have helped prisoners deal with the multi-complex phenomena of society. Most of what was taught was useless, old institutional garbage that was not applicable to the streets. Brown, however, was beyond that and taught hard-core reality-politics that drew those of us who listened closer to the brink of consciousness. Some of us, those who Brown felt had potential, would stop by his class long before pre-parole and sit and listen to him talk about the raw reality of America.
“Kody,” Brown would say, “these white folks ain’t playin’, man. They will lock you up, lock you down, lock you in just like they have locked you out of this society. If you haven’t got any marketable skills to sustain an income on your own, man, your chances of survival are slim. You are high-risk living—actually just existing. You young, black, unskilled, strong… you smoke cigarettes?”
“Naw, just bo’.”
“Well, that’s good enough. You use drugs, you drink, and to top it off you gangbang! Man, how you gonna make it?”
“Man, I don’t know…”
Brown, like Muhammad, had a great impact on my development, though it took a few years to appreciate their contribution. The strongest New Afrikan men I had known up until that time were bangers. Verbalizing was not an issue. Shoot first and let the victims’ relatives ask questions later. Guns were our tools of communication. If we liked you, you weren’t shot and we’d go to any length to shoot whomever disliked you. If you were not liked, you were hunted, if necessary, and shot—period. Instantaneous communication. That’s all I had known for years. Words, I thought, could never take the place of guns to communicate like or dislike. But here I was, totally absorbed in the spoken words of Muhammad and Brown, and the written word of Malcolm X. Each emotional lash was tantamount to the resounding echo of gunfire. But unlike gunfire, no one was killed. This was my first encounter with brothers who could kill with words. Their words were not mere talk, either. Action followed in the wake of their theories, and their presence demanded respect long before their words were spoken.
One Monday night we fell to Islamic services to find another “Muslim” there. In appearance, this cat was totally out of sync with the Muslims we had known. First of all, he had a Jheri curl, which was dripping juice onto his collar and the shoulders of his Members Only jacket, which was black and collarless. He wore some gray double-knit slacks and black penny loafers. Standing approximately five feet, four inches and weighing a meager one hundred and twenty pounds, he was the opposite of Muhammad. As soon as we had taken in his dress and fried hair dripping nuclear waste, we knew we had been undermined.
“Where’s Muhammad at?” I asked, walking up on him.
“Oh, well,” he began stammering, obviously intimidated by my size, “Muhammad was suspended by the California Department of Corrections Youth Board and restricted from entering the institution until further notice.”
“What?!”
“Sorry, fellas, but Muha—”
“SORRY”?!
“Yes, you see—”
“Man, we want Muhammad. You don’t even look like no real Muslim. Where you from? Who sent you?”
“Please, please,” he said, raising both hands like a jack victim. “If you all sit down I will explain everything to you. Please, just have a seat.”
We moved slowly and reluctantly to our seats, murmuring “Fuck that” and “This dude is a fake” under our breath. Once we were seated it was apparent that the “Muslim” felt even more intimidated by standing in front of eighty irate youths demanding an explanation for the sudden removal of our teacher. He began with “Asalaam Alaikum” and not one of us responded with “Walaikum Asalaam.” Why should we? He wanted us to be peaceful with him, but we had no intention of bidding him peace until a full explanation was brought forth about the removal of Muhammad Abdullah. The “Muslim” extracted a white kerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat mixed with Jheri curl juice from his brow.
“I am George Muhammad and I have been sent by the American Muslim Mission. My job is not to teach you revolution, but Al-Islam. Mr. Muhammad Abdullah was a fomenter of violence and separating. He was—”
“Man, fuck you!” came a voice from the back, immediately followed by a balled-up piece of paper.
“We live in violence,” said L.C., one of the original members of the services before we came. “Always have and, by the definition of ghetto, we already live in separation. Muhammad did not teach us violence and separation. He taught us self-defense and nationalism. And anyway, Al-Islam teaches us, by way of the Holy Koran, that it is our duty as Muslims to fight oppression everywhere it assaults us in this world.”
“Yes, but—”
“Naw, ain’t no ’yes, but,’ see, ’cause you ain’t right. I heard Muhammad talk about you one day. Yeah, yeah that’s right. He taught us ’bout how you be lookin’ like us, talkin’ like us, and livin’ with us, but all the time you be workin’ with the oppressor. Yep, we already up on you. Yo’ name ain’t no George Muhammad. Yo’ name is Uncle Tom!”
“Get that muthafucka!” yelled someone to the left of me, and we all rose and began to advance on Tom, who stood bug-eyed and motionless. Just before he was seized, the doors to the chapel burst open and staff in full riot gear came rushing to his rescue.
We were all sent back to our cells and put on C.T.Q.—Confined to Quarters—during which time I received a letter from Muhammad. His letter was my first lesson in counterintelligence activity.
The pigs sent the Negro preacher to gather intelligence on me. He climbed in the air-conditioning vent and taped several of our services. He has always been our worst enemy, unfortunately, for the Uncle Tom is so hard to detect among us. I will not be coming back to Y.T.S. for some time, if ever. But I will always stay in contact with you. Insha Allah, don’t be deceived by those who look like us but think like the oppressor.
I was stung by the reality of Muhammad’s letter, by the prophecy of his “don’t be deceived by those who look like us” when just this week I had witnessed the undermining of our services by the institution. I passed Muhammad’s letter around to those who were responsible for informing their troops. For those who had a problem reading, I took it upon myself to explain what had happened.
Attendance at Islamic services under the guidance of the Uncle Tom fell off completely. No one attended, so Tom packed up and left. Because of what we had found out about Reverend Jackson spying on us, no one attended his services, either. As for the staff bursting in and rescuing the Uncle Tom—he was wired! I later found out the staff had anticipated such a response.
My consciousness about the larger enemy was being raised bit by bit. Why wouldn’t someone want us to learn about who we really are? Is our knowledge of self so threatening that such measures as sending a Christian preacher into an air conduit are necessary to hinder its attainment?
Muhammad and I kept in contact, and he sent me a lot of literature, mostly Islamic but always Afrocentric. The banging mentality was still uppermost in my mind, as demonstrated in my everyday relations with most people. But questions of right and wrong now came to my mind immediately after every action I took. Muhammad had made a tremendous difference in my life that was barely noticeable then, but cannot be overlooked today.
My time in Y.T.S. after the closing of Islamic services continued in a fashion characteristic of prison life. To occupy my time I had structured a daily routine that gave me little opportunity to be blue about confinement. It was 1983, and I wanted to make a statement for the set somehow, someway. But I didn’t want to do it in a physical manner, which seemed uncharacteristic of me. Actually, it was uncharacteristic of Monster.
Diamond, Superman, and I decided to get tattoos for 1983. I wanted mine on my neck, in clear view for all to see. This, I knew, would be a status symbol, as relatively few New Afrikans had tattoos on their necks at that time. Today it’s hard to find a banger whose neck isn’t written on, advertising his or her particular allegiance. In 1983 it was unpopular to have your set written across your neck, but hell, was I into this for popularity or was I committed for life? My all-out commitment for life would, if I lived long enough, bring about popularity, as I was already experiencing. But with Eight Tray written across my neck, it would be an everlasting bond.
In Black August 1983, I had the tattoo put on my neck. Superman had his mother’s name put on his neck, and Diamond had some shading done on his back. Against the lightness of my skin and the thickness of my neck, the tattoo stood out as a beaming testimonial of my lifelong commitment to the ’hood. One staff member said something adverse about it, but most people didn’t care. I felt content about it, and to me, that’s all that mattered.
