Part 13 (2/2)

”Jonathan knew chemistry, demolition, and martial arts. He was a man-child, a revolutionary. He felt responsible for the future of his people.”

We sat there, stunned by the parallel between us and George and Jonathan Jackson. What made us sit up and take note of what Muhammad was saying about our self-destructive behavior was that he never talked down to us, always to us. He didn't like what we were doing, but he respected us as young warriors. He never once told us to disarm. His style of consciousness-raising was in total harmony with the ways in which we had grown up in our communities, in this country, on this planet. Muhammad's lessons were local, national, and international.

I put the word out that all Crips should come to Muslim services and hear Muhammad talk. Within three weeks attendance increased from nine to twenty-seven to forty and finally to eighty! The staff became alarmed, asking questions and even sitting in on some of the services, trying to grasp our sudden attraction to Islamic services. They never caught it.

Islam is a way of life, just like banging. We could relate to what Muhammad was saying, especially when he spoke about jihad-struggle. Of course we heard what we wanted to hear. We knew that Islam or revolution was not a threat to us as warriors. Muhammad didn't seek to make us pa.s.sive or weak. On the contrary, he encouraged us to ”stand firm,” ”stay armed,” and ”stay black.” He encouraged us not to shoot one another, if possible, but to never hesitate to ”correct a pig who transgressed against the people.” After every service let out, it was a common sight to see fifty to eighty New Afrikan youths mobbing back to their units shouting ”Jihad till death!” and ”Death to the oppressor!”

The Protestant following totally evaporated. Reverend Jackson could not figure out where his const.i.tuents had gone. In these times, gang conflicts involving New Afrikans were at an all-time low. Mr. Hernandez began to pull on the strings of his informants, which, without fail, led him to me.

One day he called me into his office for a fact-finding chat. He offered me a seat, but I declined. He then began his little probe.

”So, Mr. Scott-or is it Abdul or Ali Baba?”

I said nothing.

”Yes, well anyway I have called you in here because it is my understanding that you have been trying to subvert the inst.i.tutional security.”

The term ”inst.i.tutional security” is so far-reaching that whenever there is nothing to lock a prisoner down or hara.s.s him for, staff, correction officers, and most any figure of authority in any inst.i.tution will pull out this ambiguous term. It is precisely this wording that has me locked deep within the bowels of Pelican Bay today. I am a threat, and proud of it. If I wasn't a threat, I'd be doing something wrong.

”Inst.i.tutional what?” I asked, not yet familiar with the terminology.

”Security, Scott, security.”

”Man, you trippin'-”

”No, Scott, you are tripping!” he yelled, slapping both hands hard on the table.

”I don't know what you talkin' 'bout,” I answered with a blank stare.

”Oh, you don't, huh? Well how do you explain twenty-three Eight Trays, fourteen Hoovers, eleven East Coasts and a lesser a.s.sortment of other bangers cropped up in Moslem church for the past month, huh? Explain that!”

”Man, I ain't explainin' s.h.i.+t.”

”Oh, no? Well how 'bout if I keep your bad a.s.s on the Rock forever, huh? How 'bout that?”

”I already been there two months for some s.h.i.+t that didn't involve me-”

”You are a d.a.m.n liar, you ordered that boy Layton to jump on c.o.x. And you been involved in a host of other s.h.i.+t. So don't tell me what you ain't done.”

”You know what, Hernandez, do what you gotta do,” I said low and slow, to let him know that I wasn't hardly giving a f.u.c.k about what he was stressing on.

”Yeah, I'll do that, I'll just do that. But you remember this when you go up for parole.”

”Can I leave now?” I asked, bored with his threats.

Actually the Rock wasn't all that bad. I ate all my meals in the cage, showered every other day, and came out once a day for an hour, usually in the morning. I was able to have my radio and a few tapes. At that time I was exploring the blues. Jimmy Reed was my favorite. I still got my weekly visits, though I couldn't decide who I wanted to have come. At Y.T.S. they allowed prisoners to have only one female on their visiting list, other than mothers and sisters. Tamu really was not my first choice, China was. But she didn't have the mobility to be there every week, and riding the bus was suicidal. So I took her off my visiting list and replaced her with Ayanna, who was also from the 'hood. Her mother had moved her out to Pomona to get her out of the gang environment, and she now lived in close proximity to Y.T.S. Our visits went like clockwork, but eventually we grew tired of each other, so I took her off my list. For a short time I replaced Ayanna with Felencia, Tray Ball's sister. This didn't work out too well either, because she wanted me to stop g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging and I just wasn't having it. I was not giving up my career for no female, so I ended up putting Tamu back on the list. As long as I got my visits and could keep my music, the Rock wasn't s.h.i.+t.

