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SLAVE NARRATIVE #3: Real Thoughts and Experiences from the Perspectives of Massachusetts Prisoners

Big X (Scott Rose) was found lifeless, hanging by a bed sheet knotted at his neck, dangling from the metal grate within his cell. He had been serving a second-degree life sentence and was recently denied parole by the Massachusetts parole board. Prior to his death, prison guards had been doing their best to make Big X’s life a living hell in addition to the hellish conditions we as prisoners already confront. The harassment resulted from him speaking out against officers who savagely beat him in the late night hours on 18 January, 2005 – within the L-3 unit of Souza Baranowski Correctional facility. As Big X was fortunate enough to have a family support system, he initiated a civil action against officers, exposing how officers shouted racial slurs at him while continuously whipping him across his back with an unidentified object. They repeatedly battered him as he lay subdued on the floor of his cell in a prostrate position, screaming for his life. Upon relief from his brutal flogging, medical examiners described his injuries as a shoulder dislocation, right rib contusions, left cheek laceration, and lash marks on his back (see 2010 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 97223 :: Rose v. Dennehy :: September 11, 2010). It was the mounting toxic stress of the prison environment in combination with the nefarious intent of prison guards that interacted and served as the causal factors which led to his eventual death, and is why Big X is no longer with us today.

I witnessed first-hand how conditions of confinement functioned as a giant leech that drained the life force from Big X, who was simultaneously struggling to sustain his mental stability. He was a godly man who felt intense regret for the crime he had been convicted of and often spoke about righting his wrongs upon his release by the Massachusetts parole board. However, that leech of despair was relentless in driving its fangs of dejection and hopelessness deep into the veins of his spirit. It pains me to have to describe the characteristics of his departure because Big X was a good man with a good heart, who simply made some mistakes in his past. Equally important, Big X was a dear friend of mine who is no longer around. I guess I am relieved to know that he is truly free now, at the very least — and no longer has to worry about the intense harassment of rogue prison guards or the constant struggle of exclusion. Rest in Peace Big Bro, and much love to you.

Today, February 7th, 2017, marks my 12th year of slavery (incarceration) and I find the disquietude of my many thoughts settling in. I’ve pondered over my past conversations with other prisoners and thought back to the many men, good men, who have been chewed up by this ogress we call lady justice and churned through her digestive tract, ultimately left to dissolve in the bile of her rotten belly. These men have been sanctioned to hopelessness, designated to perish one by one while others just remain caught in her gastric juices. It was Al-Ameen, a fellow prisoner who wrote a letter to the common people. He posed such compelling questions that pried at the purpose and functions of our criminal justice system, which stood out when he inquired “What if Malcolm X had been sentenced to Life?” as he swiftly followed with the query “What would South Africa be like if Nelson Mandela never was released from prison?” I proceeded to follow the text as I came across the stammer of his next question with him implying in his disquisition: “What if they never let Arnie, Zakariyya,…Fu-Quan…[or] D. Washington…out?” These are just some of the men he mentioned, including myself, who are currently in the belly of this ogress, fighting against the peristaltic forces working to repress and snuff out the lights of life, liberty, and freedom. Al-Ameen’s letter hit home, and I was able to garner strength from his writings, as I am confident that this modern practice of American slavery will be assigned an expiration date through the efforts of such men.

The evils of slavery are not far gone, but have only been packaged in the euphemistic gift wrap of “crime and punishment” which will be unwrapped through our political unity. I’ve pondered for years over such thoughts of “how can such an obvious and egregious practice of modern slavery by way of life and life without parole (LWOP) prison sentences be so obscure and misplaced as allegory in the perception of any American citizen?” Are not those truths Thomas Jefferson declared in his Declaration of Independence so self-evident? He said that “all men are created equal and are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights” stating “among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” I must say, I thought over this passage more than a million times as I stared at a barbed wire fence through the grated window of my prison cell. Not surprisingly, I never failed to let out a slight laugh each time I think this over. It’s funny because most of the men I’ve resided with, both before and during my incarceration, never had true liberty — causing most to explore ill methods in pursuit of their happiness, costing many of them their lives.” I, personally, never felt like I was included in that compact of “We” preceding “The People” in our U.S. Constitution. That covenant between citizen and government did not consist of me or any of my brothers and sisters. Now is our time though, our time which we as a people hold those hypocritical slave drivers who authored that document in the summer of 1787 (our Constitution) to the principles implied in Article IV Section 4, and those Bills of Rights that were later decreed to secure those evasive liberties outlined within them.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve never had the privilege to select (vote) any of the men and women chosen to make the laws that governed me. These past 12 years, I’ve been shackled and branded as chattel property of the state of Massachusetts. The state has controlled the limits of all my movements, listened and observed my every phone call, scrolled through each line of every letter I’ve received, and illuminates my abode as I rest. Their attempts, however, through conditions of exclusion, to extinguish the flame of our fight are futile and will not succeed. We’re Warriors, and we’ll continue to rise! Continue to smile people as we sustain our fight for dignity and rally around the strength of our collective voice. PEACE!

