The Promised Land (2)

On June 11, 1963, a reluctant young President Kennedy addressed the nation. For the second time in his administration he was forced to federalize a state’s National Guard to ensure that black students were able to enroll in universities, which were deemed “off-limits” to people of color.

            Kennedy was not a champion of civil rights at the time. His ventures into the increasingly violent white reaction to a black minister’s call for an end to “Jim Crow,” a call for equality under the law regardless of the color of one’s skin, were often politically motivated. But now, with a Southern Governor standing on the threshold of his state’s flagship university and refusing admittance to two qualified black students in defiance of a Federal court order, with fire hoses and attack dogs let loose on peaceful children (some as young as six) marching and singing, Kennedy had seen enough.

            Race, he said, was a moral issue. America cannot be the land it professes to be as long as some of its citizens are denied the American dream, denied equal citizenship because of their color. He said, “Race has no place in American life or law.”

            That night, a young black wife and her children waited for a husband and father to arrive home in Jackson, Mississippi. This man – soft spoken and well versed – was the face of the civil rights movement in his state. As his wife and children walked out the front door of their home to tell him of President Kennedy’s words a shot rang out. Medgar Evers lay dead in his driveway. His crime? He believed in “the promised land.”

            Race in America. President Kennedy was right. Until we deal with it, lay it out there and move forward, America will never get to the Promised Land. I write this blog in a moment of deep distress over what I saw in here this week among young men who are – purportedly – seeking an education and a future. As I have written so often, prison is a reflection of the society at large. The views, the prejudices, uttered in here are the same as those out there. That thought distresses me.

            A Humanities class is being taught. The subject the African-American experience. It is taught through great American literature and it is taught by a petite white woman. The class is equally divided: eight whites, eight blacks. It wasn’t intended that way; that’s just how the college student pool in here breaks down.

            From the outset of the class I heard carping from white students. “Why do I need this bullshit?” My response: Have you ever read ‘A Raisin in the Sun”? Have you ever read Richard Wright? Do you know who Langston Hughes is? Maya Angelou? Have you ever dissected Dr. King’s letter smuggled from the Birmingham Jail?

            They reluctantly agree to give the class a shot, all the while muttering code words for the “N” word: “Yams,” “Canadians.” There are dozens of words tossed around in prison that white guys use to degrade blacks without uttering the “N” word.

            So now I’m pissed. I can’t believe I’m having to justify Dr. King to a bunch of idiots – worse, idiots who profess a belief in the teachings expressed by Jesus yet they fail to see that everything Dr. King wrote and preached began with this pure statement of faith:

            “We as a people will get to the Promised Land … Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

            Powerful, heartfelt words of faith and determination, and hope, uttered-ironically – less than 24 hours before he too was cut down by an assassin’s bullet.

            In frustration I run and wonder how professing Christians can ignore Paul’s words to the citizens of Athens (Acts 17) as he proclaimed “the God who made the world and everything in it … He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on the face of the earth.” We are so far from the Promised Land.

            I was frustrated and angry … and it got worse. For now there were the black students, members of offshoot black supremacist groups acting under color of religion: the IVOI, Moors Temple, 5%ers. They profess intellectual acumen yet they are forged and schooled in the same dearth of prejudice and ignorance I just confronted with the whites.

            “Why do you want to teach this material?” One guy asks in class. The question, at first blush, seems innocuous; but it isn’t. Moments before, I heard this same Einstein shake his head and say, “I got to listen to this European lady talk about black issues.” “European,” that’s black “supremacy” lingo for “cracker.”

            “Why do you want us to read Native Son? Why do you want us to read 12 Years a Slave?” Each question is a challenge to her. He might as well say, “What gives you the right to delve into the black experience? You aren’t black!” And I get more frustrated, pissed off, angry. “When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?”

            “I don’t know what the future holds … but I know who holds the future.” On one of the darkest days of the civil rights struggle – bombings, murders, beatings, - a fearful group of parishioners gathered in an all-black church on a sweltering day. Dr. King, from the pulpit, uttered those words and from around that church came soft murmurs of “Yes, Lord.” “The Promised Land” is so because He deems it to be so. God – not man – will deliver His people to the Promised Land.

