Q. Can you think back and remember a favorite book you read as a child?
A. Strangely enough, The Red and the Black. I read that when I was about thirteen. I got a deep, let’s say, understanding of some of the degenerate, contradictory elements of Western culture from reading The Red and the Black.
Q. What about reading in prison? In your book you mention reading Sabatini and Jack London.
A. I was about fifteen in Paso Robles [Youth Authority facility] when I read those light things. I like Sabatini. Sabatini is fabulous. I read Shakespeare, Sabatini, Jack London with my bathrobe on. I played dummy. Went along with what they told me to do; pretended I was hard of hearing, an absent-minded bookworm, an idiot. And I got by with it. I’ve read thousands of books. Of course years ago I read Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, but mainly my interests are economics and political economy.
Q. What are the books that you’d say impressed you most of all?
A. A brother gave me a copy of Engels’ Anti-Duhring.
Q. About what year—how old would you have been then?
A. It was in ’61. I struggled with that, it took me three months. The same brother gave me a copy of the Communist Manifesto. Then I went deep into such things as William J. Pomeroy—The Forest, On Resistance. And then Nkrumah. And do you know who I was really impressed with, although he isn’t a Socialist or a Communist? I was impressed with Henry George’s stuff. I’ve read all his stuff.
Q. Oh, really? His theories of economics?
A. Yes. His single-tax idea is not correct. But I like his presentation—I like the explanation he advanced explaining how the ruling class over the years managed through machinations to rob and despoil the people.
Q. What particular books are you reading for your historical study?
A. The Nature of Fascism, edited by Woolf; and then Wilhelm Reich’s Mass Psychology of Fascism. That’s a beautiful book. I think it should be required reading for all of us, and there’s one statement in there that appeals to me in a very, very, very significant way. It goes like this: “Man is biologically sick.”
Q. What about black poetry, fiction, biography?
A. Poetry is not my bag. Not my medium. I have no sense of poetry at all. You know, the formalistic meter-type poetry. But I like some of the Langston Hughes stuff. Nice old guy. I like some of his stuff. Of course, I read the outstanding poems—and I’ve quoted them, such as the one that arose out of the riot written by Claude McKay. I like such things as “Invictus.” But as a student of poetry—no.
Q. What black biographies have you read?
A. Malcolm’s, of course. And let me think. Several. I’ve had Wright’s stuff. And—what’s his name?— Little skinny guy. James Baldwin.
Q. Now, since the book has been published, who do you feel you have reached with this book; what do you think the effect has been on readers?
A. Well, I have mixed opinions, mixed emotions about the whole thing. But one strange thing has evolved out of the whole incident: it seems that parts of the book appeal to the right-wing blacks and parts appeal to the left. I’ve had letters of commendation from a hundred different sects that represent the whole black political spectrum from right to left. So there’s parts in there that the progressive left, black left, can relate to. I’ve gotten letters from black people eight feet tall, celebrities, entertainers, et cetera.
Q. What were the prisoners’ reactions?
A. Well, the prisoners accepted it, of course. They loved it, especially the sections near the end. Well, you know we’re all considered trapped in here, without voice, and they seem to be gratified that one of us had the opportunity to express himself. For one, you understand we’re an oppressed people. And that events lik that, you know, a prisoner getting a book published, getting ideas across, speaking for them, speaking for us—all that’s appreciated.
Q. Did the guards ever say anything to you about the book?
A. Well, you have a difference of character, a character difference. Some laughed and said, “I’m reading, I’m learning about myself,” and then there are others that look at me with daggers in their eyes. And it’s pretty clear that what they’re saying is that “First chance I get, nigger, I’m going to kill you.” They’re saying, “Look, we have a mutual understanding.” When I use the word “pig,” one officer will take it as a terrible, terrible attack on him, whereas another will laugh.
Q. When Greg Armstrong [senior editor at Bantam Books] presented you with the first copy of your book on the day it was published, it was immediately confiscated by a guard, is that true?
A. True. Later on my lawyers raised a fuss and they finally let me have a hardback and softback copy. But without the fuss, I’d never have gotten them.
Q. Is your book available in the prison library at the present time?
A. No. The publisher sent a hundred copies to the prison library. The librarian distributed the books, but one month later, after the officials had read the book, they started confiscating it, so now it’s underground. It’s being picked up by the search-and-destroy squad. They invade the cells and look for contraband. It’s considered contraband, but there’s copies circulating around, underground. Now I’m locked up, but that’s the way I heard it.
[I checked with Officer McHenry, librarian at San Quentin. He told me the prison had received thirty-five copies of Soledad Brother, they were checked out immediately to inmates who wanted to read them, there was never any censorship of the book so far as he knew. The mystery was further compounded by Jackson’s lawyer, John Thorne, who told me his copy of Soledad Brother was taken from his briefcase by a guard and held as contraband when he went to visit his client—what is the truth of the matter? With Jackson locked up, and me locked out, we can each but report what we are told.]
