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About Portland observer. (Portland, Or.) 1970-current | View Entire Issue (Jan. 3, 1980)
Paga 4 Portland Observar January 3, 1980 Behind the Walls Larry Baker »35021 O .S .P Correspondent by David Wright 39816 Activity in the chow hall finally settled to a dull roar The last tier stood against the East and West walls waiting to find a clean tray, hoping the salad would still be crisp. My tray empty, except for two slices o f butter, 1 walked toward the deep room to deposit my tin cup and silverware. I snatched a piece ol dry bread from an empty train to cover the butter -- Smith was eyeing the trays again. A crowd had gathered at the exit; men were standing on tiptoe to sec from the rear - someone had posted the latest gossip on the bulletin board. These boards are a part o f the prison grapevine. I knew what it said -- just the latest conviction -- probably for rape or an undeserving soul who got a break There is no need penetrating the crowd, though, wh-n the hall will be lined with scut tlebutts eager to pass the news. Here is journalism at its best -- no sen sationalism, hards sell, or misquoted facts. The truth is clear: five years fo r manslaughter, five years fo r manslaughter, five years for what was obviously a cold blooded mur der. If one thought the San Fransisco gay community was fit to be tied last summer, you should have seen the bulletin board crowd after the paper came out. My suspicions were confirmed on the way to the cell. The details filled the air of D black for the next two hours while I tried to drift o ff and forget. I dismissed my prayers as I have for the last ten years and my last thought was o f the courtroom two weeks ago and the verdict. As I tell into unconsciousness, the cour troom and jury became more vivid. The jurors filed past inclodramitically, one at a tune -- all twelve o f my “ peers” . First, the housewife o f thirteen years with three kids, thirty-live years old and wife ot the local accountant, stop ped, lowered her eyebrows and pointed her finger at my chest. “ G uilty,” her voice resounded as she walked o ff into the dimness. Three businessmen followed her, stopped, and w ith deep, authoritative voices reassured the verdict and were consumed in a mist, shaking their fingers until only the glistening diamond rings remained and then, too, faded from sight. CELL TALK David Wright »39816 Assistant Editor O f my twelve “ peers", five wore three piece suits, six women sported summer pant-suits, all but one had long since celebrated their thirtieth birthday and I understood each one was a parent, resided in their own home, and held steady employment. 1 had spent my twenty-one years in apartments wearing blue denims and tennis shoes. I f I was a father, it had not caught up w ith me yet. The women came in on silver clouds, thrilled by Friday pay checks, and left me in a storm o f Monday mor nings. As the last jurist stopped by my face, I felt the low rumble of distant thunder; he pointed both hands, his lapels dug into his chin, and without a word he faded away, the whites o f his eyes lingering as the room went completely dark. I could still see his face when the chow bell rang and I woke up. I remembered his daughter having taken a seat d irectly behind me during the trial. “ I know Daddy doesn't really want to see you go to prison,” she whispered to me as the jury marched from the room to decide. . “ But, but . . . well, you know . . .,” her voice trailed off. "W hat else can . . . ” I confirmed her thought in mid sentence with an affirm ative nod and shrugged my shoulders. T he feeling this morning was no different. I sat up looking for my pillow case; my tee-shirt had worked its way up into ttiy armpits and smelled stale, the neckband stretched tight against my throat, and the Sears tag irritated my tender back My hair was pasted to my forehand except for a persistant lock intent on blinding me. The will to get up was finally overpowered again by a light slumber. H alf consciously, the process o f justice tumbled in my mind. The jury o f peers appeared again -- more realistically this time. I imagined them sequestered in that back room, spending all o f six hours to reach a decision I saw their faces just as they were the day of court -- almost sad, but not sympathetic, stern, but not overbearing and vengeful. The decision was not unanimous. The judge called the foreman to atten tion, requested the verdict, and, like the rest o f the courtroom, waited in silence, seeming to hold back breathing. The foreman stuttered twice, recovered by prom ptly clearing his throat, and said, "guilty, your honor.” No one stood up and cheered. I looked around to see inquisitive eyes tryin g to detect tny em otion and posthaste darting into space on con tact with mine. Eyes always have a story to tell. In the courtroom they said grim. From the second-tier cell they spoke of anger. I saw the fury in my neighbor’ s eyes when he returned from break fast and tossed an orange on tny bunk. “ Have you seen this?" he said, passing last night’ s paper through the bars. I recognized the headline: PROBATION GIVEN M A N IN MANSI.AUGHTER CASE. "Someone finally got a break," I smiled, handing the paper back. A subsequent tirade ol fo u r letter dialogue told me he was not as satisfied as myself. A crowd gathered outside the cell to confess long har bored hate and vindictiveness. Probation! He must’ ve been one o f the Man's men. I rolled over in disgust, shut my eyes, and ignored my associates’ alternatives to probation. And I ’ ve heard war was cruel, full o f torture and atrocities. Some adolescents, at their best, tied cats together over clothes-lines and pulled the wings from flies. But the convicts are humanitarians - twenty years, they say, would not have hurt the guy a bit. Then I remembered the club meeting in the visiting room last week. With microphone in hand, the convict speaker denounced penal re h a b ilita tio n , public sentiment toward more tim e, and the a lte r native need. The audience cheered. I slept the rest o f the day. The thought o f lunch was nauseating. I post-poned dinner, settled fo r a Snickers bar, picked up a paperback - Back's "J o n a th a n Livingston Seagull” - and read this sentence by Jonathan: . . . In casting you out (Fletcher Seagull) the other gulls have only hurt themselves, and one day they will know this, and they will see what you see. Moments later the count cleared and the lights went out. Tonight I said a prayer before beginning another night’s sleep: Thank you, God, for a jury o f tny "peers" and not one o f my