People need good lies. There are too many bad ones.
- Kurt Vonnegut Jr
Conservative (here read extreme right wing Republican) politicians and their constituents have a propensity for lying with relative ease. I do not mean to suggest that liberal Democrats and their constituents do not lie. More than a few do.
However, good and bad lies are woven into the very fabric of American politics, be they uttered in the White House or the house next door.
What sets so many extreme right wing conservatives apart from their more liberal counterparts is the former's willingness to craft their lies to fit certain situations in the laws of the land. It should come as no surprise that some aspects of America's Laws are set up to favor those who can lie convincingly.
Casual observers of court room procedure would be hard pressed to find a more instructive example of what I mean than the process now in use to select potential jurors to serve on death penalty cases. All potential jurors are questioned by the lawyers of the prosecution and defense.
Long before the actual trial takes place an attorney for the prosecution will ask each potential juror if he/she can listen to and take in the intricate nature of the presented evidence, then objectively weigh all of it before voting a a 'life' or 'death' sentence for the defendant.
In response to such a question most potential jurors who are liberal in both thought and deed will quickly admit that they would not vote to put a defendant to death under any circumstances, no matter what the evidence might reveal.
At that point the attorney for the prosecution will ask the judge to 'strike' that potential juror for the bias the question will have exposed. Driven by the law the judge must honor that request.
Had the potential juror told a good lie and said 'I am not for or against capital punishment: I would have to know and weigh all of the facts in evidence before I could make a decision to spare or take someone's life', the judge would be far more inclined not to strike that person.
Conversely, when the defense attorney asks a potential juror who is a right wing hard line conservative whether they can vote for a 'life' sentence they will lie and say yes, knowing that they are much more inclined to vote for the 'death' sentence.
Unfortunately, because they answered the question the way they did, the judge will of course not be able to strike them off.
Eventually when enough conservative potential jurors have been questioned, because of their willingness to lie, the resulting makeup of the jury is often decidely pro death penalty. Such a jury all but guarantees that the defendant will be sentenced to death.
So, potential jurors who are liberal and progressive in their thinking must learn to 'lie for life' in order to change the culture of the jury.
There are a lot of things I chose not to say in this essay because I trust the now better informed reader's intelligence. If the reader would like to know more please feel free to write me a letter and send it to me direct via the address below. Alas, it is too late for me, but what I have shared has the potential to save a number of lives in upcoming death penalty trials.
I hope that, for my having shared these truths about America's death penalty laws and schemes, the reader will see 'life' and 'death' in the court room more clearly. I leave you with the well chosen words of Friedrich Nietzsche: 'he who cannot lie does not know what the truth is'.
Brandon Astor Jone, G3-83
UNO#400574; EF-122216
Georgia Diagnostic Classification Prison
P.O. Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233
USA
Buy Brandon's book, While the Mississippi and Hudson merge, from iUniverse
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Brandon's book available to purchase
While the Mississippi and Hudson Merge is now available to buy from iUniverse.
This 'roman a clef' is about suffering and survival. It brings vividly to life the heroic role of African-Americans within the Civil War Navy.
Friday, 16 May 2008
"... speechless." by Brandon Astor Jones and David Astor Jones
Having spent half of my sixty-five years in prison, the lyrics of D J Khaled's "I'm So Hood" caught my attention immediately:
For the reader who might find the language above a little difficult, let me clarify:
Those words conjure up an image of a person who is headed back to prison as fast as the ignorance of the culture he worships will carry him. History tells us that people in or out of prison tend to do what they know; but, if he really knew how bad long-term imprisonment is he would not be so cavalier about the very real possibility of going back.
However, in defence of both logic and truth, I feel obliged to add that it is equally cavalier on the part of the government to have had the man in prison for a number of years, with ample opportunity to teach him a socially constructive vocation, but choose not to do so. Indeed, all that he learned from prison administrators and his fellow prisoners were more proficient ways to carry out and expand his future criminal activities. I plan to write in depth on that subject in future instalments of this series, but now let me get back to D J Khaled's lyrics...
Pants hangin' off me now
'Cause my pistol heavy (hood)
I ain't spoke to you yet dawg
'Cause I ain't friendly...
They say I'm fed bound
They call me high risk
Full blooded goon
Lames make me sick
You get 3 or 4 Birds where I come from
We call you rich
I'd like to thank the hood homie is all behind me
(I'm So Hood).
The image created in the words above is of a man who wears his pants so low that you can see almost all of his underwear. One of the many reasons the so-called 'baggy style' became so trendy for the group in question, is because the adherents can easily hide large calibre firearms beneath such loose fitting clothes.
Projection of the tough persona requires genuine rappers (and even wanna-be rappers) to always present a demeanour of meanness. Hence, the reason he rarely engages in traditional greetings, and/or small talk with strangers. Keep in mind that one of his heroes is the likes of Alphonse ('Al') Capone, the late Prohibition era gangster. Therefore, it is likely that this person is headed to a federal prison for a host of reasons, not least of which is the fact that more often than not he is illegally armed. To say he is 'high risk' understates his deameanour – especially when and if he is using some of the various drugs he sells. Alas, he likes being feared as a 'full blooded goon'.
Moreover, men who respect women as well as themselves make rappers who embrace the 'goon' lifestyle 'sick'. You see, the former tend to think for themselves and they do not buy into any part of the ridiculously popular gangster rap culture. That is why so many rappers consider them to be 'lames'.
Unfortunately, for the most part, drug dealing (here read '...3 or 4 Birds' as a reference to kilograms of whatever the local drug of choice happens to be) is just about all there is left for a 'goon' who has recently been released from prison.
The language used in D J Khaled's song speaks volumes about what is wrong with gangster rap as it relates to America in general, and Black Americans in particular.
If what I wrote in the paragraph above seems a bit mysterious, maybe the following will help to make it easier to understand. Before I clarify, I want to remind the reader that Black folk in America, unlike White folk, are still trying hard to recover from the ongoing ravages and sociological residue of slavery.
I was talking a week ago with a man who had recently been to this prison's visiting room. While he waited for his visitor, he was close enough to see and hear a group of Black visitors who were already with another prisoner. There was a small child with them. She appeared to be four or five years old. As children often do, she became very animated as she clearly sang the words of D J Khaled's "I'm So Hood". Obviously filled with pride as a result of the child's clear articulation of the words in the song, a grandmotherly-looking woman in the group vigorously praised her and gave her a loving hug.
She then asked the child to recite her ABCs. Only then did the little girl become speechless.
Damn my PO
Ya'll can tell her what I said it
Violate me if she want
Goin' to have to come catch me
Piss test me all you want
Ima smoke when I'm ready
For the reader who might find the language above a little difficult, let me clarify:
I do not care what my parole officer thinks; and, I do not care if she sends me back to prison. Before she can test my urine she has to catch me first, because I am going to smoke dope whenever I feel like it.
Those words conjure up an image of a person who is headed back to prison as fast as the ignorance of the culture he worships will carry him. History tells us that people in or out of prison tend to do what they know; but, if he really knew how bad long-term imprisonment is he would not be so cavalier about the very real possibility of going back.
However, in defence of both logic and truth, I feel obliged to add that it is equally cavalier on the part of the government to have had the man in prison for a number of years, with ample opportunity to teach him a socially constructive vocation, but choose not to do so. Indeed, all that he learned from prison administrators and his fellow prisoners were more proficient ways to carry out and expand his future criminal activities. I plan to write in depth on that subject in future instalments of this series, but now let me get back to D J Khaled's lyrics...
Pants hangin' off me now
'Cause my pistol heavy (hood)
I ain't spoke to you yet dawg
'Cause I ain't friendly...
They say I'm fed bound
They call me high risk
Full blooded goon
Lames make me sick
You get 3 or 4 Birds where I come from
We call you rich
I'd like to thank the hood homie is all behind me
(I'm So Hood).
The image created in the words above is of a man who wears his pants so low that you can see almost all of his underwear. One of the many reasons the so-called 'baggy style' became so trendy for the group in question, is because the adherents can easily hide large calibre firearms beneath such loose fitting clothes.
Projection of the tough persona requires genuine rappers (and even wanna-be rappers) to always present a demeanour of meanness. Hence, the reason he rarely engages in traditional greetings, and/or small talk with strangers. Keep in mind that one of his heroes is the likes of Alphonse ('Al') Capone, the late Prohibition era gangster. Therefore, it is likely that this person is headed to a federal prison for a host of reasons, not least of which is the fact that more often than not he is illegally armed. To say he is 'high risk' understates his deameanour – especially when and if he is using some of the various drugs he sells. Alas, he likes being feared as a 'full blooded goon'.
Moreover, men who respect women as well as themselves make rappers who embrace the 'goon' lifestyle 'sick'. You see, the former tend to think for themselves and they do not buy into any part of the ridiculously popular gangster rap culture. That is why so many rappers consider them to be 'lames'.
Unfortunately, for the most part, drug dealing (here read '...3 or 4 Birds' as a reference to kilograms of whatever the local drug of choice happens to be) is just about all there is left for a 'goon' who has recently been released from prison.
The language used in D J Khaled's song speaks volumes about what is wrong with gangster rap as it relates to America in general, and Black Americans in particular.
If what I wrote in the paragraph above seems a bit mysterious, maybe the following will help to make it easier to understand. Before I clarify, I want to remind the reader that Black folk in America, unlike White folk, are still trying hard to recover from the ongoing ravages and sociological residue of slavery.
I was talking a week ago with a man who had recently been to this prison's visiting room. While he waited for his visitor, he was close enough to see and hear a group of Black visitors who were already with another prisoner. There was a small child with them. She appeared to be four or five years old. As children often do, she became very animated as she clearly sang the words of D J Khaled's "I'm So Hood". Obviously filled with pride as a result of the child's clear articulation of the words in the song, a grandmotherly-looking woman in the group vigorously praised her and gave her a loving hug.
She then asked the child to recite her ABCs. Only then did the little girl become speechless.
"...a little 'lame'" by Brandon Astor Jones and David Astor Jones
An adult who ceases after youth to unlearn and relearn his facts and reconsider his opinions... is a menace to... community...
-Edward Lee Thorndike 1874-1949
The late American educational psychologist's words at the head of this essay seem completely appropriate. Contrary to popular belief, many of us in prison are changing the way we think. Here read change for the better. Let me share a recent exchange with you.
I walked into the tiny rectangular room. The barber and I greeted one another. When I sat down he immediately wrapped my neck and shoulders with a white and black pinstriped cape. He then asked, "How do you want it?"
It was only my second visit to his chair, so he was still in need of little guidelines regarding my cut. I explained again how I never want to look as if I just had a haircut. Instead, "I want to look as if I do not need one."
He said, "I've never heard that before." He went on, "What about your line?"
I answered, "Just square it off at the bottom of my sideburns and line up and down behind my ears as you fade it away into my lower neck. No line across the back either, just feather that out."
"You mean no line anywhere in front?"
"No."
Pressing further, he asked. "Why not?"
I replied, "It is my opinion that many Black men in America, as they try to hide their loss of hair, are speeding up the process of their receding hairlines every time they get a line cut across the front of their foreheads."
He cut off his clipper before declaring, "You know man, I never gave that any thought till now but it makes sense."
We exchanged a few more personal observations and opinions. Eventually he revealed that his son is in his early teens, and rarely listens to the advice he tries to give him in his frequent letters. Having heard about my reputation for writing, about things in and out of prison, he suggested that I write something that would be universally instructive for young men.
It was not a bad idea. I agreed to do it. I promised that by the time my next haircut rolled around, I would bring him a copy of whatever I came up with; and, if it met with his approval, he could send it to his son.
As he continued to cut my hair I found myself remembering my own first year as a teen. I was a run-away in Saint Louis, Missouri. Looking back on some of those days and nights I can also remember wishing that someone, anyone, would tell me the kind of things I am thinking of writing.
Later, it occurred to me that I should write a series of essays, not just one. In each essay I could choose a subject and briefly expand on it. I will start here:
I suggest that in such trying moments you look engagingly into her eyes. If you are speechless, speaking to her with your eyes presents her with an open-ended compliment that you, and/or she, can take anywhere the moment allows. She will appreciate your visual engagement, despite the silence, rather than leering.
That is the good news.
The bad news is that most gangsta (gangster) rappers would refer to the woman described above as a 'Bougie b...h' (note that I did not spell out the b- word, for the same reason I never spell out the n- word. It is all about respect and dignity for yourself and others.)
There is another kind of woman who can be equally attractive, in a physical way, and she loves being leered at. The purveyors of gangsta rap have a name for her as well. They call her and her kind 'Bus' it babies'. It does not take much to get a 'Bus' it baby' into your bed, according to the rappers. She is likely to be just as eager to hop into the next man's bed as yours, especially if he has more money than you.
In the next instalment of this series I plan to explore more of the language that is used (beyond 'Bougie b...h' and Bus' it babies) in the gangsta rap lyrics of the song "I'm So Hood".
If you are an adherent to the more rigid tenets of hard core rap, you might want to pass on reading instalment number two. That is to say it will have been written by someone who, according to the lyrics in "I'm So Hood", is more than a little 'lame'.
-Edward Lee Thorndike 1874-1949
The late American educational psychologist's words at the head of this essay seem completely appropriate. Contrary to popular belief, many of us in prison are changing the way we think. Here read change for the better. Let me share a recent exchange with you.
I walked into the tiny rectangular room. The barber and I greeted one another. When I sat down he immediately wrapped my neck and shoulders with a white and black pinstriped cape. He then asked, "How do you want it?"
It was only my second visit to his chair, so he was still in need of little guidelines regarding my cut. I explained again how I never want to look as if I just had a haircut. Instead, "I want to look as if I do not need one."
He said, "I've never heard that before." He went on, "What about your line?"
I answered, "Just square it off at the bottom of my sideburns and line up and down behind my ears as you fade it away into my lower neck. No line across the back either, just feather that out."
"You mean no line anywhere in front?"
"No."
Pressing further, he asked. "Why not?"
I replied, "It is my opinion that many Black men in America, as they try to hide their loss of hair, are speeding up the process of their receding hairlines every time they get a line cut across the front of their foreheads."
He cut off his clipper before declaring, "You know man, I never gave that any thought till now but it makes sense."
We exchanged a few more personal observations and opinions. Eventually he revealed that his son is in his early teens, and rarely listens to the advice he tries to give him in his frequent letters. Having heard about my reputation for writing, about things in and out of prison, he suggested that I write something that would be universally instructive for young men.
It was not a bad idea. I agreed to do it. I promised that by the time my next haircut rolled around, I would bring him a copy of whatever I came up with; and, if it met with his approval, he could send it to his son.
As he continued to cut my hair I found myself remembering my own first year as a teen. I was a run-away in Saint Louis, Missouri. Looking back on some of those days and nights I can also remember wishing that someone, anyone, would tell me the kind of things I am thinking of writing.
Later, it occurred to me that I should write a series of essays, not just one. In each essay I could choose a subject and briefly expand on it. I will start here:
The wise young man, when fortunate enough to be in the presence of an extremely attractive woman who he would like to know better, must never allow himself to be caught leering at her body parts.
I know it is sometimes incredibly difficult not to stare, but appropriate restraint must be exercised. Life is not a rap video.
I suggest that in such trying moments you look engagingly into her eyes. If you are speechless, speaking to her with your eyes presents her with an open-ended compliment that you, and/or she, can take anywhere the moment allows. She will appreciate your visual engagement, despite the silence, rather than leering.
That is the good news.
The bad news is that most gangsta (gangster) rappers would refer to the woman described above as a 'Bougie b...h' (note that I did not spell out the b- word, for the same reason I never spell out the n- word. It is all about respect and dignity for yourself and others.)
There is another kind of woman who can be equally attractive, in a physical way, and she loves being leered at. The purveyors of gangsta rap have a name for her as well. They call her and her kind 'Bus' it babies'. It does not take much to get a 'Bus' it baby' into your bed, according to the rappers. She is likely to be just as eager to hop into the next man's bed as yours, especially if he has more money than you.
In the next instalment of this series I plan to explore more of the language that is used (beyond 'Bougie b...h' and Bus' it babies) in the gangsta rap lyrics of the song "I'm So Hood".
If you are an adherent to the more rigid tenets of hard core rap, you might want to pass on reading instalment number two. That is to say it will have been written by someone who, according to the lyrics in "I'm So Hood", is more than a little 'lame'.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Colorless Sharings- an appeal to Australian women
Would you consider being a condemned man's muse? If your answer is yes, please contact me immediately via the prison address at the top of this blog. Meanwhile I want you to know that sight unseen you magnificent women of Australia have already inspired me to write the poem below. I hope you enjoy it. I thank all of you.
Grace and good taste are trusted to dissolve race
I long for the warm pages of another's embrace
Let our child-like imaginations run free, and grow
Truth visits the beauty and compassion we show
Hues of alabaster wrapped in Autumn's brown pasture
Filling old voids with forgotten parcels of laughter
Inspiring moments of love too precious to erase
Wherein I rise and give honor to Australian women
Grace and good taste are trusted to dissolve race
I long for the warm pages of another's embrace
Let our child-like imaginations run free, and grow
Truth visits the beauty and compassion we show
Hues of alabaster wrapped in Autumn's brown pasture
Filling old voids with forgotten parcels of laughter
Inspiring moments of love too precious to erase
Wherein I rise and give honor to Australian women
Sunday, 17 June 2007
"...turn around at night and try to kill us"
Thousands of United States men and women are engaged in untold acts of bravery and drudgery on behalf of what our leaders have defined as vital American interests in Iraq and Afghanistan.
- David Carr
The New York Times May 28 issue carried a photograph of a woman lying prone before a headstone in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. The words beneath read: "Mary McHugh visited the grave of her fiancé, Sgt James J Regan, who was killed in Iraq in February."
It is a very moving photograh. It got me thinking about an imaginary America. In my imaginary America no elected official would ever be allowed to send American men and women off to war if that elected official has never been to war him or herself.
Immediately after I wrote the sentence above, it occurred to me also that even in the real America, no man or woman can enter any one of America's armed forces without being subjected to a psychiatric examination. No American sailor, marine, airman or soldier is allowed to go into a war zone without having seen a psychiatrist first. On the other hand, those elected officials who send Americans to war are not required to have so much as a cursory psychiatric examination before taking office. (There is evidence that a few of them need extensive psychiatric examination and treatment!)
Getting back to my extremely active imagination. It is unfortunate that genuine patriots like Sargeant Regan and others have lost their lives in the middle east, while the elected officials who sent them to their deaths are using those deaths for political advantage under the banner of 'patriotism'. Then hurry home, or to a local sports stadium, to cheer for some baseball, basketball or football player. Where are the cheers for Sargeant Regan?
I am sure that there will be those who will call me crazy after reading what I have to say next, but I have to say it: there is something despicably un-American about thousands of Americans sitting in a sports stadium cheering for some jock to score another point while the Sargeant Regans of this nation are dying on foreign soil.
In my imaginary America there would be no baseball, basketball or football games until the war was over.
Our so-called 'leaders' have sent Americans into yet another war zone wherein, more often than not, the enemy cannot be easily identified. Let me share something with you that was also in the aforecited newspaper, as reported by Michael Kamber.
Sargeant David Safstrom is serving his third tour of duty in Iraq, since 2003. His unit is Delta Company of the First Battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry, 82nd Airborne Division. He came upon a body. It was that of a man other soldiers had killed. When a search of the body was conducted, Kamber reports '...they found identification showing [the dead man] to be a sargeant in the Iraqi Army.' He had been in the process of setting in place a roadside bomb.
Sargeant Safstrom, in utter disillusionment at the discovery of the body's identification, asked himself "What are we doing here? Why are we still here?"
He went on to add, "We're helping guys that are trying to kill us. We help them in the day. They turn around at night and try to kill us."
Sources: "Not to see the fallen is no favor" and "As Allies Turn Foe, Disillusion Rises in some GIs", New York Times
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
Monday, 14 May 2007
Open Letter 1
This is the first of what will be many 'Open Letters' to appear in this space. Visitors to this site are encouraged to send any questions, comments, or ideas (that will enhance understanding for us all) to the snail mail address at this letter's end. I welcome your interaction and I appreciate your interest.
