Assata: An Autobiography

by Assata Shakur

  When i sit back today and examine why i participated in that trial, i think i must have been crazy. I guess i had been through too many trials and gotten too many acquittals and let that stuff go to my head. (Three other indictments had been dismissed. One in Queens state supreme court, charging me with killing policemen, was dis missed because the judge, after examining the grand jury minutes, determined there was not even enough evidence for me to have been indicted. The other two, one in Brooklyn supreme kourt and the other in supreme kourt in New York County, were dismissed for failure of the state to bring me to trial for six years after the indictments had been returned.)

  Participating in the new jersey trial was unprincipled and incorrect. By participating, i participated in my own oppression. I should have known better and not lent dignity or credence to that sham. In the long run, the people are our only appeal. The only ones who can free us are ourselves.

  Chapter 19

  I was transferred on April 8, 1978 to the maximum security prison for women in alderson, west virginia, the federal facility designed to hold "the most dangerous women in the country." I had been convicted of no federal crime, but under the interstate compact agreement any prisoner can be shipped, like cargo, to any jail in u.s. territory, including the virgin islands, miles away from family, friends, and lawyers. Through the device of this agreement, Sundiata had been transferred to marion prison in illinois, the federal prison that was the most brutal concentration camp in the country.

  Alderson was in the middle of the west virginia mountains, and it seemed as if the mountains formed an impenetrable barrier between the prison and the rest of the world. It had no airport, and to reach it, days of travel were necessary. The trip to alderson was so expensive and difficult that most of the women received family visits only once or twice a year.

  I was housed in the maximum security unit (msu) called davis hall. It was surrounded by an electronic fence topped by barbed wire, which in turn was covered by concertina wire (a razor-sharp type of wire that had been outlawed by the Geneva Convention). It was a prison within a prison. This place had a stillness to it like some kind of bizarre death row. Everything was sterile and dead.

  There were three major groups in msu: the nazis, the "niggah lovers," and me. I was the only Black woman in the unit, with the exception of one other who left almost immediately after i arrived. The nazis had been sent to alderson from a prison in California, where they had been accused of setting inmates on fire. They were members of the aryan sisterhood, the female wing of the aryan brotherhood-a white racist group that operates in California prisons and is well known for its attacks on Black prisoners.

  Hooked up with the nazis were the manson family women, sandra good and linda "squeaky" froame. Sandra had been sentenced to fifteen years for threatening the lives of business executives and government officials, and froame was serving a life sentence for attempting to kill president gerald ford. They were like the Bobbsey twins and clear out of their minds.

  They called themselves "red" and "blue." Everyday "red" wore red from head to toe and "blue" wore blue. They were so fanatic in their devotion to charles manson that they wrote to him everyday, informing him about everything that happened at msu. They waited for his "orders," and you can be sure that if he told them to kill someone they would die trying to do it. Also hooked up with the nazis were the hillbilly prisoners: an obese sow who never bathed and walked around barefoot and a tobacco-chewing butch who acted like she was in the confederate army. There was one "independent" nazi who had fallen out with the others. She sported a huge swastika embroidered on her jeans.

  Luckily, Rita Brown, a white revolutionary from the George Jackson Brigade, a group based on the West Coast, was among the four or five "niggah lovers." She was a feminist and a lesbian, and helped me to better understand many issues in the white women’s liberation movement. Unlike Jane Alpert, whom i had met in the federal prison in New York, and whom i couldn't stand either personally or politically, Rita did not separate the oppression of women from the racism and classism of u.s. society. We agreed that sexism, like racism, was generated by capitalist, imperialist governments, and that women would never be liberated as long as the institutions that controlled our lives existed. I respected Rita be cause she really practiced sisterhood, and wasn't just one of those big mouths who go on and on about men.

  I'm sure that a lot of prison officials thought i'd never leave the place alive. It was the perfect setup for a setup, and i dealt with the situation seriously. I didn't look for trouble, but i let the nazis know that i was ready to defend myself at any time, and that if they wanted ass (like they say in prison) they would have to bring ass. I made it clear to them that i hated them as much as they hated me, and that if anybody's mother had to cry it would be theirs, not Ms. Johnson. After a few run-ins, the nazis stayed out of my way.

  After i had been at alderson for a while, we learned that the msu would be closed down because it had been declared unconstitutional. A phase-out stratification program was implemented that enabled those in msu to leave it during the day and to participate in the same activities permitted those in the general population. I got a job working on the general mechanic's crew, was allowed recreation, attended classes, and was able to eat and visit with the other women in general population.

  Many of the sisters were Black and poor and from D.C., where every crime is a violation of a federal statute. They were beautiful sisters, serving outrageous sentences for minor offenses. Similar to the situation that existed at the federal prison in New York, some women could not afford to buy cigarettes without forgoing necessities, while others had money, contacts, wore fur coats, and lived as if they were in a different prison. That small group of women had been convicted of drug trafficking. Rumor had it that they per formed the same services in prison as they had on the street, only now they worked for the guards.

  One day, as i was returning to davis hall, a middle-aged woman with "salt-and-pepper" hair caught my eye. She had a dignified, schoolteacher look. Something drew me towards her. As i searched her face, i could see that she was also searching mine. Our eyes locked in a questioning gaze. "Lolita?" i ventured. "Assata?" she responded. And there, in the middle of those alderson prison grounds, we hugged and kissed each other.

  For me, this was one of the greatest honors of my life. Lolita Lebron was one of the most respected political prisoners in the world. Ever since i had first learned about her courageous struggle for the independence of Puerto Rico, i had read everything i could find that had been written about her. She had spent a quarter of a century behind bars and had refused parole unless her comrades were also freed. After all those years she had remained strong, unbent and unbroken, still dedicated to the independence of Puerto Rico and the liberation of her people. She deserved more respect than anyone could possibly give her, and i could not do enough to demonstrate my respect.

  In our subsequent meetings i must have been quite a pain in her neck, falling all over myself to carry her tray, to get a chair for her, or to do whatever i could for her. Lolita had been through hell in prison, yet she was amazingly calm and extremely kind. She had suffered years of isolation in davis hall in addition to years of political and personal isolation. Until the upsurge of the movement for Puerto Rican independence in the late 60s, she had received very little support. Years had gone by without a visit. For years she had been cut off from her country, her culture, her family, and had not been able to speak her own language. Her only daughter had died while she was in prison.

  I supported Lolita a hundred percent, but there was one thing about which we did not agree. At the time we met, Lolita was somewhat anticommunist and antisocialist. She was extremely religious and, i think, believed that religion and socialism were two opposing forces, that socialists and communists were completely opposed to religion and religious freedom.

  After the resurgence of the Puerto Rican independence move ment, Lolita was visited by all kinds of people. Some were pseudo
revolutionary robots who attacked her for her religious beliefs, telling her that to be a revolutionary she had to give up her belief in God. It apparently had never occurred to those fools that Lolita was more revolutionary than they could ever be, and that her religion had helped her to remain strong and committed all those years. I was infuriated by their crass, misguided arrogance.

  I had become close friends with a Catholic nun, Mary Alice, while at alderson, who introduced me to liberation theology. I had read some articles by Camillo Torres, the revolutionary priest, and i knew that there were a lot of revolutionary priests and nuns in Latin America. But i didn't know too much about liberation theology. I did know that Jesus had driven the money changers out of the temples and said that the meek would inherit the earth, and a lot of other things that were directly opposed to capitalism. He had told the rich to give away their wealth and said that "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God" (Matthew 19:24). I knew a little bit, but i had too much respect for Lolita to open my mouth carelessly. I decided to study liberation theology so that i could have an intelligent conversation with her.

  I never got around to it, though. The maximum security unit closed, and i was shipped back to new jersey. Lolita is free now, and she is no longer isolated from what is going on in her part of the world or in her church. I know that wherever she is, she is praying and struggling for her people.

  Chapter 20

  My mother brings my daughter to see me at the clinton correctional facility for women in new jersey, where i had been sent from alderson. I am delirious. She looks so tall. I run up to kiss her. She barely responds. She is distant and stand offish. Pangs of guilt and sorrow fill my chest. I can see that my child is suffering. It is stupid to ask what is wrong. She is four years old, and except for these pitiful little visits-although my mother has brought her to see me every week, wherever i am, with the exception of the time i was in alderson-she has never been with her mother. I can feel something welling up in my baby. I look at my mother, my face a question mark. My mother is suffering too. I try to play. I make my arms into an elephant's trunk stalking around the visiting room jungle. It does not work. My daughter refuses to play baby elephant, or tiger, or anything.

  She looks at me like i am the buffoon i must look like. I try the choo-choo train routine and the la, la, la song, but she is not amused. I try talking to her, but she is puffed up and sullen.

  I go over and try to hug her. In a hot second she is all over me. All i can feel are these little four-year-old fists banging away at me. Every bit of her force is in those punches, they really hurt. I let her hit me until she is tired. "It's all right," i tell her. "Let it all out.” She is standing in front of me, her face contorted with anger, looking spent. She backs away and leans against the wall. "It's okay," i tell her. "Mommy understands." "You're not my mother," she screams, the tears rolling down her face. "You're not my mother and I hate you." I feel like crying too. I know she is confused about who i am. She calls me Mommy Assata and she calls my mother Mommy.

  I try to pick her up. She knocks my hand away. "You can get out of here, if you want to," she screams. "You just don't want to." "No, i can't," i say, weakly. "Yes you can." she accuses. "You just don't want to."

  I look helplessly at my mother. Her face is choked with pain. "Tell her to try to open the bars," she says in a whisper.

