I’ve been contemplating whether or not to publish the following post. While language is beautiful, it is also frightening. Words strung together don’t always convey an author’s true intent; besides, intent is subjective. I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I love the power of thought and expression, and hate how I struggle with every single word in hopes of conveying just a fraction of what consumes my soul. There is something inherently narcissistic about writing, as with all artistic work. Where does the work begin and the artist end? I suppose it’s a blending – blurry and messy, and all the better for it.
We are currently living in a time that seems different than any other. But I ask – whose “different”? By no means do I look to diminish the genuine fear and anxiety facing many Americans. I, too, am anxious and fearful. My empathy borders on obsessive fret and worry; add to this, motherhood, and I can’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep. It is hope that keeps me afloat. Not a magical or mythical hope, but one steeped in the knowledge that there are those among us who are truly thy brother and sister’s keepers.
I tend to fall short of my intentions. To be human is to be flawed. I intend to treat others as I want to be treated. I intend to speak my truths, no matter what. I intend to look fear in the eye and tell it to fuck off. Some days, I fulfill these intentions, but fear… well, it’s powerful. The intention of this blog is to share my journey, a journey driven by an overwhelming need to make sense of it all. I know it’s an impossible goal, one I hope to never accomplish. For it is not the destination, but the journey – and the many obstacles along the way – that has made all the difference in the world.
Persistent Resistance
I’m currently in the middle of reading Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow, which I’d put off for some time, knowing it would conjure up a bunch of emotions. So far, none of what I’m reading is anything unfamiliar or startling. Having grown up with Politics being spoken at the dinner table, as well as spending close to 8 years (on and off) as a Muslim Girl-in-Training (MGT) with the Nation of Islam, reading this book is like taking a trip back in time. In any case, I fully recognize that a lot of what is written may be new territory for, what seems to be, millions. Although, I suspect – as Alexander herself states in the book – many people simply didn’t want to see or know.
One of my very first jobs straight out of graduate school was as a case worker/substance abuse counselor at a private, for-profit, men’s Federal Halfway House. The occupants mainly fit into three categories: those affected by the Rockefeller Drug Laws; the Castro “Detainees”; and white-collar criminals. And let me state for the record, this private enterprise was not white-owned. Although I departed within a month, my time there left an indelible mark. The inequalities in sentencing were striking, as many had spent years locked up for simple drug possession, in some cases for amounts as small as a dime bag. Those of you who like to unwind at the end of a tough week, or have discovered the medicinal benefits of the “always-exploited-for-profit” herb, imagine if that tiny little plastic baggie, stuffed with Mother Earth’s bounty, cost you many, many, many years of not only your freedom, but your dignity, respect and humanity, as well as so much more.
I read case file after case file and spoke with the men who’d been assigned to me, as well as those who had not. Whether due to being the naive “new kid on the block” or sensing my genuine child-like inquisitiveness and empathetic soul, I quickly became known as the caseworker willing to listen. And oh, boy, did I listen. “Ms. King, I lost my freedom over a blunt.” The notorious Rockefeller Laws directly fed the Prison Industrial Complex. These men were trapped in a system that had no intentions of completely setting them free. Most institutions operate this way.
In the short time I was there, I began to question the system, and was advised to keep my head down and to just do the work. Something I’ve yet to learn and imagine never will. I spoke with the Cubans as well, although my lack of education on Cuba and its political arena prevented me from fully understanding and appreciating those conversations. The white-collar criminals further opened my eyes to the injustices of the criminal justice system. While those imprisoned by way of drug laws and expulsion had spent many years behind prison bars, most of the white-collar criminals were sent directly to the halfway house and had never, or barely, served time in a physical prison. Men who’d embezzled from banks and other financial institutions, costing tax payers millions of dollars, not only due to their crimes, but by being sheltered in these private, yet government funded, halfway houses. Let’s add this to the conversation on the Prison Industrial Complex.
Even after leaving that job, I constantly brought up what I’d seen and heard, and remember the lukewarm reactions from those willing to indulge my rants. It was as if I were exaggerating, making a mountain out of a molehill. Yet, I didn’t give up and was determined to shed light on the subject the only way I knew how – by writing. I wrote an entire screenplay on the subject. In fact, a lot of my scripts and stories contain some examination of the criminal justice system.
While teaching at my high school alma mater, several of my students became alarmed with the forced gentrification taking place in their Public Housing Project. This was some 20 years ago; way before that Downtown Brooklyn neighborhood developed into the financial cash cow it is today. My students were so angry and felt at a loss. They’d tell of long-time residents forced to perform community service in order to maintain housing. Or how college students, those who had gone away to school and were unable to perform such service, were being used to evict families from their homes. Their voices, along with their pain, anger and fear, went unheard by anyone willing and capable of helping. Unable to let go of their voices, some years later, I wrote a script highlighting the political structuring of gentrification – and there is indeed a political structure to it.