Allow me to introduce myself and personally welcome you to a new project. My name is Brandon Astor Jones. While reading an article in The New York Times by Nina Bernstein entitled "Polygamy, Practised in Secrecy, Follows Africans to New York City"1, I was moved to create this space for 'Open Letters'. Let me quote some of that article:
I could not help myself. I felt obliged to add emphasis to that last word. Ms D's husband is lucky that he is not married to any of the women in my family. The concept of a woman's martial obedience is foreign to them. I am proud of them for that...and more.
Nina Berstein reports that Doussou Traore (age 52), who is the president of an association of Malwian women living in New York, spoke for the group and said of polygamous marriages, "[i]t's difficult, but one accepts it because it's our religion... Our mothers accepted it. Our grandmothers accepted it. Why not us?"
After reading President Traore's words we are again reminded of how hard on women religions can be. While reading the New King James Version, The Scofield Study Bible, I found Exodus 21.7 and 8 of interest, to wit:
Okay, twice now, I could not help myself. I had to add emphasis to the word master. I do not mean to attack Islam, Christianity, or Judaism here. Is it just me or does someone else also notice how prominently words such as obey, slave and master appear in the text of the Holy Books?
If I could speak face to face with President Traore, I would note that at least two of our female ancestors- Sojourner Truth2 and Harriet Tubman3- were practising Christians. The Bible supported slavery and yet those two magnificent women rose up against slavery.
The excuse that 'it's our religion' is not a good one. I need to add that at some point a xenophobic government official who hates immigrants is going to urge other officials to start a sustained surveillance and investigation of certain immigrants. When they find evidence of bigamy- and we all know that there will be plenty of it- many African men will be forced to leave the United States. The polygamy you think that you are practising surreptitiously is about as secret as your homeland's accent in a room full of Americans.
Polygamy is illegal in America. In fact, under American immigration law polygamy is sufficient grounds for expulsion, but usually not before going to prison for up to as many as four years for each proven count of felonious bigamy. An angry wife could wreak havoc in a practising polygamist's life.
You ought to not forget that fact of American life, as you set about the privilege of concreting your relatively new American citizenship.
If you are wondering why a man in prison is telling you all of this, it is because I do not want to see you in any of these cells- where some of your children might have to visit you.
You are loved Odine. Stay safe and strong!
1. The New York Times, March 23, 2007.
2. 1797-1883; American abolitionist.
3. 1820-1913; American abolitionist.
Prisoner Brandon Astor Jones, G3-73
UNO#400574; EF-122216
Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison
P.O. Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233 USA
Word Count: 731
Composition Date: 25 March 2007
The 'One on One' Series: #16, #4
©Brandon Astor Jones 2007
Allow me to introduce myself and personally welcome you to a new project. My name is Brandon Astor Jones. While reading an article in The New York Times by Nina Bernstein entitled "Polygamy, Practised in Secrecy, Follows Africans to New York City"1, I was moved to create this space for 'Open Letters'. Let me quote some of that article:
She worked at Red Lobster in Times Square, and lived with her husband near Yankee Stadium. Yet, one night, returning home from her job, Odine D. discovered that African custom, not American law, held sway over her marriage.
A strange woman was sitting in the living room. Ms D's husband, a security guard born in Ghana, introduced her as his other wife.
Devastated, Ms D., a Guinean immigrant who insisted that her last name be withheld, said she protested: 'I can't live with the woman in my house- we only have two bedrooms'. Her husband cited Islamic precepts allowing a man to have up to four wives, and told her to get used to it. And she tried to obey.
I could not help myself. I felt obliged to add emphasis to that last word. Ms D's husband is lucky that he is not married to any of the women in my family. The concept of a woman's martial obedience is foreign to them. I am proud of them for that...and more.
Nina Berstein reports that Doussou Traore (age 52), who is the president of an association of Malwian women living in New York, spoke for the group and said of polygamous marriages, "[i]t's difficult, but one accepts it because it's our religion... Our mothers accepted it. Our grandmothers accepted it. Why not us?"
After reading President Traore's words we are again reminded of how hard on women religions can be. While reading the New King James Version, The Scofield Study Bible, I found Exodus 21.7 and 8 of interest, to wit:
... if a man sells his daughter to be a female slave, she shall not go out as the male slaves do. If she does not please her master, who has betrothed her to himself, then he shall let her be redeemed. He shall have no right to sell her to a foreign people, since he has dealt deceitfully with her.
Okay, twice now, I could not help myself. I had to add emphasis to the word master. I do not mean to attack Islam, Christianity, or Judaism here. Is it just me or does someone else also notice how prominently words such as obey, slave and master appear in the text of the Holy Books?
If I could speak face to face with President Traore, I would note that at least two of our female ancestors- Sojourner Truth2 and Harriet Tubman3- were practising Christians. The Bible supported slavery and yet those two magnificent women rose up against slavery.
The excuse that 'it's our religion' is not a good one. I need to add that at some point a xenophobic government official who hates immigrants is going to urge other officials to start a sustained surveillance and investigation of certain immigrants. When they find evidence of bigamy- and we all know that there will be plenty of it- many African men will be forced to leave the United States. The polygamy you think that you are practising surreptitiously is about as secret as your homeland's accent in a room full of Americans.
Polygamy is illegal in America. In fact, under American immigration law polygamy is sufficient grounds for expulsion, but usually not before going to prison for up to as many as four years for each proven count of felonious bigamy. An angry wife could wreak havoc in a practising polygamist's life.
You ought to not forget that fact of American life, as you set about the privilege of concreting your relatively new American citizenship.
If you are wondering why a man in prison is telling you all of this, it is because I do not want to see you in any of these cells- where some of your children might have to visit you.
You are loved Odine. Stay safe and strong!
1. The New York Times, March 23, 2007.
2. 1797-1883; American abolitionist.
3. 1820-1913; American abolitionist.
Prisoner Brandon Astor Jones, G3-73
UNO#400574; EF-122216
Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison
P.O. Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233 USA
Word Count: 731
Composition Date: 25 March 2007
The 'One on One' Series: #16, #4
©Brandon Astor Jones 2007
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
This is the first of fifteen entries in a series titled THREE HOURS that reveal my personal experience on the date and hours cited.
' . . . every minute of it' [illustrated]
By Brandon Astor Jones
I was reading the July 2006 issue of American Heritage Magazine when I came across a Kevin Baker essay titled "Cruel and Usual". Let me share the first paragraph with you. It is full of rarely published truth; if you are not interested in truth do not read any further:
"One of the worst ideas Americans have embraced recently is the belief that a decent society must be run at a profit. Government can easily come to resemble kudzu. You have to keep an eye on it and cut it back constantly if you don't want it to grow completely out of hand. That said, there are some attempts to save the taxpayers money that actually undermine our most basic values."
I should add that all Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison's (GD+CP) memorandums read, "Guided by Dedication, Courage and Professionalism". More on that hollow motto later.
The men in G3 Cellblock are assigned to one of three groups in which there are eight to ten men. Each group, one at a time, has a three hour period when we can request the cellblock officer to unlock the barred gate of the 6' by 8' cell in order to move about within the cellblock area.
Those of us who are out often run errands for the men who remain locked down in individual cells. When we are not running errands, we sometimes sit or lie on the floor outside the cell another man occupies and play chess or a game of cards through the bars. We also shower during this time, and exercise – sometimes by walking up and down the stairs.
Running errands includes carrying books, magazines, and newspapers back and forth from one man to another in the cells; sometimes a cup of hot water is needed to make coffee – we fetch that from the hot water dispenser at the foot of the stairs.
We haul water and ice for each other, too, from a picnic cooler on the table near the stairs. Words cannot describe how hot a Georgia prison cell often is during the summer. The concrete and steel remain hot night and day for three months. We all live in fear because it is not uncommon for a prisoner to pass out and die from a combination of dehydration and heat exhaustion.
The cellblock is about forty yards in length and six yards wide. Sometimes in the course of doing errands we walk or run from one end of the cellblock to the other, and go up and down the stairs between the two tiers, as many as forty times.
When the three hour shift is over and we are locked down again, then those who are out in Shift Two, and then Shift Three, interact with us and we send them on cellblock errands.
9:04 a.m. June 3, 2006
I am assigned to Shift One. I requested that Cellblock Officer Nimms unlock the barred gate on Cell 73. I went down the stairs to the cooler for a container of ice. I returned to the cell and placed the container in the sink. I then closed and locked the gate, as ordered by Officer Nimms.
I wrapped a bath towel around the container to prolong the life of the ice, and saved the water as it melted. I did this because the tap water is unpalatable and very often unsafe – especially when it comes out brown like weak (or strong) coffee, which can go on for a few minutes, a few hours, or even for days. I try to keep several containers of clean, clear water so I am ready when the water goes bad.
At approximately 9:30 a.m., Officer Prigeon relieved Officer Nimms at the control booth, a rectangular, locked enclosure that is four times the width of a cell. I yelled to him, "Open Severty-Three." He did so, immediately. I went down to speak to him through the control booth's little rectangular porthole. "Would you ask Sergeant Floyd [Supervisor of the four G cellblocks] if he would get me a new battery for my hearing aid?"
He said that he would do that for me as soon as Officer Nimms relieved him.
When Officer Nimms came back, I returned to Cell 73 and once again, per Officer Nimms' order, I locked the gate after me.
The prisoner who occupies Cell 88, Mr. Brockman, was exercising by walking up and down the stairs. The prisoner locked down in Cell 89, Mr. Morrow, yelled to him to run an errand.
Mr. Brockman walked down to Cell 73 to inform me that Mr. Morrow wanted the Jet magazine he had lent me the day before and he wondered if I had a bag of potato chips that he could borrow until the following week.
I picked up the magazine and chips from the cell's wall cabinet; then I yelled out to Officer Nimms, "Open Seventy-Three!"
She did. I exited 73, which is the last cell at the North end of the cellblock, and locked the gate behind me. I headed for Cell 89, which is the last cell at the South end of the cellblock. After giving the magazine and chips to Mr. Morrow, I walked back to the North end and yelled, "Open Seventy-Three!"
Officer Nimms refused to open the gate.
I went down the stairs to the first floor.
She yelled at me and indicated that I was working her too hard.
It is worthy of note here that Officer Nimms is an African-American female who I would guess is 35 to 40 years of age. Her job, then, largely consisted of sitting inside the control booth and pushing buttons to unlock cell gates, sally ports, shower room gates (two converted cells directly below Cells 73 and 74), the mop room gate, (below Cell 75), and the telephone room gate (beneath Cell 76).
Her busiest days are the two each week that our Shifts are scheduled, when weather permits, to go outside to the exercise yard. On those days she may push buttons operating various gates as many as 40 times in less than 20 minutes as the men move about taking care of their business. So it was absurd for Officer Nimms to imply that I was working her too hard because I had gone in and out of the cell a few times.
Nevertheless, she chose to summarily punish me by refusing to open the gate to Cell 73 for 17 minutes. All the while she sat there, the button to Cell 73 twelve inches from her face, gossiping on the telephone with one or more of her colleagues – smiling at me with vindictiveness.
This would be a good place to remind the reader of the GD+CP's motto: "Guided by Dedication, Courage and Professionalism". I will let you be the judge of Officer Nimm's dedicated work ethic and professionalism. I think her behavior was childish and demonstrated a lack of professionalism on several levels. Here is an officer who spends at least as much time engaged in personal telephone conversations as she does pushing buttons – that is, when she can manage to stay awake.
Officer Nimms sleeps a lot in the control booth. Normally, a prisoner might view a Correctional Officer asleep in the control booth as a benefit, but I would hate to be the man who suddenly has a heart attack and needs a doctor. She is not easy to wake up – nor is she quick to call the medics. Even during the times she manages to stay awake, with the telephone stuck to her ear she decreases the possibility of hearing on of us in such an emergency.
The cellblock is a noisy place. All verbal communication must be shouted – repeatedly. Nine large fans, located on the catwalk create a loud, perpetual drone throughout the cellblock. (The only time that we experience silence is during a power failure.) The noise is such that it is often not even possible to hear a man yelling to his neighbor in the next cell. Officer Nimms, who can be verbally abusive, more often than not without being provoked, does not have to yell; she uses a public address system to address us.
Making contact with Officer Nimms while she is talking on the phone can be extremely difficult. She may well hear us when we call, but she has been known to pretend not to. She resents being interrupted and/or asked to do her job.
It is my understanding that an Officer is never supposed to leave his or her post without getting someone to take it over until she/he returns. Officer Nimms leaves her post often without being relieved.
One must logically wonder how she keeps her job. In anyplace other than a prison, her work ethic – or, more correctly, the lack thereof – would be grounds for termination.
Having said all this, I need the reader to know that Officer Nimms' behavior is not an unusual phenomenon – and that, in a few months, she will be promoted to the rank of sergeant. At the GD+CP, her behavior is rewarded.
10:26 a.m. June 3, 2006
I called out from the cell to Officer Nimms, "Open Seventy-Three." She refused to let me out to take a shower and use the telephone – though not necessarily in that order. You see, I wanted to contact someone outside the prison to call the Officer who is in charge in the warden's absence on weekend, someone in a high position of authority since her immediate superiors seem to be afraid of her, to ask Officer Nimms to do her job.
The GD+CP is operating with a greatly reduced staff. For more than two years its officer ranks have been, and continue to be, deficient. With what can only be called a "skeleton crew", the prison requires one officer to do jobs that previously were handled by two or three. Officers often do not know when – or, in some cases, even if – their shift will end. The turnover rate is huge and is directly related to the drop in quality personnel as of late.
Among the many consequences of this personnel shortage is that often prisoners cannot see our lawyers or keep our scheduled medical callouts (appointments), because no officers are available to escort us. In fact, recently the GD+CP's administrators instituted a policy that forbids all G-Unit prisoners' lawyers from seeing us on Fridays. I am sure no one will admit it, but I suspect the purpose of this policy change is to have a day free of having to escort prisoners to meetings with attorneys. I do not know for certain but I think the new policy is illegal.
Remember Kevin Baker's essay? Much if not most of this behavior from the GD+CP is deeply rooted in the desire to save money. The State of Georgia, indeed America as a whole, is far more interested in saving money than saving lives or reducing crime. The conscienceless drive all across America to incarcerate men, women, and children "on the cheap" will ultimately make free society less safe – the complete opposite of what prison and incarceration are intended to do. Crime will start to spike in ten or fifteen years, as a result.
Corrections officers, male or female, in Georgia, do not get a wage that is commensurate with the current cost of living. If Georgia's Department of Corrections raised correction officers' wages it could demand a higher quality employee; and there would be less behavior like Officer Nimms' within its ranks. I support equal rights for women – they should get equal pay – I also believe that they should meet the requirements of their jobs just as men are required to do.
11:31 a.m. June 3, 2006
Sergeant Floyd returned to G3, responding to the request I made earlier for a hearing aid battery. He did not know that Officer Nimms had been ignoring my requests to open the gate of Cell 73. When he ordered her to open it, she did – and she also let me through the sally port gate – but only so that I could speak with Sergeant Floyd. I had my showering supplies and phone book with me. To take a shower is a right; to place a telephone call is a privilege.
11.41 a.m. June 3, 2006
I detailed Officer Nimms' behavior to Sergeant Floyd. He said he would speak to her.
I was finally allowed to take a shower but was faced with a dilemma. I did not want to expose my phone book to the moisture of the shower – yet I was afraid that if I took it back to Cell 73, Officer Nimms might not let me go back to the shower area. I asked G-Unit Corridor Officer Gieger if I could give him my book for safekeeping.
I showered and at 12:00 p.m. was back in Cell 73, locking the cell gate behind me, as Officer Nimms ordered.
12:03 p.m. June 3, 2006
Officer Nimms opened the cell gates of the men on Shift Two so they could go out into the cellblock.
You have just read what three hours on Saturday, June 3, 2006, were like for me. I was civil and spiritually aware through every minute of it.
Word Count: 2,210
Composition Date: June 4, 2006
The Three Hour Series. Series #16., #1.
For publication.
Brandon can be reached only at this address:
________________________________________
Brandon Astor Jones, G3-73
UNO 400574; EF-122216
Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison
Post Office Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233, U.S.A.
ATTENTION EDITOR
Copyright © 2006 Brandon Astor Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this text / publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without Brandon Astor Jones' written permission via his signature here in the prison address shown above.
Brandon encourages your response to this or any other essay, be it pro or con. Other articles of his writings and the 175-page roman à clef entitled without war can be accessed at his website.
' . . . every minute of it' [illustrated]
By Brandon Astor Jones
I was reading the July 2006 issue of American Heritage Magazine when I came across a Kevin Baker essay titled "Cruel and Usual". Let me share the first paragraph with you. It is full of rarely published truth; if you are not interested in truth do not read any further:
"One of the worst ideas Americans have embraced recently is the belief that a decent society must be run at a profit. Government can easily come to resemble kudzu. You have to keep an eye on it and cut it back constantly if you don't want it to grow completely out of hand. That said, there are some attempts to save the taxpayers money that actually undermine our most basic values."
I should add that all Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison's (GD+CP) memorandums read, "Guided by Dedication, Courage and Professionalism". More on that hollow motto later.
The men in G3 Cellblock are assigned to one of three groups in which there are eight to ten men. Each group, one at a time, has a three hour period when we can request the cellblock officer to unlock the barred gate of the 6' by 8' cell in order to move about within the cellblock area.
Those of us who are out often run errands for the men who remain locked down in individual cells. When we are not running errands, we sometimes sit or lie on the floor outside the cell another man occupies and play chess or a game of cards through the bars. We also shower during this time, and exercise – sometimes by walking up and down the stairs.
Running errands includes carrying books, magazines, and newspapers back and forth from one man to another in the cells; sometimes a cup of hot water is needed to make coffee – we fetch that from the hot water dispenser at the foot of the stairs.
We haul water and ice for each other, too, from a picnic cooler on the table near the stairs. Words cannot describe how hot a Georgia prison cell often is during the summer. The concrete and steel remain hot night and day for three months. We all live in fear because it is not uncommon for a prisoner to pass out and die from a combination of dehydration and heat exhaustion.
The cellblock is about forty yards in length and six yards wide. Sometimes in the course of doing errands we walk or run from one end of the cellblock to the other, and go up and down the stairs between the two tiers, as many as forty times.
When the three hour shift is over and we are locked down again, then those who are out in Shift Two, and then Shift Three, interact with us and we send them on cellblock errands.
9:04 a.m. June 3, 2006
I am assigned to Shift One. I requested that Cellblock Officer Nimms unlock the barred gate on Cell 73. I went down the stairs to the cooler for a container of ice. I returned to the cell and placed the container in the sink. I then closed and locked the gate, as ordered by Officer Nimms.
I wrapped a bath towel around the container to prolong the life of the ice, and saved the water as it melted. I did this because the tap water is unpalatable and very often unsafe – especially when it comes out brown like weak (or strong) coffee, which can go on for a few minutes, a few hours, or even for days. I try to keep several containers of clean, clear water so I am ready when the water goes bad.
At approximately 9:30 a.m., Officer Prigeon relieved Officer Nimms at the control booth, a rectangular, locked enclosure that is four times the width of a cell. I yelled to him, "Open Severty-Three." He did so, immediately. I went down to speak to him through the control booth's little rectangular porthole. "Would you ask Sergeant Floyd [Supervisor of the four G cellblocks] if he would get me a new battery for my hearing aid?"
He said that he would do that for me as soon as Officer Nimms relieved him.
When Officer Nimms came back, I returned to Cell 73 and once again, per Officer Nimms' order, I locked the gate after me.
The prisoner who occupies Cell 88, Mr. Brockman, was exercising by walking up and down the stairs. The prisoner locked down in Cell 89, Mr. Morrow, yelled to him to run an errand.
Mr. Brockman walked down to Cell 73 to inform me that Mr. Morrow wanted the Jet magazine he had lent me the day before and he wondered if I had a bag of potato chips that he could borrow until the following week.
I picked up the magazine and chips from the cell's wall cabinet; then I yelled out to Officer Nimms, "Open Seventy-Three!"
She did. I exited 73, which is the last cell at the North end of the cellblock, and locked the gate behind me. I headed for Cell 89, which is the last cell at the South end of the cellblock. After giving the magazine and chips to Mr. Morrow, I walked back to the North end and yelled, "Open Seventy-Three!"
Officer Nimms refused to open the gate.
I went down the stairs to the first floor.
She yelled at me and indicated that I was working her too hard.
It is worthy of note here that Officer Nimms is an African-American female who I would guess is 35 to 40 years of age. Her job, then, largely consisted of sitting inside the control booth and pushing buttons to unlock cell gates, sally ports, shower room gates (two converted cells directly below Cells 73 and 74), the mop room gate, (below Cell 75), and the telephone room gate (beneath Cell 76).
Her busiest days are the two each week that our Shifts are scheduled, when weather permits, to go outside to the exercise yard. On those days she may push buttons operating various gates as many as 40 times in less than 20 minutes as the men move about taking care of their business. So it was absurd for Officer Nimms to imply that I was working her too hard because I had gone in and out of the cell a few times.
Nevertheless, she chose to summarily punish me by refusing to open the gate to Cell 73 for 17 minutes. All the while she sat there, the button to Cell 73 twelve inches from her face, gossiping on the telephone with one or more of her colleagues – smiling at me with vindictiveness.
This would be a good place to remind the reader of the GD+CP's motto: "Guided by Dedication, Courage and Professionalism". I will let you be the judge of Officer Nimm's dedicated work ethic and professionalism. I think her behavior was childish and demonstrated a lack of professionalism on several levels. Here is an officer who spends at least as much time engaged in personal telephone conversations as she does pushing buttons – that is, when she can manage to stay awake.
Officer Nimms sleeps a lot in the control booth. Normally, a prisoner might view a Correctional Officer asleep in the control booth as a benefit, but I would hate to be the man who suddenly has a heart attack and needs a doctor. She is not easy to wake up – nor is she quick to call the medics. Even during the times she manages to stay awake, with the telephone stuck to her ear she decreases the possibility of hearing on of us in such an emergency.
The cellblock is a noisy place. All verbal communication must be shouted – repeatedly. Nine large fans, located on the catwalk create a loud, perpetual drone throughout the cellblock. (The only time that we experience silence is during a power failure.) The noise is such that it is often not even possible to hear a man yelling to his neighbor in the next cell. Officer Nimms, who can be verbally abusive, more often than not without being provoked, does not have to yell; she uses a public address system to address us.
Making contact with Officer Nimms while she is talking on the phone can be extremely difficult. She may well hear us when we call, but she has been known to pretend not to. She resents being interrupted and/or asked to do her job.
It is my understanding that an Officer is never supposed to leave his or her post without getting someone to take it over until she/he returns. Officer Nimms leaves her post often without being relieved.
One must logically wonder how she keeps her job. In anyplace other than a prison, her work ethic – or, more correctly, the lack thereof – would be grounds for termination.
Having said all this, I need the reader to know that Officer Nimms' behavior is not an unusual phenomenon – and that, in a few months, she will be promoted to the rank of sergeant. At the GD+CP, her behavior is rewarded.
10:26 a.m. June 3, 2006
I called out from the cell to Officer Nimms, "Open Seventy-Three." She refused to let me out to take a shower and use the telephone – though not necessarily in that order. You see, I wanted to contact someone outside the prison to call the Officer who is in charge in the warden's absence on weekend, someone in a high position of authority since her immediate superiors seem to be afraid of her, to ask Officer Nimms to do her job.
The GD+CP is operating with a greatly reduced staff. For more than two years its officer ranks have been, and continue to be, deficient. With what can only be called a "skeleton crew", the prison requires one officer to do jobs that previously were handled by two or three. Officers often do not know when – or, in some cases, even if – their shift will end. The turnover rate is huge and is directly related to the drop in quality personnel as of late.
Among the many consequences of this personnel shortage is that often prisoners cannot see our lawyers or keep our scheduled medical callouts (appointments), because no officers are available to escort us. In fact, recently the GD+CP's administrators instituted a policy that forbids all G-Unit prisoners' lawyers from seeing us on Fridays. I am sure no one will admit it, but I suspect the purpose of this policy change is to have a day free of having to escort prisoners to meetings with attorneys. I do not know for certain but I think the new policy is illegal.
Remember Kevin Baker's essay? Much if not most of this behavior from the GD+CP is deeply rooted in the desire to save money. The State of Georgia, indeed America as a whole, is far more interested in saving money than saving lives or reducing crime. The conscienceless drive all across America to incarcerate men, women, and children "on the cheap" will ultimately make free society less safe – the complete opposite of what prison and incarceration are intended to do. Crime will start to spike in ten or fifteen years, as a result.
Corrections officers, male or female, in Georgia, do not get a wage that is commensurate with the current cost of living. If Georgia's Department of Corrections raised correction officers' wages it could demand a higher quality employee; and there would be less behavior like Officer Nimms' within its ranks. I support equal rights for women – they should get equal pay – I also believe that they should meet the requirements of their jobs just as men are required to do.
11:31 a.m. June 3, 2006
Sergeant Floyd returned to G3, responding to the request I made earlier for a hearing aid battery. He did not know that Officer Nimms had been ignoring my requests to open the gate of Cell 73. When he ordered her to open it, she did – and she also let me through the sally port gate – but only so that I could speak with Sergeant Floyd. I had my showering supplies and phone book with me. To take a shower is a right; to place a telephone call is a privilege.
11.41 a.m. June 3, 2006
I detailed Officer Nimms' behavior to Sergeant Floyd. He said he would speak to her.
I was finally allowed to take a shower but was faced with a dilemma. I did not want to expose my phone book to the moisture of the shower – yet I was afraid that if I took it back to Cell 73, Officer Nimms might not let me go back to the shower area. I asked G-Unit Corridor Officer Gieger if I could give him my book for safekeeping.
I showered and at 12:00 p.m. was back in Cell 73, locking the cell gate behind me, as Officer Nimms ordered.
12:03 p.m. June 3, 2006
Officer Nimms opened the cell gates of the men on Shift Two so they could go out into the cellblock.
You have just read what three hours on Saturday, June 3, 2006, were like for me. I was civil and spiritually aware through every minute of it.
Word Count: 2,210
Composition Date: June 4, 2006
The Three Hour Series. Series #16., #1.
For publication.
Brandon can be reached only at this address:
________________________________________
Brandon Astor Jones, G3-73
UNO 400574; EF-122216
Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison
Post Office Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233, U.S.A.
ATTENTION EDITOR
Copyright © 2006 Brandon Astor Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this text / publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without Brandon Astor Jones' written permission via his signature here in the prison address shown above.
Brandon encourages your response to this or any other essay, be it pro or con. Other articles of his writings and the 175-page roman à clef entitled without war can be accessed at his website.
Monday, 29 January 2007
"...before I die here"
Yes, it is true that I have never visited
any part of their beautiful land
There is an ineffable thing inside of me,
of it, they helped me take command
They are refreshingly intuitive people
at once countrified and urbane
Humane, genuine and unpretentious, free
of jaded little socialized games
Bestowing their welcomed presence upon
me without self-righteous disdain
All helped me win the bloody war against
my bad past criminalities' stains
Make no mistake, with mounting flaws
and all, I still love America
However, the people I describe in the
lines above live in Australia
Brandon Astor Jones
11 June 2006
This less than brilliant poem is my way of saying thank you to Australians who have kindly entered my life. They cause me to want to expand my number of Australian friends.