equals. By Asmar zl bdu Sei/ullah aka Joe West »40404 Some weeks ago I attend a class sponsored by U huru, the Black culture organization in OSP. Also present at the class were three ex change students from Africa. To my surprise and delight, I found all three to be very earthly, warm, intelligent, soulful and thought provoking. It was a night that I shall remember, cherish and draw on for the rest of my life. Picture if you can the meeting o f a tra d itio n a l ghetto brother whose goals, ideals and objectives have been predominately influenced by white society and its values. Take this same brother w ith all his frustrations, hang-ups and failures and place him in a maximum security institution, watch him moralize the immoral - generalize the specific and neglect the unneglectable. See his struggle and understand that he struggles because i t ’ s his way: not necessarily because struggle brings about change. C hange is s till a distant light glowing on the horizon o f his dreams. The brother that I'm trying to paint for you is a mixture of “ SuperFly” - "M a lc o lm " - "Uncle Totn” -and "Flash G ordon!". He's a totally mixed up guy, which isn’ t a surprise if we understand what he’ s been through and what he's going through while being confined. On the other side o f the room we have the Africans, the uncut rever sion o f the American Black tnan. Here we have a Black tnan who’ s been allowed to develop under favorable Black influences. He knows his history like the American Black man knows his social security number; he speaks o f the family as it it were first, not last. He’s acutely aware o f his position in terms ot the world struggle for freedom, in terms o f the political arena and its effect on Black people and in terms o f the social temperment on his temporary home. He has a goal and purpose in life that isn’ t over-shadowed by cultural identity problems. He comes into an American prison for the first tune in search o f what he calls his lost heritage. He speaks in surprizingly unaccented English and instantly recognizes the lies between himself and his stolen brother. He radiates such w arm th, sim plicity and love that the convict brothers are instan tly alternative but still slightly with drawn. The night progresses w ith each student expounding on his tribe, homeland and co un try. Two are from Ghana and are members o f the Ashanti tribe which they take great pleasure in revealing. They claim to be the only unconquered tribe in A fric a and feel themselves to be setni-superior to other tribes - which only speaks o f the national pride they hold fo r their tribe and not vanity. These two brothers, Jim and K u fi, aren't as well spoken as the th ird brother whose name is Oluybusie Sarr, which means "god gave m ore", but they’ re still genuine in their conversation and feelings. Oluy, whose home is Gambia, the same place Kunta Kinte came from, claims no tribe because he's the descendent o f slaves who migrated back to Africa and settled in Liberia. O luy is a senior at W illam ette University and majors in journalism. He is fairly tall with a perfect taper between chest, waist and hips; his skin is smooth and dark; -his eyes are large and inquiring. They dart from face to face as if he's searching for a key - something that will open and identify these people who look and act so much like brothers he knows back home. Instantly a bond materialized bet ween Oluy and the Blacks in the class, they sense a sameness about this p a rticu la r Black man; he acknowledges them and they too un derstand that this Black man is linked -- tied to them through something unspoken. They face each other, both realizing that three hun E The Lucid Walls of Time X O D U dred years o f slavery separates and unites them; they smile and make gestures that the untrained eye can’t catch or recognize; the study each other like two young lions eager to test strengths and weaknesses. The language barrier is overcome by the spiritual tongue that speaks directly to the heart: This is Black on Black and the harmony is sweet! The conversation ranges from food to colonization, from Islam to white girls, and all are deeply moved by the spiritual essence o f the reunion. I can’t fully express all that I felt as those three Black men from mother Africa spoke, but somehow my spirit moved -- my soul turned over and I felt that I had found apart o f tny self that had been lost - hidden from sight. I saw myself in the faces, smiles and laughter o f Oluy, Jim and Kufi. I felt the drums pounding in my head and the warm African sun shining on my back. I felt love so complete, so real, so alive that it seemed as though I hadn’ t lived until that moment. After all the years of being called "n ig g e r” and calling others "nigger” -- I felt that I never wanted to hear or use the word again. After encounter o f such spiritual worth it ’s hard for me to conceive how I and other brothers could have viewed ourselves in such negative terms. It's very important that we begin as a people to view ourselves in positive terms. We’ ve become so Americanized in our thinking that it's easy for us to take on that at titude and m entality o f our op pression. It’ s easy for us to abuse each other because we think as the abusers think, we emulate the slave master in dress, conduct and even in the worship of God. I f we’ re to ever be free - if we’ re to realize the dream of equality -- we must find a balance for our Blackness in an all white world. We must act - live - think - be Black everyday - all day long! S zzz X zzázzzzzíz zzzz/ z/zz<X /Xzzz/zzzz / / / en/e-r 1518 N E KILLINGSWORTH Editor: Julius Snowden PORTcAND. OREGON 9721 1 284 7997 EXODUS TWO THOUGHTS A hummingbird played in a morning glory vine -- it was afternoon - and the buds were open - like memory a servant o f fear or hope whom is called and dismissed as a passing o f time . . . . Innocence is like the greatness o f man and man’ s greatness - unto him is born not but made as he seeks (strives) to understand truth. JANUARY Happy New Year This is your invitation to Julius D. Snowden EXODUS FORUMS JOIN US DURING 1980 Each Tuesday Evening 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. 1518 N.E. Killingsworth Portland, Oregon 97211 Phone 284 7997 Standing agenda: A n s w e rs to your q u e s tio n s , workable so lu tio n s to your problem s and research for your enlig h te n m en t. Subject: Ü°èIO by'ThrOUah aS 9 PraC,iCal C onductor Thomas Boothe, author of Follow -Through concept. COnCePt to fm d workable answers and solutions R H ow much more m u tt I pay to a society that rafusoe to haar or understand777
