Blood On My Sleeves: the shade of reproof

This post was inspired by Professor Amy Laura, the Rev. Isaac Villegas and legendary anchoress, Julian of Norwich

Dressing can be a self-imposed expression.  I was always the type to match my leather jacket with my Timberland boots.   If I was wearing sneakers, my ball cap had to have a similar colored pattern.  What can I say?  I like to feel “fresh to death.” 

It’s because of this that I can relate to why a clothing stylist can earn a living in this day and time.  Choosing my own wears came with an inexplicable degree of pride.

For the past 16 years, a red jumpsuit has been the extent of my day-to-day fashion sense.  No belt; no turtleneck sweater; no polo shirt to match my latest footwear.  Long sleeve or short, a red jumpsuit is the style for today, everyday.

Red has never been my color; burgundy, maybe lavender, but rarely red.  Now I’m sentenced to wearing red everyday.  It’s crazy how this red jumpsuit defines me to the public, as a menace, or a detriment to the rest of the prison population.

The shame of wearing this red jumpsuit is predicated on witnessing a glance of acknowledgement becoming a sudden tunnel vision of disregard.  A smile directed toward you quickly becomes a frown, because the red jumpsuit screams, “Bloody Murderer!” This entails an existence that could only be seen in most people’s nightmares.

So many times I catch myself grasping at my fashionable roots.  Sometimes I’m actually indecisive about which jumpsuit I should wear.  They’re all red!!  All of them represent my condemnation by a “jury of my peers.” Should it really make a difference which red jumpsuit I step into?

I don’t know.  I guess it’s my Creator’s way of replenishing my sanity – hoisting me above the blood on my sleeves.  This garment of reproof is an exact reflection of the blood lust that dwells within the judicial vampires scheming to drain the oxygen flowing through my veins.

I’ve witnessed the dismal psychological impact of the red jumpsuit.  Destroying the esteem of those once believed to be spiritually sound.  There are no highs and lows when the red jumpsuit becomes your attire.  Being draped in death has driven some to remain awake, while their soul smells with the sense of capitulation.  Without purpose, there is no life.

Wearing this red jumpsuit hasn’t destroyed my self-esteem, or dismantled my sense of self-worth.  It’s just something to wear, while I’m here.  I once read that Albert Einstein didn’t spend much time thinking about his daily attire.  That’s a luxury I just don’t have. 

Every stitch of this red jumpsuit gives me something to think about. A poisonous injection I don’t deserve; a crucifix – like gurney with restraints, and the denial of watching my grandchildren make a positive difference in this harsh and cruel world.  There’s plenty to think about when donning the red jumpsuit.

Thirty-five trips to the execution chamber; the red jumpsuit prevails.  I don’t plan on making that trip, but I do have high expectations of leaving this red jumpsuit behind as dirty laundry.  Still feeling “fresh to death.”

Still Living,

Leroy Elwood Mann

#0255136

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann

A Cool Christmas Story

Warning: In no way is this your traditional Christmas Story.  The experience I’m about to lay upon you has nothing to do with the holiday season; per se.  However, Christmas is the season of giving, so I have a story about giving – Christmas oriented, or not. Aight?

Hotep,

Today (11/20/13), Duke Professor of Writing, Ms. Rebecca Rich graced the unit 3-conference room with her presence.  Her lecture was geared toward beating the dismal practice of procrastination that dwells within the best of writers.  Rather than staring at a blank piece of paper, or trolling the Net, a writer writes.  So her suggestion was to talk to someone before you write. 

Professor Rich conducted an exercise during the class, in which each student spent 5 minutes speaking to the person nearest to them, about a specific topic.  The topic she gave to the class was one that placed my mental back into the unscathed footprints of a childhood full of cultural experiences.  The topic was, “Your first time at the movies.”

Now the age is foggy, but I feel like I’m 6.  I can recall Pops and I riding the El-train.  I had no idea where we were headed.  We could’ve been going to the moon for all I cared.  As long as I was trailing Pops, it was all good.  Na mean?

West Philly proved to be our destination.  We entered the 40^th Street movie theater.  The aroma of fresh popcorn captivated my nasal tract.  Pops laughed at the sight of my admiration for the popcorn machine in front of us.  The elevated stainless steel pot mesmerized me, magically spewing the prettiest popcorn kernels I had ever seen.  “Jiffy popcorn don’t’ look like that,” I can remember thinking.

The tone of Pop’s voice only heightened my moment of infatuation.  “Large box of popcorn with extra butter, some Peanut Chews and a large orange soda.  Pops knew my young, inexperienced hands couldn’t handle a large soda in the darkness of the foreign environment, just beyond the double-doors ahead of us.

Watching the concessions clerk shower our popcorn in butter, led me to the conclusion that I had to have that job.  Pops allowed me to get a fist full of popcorn, before grabbing my free hand and leading me into the den of African American leisure.

The movie was, “Cooley High.” A classic film, indeed, but I was much too young to ingest the film’s content.  My focus was drawn to the GIANT television screen in the distance.  I drew closer to Pops when the double-doors closed behind us.  Total darkness and unfamiliar voices surrounded us.

Throughout the movie, people laughed aloud, shouted obscenities at the people on the GIANT screen – speaking their minds at will.  On one side of the theater I heard, “Run Preach!” Then someone responded from my side, “He better run cause story and Curtis is on his ass.” The entire theatre erupted in laughter.  It was contagious because I was laughing and I didn’t even get the joke.  It was truly an atmosphere of released tensions and consumed aggressions.  An atmosphere that taught me I didn’t have a reason to fear my own peoples.  Feel me?

I left that theatre amongst a sea of brown and black faces with a sense of belonging, a cultural initiation that will forever have a place within the flames of my literary passion.  Steel is forged in the fire.  And here I stand, celebrating the gift that keeps on giving.  Thanks Pops!!

Happy Holidays,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Seeing the Forest Through the Trees

“When the axe came into the forest, the trees said, ‘the handle is one of us.”

‘- Literary Intellect

Hotep,

The last two weeks of class have consisted of a revisit from Professor Anathea Portier – Young (10/30/13), and a first time visit – hopefully not the last – from Mr. Michael Hardt, Professor of Political Science at Duke University.  Now its no secret that I’m enthralled by Professor Portier-Young’s prodigious ability to interpret symbolisms and break down metaphors within the literary works of writers from as far back as 587 B.C., to present date.

The good Professor makes it clear in her literary exhale, “Apocalypse Against Empire,” that the writers she has studied did not retreat.  They did not abandon realism.  They challenged readers and hearers not to withdraw, but to engage.  Her last lecture taught me that silence is the real crime against humanity.

So Blogosphere, here’s my scream of justice:

Today’s (11/6/13) class topic of discussion was, “Who is Toni Negri?”

Toni Negri

Toni Negri was an Italian political prisoner, whose political writings were entered as evidence against him, despite their rejection of collective violence and illegality.  

He sought refuge in France, while being tried and convicted, in absentia on abstract charges of “subversive (secret) association,” as well as “moral co-responsibility” for a murder committed without his participation or knowledge.  He was initially sentenced to 30 years in prison – later reduced to 12 years.  Which made today’s guest all the more interesting.

Michael Hardt

Mr. Michael Hardt collaborated with Negri on, “Labor of Dionysus” in 1994.  Their international bestseller was “Empire” (2000).  The sequels are “Multitude” (2004) and Commonwealth” (2009).  

On the brink of his mid 50’s, Mr. Hardt’s perspective on the commonplace reality of a man/woman living in captivity is practice to the idle minds of men/women buried deep within the quagmire of the state’s sentence of death.  Feel me?

Speaking with Mr. Hardt about his friend Toni, helped to raise the bar of literary intellect for several writers on the row – including yours truly.  I can only hope that my colloquial style of expression reaches the youth, from American suburbia, all the way to the urban inhabitants of Kenya.  

Inspiring young minds to repel the advances of hegemony, with an autonomous state of mind that leads them to a purpose exclusive to the Divine gifts waiting to manifest themselves during the maturation of their literary intellect.  Word is bond!

Michael Hardt was more than today’s guest speaker; he was simply the handle that bore the axe.  Real talk.

Keep it 100,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Head of the Class

Hotep,

The bitter taste of 2^nd place doesn’t sit well with “Coach Cam.” For the past several years, the Death Row b-ball tournament has been his stomping grounds.  As a head coach, he has coached the 2^nd best team on more than one occasion.  The valiancy in his efforts to teach and direct within an environment that personifies tension and misplaced aggression – has not gone unnoticed.  Na mean?

Coach Cam brings a vibrant outlook – each week – to our creative writing class.  He’d be the first to admit that he doesn’t have all the answers, but his perspective is a valued attribute to the configuration of our weekly writing sessions.  He has a clear understanding of the potential, behind our creative writing class.

His observation skills are second to none and he envisions himself as a freelance reporter.  So, if you would, please embrace a perspective coming from the head of the class.  The stage is yours, Coach Cam.

Be Easy,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann

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Head of the Class

In July of this year, Dr. Kuhns established the first of several planned courses of instruction.  Offering those interested on the Death Row Unit, the opportunity to participate in a creative writing class.  This, the first of its kind, is not just your average remedial tune up.

The twenty men, who began the course, have demonstrated their commitment to its success and by all accounts, have more than exceeded the expectations of the administration and of the monthly guest speakers who volunteer their professional instruction.  It’s been a privilege welcoming the various academics from the prestigious Duke University, published authors and poets of local acclaim; individuals who’ve climbed the heights in the literary fields of their arts.  So, don’t get it twisted!

We’ve come to realize that there are many talented individuals within this group and of course there are others who have been able to rekindle fires and again find themselves passionate about writing.  Several men have books and compositions ready for publication and distribution.  Fiction and non-fictional works that many think rival some best selling works.  I am, of course, a bit biased in my praise of these brothers, some of whose works I’ve been privy to for over a decade.  As previously stated my research shows there has never known to be an endeavor attempted on this scale for prisoners affixed with the label of Death Row. 

Wardens consider such venues a waste of time and resources.  Here the outgoing and newly appointed warden feels strongly about the educational environment being fostered in this type of setting.  Warden Joyner, who obtained his current position by moving up through the ranks as a mid-level administrator from support services staff when the current Death Row held only a fourth of the men it has now, attended our first Poetry Slam.  He voiced his opinion regarding his support of the class, and assured the group other classes would follow.  It’s hard to imagine it now with how quickly things have changed. 

Our monthly Poetry Slams have caused members of the upper administration to shake their heads in amazement and guest shower our group with applause, because their intellects have been engaged, by a class of people buried on the backside of a multi-million dollar spread.  A people time almost forgot.  A people who have long ago created a legacy of silent sufferance. Now that these few have taken advantage of their voice created by the Writings from Captivity, maybe more will listen and those voices WILL BE HEARD.

This article contributed by Terrance Campbell (aka, Coach Cam) creative writing class member and freelance obsereporter.

Copyright © 2013 by Terrance Campbell