To those readers who are interested, I herewith extend the offer of friendly exchanges via correspondence. I will answer all letters.
I genuinely want to know how you see, think, and feel about this world we are privileged to share. Please feel free to broach any subject with candor. There will be no taboos.
Let me be clear: I do not care what your ethnic background is, nor do I care how old, young, rich, or poor you are; moreover, I will make no judgements about your political or lifestyle choices.
I am an African American man who has spent the last 26 of my 63 years on death row in America. I hope that you and I will take advantage of every opportunity that our correspondence will afford that we may learn and grow communicatively in ways that enhance- rather than reject- the humanity in each of us before I die here.
Brandon Astor Jones
G3-73; EF-122216; UNO400574
Georgia Diagnostic Classification Prison
P O Box 3877
Jackson, Georgia 30233
USA
Friday, 12 January 2007
The following article first appeared in the British publication ‘the Friend’ (October 6, 2006). It is reprinted here with the publisher’s and author’s permission.
“...brave and dignified man”
by Dr Jill Segger
In her celebrated essay of 1929, Virginia Woolf set the industry standard. Today, A Room of One’s Own is seen as an essential requirement of the writer’s craft.
Brandon Astor Jones is a sixty-three-year-old African-American who produces a steady stream of well-informed essays and articles from a very small room indeed. Airless and permanently noisy, his workplace is a cell on Death Row in the state of Georgia where he has been incarcerated for twenty-seven years.
I am a freelance journalist and the conditions under which I practice my trade could not be more different. I work in peaceful surroundings; there is technology on my desk which makes research and communication a matter of a few mouse clicks and I am at liberty to go where I will in pursuit of information.
I have corresponded with Brandon for many years and have come to value him deeply as an opinionated, occasionally prickly, always thoughtful and unfailingly compassionate friend. Through editing a collection of his work and sharing ideas and inspirations with a writing mind constantly struggling against constraint and poverty of resource, I have also learned how easy it is to be diminished by mistaking blessings for rights.
Brandon’s writing has its roots- as all good writing must- in the author’s own experience. Born before the Civil Rights Movement began to have any impact on American society, Brandon grew up subject to prejudice and humiliation. His family life was unhappy and he ran away from home as a very young boy. It was inevitable that a child living by his wits would fall under malign influences. The one significant act of kindness that he remembers and records from those difficult years came from a prostitute who gave him shelter and tried to help him as a mother might guide a son.
Brandon has never denied his errors or sought to exculpate himself from the felony for which he was sentenced.
Here, I believe it necessary to place on record the fact that his was not the finger on the trigger when a store attendant was shot dead during the robbery for which he was sentenced. However, Georgia’s state laws make an accomplice subject to the same penalty as that given to the murderer.
The young man who was involved in that crime has long since been reborn as a morally mature person passionately opposed to the injustices of racism, child abuse and misogyny. These are the recurrent themes of his work and are examined in writing which is sometimes difficult, angry and shocking, and at other times tender and full of sorrow. Above all, it is honest writing that exposes an America George Bush prefers to ignore.
Brandon Astor Jones is a remarkable man. For over a quarter of a century he has borne an existence most of us would find unimaginable yet he has retained a great generosity of spirit.
He has paid his debt to society and a humane system would release him to act as the citizen of integrity he has learned to be. That will not happen. The appeal process is exhausted and his future is short.
In the time remaining to him, Brandon yearns for contact with people who will read his writing and engage in correspondence with him on that writing. Friends outside the prison maintain a website where his work may be read.
Brandon will never be able to walk cheerfully over the world, but it is open to us whose lives have been more fortunate to answer that of God* in this brave and dignified man.
* [Editor’s comment: This phrase is a concept that is at the heart of Quaker thinking. George Fox, founder of the Quakers, exhorted his followers to “walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in every person.”]
Composition date: October 10, 2006
The Momma Series. Series #15., #15.
“...brave and dignified man”
by Dr Jill Segger
In her celebrated essay of 1929, Virginia Woolf set the industry standard. Today, A Room of One’s Own is seen as an essential requirement of the writer’s craft.
Brandon Astor Jones is a sixty-three-year-old African-American who produces a steady stream of well-informed essays and articles from a very small room indeed. Airless and permanently noisy, his workplace is a cell on Death Row in the state of Georgia where he has been incarcerated for twenty-seven years.
I am a freelance journalist and the conditions under which I practice my trade could not be more different. I work in peaceful surroundings; there is technology on my desk which makes research and communication a matter of a few mouse clicks and I am at liberty to go where I will in pursuit of information.
I have corresponded with Brandon for many years and have come to value him deeply as an opinionated, occasionally prickly, always thoughtful and unfailingly compassionate friend. Through editing a collection of his work and sharing ideas and inspirations with a writing mind constantly struggling against constraint and poverty of resource, I have also learned how easy it is to be diminished by mistaking blessings for rights.
Brandon’s writing has its roots- as all good writing must- in the author’s own experience. Born before the Civil Rights Movement began to have any impact on American society, Brandon grew up subject to prejudice and humiliation. His family life was unhappy and he ran away from home as a very young boy. It was inevitable that a child living by his wits would fall under malign influences. The one significant act of kindness that he remembers and records from those difficult years came from a prostitute who gave him shelter and tried to help him as a mother might guide a son.
Brandon has never denied his errors or sought to exculpate himself from the felony for which he was sentenced.
Here, I believe it necessary to place on record the fact that his was not the finger on the trigger when a store attendant was shot dead during the robbery for which he was sentenced. However, Georgia’s state laws make an accomplice subject to the same penalty as that given to the murderer.
The young man who was involved in that crime has long since been reborn as a morally mature person passionately opposed to the injustices of racism, child abuse and misogyny. These are the recurrent themes of his work and are examined in writing which is sometimes difficult, angry and shocking, and at other times tender and full of sorrow. Above all, it is honest writing that exposes an America George Bush prefers to ignore.
Brandon Astor Jones is a remarkable man. For over a quarter of a century he has borne an existence most of us would find unimaginable yet he has retained a great generosity of spirit.
He has paid his debt to society and a humane system would release him to act as the citizen of integrity he has learned to be. That will not happen. The appeal process is exhausted and his future is short.
In the time remaining to him, Brandon yearns for contact with people who will read his writing and engage in correspondence with him on that writing. Friends outside the prison maintain a website where his work may be read.
Brandon will never be able to walk cheerfully over the world, but it is open to us whose lives have been more fortunate to answer that of God* in this brave and dignified man.
* [Editor’s comment: This phrase is a concept that is at the heart of Quaker thinking. George Fox, founder of the Quakers, exhorted his followers to “walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in every person.”]
Composition date: October 10, 2006
The Momma Series. Series #15., #15.
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