Then there are always the plants: the rats, the heat, the squeals, the stool pigeons. Those few agents placed in the room to stir up problems. The few who remain from the old group, still there to promote division. They report back to the security personnel that sent them. In another prison environment they wouldn’t be tolerated at all. Another time. Another state. Not so here. Here, gotta let a couple of them stay. But they’re harmless when you know they’re there. Useful, even. Long as your house is straight and you know exactly who they are. All the unknowns must be flushed out. Or, better yet, made to dismiss themselves.
Banished until a time when they can be accurately identified.
Most important, though, are the jewels. The prodigies. Coals that the heat and pressure of the struggle have made or will make into diamonds. Still, yet, undiscovered. Even to themselves. Those that have to be awakened. Quickened. Extracted from the dirt of disappointment. Exhumed, maybe, from the soil and dredges. The living among the walking dead. They are what it’s all for. The very best of the numbered masses.
To harness this young energy is the primary motive. To separate them from the degenerate, inhumane, and backward influences that prevail elsewhere in the prison. To isolate them. Debrief them in order to see what they understand. Initiate an unlearning process to clean out all of the errant, misguided, and destructive beliefs—hard, heart-held beliefs they actually define themselves by. And, finally, to groom them in a way that will promote healthy self-awareness and more accurate objectivity. Ones they can lean on as they seek to redeem the time and choose their own path in life. Once these jewels are properly polished, they will be fed back into the populace. Both prison and society at large. To influence others toward conscious awakening and progressive attitudes.
Rise holds out his hands to calm the murmur of conversation around the room.
“Gentlemen,” Rise begins. “Let us start the meeting by observing one minute of silence …”
C-Boy and Lil Chris have a workout regimen that they hold to every day without fail. No weight benches in the blocks. No weights, period. Just calisthenics. Push-ups, sit-ups, bend and reach, crunches, and shit.
They’re usually right there in the corner of the small cellblock yard. The area where the two fences meet and they can see the comers and goers from the treatment center on one side and the A Building on the other.
This is where they are today. Getting their stretches in before they kick off their 30-minute jog. It just so happens that the guard shift is changing.
Lil Chris really ain’t payin’ attention, though. He’s goin’ through that phase where he’s so resentful about his incarceration that he hates everything and everybody that represents the system. Especially the correctional officers who are marchin’ back and forth on the walk right before them. Besides, security is go’n do what they do, anyway. There are more pressin’ matters on Lil Chris’s mind. The package lady brought legal mail to the cell the other day. His appellate lawyer let him know that the circuit court denied his direct appeal. Something, also, about the state supreme court, but he didn’t really understand it. He’s just hopin’ somethin’ good happens. Eventually.
Then, there’s Wayne. Damn … Wayne.
C-Boy, on the other hand, is on some real voyeurism shit. “Ooh, did you see that? … Lil Chris—”
“Man, I’m not into that. Stop calling me.”
“I’m sayin’, brah … a’ight. G’on head, trip then,” C-Boy whispers, sharply inhaling through his teeth.
C-Boy goes quiet for a moment. You can hear the flies buzzing around them.
All of the sudden, Lil Chris feels the impulse to look up. When he does, he almost bites a hole in his lip trying to stop from saying sump’n. No question. All he saw was the back of her head, but it was her … he’s sure about that. Damn! The Blocks!
“Say, check, I … I don’t know which one of us she was watchin’, but that look in her eyes got me messed up … Peep. I’m finna go tell the freeman let me on back in the cell, brah,” C-Boy finishes.
Lil Chris isn’t really hearing him. “Man, quit trippin’. What about the laps we gotta jog?”
“Kid …” C-Boy says. Lookin’ as serious as a heart attack. “Straight … I need some solo time.”
Rise walks slowly around the classroom. The club members are paired off and seated at small makeshift tables with chess boards set up to show games that have already progressed to various stages of play.
“The object of the game for the serious player,” Rise stipulates, “is to obtain swift victory with minimal casualties. Does everyone understand me?”
He pauses. No one answers. He knows they are hearing but not necessarily appreciating him. “Again. You wanna win as fast as possible. But you wanna do so while using a strategy that will cost you the least amount of pieces.”
He pauses, again. Makes eye contact as he steps through the virtual maze of seated bodies. Okay. He sees understanding blooming on a few faces. “How do we do this? How do we obtain swift victory with minimal casualties? Good question! We think! That’s what we do. We think … what? At least four or five moves ahead. This is the key to the game. Forethought. Thought precedes action. Know what you’re about before you move. Don’t be sloppy. The only way to obtain swift victory and do so with minimal casualties.”
Someone raises his hand. Rise doesn’t stop. “If I am speaking over your head, then you are in the wrong meeting. You—are—too—slow—for this body. You need to find somewhere else to spend your time and energy.”
The guy that raised his hand gets up and storms out of the room.
Lil Chris has been jogging for 25 minutes now. His lower back is tight and warm. His legs are sore. His knee and ankle joints are almost numb. His shoulders have this dull pain. But his chest is wide open. It feels good. His head is clear. At least most of his mind is focused on bending his aching body to his will in order to press on. There is only a corner of his attention still holding on to her … Veronica. Veronica Havoc.
Alright, just a little more. Just a couple of minutes left. Come on, now. Focus! Put your mind on what you’re doin’. Stretch it out. Push every step. Stay mindful of where you tryna get to.
As Lil Chris sprints out the last seconds, he notices that someone has pulled up on his resting area. Taking a seat and placing a stack of books right next to the C’ster’s shed clothes.
He slows to a snail’s pace and then begins to walk. Finishes his last lap, steadies his breathing. This isn’t his first time peeping this dude. Staring in Lil Chris’s direction is too vague. He has learned not to sweat misdemeanors. But stoppin’ by his rest area is a felony. This guy has come out there. Stepped, uninvited, into Lil Chris’s world. Now, if he out there sideways he go’n to get dealt wit’. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
The C’ster is silent and alert as he pulls into position, standing over the now-sitting intruder. He says, “What?”
“Oh, what’s happenin’, brother? You mind if I chill for a minute? I got something I wanna kick to you.”
Silence.
The guy continues. “I been peepin’ ya style. I feel like you a pretty solid dude. You got a lot of influence with most of these youngstas. I also see you stay to yourself. You stand in a small circle. These are good qualities. You could be someone if you willin’ to work.”
Silence.
Lil Chris crouches down in an OG bucket. Stays on his feet. Stretches his arms out to rest the back of his arms across his knees. Now he’s eye to eye with this cat. Stares him down.
The guy doesn’t seem perturbed.
Lil Chris asks, “What do you want wit’ me, man?”
The guy smiles. “It’s not what I want from you, it’s what we want for you,” he says.
“What we?”
“Da One.”
“Da who?” Lil Chris’s patience is getting short.
“Da One,” is all the dude will say.
“Check this out,” Lil Chris begins in a controlled even tone. �
�Don’t … play wit’ me. You ain’t got but a few more seconds before I’m through talkin’—”
“Nooo! Brother, don’t get defensive. I’m not here for that. You’ve been chosen by a family, which is called Da One. Our mission is to help you build. My job is to help you in your process of reawakening, brother.”
Silence.
The intruder continues. “I know you live hard. We all do. Ain’t no chumps in my fold. Believe me, we can identify with your anger. We just tryna help you understand the reason behind the madness.”
Silence. The C’ster is thinking, now. Tryna make sense of what’s being said. The intruder sees that as his opening and presses forward. “Look. My name is Mansa. I already know yours. As for today, I came to drop this material off on you. You can read it, tear it up, or throw it away. That’s on you. Just know that there are no secrets in the penitentiary. We’ll know what you did with it. From here on out, I’m your contact to Da One. You wanna holla … you get at me. Mansa.” Mansa finishes talking, gets up and leaves. He walks off toward the other end of the yard and begins walking the narrow runner’s path around the perimeter of the abbreviated prison yard. He never looks back.
Lil Chris picks up the book that Mansa left sitting on the grass beside him. He reads the cover. Before the Mayflower by Lerone Bennett, Jr. A paperback. The cover’s artwork is a trip. It’s got all these kinda freaked-out colors. These crude shapings of men. One has a hammer or something.
Lil Chris just sits there looking at the cover of the book. Tryna process what just happened.
Suddenly, a whistle sounds, startling the C’ster from his musing. Yard call is over. The prisoners line up in twos next to the walk to be counted and shook down before filtering back into the cellblock unit.
Contemplative.
Always contemplative, ever contemplative. Rise sits in the classroom after the P.C.P.A. meeting. Basically digests what transpired. Keeping up with the times. He categorizes the characters. The drifters. The strategists. The agent provocateurs. The prodigies, the brothers who will soon mature into the guiding lights of this prison population. The number is very small, indeed. And, of course, there are some significant personalities that the scouting committee has failed to pull in. Regrettably, most of these will end up corrupted and stagnant under backward doctrine.
Rise has been hearing about the recent resurgence of Da One. A lot of his brethren are worried about this development. However, Rise, ever the strategist, believes it could be a good thing. Of course, their confrontational lean is going to push S.O.G. into a new position of visibility. The uncontrollable and inevitable consequences of there being two opposing schools of thought.
Yet, on the other hand, Rise has another angle on the situation as it develops. These two rival doctrines aren’t so much opposing as they are simply distinguishable from one another. Which, in proper context, is a good thing. Rise knows the struggle is all about perception. How you perceive a thing. We create our own realities, Rise reminds himself, and this is a key fundamental.
There are no real secrets in prison. Too closely situated for that. Only well-kept truths. Visibility is not a threat when your house is in order. Conflict is good, also. It generates interest, opinion, position. Pick a side.
Rise will discipline the soul-jahs who stand in the forefront. They will answer the negative aggression of Da One with strength, wisdom, ideology, and execution. Of these, execution is the most crucial. Credibility is the fruit of consistent practice.
Lastly, key to Rise’s angle on the matter is the notion that truth will abide and right thought will overcome. What the Egyptians called maat. All those that the S.O.G. misses will hopefully be pulled in by Da One. Still more will be attracted by the chaos of voice and movement. This, too, is a good thing. No matter how they get there, or why they come, the power of perception is key. The third eye sees. All concerned approach the table. Da One could even draw the majority and it would be of no consequence. The objective would be to disarm their prejudices and present truth. Once truth and untruth are matched before them, once the contrast is perceived, if not understood, then each will choose intuitively what is right for him.
Rise is certain that S.O.G. is on the righteous path.
“Say … check,” C-Boy speaks up as soon as Lil Chris walks into the cell.
Lil Chris leans back into the corner at the front of the cell where the bars meet the wall just inside the celldoor. “What’s happenin’?” he questions.
“When I come in from the yard, Fast Eddie stopped me and said homeboy in the cell wit’ ya boy Wayne fucked up. Check, dude been sendin’ down the walk all day tryna get a knife”
It’s always strange to hear C-Boy talkin’ serious because so much of what comes out of his mouth is bullshit. But right now it seems everything inside this little box they’re sittin’ in is still. Even the TV droning on the tier recedes to the background, and nothing exists but the two of them. This moment, this conversation. At times like this, there is this crazy sense of how unfair and absurd prison is. Trapped in this place. With these people.
Lil Chris grabs his notepad and tears out a small piece of paper. Digs out a pen and scribbles a quick note to Wayne. His friend is seven cells down, but that could just as well be seven miles. They are both locked in.
He folds the note, peels the label off his deodorant, and uses it to seal the message. He still can’t be sure that it won’t fall into the wrong hands, but the most important thing at the moment is alertin’ Wayne that there’s a chance he’s about to be ambushed. He stops the first pair of legs to pass by the cell and sends the note down to Wayne.