  "I can't open the door," i tell my daughter. "I can't get through the bars. You try and open the bars."

  My daughter goes over to the barred door that leads to the visiting room. She pulls and she pushes. She yanks and she hits and she kicks the bars until she falls on the floor, a heap of exhaustion. I go over and pick her up. I hold and rock and kiss her. There is a look of resignation on her face that i can't stand. We spend the rest of the visit talking and playing quietly on the floor. When the guard says the visit is over, i cling to her for dear life. She holds her head high, and her back straight as she walks out of the prison. She waves good-bye to me, her face clouded and worried, looking like a little adult. I go back to my cage and cry until i vomit. I decide that it is time to leave.

  TO MY DAUGHTER KAKUYA

  i have shabby dreams for you

  of some vague freedom

  i have never known.

  Baby,

  i don't want you hungry or thirsty

  or out in the cold.

  And i don't want the frost

  to kill your fruit

  before it ripens.

  i can see a sunny place

  Life exploding green.

  i can see your bright, bronze skin

  at ease with all the flowers

  and the centipedes.

  i can hear laughter,

  not grown from ridicule.

  And words, not prompted

  by ego or greed or jealousy.

  i see a world where hatred

  has been replaced by love.

  and ME replaced by WE.

  And i can see a world

  where you,

  building and exploring,

  strong and fulfilled,

  will understand.

  And go beyond

  my little shabby dreams.

  Chapter 21

  My grandmother came all the way from North Carolina. She came to tell me about her dream. My grandmother had been dreaming all of her life, and the dreams have come true. My grand mother dreams of people passing and babies being born and people being free, but it is never specific. Redbirds sitting on fences, rainbows at sunset, conversations with people long gone. My grandmother's dreams have always come when they were needed and have always meant what we needed them to mean. She dreamed my mother would be a schoolteacher, my aunt would go to law school, and, during the hard times, she dreamed the good times were coming. She told us what we needed to be told and made us believe it like nobody else could have. She did her part. The rest was up to us. We had to make it real. Dreams and reality are opposites. Action synthesizes them.

  I was extremely pleased that she had come. Her air was confident and victorious. The rest of the family prompted her to tell me her dream.

  "You're coming home soon," my grandmother told me, catching my eyes and staring down into them. "I don't know when it will be, but you're com ing home. You're getting out of here. It won't be too long, though. It will be much less time than you've already been here."

  Excited, i asked her to tell me about her dream. We were all talking, i noticed in a conspiratorial tone. "I dreamed we were in our old house in Jamaica. I don't know if you remember that house or not.” I assured her that i did.

  "I dreamed that i was dressing you," she said, "putting your clothes on."

  "Dressing me?" i repeated.

  "Yes. Dressing you.”

  Fear ran up and down my back. "Was i little or grown?"

  "You were grown up in my dream.”

  I felt slightly sick. Maybe my grandmother dreamt about my death. Maybe she dreamt that i was killed while trying to escape. Why else would she be dressing me, if i wasn't dead? My grand mother caught my drift of thought.

  "No, you're all right. You're alive. It's just as plain as the nose on your face. You're coming home. I know what I'm talking about. Don't ask me to explain it anymore, because I can't. I just know you're going to come home and that you're going to be all right."

  I drilled her for more details. Some she gave and some she didn't. Finally, after i had asked a thousand questions, my grand mother let all the authority show in her voice. "I know it will happen, because I dreamt it. You're getting out of this place, and I know it. That's all there is to it."

  My grandmother sat looking at me. There was a kind of smile on her face i can't describe. I knew she was serious. My grandmother's dreams were notorious: her dreams came true. All her life her uncanny senses have been like radar, picking up and identifying all kinds of things that we don't even see. My family and i just sat there vibing on each other
. Talking and laughing, bringing up old memories and telling funny stories. Calmness rolled down my body like thick honey.

  When i got back to my cell i thought about it all. No amount of scientific, rational thinking could diminish the high that i felt. A tingly, giddy excitement had caught hold of me. I had gotten drunk on my family's arrogant, carefree optimism. I literally danced in my cell, singing, "Feet, don't fail me now." I sang the "feet" part real low, so i guess the guards must have thought i was bugging out, stomping around my cage singing "feet," "feet."

  "You can't win a race just by running," my mother told me when i was little. "You have to talk to yourself."

  "Huh?" i had asked.

  "You have to talk to yourself when you are running and tell yourself you can win."

  It had become a habit of sorts. Anytime i am faced with something difficult or almost impossible, i chant. Over the years i have developed different kinds of chants, but i always fall back on the old one "i can, i can, yes, i can."

  I called my grandparents a day or two before i escaped. I wanted to hear their voices one last time before i went. I was feeling kind of mush and, so as not to sound suspicious, i told them i wanted to hear some more about the family's history, tracing the ties back to slavery. All too soon it was time to hang up. "Your grandmother wants to say something else to you," my grandfather told me.