Prison Intellectuals: Beneath the Mountain

ASSATA SHAKUR

Women in Prison: How It Is with Us and Two Poems

INSURGENT HEROINE AND QUEEN MOTHER ASSATA SHAKUR, A

self-proclaimed “20th-century escaped slave,” was born JoAnne Byron in

1947 in Jamaica, Queens. Engaged in the Black freedom movements of the

era, Shakur joined the Black Panthers and later the Black Liberation Army.

She was ambushed by police on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1973 and,

despite lack of evidence, was convicted and sentenced to life in prison for

the murder of a state trooper. In 1979, Assata orchestrated her own jailbreak

with the help of comrades in the Black Liberation Army. She made her way

to the sympathetic nation of Cuba, which granted her amnesty despite US

requests for extradition. While hers is a fabled story of victory and self-

emancipation, the text included here was written beneath the mountain

during an opaque and uncertain moment. Assata describes the anguish,

alienation, terror, discomfort, infantilization, and victimization that defined

her everyday existence in a women’s prison. Her words offer invaluable

insights into the relationships between guards and prisoners, the

criminogenic effects of capitalism, and the connections between slavery and

incarceration. Assata’s analysis suggests that the key to prison abolition is

the politicization of incarcerated populations, in this case, women. Effective

insurgency is contingent upon an understanding of one’s condition and the

ability to articulate a liberation-oriented analysis. Only prisoners who

develop a sense of revolutionary literacy can manifest the political agency

necessary for solidarity, collective action, and liberation. This episode of

Assata Shakur’s life story, published one year before her glorious escape,

reminds us that revolutionary action, when informed by political

consciousness, can, against all odds, lead to deliverance. The rousing power

of this message echoes in the lines of the following stanza which have been

affectionately dubbed “The Assata Chant.” Voiced by large crowds in call-

and-response fashion at rallies and demonstrations, it galvanizes and

encourages new generations of activists.

It is our duty to fight for our freedom

It is our duty to win

We must love each other and support each other

We have nothing to lose but our chains

Clinton Correctional Facility for Women

1978

WE SIT in the bull pen. We are all black. All restless. And we are all

freezing. When we ask, the matron tells us that the heating system cannot

be adjusted. All of us, with the exception of a woman, tall and gaunt, who

looks naked and ravished, have refused the bologna sandwiches. The rest of

us sit drinking bitter, syrupy tea. The tall, fortyish woman, with sloping

shoulders, moves her head back and forth to the beat of a private tune while

she takes small, tentative bites out of a bologna sandwich. Someone asks

her what she’s in for. Matter-of-factly, she says, “They say I killed some

nigga. But how could I have when I’m buried down in South Carolina?”

Everybody’s face gets busy exchanging looks. A short, stout young woman

wearing men’s pants and men’s shoes says, “Buried in South Carolina?”

“Yeah,” says the tall woman. “South Carolina, that’s where I’m buried. You

don’t know that? You don’t know shit, do you? This ain’t me. This ain’t

me.” She kept repeating, “This ain’t me” until she had eaten all the bologna

sandwiches. Then she brushed off the crumbs and withdrew, head moving

again, back into that world where only she could hear her private tune.

Lucille comes to my tier to ask me how much time a “C” felony conviction

carries. I know, but i cannot say the words. I tell her i will look it up and

bring the sentence charts for her to see. I know that she has just been

convicted of manslaughter in the second degree. I also know that she can be

sentenced up to fifteen years. I knew from what she had told me before that

the District Attorney was willing to plea bargain: Five years probation in

exchange for a guilty plea [on] a lesser charge.

Her lawyer felt that she had a case: specifically, medical records which

would prove that she had suffered repeated physical injuries as the result of

beatings by the deceased and, as a result of those beatings, on the night of

her arrest her arm was mutilated (she must still wear a brace on it) and one

of her ears was partially severed in addition to other substantial injuries.

Her lawyer felt that her testimony, when she took the stand in her own

defense, would establish the fact that not only had she been repeatedly

beaten by the deceased, but that on the night in question he told her he

would kill her, viciously beat her and mauled her with a knife. But there is

no self-defense in the state of New York.

The District Attorney made a big deal of the fact that she drank. And the

jury, affected by t.v. racism, “law and order,” petrified by crime and

unimpressed with Lucille as a “responsible citizen,” convicted her. And i

was the one who had to tell her that she was facing fifteen years in prison

while we both silently wondered what would happen to the four teenage

children that she had raised almost single-handedly.

