Part 26 (1/2)

”Today we had a problem with our security,” I began, looking disgustedly at Shark, ”that we shouldn't have had. Don't y'all know what's going on in Folsom and San Quentin? War, that's what. And it's just a matter of time before the Surrats try to strike at us here. We gotta be ready! They ain't gonna walk up to our face and stab us. They gonna bring they sneaky a.s.ses up from behind and stab us in the back! So we have to watch out for each another. Secure one another, dig? And another thing, I want to apologize to the community for disciplining Shark in public when I should have taken it to a discreet area. It won't happen again.”

A few others spoke and the meeting was adjourned.

The next day I was given orders by Kidogo to plant one in a renegade from Folsom. The following week G-wing erupted in an all-out knife fight. The Southern Mexicans attacked the Northern Mexicans and the pigs started blasting away. The Americans were herded into the dayroom. Since the Southern Mexicans and the Americans were allies and the New Afrikans and Northerners were allies, the New Afrikans attacked the Americans, stabbing seven of them. One prisoner was shot and killed.

It was during this time that the New Afrikan community at Soledad began to get flack from one particular pig. That one particularly racist guard was attacked. I was implicated in the accident and three days later, Buck, Zaire, and I were locked in solitary confinement for the incident and given forty-eight months in Security Housing Unit (S.H.U.). Buck and I were sent to San Quentin and Zaire was sent to Folsom. We appealed the decision to put us in the Hole based on confidential information, but the appeal was denied. They did, however, reduce our sentence to twenty-eight months.

I cannot begin to describe how I felt as the prison bus rolled through the ma.s.sive gates at San Quentin. An incredible sense of destiny seemed to overtake me. And with each successive foot the bus moved forward, additional layers of the ”old me” seemed to peel away. When the bus swung around the lower yard and I saw the Native Nation-American Indian-tepees and sweat lodges enclosed by a chainlink fence, I sat upright in my seat.

”This is the house that George Jackson built,” Buck said. He had been here several times. ”You'll feel the comrade strong here. Bro, you'll read books here, see things here that are gonna change the way you walk, talk, and think. This is the best place for an aspiring young revolutionary. This is repression at its best.”

We filed off the bus under the watchful eye of gunmen with mini-14s. The shotgun had been phased out because it failed to disable attacking prisoners. The mini-14 is an a.s.sault weapon. It shoots a .223 round, as does the M-16 and the AR-I5. We moved from the bus to R & R, guards on the huge industrial wall's catwalk watching us from above.

San Quentin is one hundred years older than Chino, and it shows. As soon as we got inside of R & R, the pigs took Buck to the Adjustment Center, which is like the triple-max unit. I would be spared this time and only put in double-max. I was being sent to East block, and two others-a Chicano and a Native brother-were being taken to North block. They were escorted out first. Ten minutes later I was taken out of R & R in leg and wrist chains, marched up across the upper yard and into East block.

When I stepped in I was astounded. I was dwarfed by the unit. It looked like a huge slave s.h.i.+p. There were five tiers, and they were so long that if you were at one end it would be impossible for you to recognize someone at the other end. I was put in a holding cage and stripped. The chains were removed, and I was handcuffed. The awesome size of the block continued to blow me away. I was apprehensive, as well. d.a.m.n, this was the major league, the big house, the real penitentiary. It was the ultimate test of faith, courage, and strength.

I was taken up two flights of stairs to the second tier and walked down. I got mad-dog stares from every occupant in the tiny cells along the way. New Afrikans, Chicanos, and Americans, all in single-man cells. I was put in 2-East-26. My neighbor in 25 was an American, and to my right in number 27 was a Chicano.

Once I got in my cell the handcuffs were removed. There was a bed-with bedsprings that could be used to make ice-pick knives-a sink, and a toilet. There were two circular vents, one above the sink and another below it.

The American and the Chicano were talking to each other, seemingly about nothing in particular. But just by hearing them talk I knew that the Chicano was a Southern Mexican and the American was a n.a.z.i (the Unholy Alliance). I began to feel around under the bed for loose metal, something I could pull or yank out that I could fas.h.i.+on into a weapon for spearing. Might as well start my time here off right. One of these cats is going to get speared.

I found a piece of metal loose enough to get my hand under, so I slid halfway beneath the bed, braced my foot against the wall, and began to pull violently. Heave-ho, heave-ho. Back and forth I pulled until it moved with ease under pressure. Just a few. . . more . . . plink! And I had it-a piece of bed railing eleven inches long. Now I had to sharpen it, get some newspaper, and roll me up a spear. I'd attach the blade and then just wait for either the Surrat or the Mzungu (European) to come out.

”Hey, twenty-six?”

The American and Chicano went silent.

”Hey, twenty-six?”

Twenty-six . . . that was me. Someone was calling my cell number.

”Hey, twenty-six?!”

”Yeah.”

”Get that line in front of your cell.”

I looked out on the tier and a clear medicine bag with a white, thin line attached to it was in front of my cell, so I retrieved it.

”Pull it,” said the sender.

Attached to the line was a kite. I opened it and read.

Salamu Ndugu,

Where did you come from? I am Li'l Bit from Bounty Hunter. Next to you is an A.B. and on the other side is an E.M.E. Stay up, stay alert.

Blood Love,

Li'l Bit

”Hey, Li'l Bit.”

”Yeah?”

”I need a pen to get back.”

”All right, pull the line.”

I retrieved the pen and wrote back telling him that I was Sanyika from C.C.O. and that I came from Soledad. I told him of his people from Bounty Hunter who were down there and I added that I planned to bust on my neighbors at the first opportunity. He wrote back telling me to hold on that, he had to get to his tier captain. He withdrew his line from my cell and flung it down the tier toward the front with an ease that came from experience. When he pulled his line back, there was another line attached to it. He told me to grab it. I was now plugged into the tier captain. He told me to pull, and I reeled in his line. There was another kite attached to the end. It read: Hujambo Sanyika,

I am Italo from the Black Guerrilla Family. Perhaps you know some of my tribesmen? All your people are in the back. We, B.G.F. and B.L., have a peace treaty with the A.B. and E.M.E. on this tier. I suggest that you get at your folks about a cell move.

In struggle,

Italo

Peace treaty? What was that? I wrote him and said that I overstood about their agreement with the Brands and the Flies, but C.C.O. ain't got no treaty with them. But out of respect for the brothas on the tier, I wouldn't jeopardize them. He then sent me Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon, which was no good to me because I couldn't read that well. And at that time, Franz seemed very, very heavy to me. I tried, nevertheless, and continued to fas.h.i.+on my weapon.

Three days later I was moved to the back bar, where my comrades were. I was put in cell 2-East-54. All around me were comrades and allies. My neighbor in 53 was Lunatic Frank from Rollin' Sixties. Lunatic and I were in the Boy Scouts together in '73. He and I were friends. We had saved each other's lives during our partic.i.p.ation in the war.

He and his homies, Pie Face and Ronnie Pace, had caught China and me on Denker and Seventy-fourth Street one night when I was not strapped. We had been at my house making love and she wanted to go home. I was walking her there, pus.h.i.+ng Li'l Monster's bike as we went, when they rolled up on us in Pie's Monte Carlo.

”d.a.m.n, Sixties,” I whispered to China. ”Just be cool.” They jumped out of the car.

”Well I'll be d.a.m.ned,” said Pie Face. ”If it ain't the Bonnie and Clyde of Eight Tray-Monster Kody and China.”

”What's up, Pie?” I said. I knew all of them.

”Monster, you packin'?” asked Lunatic.

”You know I am,” I shot back, lying.