What Lil Chris doesn’t understand is that Rise has his mind fixed on the order of the day: educating these pre-law students about the number of backwards elements of the dysfunctional criminal justice system, in which they will soon be launching their careers. The room fills up with about 140 or so students, mostly women, and Lil Chris’s mind goes elsewhere, fast.
From the carnal perspective, it is pure joy to just stand there and watch them walk to and fro. And that’s basically what T. Guy’s poli-sci students have been doing. Pathetic. Most of these students are the same age. Even Lil Chris, with all his boasting and bragging about how much he has to say, freezes up.
“And, what’s your name?” a short redbone with two afro puffs asks as she stops in front of them. They pause, unsure who she is referring to, so Rise takes it up.
“Rise—oop,” he stops. “It’s Oschuwon.”
“Noo,” she sasses. “You said Rise?”
“Uh-uh,” Rise shakes his head. “This is a formal affair. Don’t you let anyone hear you calling me that.”
“Well, we can go with Oschuwon. That’s cute, too. I’ll just call you Rise on the under.”
“Straight. What’s your name?” Rise asks. Starts to regain his bearing.
“Yolanda.”
“Well, Yolanda, we’ve got some responsibilities to make good on. But I definitely will get with you later, or whatever. Is dat cool, sistah?”
“Yeah, you make sure you do that,” Yolanda says, kind of spicy-like. She walks off to her group’s table.
As Rise was turning his head to Lil Chris, the C’ster said, “What? That easy?”
“Yeah, that easy,” Rise assures him, and himself.
Rise spends the morning working the room, going group to group. Pushing the viewpoint. Feeling the response. Fielding. It’s still early, but there have already been some memorable exchanges. Like when Rise gets trapped with two over-talkative juniors. Young ladies, of course. He ends up calling C-Boy, who has been playing the wall all morning. Rise introduces him as one of A.S.C.P.’s Political Science graduates. It’s these students’ third Angola Legal Seminar, and they are obliged to pull C-Boy into their web of words. Last time Rise checked, C-Boy was still nodding his head and saying things like “Oh yeah? I never thought of it that way.”
Rise laughs to himself about it before Lil Chris breaks his train of thought. “Damn,” Lil Chris says, hitting Rise’s shoulder so hard his herbal tea spills. “What you did to that chicken head over there?”
“Watch your mouth,” Rise replies. “These are sisters. You go’n have to discipline yourself, lil brother.” But then he turns his attention to where Lil Chris directed it, toward a sister sitting at the head of one of the student tables.
Time stands still. Yes, she stares directly at Rise. What’s worse, she’s got the look of a woman who’s used to getting what she wants. He holds her gaze for a moment. She doesn’t turn away. Rise narrows his eyes. Tilts his head just a little to the left. Like, What up?
One side of her nice lips pulls girlishly up and she lifts her brows. She sits a short distance from where Rise stands. Rise steps out in the other direction.
An hour passes. Rise works his way around the room of students. Turns as blind an eye as possible to the fact that these are some of the most attractive sisters he’s been around in a long, long time.
“Trust me, I’ve studied many of the same books you all are studying, right now,” he explains to a group by the hobby craft station. “The only difference between you all and me is that I’m trapped in this system we’re all studying.”
“You … what’s your name?” He asks one woman. She wears no makeup on her oval face. She’s got dark eyes that seem to bore into Rise.
“Rashonda.” Her voice is soft.
“And, you’re a what—sophomore?”
“Junior.”
“T.S.U?”
“No. All of us are S.U.N.O … Oh! And Dillard. I’m sorry, y’all.” She says the latter to some of the other students situated at her sides.
“Do you think it’s unconstitutional to deny an imprisoned person the opportunity to pursue a writ of habeas corpus?”
“Of course it is,” Rashonda says, assertively. “Habeas corpus is a right afforded to any imprisoned person who wishes to have their case examined to determine whether their captive status is lawful and just.”
“Okay. That’s what my book teaches me as well, but are you familiar with the A.E.D.P.A?”
“No.” She looks perplexed. “What’s that?”
“The Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act,” Rise specifies.
Rashonda is visibly clueless.
“Yeah, there was anti-terrorism legislation way before the towers fell. President Clinton signed off on a bill that declared myself and others like me—everyday brothers off your block—to be urban terrorists. Picture that. And because of this bill, there are several conditions fixed to what is supposed to be our right to pursue federal habeas corpus. Conditions that function to deny us the legal rights the Constitution has promised.
“Let me lay it out for y’all,” Rise continues. “The books we read that tell us about all of the rights we supposedly have: the right to legal assistance, the right to fair trial, the right to appeal—there is no such thing in the real world. At least not for everyday people, people with no resources. No means. No connections. No power.”
Rise pauses. “No. In the real world, these rights are no more than words on paper. To be maneuvered around. ‘Interpreted’ is the word they use. How many of you have taken a sociology course yet? Deviance is behavior that is, at first, generally acceptable. Acceptable behavior is not a social problem until a segment of the people deem it such. Well, when our government officials interpret these rights, usually they do so in a way that systematically denies these safeguards to those of us who need them the most. Clearly deviant behavior, from our perspective. But they claim their actions are committed in the interest of the people. Well, when is a segment of the people going to deem their actions a social problem?
“Of course, we learn in sociology that people from different backgrounds will view problems and solutions differently. All that sounds well and right, but for the more than two million incarcerated individuals across the nation, who constantly witness interpretations that seem to disregard their rights and safeguards, we have to ask exactly what segment of the people our leaders serve with their present approach to criminal justice.”
Rise’s voice trails off. He’s found himself looking into very wide-eyed, very confused faces. They don’t get it. Yet, more importantly, he sees something else. They are fighting to stay with him. They want to understand. Good.
He tries another angle. “It’s kinda like when someone says, ‘He’s gettin’ on my nerves.’ Have any of you ever had to say that?”
Chagrin, amusement, curiosity, and anticipation flash across their faces. His change in course has jolted them. Exactly what he intended. “You see. There’s no benefit in saying this, other than … well, sayin’ it. If you want to do something about the problem, you have to articulate the causes. Only once you identify what’s going wrong can you begin to fix it, right?”
The students nod.
“Well, the same thing is happening with criminal justice. We all know that ‘lock ’em up and throw away the key’ isn’t working. I mean, they’re gettin’ on my nerves,” Rise allows himself a smile here. “Our books even admit that. But, what exactly is wrong? What are the viable options? Once we can all get on the same level in viewing the causes, then we can begin to eliminate the problem.
“You are all about to enter this dysfunctional system. What are your intentions? To get in where you fit in? To correct the situation? Your position on the board is enviable. You have the opportunity to collect the facts, to study the impact, to inform your opinion, then begin to contemplate workable solutions. It all starts with information, sisters. Over there on the table are some pamphlets our research commi
ttee has prepared. I encourage you to take one. Add it, along with the letters you receive from the individuals you meet at this seminar, to your bank of prisoner perspectives. I’ll talk to some of you later on in the program.”
As Rise turns, he finds himself looking into the same pair of almond-shaped eyes that were staring at him across the room earlier. Without thinking, he grabs an empty chair, straddles the seat backwards, and sits. Like, “What’s happenin’?” All in one smooth motion. He never releases her gaze.
“What are you doin’ here?”
Her accent is very feminine, very pleasing, almost nasal, from somewhere else. “What you mean, ‘What am I doin’ here?’”
“I’ve been all over the room and most of these students are clueless as to why they are actually here. They think they’re on a field trip or something.”
“I know. On the way up here, they were joking about maybe y’all were gonna have on a ball and chain or something. Somebody asked me was I scared. I told ’em hell nawl. I’m goin’ to see my brothers.”
With this, she claims a piece of Rise’s heart. A heart he didn’t even know could still feel. It isn’t exactly what she said, or how she said it. It’s who her statement showed her to be.
Rise plunges forward. Not really knowing where he’s going. Just vibing. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. I noticed you earlier. I had you pegged for some ladies first, women’s lib type.”
“Oh, never that.”
“I’m saying. Do you? You ain’t gotta front on me, or for me,” Rise says.
“Don’t play,” she says. “I don’t ascribe to their theory of equality. I’m not with this whole I-can-do-whatever-you-can concept. A sister has her place and a man has his place. We’re codependents. We both bring very different and … ah …”
“Distinct,” Rise ventures.
“Yeah, distinct plates to the table. Heaped with different entrees.”
“I’m feeling that. You kinda good with that, yeah,” Rise says, smiling.
“What?”
“This whole tell-him-what-he-wanna-hear thing.”
“Boy, please!”
“I’m sayin’ …” Rise grins. “Hold ’em up.” So smooth. “Go ’head on, get hostile. That’s kinda cute”
“Oh, he got jokes,” she replies, trying to temper her emotions.
“A’ight, that’s better. We dealin’ with the uncut, no pretense. Something tells me we ain’t gotta do the chill factor thang to get what we want from this exchange. Follow my lead,” Rise says. Still doesn’t know exactly where he’s taking this. Just going with it anyways.
“What?”
“Uncut. No pretense,” he says. Like a challenge. He holds her gaze. Her eyes speak to him. They both laugh. “You kinda flavor, you know that?”
“Yeah? Which kind?” she teases.
“Oh, we on some other shit, right now. Ain’t we supposed to be discussing criminal justice and the need for penal reform?” Rise asserts. Or, at least, tries to.
“Okay, but somebody issued an ‘uncut no pretense’ edict, and right now I’m not focused on …”
Rise leans back, aghast. Slack-jawed.
She smiles and continues, “Uh huh, that’s right. She can be bold.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kaylina Muhammed.”
“Oh, you Muslim?”
“Nation,” she stipulates.
“Okay, now I’m startin’ to catch up.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Oschuwon. My people call me Rise,” he says. Slipping yet again.
“Okay. Well, why Rise?”
“I feel a person’s name should say something about who they are.”
“And you are Rise,” she puts in. Forceful. Determined to have her say.
“That’s right. I’ve been called a lot of things. Rise is the first name I actually chose for myself.” He looks around the room. Recalls where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.
Kaylina just sits and watches him. As if searching for something.
“They should be callin’ y’all for your mini tour pretty soon,” he says, kind of smooth. “I’ll be interested in hearing what you have to say after you’ve seen some of the prison.” He stands to leave.
Kaylina tilts her head up. “Umph. Rise, huh?” She whispers, more to herself than to him.
As the students file out for the mini tour of the institution, Lil Chris is feeling the moment, but also a twinge of nagging curiosity. He spies Rise over by the serving counter and decides to pull him over and press what he was asking him about earlier. He takes an indirect approach. Be strategic.
“Rise,” Lil Chris begins. “You know what No Love and ’n ’em was saying in the gym the other ni—”
“—Who is No Love ’n ’em?” Rise asks.
“Oh … ah, you ’ont know him. A dude named Mansa.”
“Mansa Musa?”
“Yeah, you know him?” Lil Chris feigns surprise.
“Uh-huh. Go ’head.”
“They said the Civil Rights Movement was a class effort. That it was a push by the Black middle class to be accepted by white middle America. And that Dr. King hurt us more than he helped us.”
Rise thinks. He knew what page the C’ster was on when he saw him coming. Perhaps it’s time to entertain him. He takes a breath to think a bit more about his reply. The main thing at this juncture is not eloquence, or sounding smart. Rise needs to make sure Lil Chris feels where he’s coming from. Coherence.
“Well, first of all, lil brother, we really have to be sensitive to how and when we criticize a man’s life work. Yes, it’s our right to question its effect and consequence, especially when we have to live with the consequences, but we have to handle such a thing with respect and reverence for the what the man devoted his life to.”
“Even if the spin-off proves to have a negative effect on me?” Lil Chris is visibly standing on end.
“Especially. This man gave his life for what he believed in. More importantly, he had enough courage to live his life practicing the rudiments of that belief. That’s to be respected. Now, I’m not going to deal with the intent behind the movement. Depending on who you talk to, anyone can put their spin on that issue. The raw truth, though, is what we see every day. What we can touch and lay our hands on. That part that we’ve been entrusted to pick up and carry to the next level.”
“Well, let’s deal with that then. Spit, man.”
“Patience, lil brother. Just listen to me. Be cool, I’ma give it to you. The thing that hurts us the most, as a direct effect of the Civil Rights Movement, is the way our people, or at least the majority of us, view success. In all of our music, our books, our everyday conversation, our main thing is to get out.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. We wanna get out of the ’hood. We wanna get away from the place where we started. The people we’re fighting to catch up with have used this warped perspective of success to paint a false sense of equality. And, we as a people have bought wholeheartedly into this. In short, we’ve focused on inclusion rather than reparations. Because of this, the movement was crippled from the start. They were focused on the wrong thing. In my opinion,” Rise stresses. “Now, a lot of people will say that America has what she has because of our people’s blood, sweat, and tears. But, come on, now. Black blood, sweat, and tears was only one element of the resources that were employed. Just as critical was how those resources were put to use. Look, those of us from the streets understand that they put down their hustle to get what they got. What they amassed. They did that. We can’t hate on ’em. I mean, come on, now.
“Review the problem. The problem was that the two communities were unequal. They had more than we had, and they were using it against us. The most obvious solutions would have been to pursue public policies that would even things out, let us build our own thing up. There would have been efforts to strengthen our own institutions. Better schools. Debt forgiveness. There would have been more do
ne to strengthen our economic situation by patronizing our own businesses—where, incidentally, we could always enter through the front door. On a level playing field, we could have specialized, we could have retained ownership, and we could have sold to the white community. The same way Americans sold their goods to the British, competing in the marketplace to work out from under their yoke.
“Instead, though, our people turned to a Civil Rights program. In essence they were saying, ‘Hey, it ain’t all good over here. Y’all should let us come over there with y’all.’ Me, I don’t believe this was some diabolical plan by the Black middle class. Hindsight is 20-20. I believe our leaders chose what they thought was the path most likely to succeed.
“And, what did it lead to, this path? It led to us sacrificing our children—more significantly, our women. America, by nature, is based on competition—the individual pursuit of happiness. In this context, the movement splintered into individual efforts to be accepted, chosen, by the white establishment. When we lobbied to buy into their game, everything else that came with it was the proof of purchase. Including the pronounced stratification of Black America.”
“So what do we do? Where do we go from here?” Lil Chris asks.
“That’s the question.” Rise sighs. “The answer to that question is no different for us prisoners than it is for Black America as a whole. Most of us have been sentenced to unbelievably absurd amounts of time. We walk around daily with the pressure. We laugh and socialize in ways that a lame would not believe possible under the circumstances. But there is a dark tax. And a lot of us are paying it without even knowing.”
Rise stops to study Lil Chris’ young face. Knows the lil brother has no clue as yet of the demands that long-term incarceration will draw from him. Hopes he never finds out. Understands that he’ll have to, in order to be better.
“It’s like that serenity prayer,” Rise continues. “We focus on what we can control. And, of those things, becoming the best men we can possibly be is foremost. There is a deeper, darker reality to this thing we call doing time. And we negotiate it, we carry it with our aspirations.”
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