Spikey has short time, and it is evident, the day before she is to be released,

that she does not want to go home. She comes to the Bing (Administrative

Segregation) because she has received an infraction for fighting. Sitting in

front of her cage and talking to her i realize that the fight was a desperate,

last-ditch effort in hope that the prison would take away her “good days.”

She is in her late thirties. Her hands are swollen. Enormous. There are huge,

open sores on her legs. She has about ten teeth left. And her entire body is

scarred and ashen. She has been on drugs about twenty years. Her veins

have collapsed. She has fibrosis epilepsy and edema. She has not seen her

three children in about eight years. She is ashamed to contact home because

she robbed and abused her mother so many times.

When we talk it is around the Christmas holidays and she tells me about her

bad luck. She tells me that she has spent the last four Christmases in jail and

tells me how happy she is to be going home. But i know that she has

nowhere to go and that the only “friends” she has in the world are here in

jail. She tells me that the only regret she has about leaving is that she won’t

be singing in the choir at Christmas. As i talk to her i wonder if she will be

back. I tell her good bye and wish her luck. Six days later, through the

prison grapevine, i hear that she is back. Just in time for the Christmas

show.

We are at sick call. We are waiting on wooden benches in a beige and

orange room to see the doctor. Two young women who look only mildly

battered by life sit wearing pastel dresses and pointy-toed state shoes.

(Wearing “state” is often a sign that the wearer probably cannot afford to

buy sneakers in commissary.) The two are talking about how well they were

doing on the street. Eavesdropping, i find out that they both have fine “old

men” that love the mess out of them. I find out that their men dress fly and

wear some baad clothes and so do they. One has 40 pairs of shoes while the

other has 100 skirts. One has 2 suede and 5 leather coats. The other has 7

suedes and 3 leathers. One has 3 mink coats, a silver fox and a leopard. The

other has 2 minks, a fox jacket, a floor length fox and a chinchilla. One has

4 diamond rings and the other has 5. One lives in a duplex with a sunken

tub and a sunken living room with a water fall. The other describes a

mansion with a revolving living room. I’m relieved when my name is

called. I had been sitting there feeling very, very sad.

There are no criminals here at Riker’s Island Correctional Institution for

Women (New York), only victims. Most of the women (over 95 percent) are

black and Puerto Rican. Many were abused children. Most have been

abused by men and all have been abused by “the system.”

There are no big-time gangsters here, no premeditated mass murderers, no

godmothers. There are no big-time dope dealers, no kidnappers, no

Watergate women. There are virtually no women here charged with white

collar crimes like embezzling or fraud. Most of the women have drug

related cases. Many are charged as accessories to crimes committed by

men. The major crimes that women here are charged with are prostitution,

pick-pocketing, shop lifting, robbery and drugs. Women who have

prostitution cases or who are doing “fine” time make up a substantial part of

the short-term population. The women see stealing or hustling as necessary

for the survival of themselves or their children because jobs are scarce and

welfare is impossible to live on. One thing is clear: amerikan capitalism is

in no way threatened by the women in prison on Riker’s Island.

One gets the impression when first coming to Riker’s Island that the

architects conceived of it as a prison modelled after a juvenile center. In the

areas where visitors usually pass there is plenty of glass and plenty of plants

and flowers. The cell blocks consist of two long corridors with cells on each

side connected by a watch room where the guards are stationed, called a

bubble. Each corridor has a day room with a t.v., tables, multi-colored

chairs, a stove that doesn’t work and a refrigerator. There’s a utility room

with a sink and a washer and dryer that do not work.

Instead of bars the cells have doors which are painted bright, optimistic

colors with slim glass observation panels. The doors are controlled

electronically by the guards in the bubble. The cells are called rooms by

everybody. They are furnished with a cot, a closet, a desk, a chair, a plastic

upholstered headboard that opens for storage, a small book case, a mirror, a

sink and a toilet. The prison distributes brightly colored bedspreads and

throw rugs for a homey effect. There is a school area, a gym, a carpeted

auditorium, two inmate cafeterias and outside recreation areas that are used

during the summer months only.