Q. Now, at the time of publication Greg Armstrong flew out here for the customary publisher’s champagne party—which, in this case, was held at the gates of San Quentin. What did the prisoners think about that?
A. They love that sort of thing. You know, after years of isolation, all of a sudden to find out that people really are interested in you and that people can relate to you in spite of the fact that sociology books call us antisocial and brand us as criminals, when actually the criminals are in the Social Register—well, we did relate to that, to the whole incident.
COMMENT
At the time of this interview I was deep in my book on prisons, Kind and Usual Punishment. The year before, I had published an article in the Atlantic about the California prison system, which had achieved a considerable underground circulation among the inmates. George Jackson, who for good reason had in general a deep mistrust of journalists and who thus far had rebuffed their efforts to interview him, had read the piece and sent word through his lawyer that he would welcome an interview by me.
I knew something of the prison administrators’ opinion of Jackson from a confidential memorandum by L. H. Fudge, Associate Superintendent of a California prison camp, that was mailed to me in a plain envelope by—a convict trustee? A disaffected prison staff member? I shall never know. The memorandum might, I suppose, pass for what publishers’ advertising departments call “a selling review” of Soledad Brother: “This book provides remarkable insight into the personality makeup of a highly dangerous sociopath.... This type individual is not uncommon in several of our institutions. Because of his potential and the growing numbers, it is imperative that we in Corrections know as much as we can about his personality makeup and are able to correctly identify his kind.... This is one of the most self-revealing and insightful books I have ever read concerning a criminal personality.”
Among the prison officials quoted at length in my Atlantic article was James Park, Associate Warden at San Quentin—he had not, I gathered, been pleased with the piece nor with my rendition of his conversation. It was to him that I was obliged to apply for permission to interview Jackson, refused until Jackson’s lawyer obtained a court order compelling Park to allow my visit.
When the court order came through, I telephoned Park to make arrangements for the interview. I could hear him over the phone fussing away at his secretary: “Where’s that fucking court order for Jessica?” (Like Mortuary Management and Bennett Cerf, the Corrections crowd all called me “Jessica.”) “Mr. Park,” said I sternly, “don’t you know it’s a misdemeanor in California to use obscene language in the presence of women and children?” Which it is; a silly and sexist law that my husband is challenging in the courts, but that came in handy at that moment.
This is one of the very few interviews in which I used a tape recorder. I am mistrustful of these gadgets, which might break down at any moment and which necessitate tedious hours of transcription. But somehow—while I am on the whole confident of my ability to scribble down accurate notes of conversations—in the case of a person behind bars, helpless to challenge any possible misquotation, it seemed important to get the interview on tape. Fortunately George Jackson knew how to work the recorder. He took charge and it went off without a hitch.
When three months later Jackson was gunned down in the San Quentin shoot-out, his words, to which I had listened over and over again in the course of my laborious transcription of the interview, came back to me in his distinctive tone of voice: “And it’s pretty clear that what they’re saying is that ‘First chance I get, nigger, I’m going to kill you.’ ”
*In January, 1970, Jackson’s lawyers secured an injunction prohibiting the authorities from tampering with prisoners’ letters to them, which explains those letters in Soledad Brother described by Genêt as “a call to rebellion.”
MY SHORT AND HAPPY LIFE AS A DISTINGUISHED PROFESSOR
ATLANTIC / October, 1974
The memory of my brief excursion into academia is fast fading into a wild, improbable, yet wonderful fantasy, a confused medley of classrooms, courtrooms, student demonstrations, television cameras, the gloomy faces of college administrators.... Were it not for the journal I kept sporadically, and assorted memorabilia such as clippings from the student newspaper, some toeprint labels, some exam papers, I might begin to think I dreamed the whole thing.
It all started in May, 1973, when I received a letter from San Jose State University which began: “Dear Ms. Mitford: I am writing to inquire whether you would be interested in being considered for an appointment as a Distinguished Professor for fall semester 1973.” Signed “Snell Putney, Ph.D., Acting Chairman, Department of Sociology,” it was sprinkled with many an oddly turned phrase: “We are wanting someone such as yourself....” “The period of responsibility would be from late September, 1973, through late January, 1974....” “More importantly, we seem to be in a period of rather active intellectual ferment....” “The honorarium for the semester would be slightly over $11,000....”
What on earth, I thought. Was somebody pulling my leg— which of my fun-loving friends would have access to San Jose State University writing paper? And if Snell Putney, Ph.D., indeed exists, what is his native tongue? “That’s easy, Sociologese,” said my husband. “You’d probably love being a Distinguished Professor, you’d better go after it.” So I did.
The pursuit gave rise to many an anxious moment. A professor of my acquaintance, privy to the subtleties of university parlance, was quick to point out that Mr. Putney had not actually offered me the job but merely asked if I would be interested in being considered, the clear implication being that the same letter had been dispatched far and wide to other possible candidates. Furthermore, he cautioned, there would be political hurdles. Any appointment would doubtless have to be confirmed by Dr. John Bunzel, president of the university, who in his prior capacity as head of the political science department at San Francisco State University had proved to be “one of those ‘responsible liberals’ who always end up opting for law and order” and who, because of his equivocating role in the student strike of 1968, had incurred the enmity of militant students and faculty alike.