            A story I have never shared with anyone. I was a sophomore in college living in a wild party-filled dorm across campus. In the room next to mine was a young black guy from Dayton, Ohio – Johnny D. Johnny and I shared some common interests in music, food, girls. I thought I was cool – I had a black friend.

            One night we had a party on our floor. There was way too much alcohol and weed; there were girls everywhere and we were all getting way too sloppy and out of hand. I’d spent some time with “Charlotte” a tall, gorgeous girl from Valdosta, Georgia. We were making out, getting friendly, when she saw Johnny looking our way. In her sexiest Southern drawl she told me the “N” was making her uncomfortable. I turned toward Johnny and laughing said, “he’s a harmless n-----.” … As the word came out of my mouth I had a flash of sobriety. I saw his face and what my saying that word had done. In my rush to win over some beautiful, though obviously ignorant, girl I had done something harmful.

            “Look, Johnny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to impress her.” He looked at me and said, “It’s ok. I’m used to it.” The truth is you never are used to that.

            I have never used that word since. I still feel guilt over saying it then. “The promised land.” Will we ever get there?

            “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Powerful words that describe the dream of America written by a slave owner from Virginia.

            “Jesus loves the little children

            All the children of the world

            Red and yellow

            Black and white

            They are precious in His sight

            Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

            Will we ever get to the Promised Land? We have to walk through the valley of fear and ignorance. In God’s eyes there is no black or white, no yellow or brown. In spite of this week’s race baiting and ignorance on both sides I still have hope. As Dr. King so eloquently put it in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, America will overcome the scourge of its racial past because,

            “The sacred heritage of our nation and the

            eternal will of God are embodied in our

            echoing demands.”

Raisin Thoughts

The great African-American poet Langston Hughes wrote,

            “What happens to a dream deferred?

            Does it dry up

            Like a raisin in the sun?”

            This week, the college humanities students read and watched “A Raisin in the Sun,” the moving story of the Younger family by Lorraine Hansberry. This group of twenty students is beginning Humanities 220, an African-American literature class. The class is evenly split: ten white students and ten black students. It’s being taught by a blond, petite, late thirties PHD in English. That’s college … inside.

            Race is at the forefront of almost every moment inside prison. You can’t escape it; race matters in here. My time inside has caused me to question and reevaluate every preconceived idea I held about race in America. The issue, like the country, isn’t black and white. There is a dialog that has to take place in America between Black and White, Brown and Yellow. Without it, we are doomed to live apart while we reside together.

            “A Raisin in the Sun.” Sidney Poitier and Ruby Dee starred in the 1960 film adaptation. It is the story of a Southside Chicago black family post World War II; three generations crammed into an old, two bedroom, apartment. The family matriarch awaits insurance money from the passing of her husband. Lena (mama) has a son, Walter, who “dreams big.” He wants the money to open a liquor store; he wants to buy his wife pearls; he wants to be “something,” not just a chauffeur driving “wealthy white folks” around.

            There’s Beneatha, Walter’s sister. “She’s gonna be a doctor.” She’s bright and pretty, and she rejects everything from her mother and father’s life … all the while afraid to venture out on her own. Ruth, Walter’s wife, struggles with an unplanned pregnancy and trying to come to grips with a life of disappointment. And, there’s Travis, the precocious 7 year-old son of Walter and Ruth who still has hope, still believes in his family.

            I watched as the men, black and white, listened to the bitterness in Walter’s voice as one more dream failed. I wandered if they saw the “Walters” in each other? So many of the young men I work with in here have “big: dreams, dreams of money, and fame, and fulfillment. But, like Walter, they miss the “big” picture: It isn’t money that makes the man, it’s his heart and his character. They dream “big,” but they don’t understand how to get to their dreams, how they need to read, work hard, and move forward.

            Do they see the “Beneathas” in each other? So many take on “non-government” names – Swahili or an “attribute” of their personality. They speak of Africa, yet they know nothing of the continent or their families’ lives there, or here. They are ignorant to the history, the culture, the current circumstances of Africa. They see Africa as a monolith – a large, unitary, “Black” world. They miss the tribal, the vegetation, the cultural and religious components that thrive and create great upheaval.

            In the climactic scene at the end of the performance, Walter becomes the man of the family. He tells a white homeowner visiting the drab little apartment in a quest to convince the Youngers not to move into an all-white neighborhood, “My son is the sixth generation in this country.” He tells the white man the family’s America story and he ends with this:

            “And we have decided to move into our house because my father- my father- he earned it for us brick by brick.”

            Brick by brick. Powerful words. So often we want, we desire so much that we see and we ignore all that it took to get us to that place. And yet the story matters. That is not a black issue or a white issue, it’s a human issue.

            We are separated in here so often by the color of our skin. We gather with what we know – or think we know. What I’ve found is the young black guys, from worlds far removed from any I’ve known, treat me with more respect than I deserve. They listen when I speak and take what I give them as truth. They’ve told me – politely – that I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America. And while I’ll engage them and challenge them on that point, they’re right. I know looking back on my own behavior pre-arrest, that color mattered then. Too often I made decisions about people based on the color of their skin.

            “A Raisin in the Sun.” I don’t know what it is like to be denied housing based on the color of your skin. I know the color of your skin doesn’t matter. There is a heart grabbing passage spoken by “Mama.” In it, she confronts her daughter who is ready to write off Walter who continues to fail. She says,

            “There is always something left to love. And if you ain’t learned that, you ain’t learned nothing. When do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good and made things easy for everybody? It’s when he’s at his lowest and can’t believe in hisself cause the world done whipped him so. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he is.”

            Those words are color-blind. Those words mean more than any skin tone.

A "Divine" Week

Merriam Webster’s College Dictionary defines “divine” two ways:  “of, or proceeding from God;” and “to discover by intuition or insight.”  This past week both those definitions came to mind as I watched and lived through another week of prison.

It all started typically enough.  I was at a visit last Saturday when a young guy from the college building asked to introduce me to his folks.  He goes by the name “Divine”.  He is an extremely lean, muscular black man, just 23, soft spoken and very polite.  He always calls me sir as in “sir, would you have time to read my essay?”  I like him (but, my friends in here will tell you I like most everyone).

Divine is a very bright kid and he writes beautifully.  He’s one of the young guys I really enjoy helping.  So, we completed count in the “VI” room and Divine said “sir, I’d like to introduce you to my folks.”  I’ve had that happen a couple of dozen times in my stay here.  That, or guys I work with in school will introduce themselves to my folks or friends at visit.  We walk over and there is this older, well-dressed black couple sitting at a small table (dad in a suit; mom in a dress; late 60’s).  Divine introduced me to them and said “this is the man who’s taught me to write.”  His mother and father hop up and shake my hand.  His mom tells me they’ve known their son was blessed when he got here.  A devoutly religious couple, she added “we prayed he’d meet someone who would befriend him and urge him to be his best.  He’s told us how you work with the young men.  Thank you.”

I was speechless.  All that afternoon I thought here I am a felon, an inmate and somehow I made a difference in this kid’s life.  All the prayers I’d uttered about giving me a chance and I realized I was, in fact, living my chance.  I made a difference in a kid’s life and his parents now have hope.  It was, a humbling insightful moment.

Two days later another A+ certification test was held.  Seven of nine students passed.  The two who didn’t were mere points from passing.  “Mouse”, one of the guys I spend hours with each week honing his English skills, came back from class Tuesday night with an “A” on his paper he’d written about Langston Hughes.  We spent two afternoons reading and re-reading poems and then, suddenly it clicked.  Like a light switch turning on Mouse’s face, he lit up as he got what Hughes was saying.