The guards have successfully convinced most of the women that Riker’s

Island is a country club. They say that it is a playhouse compared to some

other prisons (especially male): a statement whose partial veracity is not

predicated upon the humanity of correction officials at Riker’s Island, but,

rather, by contrast to the unbelievably barbaric conditions of other prisons.

Many women are convinced that they are, somehow, “getting over.” Some

go so far as to reason that because they are not doing hard time, they are

[not] really in prison.

This image is further reinforced the pseudo-motherly attitude many of the

guards; a deception which all too often successfully reverts women

children. The guards call the women inmates by their first names. The

women address the guards either as Officer, Miss—or by nicknames (Teddy

Bear, Spanky, Aunt Louise, Squeeze, Sarge, Black Beauty, Nutty

Mahogany, etc.). Frequently, when a woman returns to Riker’s she will

make the rounds, gleefully embracing her favorite guard: the prodigal

daughter returns.

If two women are having a debate about any given topic the argument will

often be resolved by “asking the officer.” The guards are forever telling the

women to “grow up,” to “act like ladies,” to “behave” and to be “good

girls.” If an inmate is breaking some minor rule like coming to say “hi” to

her friend on another floor or locking in a few minutes late, a guard will

say, jokingly, “don’t let me have to come down there and beat your butt.” It

is not unusual to hear a guard tell a woman, “what you need is a good

spanking.” The tone is often motherly, “didn’t I tell you, young lady, to ...,”

or, “you know better than that,” or, “that’s a good girl.” And the women

respond accordingly. Some guards and inmates “play” together. One

officer’s favorite “game” is taking off her belt and chasing her “girls” down

the hall with it, smacking them on the butt.

But beneath the motherly veneer, the reality of guard life is ever present.

Most of the guards are black, usually from working class, upward bound,

civil service–oriented backgrounds. They identify with the middle class,

have middle class values and are extremely materialistic. They are not the

most intelligent women in the world and many are extremely limited.

Most are aware that there is no justice in the amerikan judicial system and

that blacks and Puerto Ricans are discriminated against in every facet of

amerikan life. But, at the same time, they are convinced that the system is

somehow “lenient.” To them, the women in prison are “losers” who don’t

have enough sense to stay out of jail. Most believe in the boot strap theory

—anybody can “make it” if they try hard enough. They congratulate

themselves on their great accomplishments. In contrast to themselves they

see the inmate as ignorant, uncultured, self-destructive, weak-minded and

stupid. They ignore the fact that their dubious accomplishments are not

based on superior intelligence or effort, but only on chance and a civil

service list.

Many guards hate and feel trapped by their jobs. The guard is exposed to a

certain amount of abuse from co-workers, from the brass as well as from

inmates, ass kissing, robotizing and mandatory overtime. (It is common

practice for guards to work a double shift at least once a week.) But no

matter how much they hate the military structure, the infighting, the

ugliness of their tasks, they are very aware of how close they are to the

welfare lines. If they were not working as guards most would be underpaid

or unemployed. Many would miss the feeling of superiority and power as

much as they would miss the money, especially the cruel, sadistic ones.

The guards are usually defensive about their jobs and indicate by their

behavior that they are not at all free from guilt. They repeatedly,

compulsively say, as if to convince themselves, “This is a job just like any

other job.” The more they say it the more preposterous it seems.

The major topic of conversation here is drugs. Eighty percent of inmates

have used drugs when they were in the street. Getting high is usually the

first thing a woman says she’s going to do when she gets out. In prison, as

on the streets, an escapist culture prevails. At least 50 percent of the prison

population take some form of psychotropic drug. Elaborate schemes to

obtain contraband drugs are always in the works.

Days are spent in pleasant distractions: soap operas, prison love affairs, card

playing and game playing. A tiny minority are seriously involved in

academic pursuits or the learning of skills. An even smaller minority

attempt to study available law books. There are no jail house lawyers and

most of the women lack knowledge of even the most rudimentary legal

procedures. When asked what happened in court, or, what their lawyers

said, they either don’t know or don’t remember. Feeling totally helpless and

totally railroaded a woman will curse out her lawyer or the judge with little

knowledge of what is being done or of what should be done. Most plead

guilty, whether they are guilty or not. The few who do go to trial usually

have lawyers appointed by the state and usually are convicted.

