Keeping It Mental

R.I.P. Rachel Samuel, a.k.a. Nana

Hotep,

The confines of this concrete box prevents me from jumping in the whip and cruising to the store, to pick up some turkey bacon and soymilk for my birthday breakfast, on this my born day.  I’m unable to sit down with my parents – enjoying good conversation – as we flip through photo albums and view DVD’s of past family reunions.  And, heckling opposing players while watching an Eagles’ game with my brother D, is definitely out of the question.

Ice Cube’s urban classic, “Friday,” was the last movie I viewed with my big Sis and Nyse.  It was 1995; I remember it like it was yesterday.  Chris Tucker was still swearing and we put the pain on that jumbo box of popcorn.  Real talk.  It saddens me that we haven’t done that in so long.

A sharp pain develops in the groove of my chest when I think of how my confinement prevents me from holding the hand of my lady as we stroll the banks of Penns Landing – overlooking the Delaware River and Camden skyline – as we appreciate the sacred moments of today and looking forward to our future.  SMH.

The recent news of my Nana’s passing cuts me deep.  Her physical presence has been a blessing to my first 27 years of existence.  For the last 17 years, our interactions have been limited to periodic non-contact visits and once a year phone calls.  For the most part, Nana was one of the few who didn’t waver in her support for me.  Na mean?

This concrete box prevented me from holding my Nana in her time of physical anguish.  I was prohibited from tucking a pillow under her pretty head, or pulling a blanket up to her shoulders while she slept.  My captors denied my physical support for her in her final moments.  So, this expression is a deep warm embrace for the woman who birthed my mother; a woman under 5ft who stood tall through family strife.  A black woman who defeated the odds of surviving southern racism long before affirmative action provided opportunities for minorities.  Ya heard?

Mrs. Rachel Samuel, your value to my existence was by design.  Your story has been inspiring during the darkest times of my life, Nana.  My bondage restricted me from feeling the warmth of your tiny hands on the sides of my face, but the experience was never far from my mental.  After 96 years, you were still swinging Nana, so I thought to myself, who am I to give up the fight?  It seems God was ready to bring you home to be with our grandfather.

I love you Nana.  From the memories of you feeding me biscuits and buttered rice – to allowing me the use of your car to pass my driver’s exam.  Your contribution to my physical development permits this submission of support for you.  Keeping it mental relieves the stress of my physical limitations.  This concrete box is unable to shackle the deliverance of my memories of a sweet little lady on North 19^th Street.  Rest in peace Nana. 

Your Grandson,

MannofStat, NP 4 Life

Copyright © 2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Delivering the Death Blow

Hotep,

Every sunrise is a fresh start.  At least that’s how I choose to view it, but I can’t front, some days, I just don’t want to come out of my cell, those days where I feel as though I just can’t win.  Na mean?

Does anybody remember the old school kung fu flix?  The protagonist is always some cat who lives to avoid trouble, but then some drastic chain of events changes his perspective on life, and he eventually becomes the hero that everyone knew he was destined to become.  

At some point in his story, he must endure an unforgivable beat down by his nemesis.  The nemesis leaves him for dead, after delivering what was believed to be a death blow.  Well, at this moment, I feel like that protagonist, left for dead, a cautionary tale, to be.  Feel me?

Ask yourself:  Who is this individual who delivers the death blow to the person, sentenced to die by a jury of his peers?

Jerry Givens, a recovering executioner has come forward since the state sanctioned, premeditated murder of Georgia death row prisoner, Troy Davis.  “I had to transform myself into a person who would take a life.  That transformation might linger for a while.” Jerry’s words, not mine.  Real talk. 

Jerry Givens is a 59 year old man, tortured by his former duties as an executioner in the state of Virginia.  In 17 years, Jerry put 62 men to death and each time, he felt what he calls, “the executioner high.”  A state of mind in which he convinces himself that there will be no moral accountability for the life that was about to be extinguished.

Jerry has thrown the switch that sends thousands of volts through the human anatomy, to carry out a death sentence.  He’s also pulled the lever that releases the fatal cocktail of three drugs that brings about the same results.  For some reason, he finds electrocution more humane.  Real talk.

Allen Ault is the dean of the College of Justice and Safety at Eastern Kentucky University.  He shares a theory about cats like Jerry:  “The executioner is the one who suffers.  The person that carries out the execution itself is stuck with it the rest of his life.  He has to wear that burden.  Who wants that on them?”

This post isn’t about judgment or ridicule.  It’s cold, hard facts about what the death penalty is doing to society, as a whole. You’re not just killing someone who you believe to be the worst of the worst, every time Jerry carried out an execution, a part of him died.

There have been 35 executions in the 15 years I’ve been on North Carolina’s death row.  Jerry’s death toll nearly doubles that in a 17 year span.  Word is bond!

“You take an innocent life – that means I committed murder.” Does that sound like the words of someone convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that all 62 condemned men, were indeed guilty of a heinous, atrocious, and cruel act of murder?  I don’t think so.

The blood of Troy Davis – and those who face a similar fate – could be tormenting someone you know, someone who has, or will be delivering the death blow.  Ya heard?  R.I.P. Troy Davis.