Derrick Washington

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SLAVE NARRATIVE #2: Real Thoughts and Experiences from the Perspectives of Massachusetts Prisoners

Blood slowly drizzled down Y.W.’s right forearm as it flowed from his knuckle. He blankly stared at the cell wall after feeling somewhat liberated from letting his frustration out on it. A long tear drop shuffled down his left cheek. Y.W. had had enough of the toxic stress built up from being separated from the world and being unable to see his son. In addition, his cellmate, a total stranger that Y.W. had been forced to live with had been making sexual passes at him. Y.W. couldn’t fathom his reality of ever having to live in an environment so unfamiliar to his home. Yeah, he knew he was guilty of the crime he had been convicted of, but he strongly felt that the 20 years he had been sentenced to for his 20 minutes of stupidity was unfair given that this was his first criminal offense. He had been incarcerated for 7 years now and could not forget the look on Judge Ford’s face as he so cavalierly read out his judgment and 20-year sentence. Ford’s feigned smile was etched in Y.W.’s memory as it was followed by the judge stating that he would run the duplicative possession of a firearm charge (which carried 5 years) with the home invasion charge concurrent, as if he were doing Y.W. a favor. A good deal of Y.W.’s frustration was also in part because he felt that his sentence was not proportionate to the crime or what other guys who had been in the bullpen (courthouse holding cell) with him, who had worse criminal records and similar chargers, but better legal representation, were receiving.

Now, seven years in, all Y.W.’s appeals had been denied, family support began to wane, old friends became past associates, finances for simple prison necessities (soap, toothpaste, clothing, etc.) became obsolete, and it had been going on 3 months since he had received a single letter from the outside world. From the vantage point of the author, it seemed like the steady letters Y.W. had been getting from his childhood friend [Michelle] were the only things that were keeping his mind somewhat positive. The letters had allowed him, I believe, to escape the hellish things that take place in this environment. And, I guess because of the excessive phone rates, and no financial support, Y.W. was unable to use the phone as often as I used to observe him using it. The absence of him being able to communicate with the outside world heightened his awareness and caused him to focus his attention on the many internal evils within the prison that he used to work so hard to brush aside. These evils, for Y.W., began to strengthen themselves into full blown issues that I physically observed take a toll on him, and chisel away at the posture of his psyche.

But, as Y.W. felt the blood run down from his knuckle to his elbow, while a tear fell simultaneously down his chin and dripped to the floor below him, he began yelling from his cell for everybody in the unit to hear. “Fuck All Ya’ll Niggas, All Ya’ll Bitch Ass Niggas, Nigga Come Get Me” he kept repeating to himself several times. He then ripped a piece of his bed sheet and tightly wrapped his bloodied knuckle within the ripped linen. Y.W. then sought to find the maggot C.O. [Cottonhead] who ravaged his cell earlier that week, throwing his only remaining pictures of his son and family on the cell floor along with his legal papers (trial transcripts) during a routine cell search. Before he was fortunate enough not to find that C.O., he ran into his cellmate who gave Y.W. the most unpleasant smile. Y.W. was no longer the reasonable guy he had been and was looking for someone or something to release his frustrations out on, so, in an instant, he switched his direction, following his cellmate into their cell in which he proceeded to punch his cellmate in the back of his head, causing him to fall face forward to the floor. Y.W. stood over him with his fist tightly clinched as his cellmate lay before him in a curled fetal position. He yelled over him “Nigga don’t ever disrespect me, from here out, this your side of the cell and this is mine (pointing his finger), stay in your space and don’t violate mine!”

Believe it or not people, I’d rather this be a fiction novel or a fictitious film excerpt, but unfortunately, this is the reality from an authentic scenario here in a Massachusetts DOC prison. As you may have perceived, Y.W. is a pseudonym representing the acronym for young warrior. I decided not to use anybody’s official name because it could lead to actual persons receiving disciplinary infractions, and it is also what we prisoners call “dry-snitching,” which is a form of telling on someone or something without directly informing on someone. Through such narratives, we do not recommend or allow narrators to facilitate the investigatory processes of prison authorities. Providing names could also fuel the gathering of information by jailhouse informants, whose aims are to aid prison authorities in various affairs, but are ultimately victims of a slave structure designed to pit inmates against other inmates. However, “Young Warrior” fit the characteristics of the individual I have been describing in this slave narrative because he has such great potential and is an actual warrior (survivor) of the best quality. He is only lost and misguided by his circumstances. As of today, he is headlong in the fiercest battle/war he’ll ever face in his life, which is the war within himself. No, sorry, there is no fairytale ending to this sordid narrative—but only an opening to discuss the toxic elements that make up Massachusetts’ prisons.

In conclusion, this is another case in which the exclusionary conditions of incarceration had worked to suffocate the soul of an innocent young spirit, in which circumstances were reminiscent of slave conditions in the antebellum south. Slavery actualizes itself in various forms and is not merely relegated to whips and chains or traditional chattel modes of servitude. What classifies Massachusetts’ prisoners as slaves is their inferior status as property of the state in which their physical liberties have been arrested and usurped through their physical bondage—ultimately having dire psychological affects as a result of living in such unnatural conditions. Separating the sexes and isolating them from society in a swath of the forest (state prison) under the absolute control and authority of prison guards with autonomous power, absent the guide of Constitutional protections creates a self-perpetuating cesspool of misery and hopelessness. It is no surprise that in these environments, the strong turn weak, timid turn aggressive, abused become abusive, and murderers become sages and saviors who maintain the civility required to prevent such transient conditions from exploding into pure chaos. Furthermore, Our United States Constitution’s 13th Amendment’s exception clause sanctions this egregious institution of American slavery via incarceration that fosters the type of environment that manufactures the hopelessness Y.W. was experiencing and that gave rise to the hypersexual behavior of his cellmate. They are both victims of an unforgiving system that only aims to punish and strangle the spirits of American citizens whose citizenship or humanity are no longer valued by the state of Massachusetts or the Glorious Liberty Document called our United States Constitution.