And then, Thursday the GED was given.  I had two guys sit for the test and those two guys passed.  I’ve been thinking a good deal about unanswered prayers.  We pray about something, it doesn’t occur immediately and we assume God’s not listening.  We forget all the times in our past when our kids were sick, or we’d lost a job, or we were on the brink of divorce.  Somehow God always answered, always saw us through the difficulties we faced.

I have said “but” a great number of times these past three years.  I realized there’s no “but” in “trust in the Lord with all your heart”.  The strange thing is I think I’ve known that all along.  Faith is all about the future.  You believe because your past proves prayers are answered.  A lot of good news came out for the college guys this week and for the GED students.  It reminded me that in any situation good can come.  Remembering that was divine. 

Dreams Deferred

I had a conversation with my bunkmate the other night that got me thinking.  I must confess I didn’t like IG very much when he moved into the bottom bunk.  He was extremely cluttered – to the point of being sloppy.  He also brought a lot of “irons in the fire” with him.  He ran a few hustles:  parlay sheets, poker games.  On more than one occasion I lost my cool with him.  On more than one occasion Big S had to tell him to “tighten up”. 

But gradually over the past six months, we’ve developed a friendship.  He’s a very bright, polite kid:  just 24, already locked up seven years.  And, when I’d snap, he’d very quietly just, well, take it.  “My mom told me to be respectful of my elders” he told me one time.  That’s something you don’t hear very often in here.

IG has changed a lot.  He’s much neater and better organized than he was (though still not up to the standards either Big S or I maintain) and he’s become a voracious reader.  Almost every afternoon we have a conversation.  He’ll read something in the paper or come across an author he’d not read before and he’ll want to discuss it.

He’s a young, bright, black man trying to grow up and learn and ultimately make something of himself.  And to do that in this environment is a statement about his character.

The other night I was reading the newest issue of “Esquire” and there was a brief interview with comedian and actor Tim Allen.  IG saw me reading the piece and asked me about him.  I’m not sure why, but I read him the part where Allen refers to his first night in jail and the resulting three years he spent in California’s DOC for cocaine possession conviction.

“He went to prison?  How old was he?”  IG asked me.  I told him he was in his twenties and explained how he started honing his comic skills in prison as a means of passing time and protecting himself.  IG grew quiet.  “Larry, can I tell you something real personal?” he asked.  “Sure,” I replied.  “When I was in high school I did a couple of plays.  I wanted to be an actor.  That was my dream.  Then I got locked up.  I won’t ever be an actor.”

“Why not?” I asked.  “Why can’t you be an actor?  Why does your conviction have to define your future?  Why can’t you dream?”

Nothing is more destructive, nothing more harmful, than giving up your dreams.  I know from personal experience.  I also know a prison sentence doesn’t have to be the end.  It can be a beginning. 

One of the biggest hurdles I face dealing with the guys in this college program is overcoming their belief that no one will give them a chance as a felon.  Unfortunately, the evidence supports their view.  Virginia may lead the nation in discriminatory practices toward convicted felons after release.

And still there is hope.  For a long time I agonized over my future.  Perhaps it was the words I read in a letter from my ex:  “You’re a convicted felon.  You have a huge restitution order against you.  You have no home, no money, no future.  You’re not much of a catch.”  For more nights than I wish to recall I lay awake wondering what would become of me.  I’d be homeless, I thought, living under a highway overpass, alone, unloved, with nothing.

And then something happened.  And I remembered my dreams, dreams I put aside for years.  And, I realized, I could come back.

Guys in here think I’m a hopeless optimist.  Maybe I am.  It doesn’t mean I’m not scared or there aren’t days (and nights) that I don’t cry out “God, what will become of me?”  And a day doesn’t go by than I’m not lonely and loneliness is as bad as hopelessness.  I told IG I decided I would endure, I would persevere.  And as the words came out of my mouth I realized I was talking to IG about faith.

IG and I made a plan.  We’re writing to some colleges to get information about theatre degrees and looking for someone willing to mentor him.  I realized dreams don’t have to die.  No matter these men’s circumstances they still can follow their dreams.