In my cell on the Rock, I reread for the hundredth time Message to the Oppressed. Malcolm came on strong: We declare our right on this earth to be a man, to be a human being, to be given the rights of a human being in this society, on this earth, in this day, which we intend to bring into existence by any means necessary.

As I read on I felt the words seeping deeper into me, their power coursing through my body, giving me strength to push on. I was changing, I felt it. For once I didn't challenge it or see it as being a threat to the established mores of the 'hood, though, of course, it was. Muhammad's teachings corresponded with my condition of being repressed on the Rock. Never could I have been touched by such teachings in the street.

The prison setting, although repressive, was a bit too free. But on the Rock, the illusion of freedom vanished, and in its place was the harsh actuality of oppression and the very real sense of powerlessness over destiny. Because there was no shooting war to concentrate on, your worst enemy was easily replaced by the figure presently doing you the most harm. In prisons this figure is more often than not an American. An American who locks you in a cage, counts you to make sure you haven't escaped, holds a weapon on you, and, in many instances, shoots you. Add to this the fact that most of us grew up in an eighty percent New Afrikan community policed-or occupied-by an eighty-five percent American pig force that is clearly antagonistic to any male in the community, displaying this antagonism at every opportunity by any means necessary with all the brute force and s.a.d.i.s.tic imagination they can muster.

It was quite easy then for Muhammad's teachings to hit me in the heart. However, my attraction to the facts involving our national oppression was grounded in emotionalism, and eight years of evolutionary development in Crip culture could hardly be rolled back by one pamphlet and a few trips to Islamic services. But I did feel the strength. I called off the move on the Sixties after Tray Ball killed himself. Everyone asked why, but I really had no answer. I told them that we'd handle it in a little while.

Stagalee was my neighbor on the Rock; he and I would talk through a small hole in the wall. I sent him over the Message to the Oppressed pamphlet and solicited a response from him about its contents.

”Cuz,” I said bending down so as to talk through the hole, ”what you think 'bout that paper I sent over there?”

”I don't know, some of these words too hard fo' me, cuz. But I can see that this is some powerful s.h.i.+t.”

”Well, what you could catch, what did you think?”

”Cuz, really, I think Muhammad is some kind of terrorist or somethin'.”

”Stag, you trippin'. Muhammad ain't no terrorist. s.h.i.+t, Muhammad is down for us.”

”Who?” he asked, ”the set?”

”h.e.l.l naw, n.i.g.g.a, black people!”

”Ah, cuz, f.u.c.k all that, 'cause soon he gonna be tellin' us to stop bangin' and s.h.i.+t-”

”Stag, Stag.” I tried to slow him down.

”Naw, cuz, I can't see me being no Muslim. I just can't see it. They be standing on corners selling pies and s.h.i.+t. Do you know how long one of us would live standin' on a corner, not even in our 'hood? Monster, let me catch a Sissy, Muslim or not, and I'ma blow that n.i.g.g.a up!”

”I don't know, homie, I just feel that there is something there.”

”Yeah, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, a bean pie!” Stag answered and broke out laughing.

”Stall it out, cuz,” I said, feeling myself getting angry.

”Monster, you ain't thinkin' 'bout being no Muslim, is you? Cuz, don't do it. Muhammad cool and everythang, but cuz, you Monster Kody. Ain't n.o.body gonna let you live in peace. Plus the set needs you, cuz. Here, cuz.”

Stag had rolled up the pamphlet and was pus.h.i.+ng it through the hole.

”Naw, cuz, I ain't thinkin' 'bout turnin' no Muslim. I'm just sayin' that what Muhammad be stressin' is real.”

”Right, right.”

”Well, I'ma step back and get some z's. I'll rap to you later. Three minutes.”

”Three minutes.”

I lay on my bed with the rolled-up pamphlet on my chest and thought about what Stag had said.

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