Then came the day when Snell Putney, Ph.D., with whom I was soon in constant communication, asked the dread but inevitable question, “What is your academic background?” I sadly told him it could best be summed up in one word: nil. My mother, who did not approve of girls going to school, had brought us up at home; to my deep regret, I had never attended a university, a high school, or even an elementary school. “Oh-ho, that’s delightful,” said Mr. Putney with his scholarly chuckle, and assured me that this odd upbringing would make no difference to my chances.
Much later, I learned that I was indeed one of some twenty-five to whom identical letters had been sent. Of these, three came down to the wire as possible choices for the job: Paul Jacobs, who had been involved with the strike at San Francisco State when Mr. Bunzel was there; David Horowitz, editor of Ramparts; and myself. When the short list was presented to President Bunzel with the department’s recommendation that I be appointed, he said, my informant reported, “Well, I’m glad it’s not Jacobs or Horowitz, they could be troublemakers.”
The contract safely inked, I was interviewed at some length by a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, who made great sport of my singular lack of academic preparation for the appointment, and of the fact that only three years before I had been listed along with some sixty-five others by the House Internal Security Committee as an “undesirable radical campus speaker.” The following day a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand appeared on my otherwise serene horizon; the Chronicle reported that Frank P. Adams, former president of the ultraconservative California Republican Assembly and currently a trustee of the state university system, had “hotly contested” my status as Distinguished Professor in the sociology department, remarking indignantly that “to me, if she’s an authority on death she should be in the morticians’ department.” Which, I thought, was rather a good point.
One of my new-found colleagues in the sociology department told me the news stories had triggered a flurry of student applications for my classes and a few crank telephone calls. “What kind of crank calls?” I asked. “Oh, just irate citizens demanding to know what an uneducated radical like you is doing on our campus.” I observed I did not consider that crank, as the same question had occurred to me.
I was to have two classes, I was told: a large lecture course of some two hundred students, and an honors seminar limited to twenty. But what, exactly, was I to teach? What is sociology, anyway? I put these questions to a professor in the department, but it seemed he hadn’t a clue either. “Sociology is a very broad term,” he said. “You can structure your classes any way you choose, hopefully based on your own social action research.” Ahem, thought I, and it is to be hoped that I may be able to squeeze in a few pointers on talking plain English.
Actually, I found that I was both excited and apprehensive at the thought of assuming my new duties. I had given many a onetime lecture to college audiences, on a hit-and-run basis in which one disappears forever immediately after the event—but a sustained course to students whose future careers might depend on the quality of their college preparation? This was an alarming, yet challenging prospect.
I spent the summer hopefully structuring away in collaboration with my student assistant, Novelle Johnson, a reformed airline stewardess from South Carolina, who proved to be an accomplished and experienced guide to the academic scene. She patiently led me through the ABCs of classroom procedure; it would be desirable, she explained, to prepare class outlines, reading lists, examination questions, so together we got these ready. The lecture course would be called “The American Way,” a title vague and flexible enough to enable us to explore the American way of all sorts of things, based on my “own social action research” which I hoped meant I would not have to read any sociology texts but would merely draw on subjects I already knew about: caskets, courts, convicts, con men, the rise and fall of Bennett Cerf’s Famous Writers School.... The final section would be “Water-buggers of Yesteryear,” the point here being that the Watergate gang and their counterparts of twenty to thirty years ago cut
their teeth in the witch hunt against the Left following World War II. Under this heading we would present the reminiscences of some Old Left victims of the McCarthy era, New Left comments on same, and try generally to link the radical politics of the two eras. To top it off, we would invite the head of the San Francisco FBI to tell all about electronic surveillance of suspected subversives. In the section on criminal justice we would bring in as guest lecturers lawyers, judges, and ex-convicts. In short, we hoped the lecture course would turn into something resembling a variety show.
The exams, I decided, should be designed to bring out the multiplicity of talents I expected to find among my students. Those more at home in some medium other than prose could turn in a poem, song, one-act play, a cartoon strip. All would be invited to translate into English a paragraph taken from a sociology textbook—with the caveat, however, that if they were hoping for a graduate degree in that discipline they might find themselves at a disadvantage if they learned this lesson too well.
The small seminar (honor students, no less! Horrors!) would be a workshop in “Techniques of Muckraking” in which students, working alone or in teams according to preference, would investigate some local institution of their choice such as a nursing home, jail, police department, radio station, and so on.
San Jose is a big sprawling industrial area about an hour’s drive from San Francisco. The university, a unit of the state system presided over from far-off Southern California by Chancellor Glenn S. Dumke and a board of trustees, is vast: enrollment is close to 27,000, comparable in size to the Berkeley campus of the University of California, where entrance requirements are stiffer and where the student body, with its long history as bellwether of radical youth movements, is more sophisticated, more cosmopolitan, and perhaps more world-weary.
Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking Page 20