Here, the word “lesbian” seldom, if ever, is mentioned. Most, if not all, of

the homosexual relationships here involve role-playing. The majority of

relationships are either asexual or semi-sexual. The absence of sexual

consummation is only partially explained by prison prohibition against any

kind of sexual behavior. Basically, the women are not looking for sex. They

are looking for love, for concern and companionship. For relief from the

overwhelming sense of isolation and solitude that pervades each of us.

Women who are “aggressive” or who play the masculine roles are referred

to as butches, bulldaggers or stud broads. They are always in demand

because they are always in the minority. Women who are “passive,” or who

play feminine roles are referred to as fems. The butch-fem relationships are

often oppressive, resembling the most oppressive, exploitative aspect of a

sexist society. It is typical to hear butches threatening fems with physical

violence and it is not uncommon for butches to actually beat their

“women.” Some butches consider themselves pimps and go with the

women who have the most commissary, the most contraband or the best

outside connections. They feel they are a class above ordinary women

which entitles them to “respect.” They dictate to fems what they are to do

and many insist the fems wash, iron, sew and clean their cells for them. A

butch will refer to another butch as “man.” A butch who is well liked is

known as “one of the fellas” by her peers.

Once in prison changes in roles are common. Many women who are strictly

heterosexual in the street become butch in prison. “Fems” often create

butches by convincing an inmate that she would make a “cute butch.”

About 80 percent of the prison population engage in some form of

homosexual relationship. Almost all follow negative, stereotypic

male/female role models.

There is no connection between the women’s movement and lesbianism.

Most of the women at Riker’s Island have no idea what feminism is, let

alone lesbianism. Feminism, the women’s liberation movement and the gay

liberation movement are worlds away from women at Riker’s.

The black liberation struggle is equally removed from the lives of women at

Riker’s. While they verbalize acute recognition that amerika is a racist

country where the poor are treated like dirt they, nevertheless, feel

responsible for the filth of their lives. The air at Riker’s is permeated with

self-hatred. Many women bear marks on their arms, legs and wrists from

suicide attempts or self-mutilation. They speak about themselves in self-

deprecating terms. They consider themselves failures.

While most women contend that whitey is responsible for their oppression,

they do not examine the cause or source of that oppression. There is no

sense of class struggle. They have no sense of communism, no definition of

it, but they consider it a bad thing. They do not want to destroy Rockefella.

They want to be like him. Nicky Barnes, a major dope seller, is discussed

with reverence. When he was convicted practically everyone was sad. Many

gave speeches about how kind, smart and generous he was; no one spoke

about the sale of drugs to our children.

Politicians are considered liars and crooks. The police are hated. Yet, during

cop and robber movies, some cheer loudly for the cops. One woman pasted

photographs of Farrah Fawcett Majors all over her cell because she “is a

baad police bitch.” Kojak and Barretta get their share of admiration.

A striking difference between women and men prisoners at Riker’s Island is

the absence of revolutionary rhetoric among the women. We have no study

groups. We have no revolutionary literature around. There are no groups of

militants attempting to “get their heads together.” The women at Riker’s

seem vaguely aware of what a revolution is but generally regard it as an

impossible dream. Not at all practical.

While men in prison struggle to maintain their manhood there is no

comparable struggle by women to preserve their womanhood. One

frequently hears women say, “Put a bunch of bitches together and you’ve

got nothin but trouble”; and, “Women don’t stick together, that’s why we

don’t have nothin.” Men prisoners constantly refer to each other as brother.

Women prisoners rarely refer to each other as sister. Instead, “bitch” and

“whore” are the common terms of reference. Women, however, are much

kinder to each other than men, and any form of violence other than a fist

fight is virtually unknown. Rape, murder and stabbings at the women’s

prison are non-existent.

For many, prison is not that much different from the street. It is, for some, a

place to rest and recuperate. For the prostitute prison is a vacation from

turning tricks in the rain and snow. A vacation from brutal pimps. Prison for

the addict is a place to get clean, get medical work done and gain weight.

Often, when the habit becomes too expensive, the addict gets herself busted

(usually subconsciously) so she can get back in shape, leave with a clean

system ready to start all over again. One woman claims that for a month or

two every year she either goes [to] jail or to the crazy house to get away

from her husband.