Wayne is sitting in the top bunk with his headphones on listening to the TV. Some guy—they’re all strangers to him—stops in front of the cell bars and extends a folded note. As Wayne takes it, the guy says, “Lil Chris,” and walks away.
Wayne peels the letter open and reaches for his glasses. His cellmate stands up and peeks at Wayne in the top bunk before stepping to the toilet to take a piss.
As Wayne reads the note a shiver runs up his spine to the crown of his head. He refolds the missive and turns his head back toward the TV. Knows his cellie is likely watching him in the mirror mounted on the cell’s back wall.
When his cellmate reaches over to flush the toilet, Wayne turns, says, “Excuse me,” and tosses the note in the bowl like he would any other. This done, he forces himself to lay down as if he’s really into the television program and tries to make sense of what he just read.
Lil Chris and C-Boy sit up half the night waiting for the telltale bumpin’ and rumbling that would indicate Wayne and his cellie clashin’. It never comes.
Some time during the early hours of the morning, Lil Chris sets down the copy of Before the Mayflower he’s been reading since he came in from the shower. He’s covered a considerable portion of the book and he’s somewhat aggravated. Understanding is startin’ to bud. He’s gettin’ a picture here. He needs more. He craves more.
He’s angry.
He rolls over, pulls his mattress back, and grabs a pen. He doesn’t feel like jumping down out of the top bunk, havin’ to wrestle with slidin’ out his footlocker to fish out his note pad.
After feeling around under the mattress for a minute, he finds an old sick-call form. He turns it over to the back and folds the paper in half. This done, he begins to write:
One score
Or somewhere close
My journey brought me to the moment
When I wrote these words
Mourning. Anniversary of my dearly departed.
Nobody knows my pain
Nor saw my strain
Managing, though I heard
Ain’t no refuge
For the brokenhearted
Mangled in manacles
Eighteen inches
Retrospect of my middle passage
(my) Native sons and daughters sold for naught.
(but) Guns, rum, and molasses
For cowrie shells,
duly discarded
Make me wanna holla!…
Mutiny!
T’was my brothers who did it.
Used to be hardheaded
Forgive and forget it
Retribution fo’ real
Won’t accept what you do to me
Questioned by second-guessers
What do I do with these half-steppers
My infirmity
A-ffirmative Ac-tion
Got my fac-tion pacified…Denied the
Mule and 40 acres you had no intention of givin’
Preoccupied
Am I to break this cycle we livin’
Margaret Garner
Gathered her family and fled
Dry-mouthed informants in the big house
Master, Master!
The field niggas is runnin’
Margaret murdered two of her children
To protect ’em from recapture
How can I be happy here?!
Man, I was born black and proud o’ my skin
But, I got problems within
When you hear me
Say I wanna be free
Peep the issue
Damn the physical bondage
Liberate my mentality!
By the next morning, Lil Chris is irate.
Well, more like smoldering. His intellect and imagination were aflame all through the night. His young mind went to so many places. So much to think about! The past. The present. The future, still looming so far out of reach. The needs of the day, though, the morning, the moment, are the only thing that’s real. The only thing that can be.
The cell bars rack back and prisoners step out onto the tier for work call. Lil Chris fights back the impulse to go straight down to Wayne’s cell to question him about why he would spend the night in that cell. With that dude? How crazy is that?
He can’t keep fightin’ for his boy, though. That’ll only make matters worse. Lil Chris understands that. PowwWoww said the same thing in the letter he sent him the night PowwWoww got transferred to a satellite camp up North.
For that reason, Lil Chris keeps his distance while they file out of the cellblock and into the sallyport for role call. The whole time, he watches Wayne’s cellmate, though. The prick is really no bigger than Wayne but he looks stronger. Brown-skinned with heavy shoulders and small legs. Stands over there with other ’victs. And they all fit the profile. Well-worn, state-issue clothing, sleeves ripped off, faces shiny from Magic Shave and baby oil. Tryna look young. Wolves.
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