During the initial weeks of the War in Iraq, I’d read an article about one of the first military causalities. She was Native American. I had not thought to save the article or even note her name, but I couldn’t shake, what I assumed, was the irony of the situation. Finally, unable to let go of her, I began researching Native Americans and their history of military service, and was blown away by the fact they far outnumber any other group of peoples enlisting and serving in the US military.
In doing more research, I repeatedly came across a subject of particular note – the Native American fight for Federal Recognition, or what I soon came to see as the new American land grab. I buried myself in research, conducted interviews, and wrote a screenplay highlighting the issue. I even had a producer contact me, but ultimately pass because the lead was a Native American woman, and casting would prove troublesome for any hopes of box office success. Out of what can only be seen as defiance, I revised the script, this time placing the main character in every single scene, as well as setting the script on a reservation, which essentially called for a 95% Native American cast. Even my persistence is steeped in resistance.
As a former foster child – though once a foster child, always a foster child – several of my stories contain, or reference, foster children. As a former rape victim, my screenplay, Pigeon, tells the story of a young woman, a recent college graduate, who suffers from PTSD after being raped. The script was originally written almost ten years ago, and has gone through several revisions, including two separate Page-One rewrites. I’ve not given up on the idea of independently producing and directing the script.
After spending extensive time in Paris (a place which has now become my home away from home, despite not speaking French and having no extended family anywhere what-so-ever in France), I began discussing with complete strangers such topics as race, class, gender and the overall state of politics. I was surprised at how freely people opened up to me, and I’m not talking about those with whom I share the same ideologies.
I was in Paris shortly before the Charlie Hebdo attacks, and had already been discussing the city’s underlying tensions. I returned a few months later in hopes of resuming these sensitive, yet important, conversations. I was also in Paris during the deadly November 13th attacks and stayed until the beginning of the following year. During the Fall of 2016, I spent close to three months engaging in discussions concerning the US Presidential Election. In the spring, I’m due to return for the final round of the French Presidential election, where I look to examine the drastic and ever-changing global political landscape.
I know I run the risk of sounding like a humble brag. That is not my intent. I don’t write this post for accolades, or to get my shine on (I love Jerrod Carmichael’s take on overcoming and the need to shine). It’s just lately I’ve been feeling some kind of way about the protests and deafening calls for resistance. Some of the calls have an accusatory tone, laced with a bit of shame beating. I know plenty of people who’ve been fighting injustice on a daily basis. Fighting for years. Fighting the good fight without the limelight. And I know they’ll continue the fight no matter what. Teachers, lawyers, educators, innovators, activists, doctors, social workers, comedians, food service providers, students, nurses, artists, office workers, writers, healthcare providers, musicians, and historians like Michelle Alexander, even bankers and police officers (100 Blacks in Law Enforcement Who Care comes to mind), as well as countless others from all walks of life – mentoring, and organizing, and creating, and mobilizing, and fighting – always fighting – in resistance to the struggles of every day life and living.
I have written over thirteen screenplays (many of which will remain locked away in a drawer forever); four stage-plays; dozens of essays; and wrote, produced, directed and edited a short film, while currently at work on a collection of short stories, a novel and a memoir. I write because it’s my way of fighting and giving back. I write about Politics. My writing is, and will always be, unapologetically political – no matter the social or political climate. If I see something, I will most definitely say something, regardless of who might, or might not, be watching or listening. I don’t write when a subject is hot or popular; I write when I see injustice, or pain, or suffering, or fear. I write to give voice to the muted. I don’t wait for marches, and elections, and movements. I don’t wait for newspapers, publishers and literary journals to see the profit in pain, frustration and anger. I don’t wait for the election of presidents and the changing of regimes. I don’t wait on the awakening of the masses and the napping of politicians.
To those who have always been doing the work of resistance, in any, and every, form possible, and impossible, I say to you, “THANK YOU.” After the cameras click off due to the coffers running dry, I know you will remain. After the Twitter feeds and Facebook posts get buried in the latest and newly profitable exploits, I know you will remain. After the sleepwalkers return to their slumber, I know you will remain. You have always been there holding down the fort. It is through your persistent strength and perseverance, your audacity to push through despite the pushback, your overwhelming need to do the work, even under cover of darkness, which give me the encouragement and guidance to continue fighting and resisting.
And to Michelle Alexander, thank you. Thank you for your persistence, which, I can only imagine, was met with great and powerful resistance. You have opened doors (as doors were undoubtedly opened for you) for countless others to continue the work. The fruits of your labor feed many, while cultivating new fields. There will be those who look to stand on your shoulders. Some will acknowledge and show respect; others, well, not so much. But I imagine, like with most who do this type of work, you do not do it for yourself. You do the work because it must be done. You do it because the lives and well being of others are dependent on it. You do it out of love, and fear, and hope. Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOU!