Hollywood, right?
Not in Louisiana. That's a thing. Go to almost any state prison and you'll see almost exactly what I just described.
The one variation is what the plant is. It could be okra or corn rather than cotton.
I've been down row after row after row after row of okra.
I've used baked beans cans as makeshift buckets to water row after row after row after row of tomato plants.
I've been on my hands and knees to dig up potatoes.
I've cut acre after endless acre of grass and hay.
Allow me to present this image for you. It's familiar. You've seen it in every slavery movie ever. Even in video games.
Forced labor. Labor under the threat of force. Involuntary servitude.
So, yeah, I settled in. I did the prison shit. Got my GED at 15, had a whole bunch of fights in juvie. My social worker
@CindiAbbott
was the only person I had to talk to. She hugged me and cried they day I got transferred to adult prison at 18.
In my free time, I taught myself how to play guitar and bass. I also got an associate degree.
I was force-fed Christianity, all the while wondering how a just god could allow people to suffer. Believe me when I tell you that cognitive dissonance is real.
Adult prison was a different level. Severe punishment for any infraction. Bed don't have a 9 inch collar? Write up. Not walking fast enough? Write up? OH YOU TALKING BACK?! Dungeon.
I spent a lot of time in the dungeon.
I've been out in near freezing rain, on my hands and knees weeding mustard greens. Row after endless row of mustard greens. In a very Louisiana 35 degrees. I've got up and made my bed, suffering with the flu, to walk out into a wintry swamp and work against my will.
I spent a lot of time in the dungeon. I spent a lot more time on extended lockdown. That's solitary confinement. I've been on extended 5 times, each time for at least 90 days. My longest ride was 9 months.
People think about prison in terms of a general enclosed area where a bunch of miscreants go for a time out, however long that time out might be. Maybe life.
I've never liked authority, so I was a problem for the warden, wherever I went. In the early days, age 14, I tried to escape. Twice.
I had no idea what to do if I was successful, but I tried.
Sorry about how long it's taking to unpack this, but I'm really reliving some shit. I'm also realizing that I have no emotional precedent for this conversation because I rarely talk about prison.
While that's true in the most general of senses, each individual prison has its own shape, culture, and personality. Each has its own issues that others don't have.
I've seen huge strapping men pass out from the Louisiana heat. I can remember lining up to march to the "cut", hoping the horses came to their senses, popped their tethers, and bolted back to the barn.
Imagine a human being saving shit, piss, cum, and milk to mix together and throw on another human being. I saw that almost every day. I've witnessed people go insane from years of isolation.
After that, I settled in for the long haul. And it was a loooooong haul. Almost two decades. I felt that I had no choice but to get comfortable unless I could get the courts rolling.
Huge help the courts were. By the time I even learned about post-conviction my time was up.
In the movies you see overseers. Sometimes they're on horseback. Sometimes on foot. Most of them are armed with rifles or shotguns. A couple may have pistols. A couple may be unarmed.
It was so hot sometimes that we would rush to soak our shirts in the showers, sinks, toilets, whatever in the last minute of "work call" so the moisture would last as long as possible.
Also if you had a towel to spare, you done good.
In the movies there's always a shot of a greasy ass, tobacco spitting, ungroomed, and stank ass white boy eyeing that one particular enslaved person he doesn't like... Maybe he adjusts the position of the gun and creates a little tension.
We had funerals for inmates that passed on. It's heartbreaking to learn in this way that people are an infinite well of compassion when we're all equal. We used to secondline hard for brothers who went to the ancestors.
In the movies there's always a weird, uncomfortable shot of the cotton field. You can see the enslaved people lined up in rows, moving together at a steady pace.
I say all the time that you aren't guaranteed to come home. 1 day, 1 year, ten years, don't matter.
You 👏🏼are👏🏼 not👏🏼 guaranteed👏🏼 to👏🏼 make👏🏼it👏🏼out👏🏼
Sometimes people would lose hope and fall ill. Sometimes they would skip the suffering of illness and die in their sleep.
The living kept on dying or catching that cut.
It's a plantation. You gotta work or suffer the consequences.