For many the cells are not much different from the tenements, the shooting

galleries and the welfare hotels they live in on the street. Sick call is no

different from the clinic or the hospital emergency room. The fights are the

same except they are less dangerous. The police are the same. The poverty

is the same. The alienation is the same. The racism is the same. The sexism

is the same. The drugs are the same and the system is the same. Riker’s

[Island] is just another institution. In childhood school was their prison, or

youth houses or reform schools or children shelters or foster homes or

mental hospitals or drug programs and they see all institutions as indifferent

to their needs, yet necessary to their survival.

The women at Riker’s Island come there from places like Harlem,

Brownsville, Bedford-Stuyvesant, South Bronx and South Jamaica. They

come from places where dreams have been abandoned like the buildings.

Where there is no more sense of community. Where neighborhoods are

transient. Where isolated people run from one fire trap to another. The cities

have removed us from our strengths, from our roots, from our traditions.

They have taken away our gardens and our sweet potato pies and given us

McDonald’s. They have become our prisons, locking us into the futility and

decay of pissy hallways that lead nowhere. They have alienated us from

Analysis

The text reflects Assata Shakur's experiences as a black woman in prison, framed within the broader themes of race, gender, and justice. Shakur portrays herself and others in prison as victims of systemic oppression rather than as criminals, emphasizing that over 95 percent of the women incarcerated are black and Puerto Rican, raising critical questions about institutional racism. The narrative highlights the harsh realities of incarceration, such as the psychological impact of confinement and physical abuse endured by the inmates, exemplified through Lucille's story of domestic violence and subsequent conviction. Shakur also critiques the prison system, likening Riker's Island to a juvenile center, where the guards maintain a facade of familiarity while upholding a system designed to dehumanize the women. This commentary underscores the exploitative dynamics between the guards and inmates, revealing a motherly veneer that belies the underlying control and oppression. Through her analysis, Shakur argues for the importance of political awareness among incarcerated women, claiming that their liberation hinges on an understanding of their realities and the ability to articulate their struggles. The despair and self-hatred prevalent among the women are juxtaposed with the notion of fighting for freedom and solidarity, as echoed in the powerful "Assata Chant".

…
Assata Shakur’s narrative provides a profound insight into the experiences of black women incarcerated in the American prison system, particularly reflecting on Riker's Island. Through her account, Shakur frames the women not as criminals but as victims of systemic oppression, highlighting the intersectionality of race, gender, and social justice. The statistic that over 95 percent of the women in prison are black and Puerto Rican raises critical questions about institutional racism and the inherent biases present in the criminal justice system. Her experiences shed light on how societal structures contribute to the marginalization of these women, often leading them into cycles of poverty and incarceration.

Shakur illustrates the psychological and physical toll of incarceration, exemplified vividly through the story of Lucille, a woman convicted of manslaughter following a history of domestic abuse. This narrative serves as a sobering critique of how the legal system fails to protect vulnerable women, instead punishing them for their circumstances. The impact of systemic violence is echoed throughout Shakur's reflections, emphasizing the need for a compassionate understanding of the challenges faced by incarcerated women, particularly those whose lives have been marked by trauma.

The portrayal of Riker's Island as a prison masquerading as a juvenile center reveals the deceptive nature of institutional environments. The design and administration of the facility contribute to a false sense of security, which the guards exploit to maintain control over the inmates. Shakur highlights the dynamic between guards and prisoners, showcasing a facade of maternal care that belies the authority and oppression inherent in their roles. This dynamic illustrates the struggle for agency among the women, who are often infantilized and deprived of their autonomy.

Moreover, Shakur advocates for the political education of incarcerated women, arguing that understanding their condition is vital for organizing effective resistance against systemic oppression. The despair and self-hatred experienced by many of the women are countered by a call to action echoing the "Assata Chant," which promotes solidarity and the fight for freedom. Shakur's analysis emphasizes that the liberation of these women depends on their realization of collective agency and the necessity of articulating their struggles within a larger context of social justice.

Ultimately, Shakur’s text serves both as a personal narrative and a broader commentary on the incarceration of women, particularly black women, in America. By documenting her experiences and the conditions at Riker’s Island, she calls attention to the urgent need for reform in the criminal justice system and advocates for the recognition of imprisoned women as essential voices in the fight for liberation. Through her powerful storytelling, Shakur encourages a deeper understanding of the connection between race, gender, and justice, reinforcing the notion that fighting for freedom is a shared duty among all who seek a more equitable society.