The African-American poet Langston Hughes said it best,

“What happens to a dream deferred?
does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?”

No one should have their dreams dry up.

Justice in a Needle

It is a moment of Kafkaesque realization to be in prison as the news drones on and on about a condemned inmate, mere moments from death, awaiting word of any last minute reprieve.  I experienced that realization – again – the other night as our building watched the circus that became Georgia inmate Troy Davis’s last day.

I don’t know if Troy Davis was guilty of the crime of killing an off-duty Savannah police officer.  His guilt or innocence is of little consequence to the absolutely appalling atmosphere that grew around his case.  Here’s what I do know:  a white off-duty Savannah police officer was gunned down coming to the aid of a homeless man being attacked in a parking lot.  That deceased police officer left children who grew up without their dad.  He left a grieving mother who simply wanted justice.

I also know Troy Davis spent over 20 years on Georgia’s death row.  I know nine chief prosecution witnesses recanted their testimony and claimed they were coerced.  I know Troy Davis lost every appeal and still the U.S. Supreme Court ordered a Federal Judge to review the case in its entirety due to numerous, significant questions about the conduct of the prosecution in the case.  I know the Federal Court – after months of review and providing a painstakingly detailed analysis of the case in a multi-hundred page opinion, concluded “Davis did not meet the burden of proving he was innocent” (in a twist of the law, after convicted it is up to the “guilty” to prove they are in fact innocent).

And I know religious leaders from Pope Benedict to Bishop Tutu spoke out against the imposition of the death sentence on moral grounds.

And yet, on Tuesday night, I watched as the circus came to town; the schizophrenic push to execute or stay execution so unique and troubling to America.  And, I was disgusted.  America has lost its moral framework.

Regardless of what you believe about the morality of capital punishment, can you honestly justify strapping a man on a death gurney at 6:00 pm and leaving him strapped down for five hours, until 11:00 pm, when the United States Supreme Court finally refused to issue a stay of execution?  Does that sound humane?  Does that validate this society’s alleged belief in the sanctity of life?  Does it pass Constitutional muster under the 8^th Amendment’s prohibition to cruel and unusual punishment?  More importantly, is America a better country having executed Troy Davis, a man who uttered as his last words “You are killing an innocent man.  May God have mercy on your souls.”

An interesting expression, “May God have mercy on your soul”.  They utter that at every execution.  Fact is, God has mercy for us.  No matter what we’ve done God stands ready to show us mercy, grace and forgiveness.  And what do we do as salvaged, forgiven people?  We set a legalistic standard.  We hold the Troy Davis’ of the world accountable for their crimes while we muddle through our lives sinning and conniving and being unmerciful.

May God have mercy on our souls.  The African American poet Langston Hughes wrote “O let America be America again.  The America that never was.”  This nation was founded on an ethos that God ordained freedom and dignity for all men.  And every time we witness the disconnect between that fundamental ideal with the reality of a legalistic, revenge motivated society, we realize God’s ordination is nothing but a pipe dream.

As I wrote earlier, I don’t know if Troy Davis was guilty or not.  I do know his execution is a stain on this country.  America is not the land it can be as long as capital punishment is imposed.  It’s time for mercy and justice to roll down like a stream over this land.  As I sit in this trash heap of America’s love affair with punishment I can only pray “May God have mercy on all of us.”

I Don't Need To Read No Damn Books

I had an incident this week in one of the creative writing classes I teach. For those that don’t know, last February I asked the school principal for permission to begin a writing program. I learned shortly thereafter that one of the teachers I worked for had tried, unsuccessfully, five years earlier to develop a writing program here.



We outlined a writing course with heavy emphasis on reading great authors. Over a fourteen week period, three hours each Wednesday afternoon, I lectured on a “nuts and bolts” issue (grammar or story development) and in group discussion covered the “genre” of the week: two weeks devoted to poetry; two weeks for short stories; six different genres in all.


Our initial class had twelve students. I was the “front man”. Ms. “W” helped with syllabus development, editing student works, and getting the class materials. From that small group we expanded to two classes; the basic program and an advanced class with more emphasis on writing material fit for publication. We now have 30 students enrolled and a winter term waiting list of another 30. The guys enrolled love the class, love to hear my stories, and love to read and write. It is an all around success.


My reasons for proposing the writing program were not all altruistic. Yes, I saw a deep need for guys in here to open their minds and express themselves constructively. But, I was looking for a way to present my own story. A week after my arrest I began keeping a journal. In these two plus years of incarceration I’ve written over 900 pages. My soul, my heartache, my hopes, my simple observations about days, are contained in those pages.


I’ve written in excess of 200 pages of my story centering on my arrest with flashbacks of trips to Vegas, the Caribbean and Atlantic City. I’ve written the first three chapters of a legal thriller. I’ve completed ten short stories. I write daily. It keeps my grounded and sane.


Back to this week’s class and “GT”. He was a student in the writing class. I say “was” because he quit the class.


GT is 34. He comes from Camden, New Jersey. His mother was a crack addict and he moved repeatedly from public housing unit to public housing unit. He never met his father.


He’s had a difficult life. He’s halfway through a ten year sentence for dealing heroin. He “decided” six months ago that he would write a “Gangsta novel” about life in the ‘hood. He signed up for the writing class to get editing help and feedback on his book.


Each week I ask the guys to read handout copies of short stories, poems, chapters from novels. We’ve put a reading list on reserve in the library and ask each student to commit to read three books during the term. The list includes works by Steinbeck, Hemingway, Harper Lee, Jack London, Melville, Wright, Hughes and Crane to name a few. Each week GT comes in and refuses to read. “I ain’t joinin’ no book club; I ain’t here to read no damn book. I wanna write my book, make money, buy a Benz, get me a ho’ and some ‘Henney’ and live.”


I switched tactics. Ms. W and I found essays by black writers, poems by Nikki Giovanni, Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes. All to no avail.


This week I tried a different tact. I edited a section of his book. I pointed out all the misspelled words, the sentence fragments, and improper punctuation. I showed him how his story was just one cliché after another. I came in with facts and figures on writers’ income and the unemployment rate for African-American males lacking college degrees. I handed out articles on publishing tips indicating that being well-read and writing properly matters. It fell on GT’s deaf ears.


Ms. W told me afterwards “you can’t make him do what everyone knows he needs to do. He’ll stand and fall on his own.”


I thought about both my sons and our family. When our oldest was about five (he’s now 22 and in law school), my wife began reading him “Where the Red Fern Grows”. It is an amazing story about a boy’s love for his two dogs - “Dan ad Little Ann” – and their love for each other. That story, I thought for a long time, captured the essence of the love my wife and I shared. After our divorce I can’t help but choke up as I think of “Dan” and “Little Ann”.


I took turns reading the story to my son. At the story’s tragic climax I was asked to read. I remember I began describing the scene and then reading about death, and devotion, and grief, and love. I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I read aloud what became of “Dan” and “Little Ann” and the boy. My wife sobbed. Our son sat transfixed, listening intently to the words, gauging our emotions.


Reading was always a part of our family’s life. Each night, my wife read to our sons when they were small. Our youngest heard aloud the “Harry Potter” series. Vacation driving featured books on CD. Both boys came to expect regular stops at Barnes & Noble. Books, magazines and newspapers were always present in our home.


Terry McMillan, author of “Waiting to Exhale” was recently interviewed on TV. When asked to give advice to upcoming writers she simply said “read, read, read”. I wish GT understood that.


So many men that end up behind bars do so out of ignorance and the pitiful circumstances of their lives. Mine was a crime of opportunity. I knew right from wrong but miscalculated – through pride and arrogance – the true cost of crossing the line. Of 1200 inmates here, around 50 are college educated, 50 enrolled in college, five with advanced degrees. Over half the compound lacks a high school diploma or GED.


Reading matters. Writing matters. Education matters. Perhaps someday GT will realize that, before it’s too late.