your pigment, or the number of felonies on your record. The very existence and eternal rhetoric around that existence of these institutions are what feed these fears and form them as normalcy in our minds. Too many of us see through this. Brian certainly does. I do too, and our communities can breach these walls that divide us.

Our conversation began to take form about liberation, but abruptly the guard opened the door, Brian stopped mid sentence, said 'I have to go now', got up, and walked out.

The prison visit only lasted about 15 minutes. Since last week, I feel pangs of sadness, watery eyes, This is always how I've dealt with it. I let it out. I stay strong for my comrades, my people, and our dreams.

Please send the NATO4 letters here, or acquire a book for them to read (he's already on book 4 of Game of Thrones and that's just this month!), learn more about the NATO5 and the amazing support network based in Chicago.

With Solidarity and Rage,

What We Want Constantly Changes

Even without loathing,
In the same way you were left without
A remnant or a memory,
I, too, suffer a loss.

That which you have
Repaired for yourself
Has burdened me.
But I have always been 
Able to lift more than
They thought I could.

I just can't help from thinking,
Of all the possible missteps.
I could plot, and plan, and prepare.
Of all the concerns I could have listed,
I seemed to miss the most obvious of all.

I sigh.
What we want constantly changes,
And that is okay.

A New Beginning

No remnants,
No borders,
No fucking apologists and their supporters.

Response to Anne Wagner's "Warhol Paints History, or Race in America"

Wagner's full text is here. I RECOMMEND IT! 

Wagner is firstly destroying the mainstream critique and assumed meaning of Warhol's work by highlighting specific instances in which his work deviates from that assumed meaning. The deviant category is history painting, and she further points out, is its subject of race. The first critics of Warhol's work were focusing specifically on 'art as concept', whereas after a few years, there is a shift to the notion of 'art as critique,' in which he could point out the hypocrisy and absurdity of modern 'culture' and its social systems. The viewer is almost tricked when they first take sight to a Warhol because of the familiarity of objects, or the initial realism that photographs can provide. But that familiarity fades quickly as the viewer begins to reach inside of the familiar to point outside of itself. This is the point, Wagner states, that it becomes a history painting. Warhol was precise when deciding which images to choose, and that 'why' factor is what makes them so powerful. They have a resonant narrative, one that can encompass the most micro, the individual narrative, and the most macro, the societal narrative, at the same time. The best example of this, she provides, is 'Race Riots,' which was originally a Life magazine photograph by Charles Moore. Here we see an antagonism that is societally applicable to modernity, but also allows for a certain drama within its content, one that can hold a cohesive, realist circumstance in which the viewer can attach themselves (In this binary, as black or white, as oppressed or oppressor). At this point in the text Wagner shifts into a critique of her own. She questions what the history of race in America is, and then blatantly states it as the "physical confrontation of men." This act is repeated through the society of the spectacle of images that are circulating through the media (referencing Debord here).  Warhol's downfall is his focus on a single issue, one that has been fetishized, still to this day. There are no photographs of women, or children, or labor, of any race. Why are they left out of the narrative? Do they not exist? No… They must. Were there women's struggles and labor struggles happening? Absolutely. When women were pictured in magazines like Life, they are picketing, holding premade signs, and the assumption is that never could they ever have been involved in violence like riots, or used militant tactics. This happened through the curation of which photographs were chosen. It is the same with Warhol's curation of particular narrative photographs for the work of Race Riots. I believe Wagner is ending here with an intersectional feminist critique (it has some remarks of class struggle as well) of Warhol's work to ask us to question our own curations and our own narratives, how we construct them, and who they represent once they become objects or images to be viewed. Are we just echoing the dominant ideologies and narrow narratives that have been constructed for us? Or do we push against them, expose them, appropriate them and ironize them? Can we use them as tools of revolt? 

The Barbershop That Changed My Life

A friend and community organizer, John Rasberry, invited me to come down to his barbershop on Myrtle Avenue in January of 2011 to join in on a community meeting. This meeting included residents from the micro-local neighborhood, as well as adults and minors who have lived in the villages of Bushwick, Bedford Stuyvesant, and Brownsville, Brooklyn, New York.  The discussion during the meeting was centered on the heightened police presence in the immediate area surrounding their homes, and what this presence would mean for them, their families, and their safety.

Mr. Rasberry started out by having us go around in the shop, stating our names, where we were from, and why we were here. When it was my turn, I explained, “My name is [redacted], I’m originally from Providence, and I moved to Brooklyn to study photography at Pratt over on Willoughby. I am committed to social justice, and that’s what brings me here.” I looked up to see faces of surprise; I was looking for acceptance. It was more than just an acceptance to pacify, to make me feel less intimidated and uncomfortable. I was looking for an acceptance, a trust, that would allow me to be a constructive member in such a gathering.

This night would have a more profound effect on me than I had originally anticipated. It was a humbling experience to be in this space, to sit in solidarity. No matter how many times I put myself in situations where I see a dire and immediate need for social action, the same feelings reoccur. This one was particularly intense.

For the most part, I listened. After all, this meeting was about them, their homes, and their human rights being violated. It was about these white police with no sensitivity nor connection to the area’s deep seeded and systemic social and economic issues. I was captivated by their forwardness and honesty when recounting their experiences.

The only woman other than myself in the room had a compelling story to tell. She was beautiful, and you could see it immediately, even through the thickness of her skin. She spoke of how she had some degrading experiences at the 79^th precinct while she was in an abusive relationship. The precinct’s refusal to help her forced her into staying in a dangerous situation with her children. It was not the police, but other members of the community in Tompkins housing, that pulled her out of her situation and helped bring her life out of darkness.

As I heard more and more stories I became increasingly more depressed about the state of their lives. I had barely walked a mile down the road to find a group of seriously oppressed individuals. All I could do was internalize this information. It weighed heavier on my mind as we sat and talked. My life as a young white woman is no comparison. I do not have these daily struggles. I tried to imagine these experiences happening to me, the constant harassment, the violation of my personal space, the helplessness that comes with asking for help and receiving none, but they just plain don’t. At one point the room silenced for me to speak and all I could do was look down at my hands. I said “I truly wish I could relate to you all better, but all I can say right now is that these hands of mine are white, and it disturbs me that a certain pigment of skin has eliminated all of these worries throughout my life. Because it’s so ludicrous an idea. ”

After the meeting adjourned, John came up to me and told me that he had a lot of respect for my openness and honesty towards my skin color. It was refreshing to have a conversation about race in what they are calling a ‘post-racial’ world. I’m sick of hearing that there is no need to talk about it. We need to talk about it.  It is not an underlying problem, or a single issue, but rather an intersectional reality in peoples everyday lives. This experience taught me it was possible to feel acceptance as the other. It was to eliminate the feeling of otherness, to see the commonalities, and to let the differences fade away, if even for a brief moment.

Donnell Alexander’s essay “Cool Like Me” explains something that has been fluid throughout the history of African American culture. They have been able to create and maintain despite their oppressions as a people. “Cool is all about trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents…they devised a coping strategy called cool, an elusive mellowing strategy designed to master time and space. Cool, the basic reason blacks remain in the American cultural mix, is an industry of style that everyone in the world can use. It’s finding the essential soul while be essentially lost.” (Alexander)

Alexander’s essay is essentially a comment on the revolutionary nature of black people. When economic and racial systems pushed them one way, they pushed back in a genius manner. Now their ideas have dominated mainstream culture whether it is through hip-hop music or “Air Jordans, Tupac, and low-riding pants.” All of these styles and movements are reactions to how society has declared their human lives somehow inferior. (Alexander)  

Cornel West is a leading scholar in racial justice. His book Race Matters speaks of intense black nihilism in which “the accumulated effect of the black wounds and scars suffered in a white dominated society is a deep-seated anger, a boiling sense of rage, and a passionate pessimism regarding America’s will to justice.” This could have easily and understandably caused the majority of those sitting in the barbershop to react to my presence with a number of different, but nonetheless negative, emotions. After all, we were discussing brutality and ignorance among the mostly white people of the 79^th precinct police. (West)

But otherness disappeared this night at the barbershop. It was powerful to witness it. The beauty in this situation is that I was supposed to be the perceived ‘other’ because I was with people who were in very different situations in comparison to my own. In the context of patriarchal, capitalist, white supremacist society, though, these black and brown people are constantly perceived as the ‘other’. The roles were reversed, but there was this intangible cohesion between us. We never left race out of the discussion. We didn’t tip toe around it. We didn’t pretend like the differences did not exist. We were, however, honest about our differences, and with this came an overwhelming amount of respect. I walked out of the barbershop feeling renewed. It’s that intangible feeling that I must hold onto, hold onto it with everything, I thought. Call it trite, but I still think it’s worth saying. I have hope, and hope is powerful to possess.

Works Cited

Alexander, Donnell. Cool Like Me.

West, Cornel. Race Matters. Boston: Beacon, 1993.