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,