Malnutrition is rampant. There's no health care. Heat stroke? Ibuprofen and an ice pack. Chest pain? Ibuprofen and and gas-x. Toothache? Gargle salt water. Oh you depressed? Thorazine, lithium, and ibuprofen.
The Body Shop is the boiler room at Cellblock B. They drag you in, hands cuffed behind your back, shackled at the ankles, and utterly defenseless.
And they beat the everloving fuck out of you.
Eventually I got tired of that shit. They broke me. I took my ass into that field and got to work. My first day in the field was spent in the okra patch. Okra as far as the eye could see. I did almost 4 sacks and that okra tore my hands up. My fingers bled for days.
They call work call at 7:45 am every morning. Mon-Fri yo ass is gon work.
Five days a week I lined up for the roll. The only thing that stopped work call on a normal day was pouring rain, lightning, and extremely low visibility fog.
And snow. We liked snow.
Near the end of my sentence I reached something I guess was roughly akin to OG status. All of a sudden I wasn't a field nigga. I got a job in the library.
But that came with the price of alienating me from many of my peers. Ever heard of Willie Lynch syndrome? Look it up.
Anything happens to you out there, it's far enough from NOLA or BR that no one will be the wiser. If you don't have family coming to visit, you become a target. They feel like they can do you anything and get away with it.
Unfortunately, sometimes it's true.
In the cut, you went to work. Sometimes you'd have a cut partner and you were responsible for each other's work. That caused a lot of beef. If someone was slacking or just was physically unable to keep up, both cut partners rode out to the dungeon.
This was a game for C.O.s.
I spent most of my time at Rayburn Correctional Center, and their method was a little different. Remember how the cops did Freddie Gray with the police van? At RCC, when you ride out, they cuff and shackle you, throw you in the back of a pickup and go off-road.
Before you start your cut, the line has to be counted and the gunline has to be set.
The gunline is an imaginary and sometimes arbitrary line that inmates can't walk across. Cross that line and you may or may not get a warning shot. I've had several warning shots.
These prisons don't have walls. They're surrounded by chain link fences topped with razor wire. There are strategically placed towers around the perimeter. The tower jockeys have assault rifles. They hit the gun range, too.
When a warning shot is fired, you'd better hit the ground, face down. Those guys on those horses are at the gun range every Tuesday and Thursday. If you get caught standing, that next bullet is yours.
Other than that, you got in that long as line, 2x2, and marched to the cut. Sometimes we cut trails through the woods to make a shortcut to a faraway cut. Most often we marched about 5 mi a day.
As I said, every prison is different. So what happens when you refuse to work depends on where you're housed. At DCI the first time I refused to work, I was introduced to the Body Shop.
Rayburn is located in Angie, LA, Washington Parish. Pretty much the heart of klan country. It was originally called WCI (Washington Correctional Institute). During my time there it was renamed to honor B.B. "Sixty" Rayburn.
I went back like this. 10 months of my life in prison essentially because I didn't have a valid address and there were no noncarceral housing programs for parolees.
THREAD. Did you know that 25% of all human beings sent to prison in the U.S. are not sent there for a new crime? They are sent there for a technical rule violation of their probation or parole, usually a missed appointment or a dirty urine.
@OurAbsoluteBern
These questions from Harvard students should now be our
#1
argument against legacy admissions.
I'm convinced that River Parishes Community College grads (myself included) are better educated for the money.
I've been home from prison since New Years Day 2016.
Every 3 months I have to go see the white folks so they can know my whereabouts. This is the legacy of slavery in America.
@Eileenleftnotri
Don’t even get me started on direct-to-consumer advertising - it’s one of the biggest reasons that Pharma companies charge so much - they spend more on advertising than research.
As the Supreme Arbiter of Takes, I hereby declare that all who read the following tweet must laugh out loud and/or like/retweet said tweet, as it is hilarious and must needs be spread across the full breadth of the Twitterverse. So declared this 6th Day of November, 2020.
4 years ago today. After 4 days in the NICU, this was my first time holding Jones. I asked the Ancestors to deliver my child from danger, and they did.
This old Hispanic dude, who I don't know, just walked past me and said "Happy New Year, mijo."
I'll probably never see him again in life, but I love him.