One Love,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Last Meal

Hotep,

An ingrown toenail is a challenge that can make your daily activities an excruciating experience.  I had a procedure done on my left foot – back in April of 2011.  It took nearly two months for my foot to heal completely.  But now that I’m good, I decided to go full throttle with my “Kunta Kinte Thing” (Running).  So, on this first day of summer last year (6/21/11), my biggest challenge was the torrid heat of June.  Na mean?

I’m long overdue.  The temperature reached 95 degrees, but I was able to give my Creator 30 minutes.  A wild fire in Pender County had all of Raleigh gasping for air, including yours truly.  The prison rec yard was literally smoking.  Real talk.

Now, it’s no secret that the “Kunta Kinte Thing” opens my mental.  As I bent the corners of the smoky rec yard, I listened to Sheryl Crow sing about the beauty of a “Summer Day.” Then I adjusted the dial to hear Rick Ross spit some “Mayback Music.”  It was at that point that my thoughts went to my man, Willie E. Fisher (D.O.E 3/9/01).

About a year before his execution, Fish and I discussed the knowledge behind a condemned man’s last meal.  As the hours passed, we eventually concluded that the steak dinners, the chitterlings, the cherry sodas, and the eloquently sliced cheesecake, is the biggest slap in the face to a man clinging to his final hours of earthly existence.  Word is bond!

The state is meticulously arranging the final hours of your life.  They’re preparing to extinguish your physical presence from the eyes of the people who love you the most.  I guess the last meal is the state’s final act of humanity, before committing the heinous and atrocious act of injecting poison into the veins of another human being.  Closely watching their bodies convulse and gasp for breaths that no longer exist.  Then convince the public that the condemned individual died a peaceful death.  Feel me?

Because of this, whenever I’m indirectly subjected to the tunnel vision of individuals overly concerned about canteen items, or chow hall servings.  I’m inclined to believe that they’re looking forward to getting that last meal, slap in the face, the state of N.C. is more than willing to dish out; a special order of hopelessness.  Ya heard?

Fish and I made a pact.  If we had to meet the fate of being executed, we would not give the state the satisfaction of exhibiting this false sense of humanity.  The special requested last meal bears no honor for this death row prisoner.  Word is bond!

On March 9, 2001, Willie E. Fisher refused the “privilege” of a personalized last meal.  He ate the same food as any other prisoner living in this facility.  We were served fried chicken, collard greens and sweet potatoes on this particular evening, but of course, the media presented his last meal as a special request. 

Fisher’s last meal was symbolic for the truth in his words.  

Not many people outside of these walls knew about my pact with Fish.  Everything happens for a purpose.  My pact with Fish was meant to be served on this platform known as “W.O.R.D. to the Masses.”  It’s a cold dish about the state’s patronization of human beings facing execution.  A special meal doesn’t mollify the pain of injustice.  R.I.P. Fish.

Nuff Said,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Life or Death

Hotep,

It’s crazy how death surrounds life.  A visual of the death row rec yard regularly reveals different species of birds feeding on the earth, or the bread crumbs left by prisoners.  The ant mounds are more common to sight than tears flowing at a Mary J. Blidge concert.  Real talk.  The death row rec yard has even served as a home to a cat and her litter of kittens, but that didn’t turn out well.  The adolescent hawks grew bored feeding on the pigeons.  Na mean?

Now, I’m not about to go Wild America, on you.  It’s just that, living at the foot of death gives you a greater perspective on life.  I’ve had a tremendous growth spurt of diligence, throughout the past couple of years.  If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve experienced the release of my thoughts and deepest feelings, and we’ve watched them fly into the world together.  That’s what’s up!

As I continue to mature as a spiritual being, a Mann, and a writer, I’ve developed a much deeper understanding of life (Annimals, insects and plant life are not exempt) on a whole.  Living will not deter death.  I mean, how do we truly appreciate life without the reality of death?  Death will always be available when it’s our time to experience it.  So living in fear of death is futile.  Live with purpose and inspire others.  Ya heard?

Last year began with a barrage of criticism aimed at my literary expressions.  In the wake of the Troy Davis execution, my words continued to come from a beautiful place.  And like life, I enjoy them to the fullest.  But, you can’t please everyone.  Injustice is constant as the negativity layered in the ugliness of hate is expected, the same as death.  Feel me?

A memorable quote from Ms. Linda Joy comes to mind as I write this:

“Your past does not define your future.  Release the mistakes of the past and carry forward only the lessons they contain.  You have the power to rewrite your story at any time.” Words to live by, don’t you think?

My mission hasn’t changed since my inaugural post, “The Basement.” My quest for freedom continues, but more importantly, my relationship with life gives good love, as I stare into the eyes of death.  Life is a cycle, blogosphere.  So, if an ant mound is demolished, or the existence of a pigeon gives way to the hunger of a hawk.  Good or bad, everything in this life is temporary.

I won’t always be held as a prisoner.  Jay-Z can’t rock the mic forever and Barack Obama won’t always be the president of the United States.  If your existence is merely living to die, then please allow our groundbreaking efforts to be a testament to the sweet flavor of life.  Living in bitterness will only hinder future accomplishments.  Ya heard?

Who knows what 2013 has in store?  But, I’m living for the challenge life has to offer.  If you reach for it, prosperity is only an arm’s length away.  Feel me?  I’m out like the 3^rd strike.

Peace to All,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann