XXIII: SOUTHERN TRIP 2018 – PART 2: ANGOLA, NOLA, PEARL, BIRMINGHAM

This article is the second installment in a three-part series by Die Jim Crow producer Fury Young about the DJC Southern Trip 2018. Thanks to our gofundme donors for making the trip possible.

Some names changed for anonymity.

After four days at the InterNational Prisoner’s Family Conference, I was ready to leave Dallas and head southbound. The next stop was Louisiana State Penitentiary, more commonly known as Angola; the largest maximum security prison in America. Formerly a slave plantation, Angola became a state facility in 1901. The 28-square mile property is larger than the island of Manhattan, holding 6,300 prisoners and staffed by a crew of 1,800. As you drive through the grounds past an alley of bald cypress, the southern gothic plantation past feels more like present.

Every Sunday in October and the first Sunday in April, Angola hosts a rodeo in which attendees come from far and wide. Dozens of prisoners participate in the spectacle sport, while hundreds of others sell their wares to the public: artwork, handcrafted furniture, food and drink (no alcohol), belts, wallets. I had been there in 2014 to meet Junior Hooker [not his real name], who I’d heard was one of the best guitarists in the joint. At that point, in ’14, Junior had served 31 years of a life without parole sentence. Junior and his family have told me he did not commit the murder he is in prison for.

Hooker and I have stayed in touch over the years. I’ve applied so many times to record him that I’ve lost count. I said five in the video above, but after a fact check, it actually stands at four. I think Junior knows I’m going to keep trying until they say yes. I was looking forward to seeing him all these years later, I just wasn’t sure what the chances were. This past July, I’d received a letter from Hooker explaining he was in the hole:

“…Man, I’m in the worst part of the prison again – extended lockdown! I had a knife-fight that I could not avoid. I cut the dude up a few times, but it was nothing life-threatening. I’m o’kay [sic] – not stabbed or cut. But I had to defend myself.”

The Angola Rodeo is held in a 10,000 seat stadium acres away from any prison units. Concession stands and arts and craft tables surround the arena, with a modest size bandshell made of cinder blocks by the main entrance. A local band entertains pre-rodeo; the kind of local band that never leaves the locale. I perused the stage but couldn’t spot Junior, so I asked a spectator in a state-issued “RODEO WORKER” shirt if he knew of Hooker’s whereabouts. “Hang on a minute,” he replied, surprised that a civilian knew and cared about a fellow prisoner. The man asked a cohort nearby and came back with some expected news, “Hooker is in the hole, man.”

Junior Hooker at rodeo in 2014. Face blurred for anonymity.

Junior (left) & I with band crew, 2014 (Photographer unknown)

Though Hooker wasn’t around, I got to hang with a couple buddies I made last time; D-Artise and Michael Sawyer. Unfortunately Angola doesn’t allow cameras anymore (they did in 2014), because both men carry an aura of strength and grace that a photograph might capture. They’ve both been in for over twenty years and their pasts weren’t easy. As a kid, D and his sister witnessed their father shot and killed in front of them. Michael’s stepdad would beat him and his siblings senseless; his real dad was overseas in Vietnam. I don’t know what D-Artise is in for but Michael’s case is a clear self-defense murder. They both have LWOP: life without the possibility of parole.

Like Pennsylvania, Louisiana is a “life means life” state, where the vast majority of lifers are not eligible to see a parole board: a total of 4,900 people in the state. According to a 2017 report by the Sentencing Project, this population surpasses the number of LWOP prisoners in Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee and Texas combined. Pennsylvania and Louisiana have another travesty in common: they are the only two states that serve mandatory LWOP sentences for second-degree murder, like Michael Sawyer’s case.

Worst of all, the numbers are growing while public safety is improving. In Louisiana, the LWOP population rose 28 percent between 2003 and 2016, a period in which Louisiana’s overall crime rate dropped. On a positive note, organizations like Louisianans for Prison Alternatives (LPA) are doing on-the-ground work in their home state to fight for changes to parole eligibility. Watch this important documentary produced by Southern Poverty Law Center and LPA — fortunately, these filmmakers were granted access to shoot inside Angola — a prison where 76% of the residents will die inside.

It was a good time kicking it with Keith and Michael. Though they’d both been locked up in the same prison for decades, the two had never met. Of the seemingly endless vendors surrounding the giant rodeo arena, their displays happened to be a few yards apart. I’d watched the rodeo in 2014 and wasn’t too captivated by “the wildest show in the South” — plus Junior wasn’t in the band this year — so I ended up divvying up my time between Keith, Michael, and just walking around and talking to other artists. I couldn’t resist buying a few pieces.

I did have one impromptu business appointment: an Associate Warden there had recently denied my latest request to record Junior Hooker, and I was able to track him down during the rodeo festivities. I knew it was a long shot, but I figured if I couldn’t talk him into a “let’s revisit this,” he would at least have a face to the name. The latter was the end result — a curt “Thank you for introducing yourself… Goodbye.” Perhaps the fifth time will be the charm.

Glass Etchings By Michael Sawyer

All work below is for sale. Inquiries: diejimcrow at gmail dot com

Painting By D-Artise

Leaving Angola

…and saying farewell to a cow.

The rodeo got to shutting down at 5PM, so I said my goodbyes to Michael and D-Artise, grateful for the time spent and grateful to leave the prison. It was time to head to New Orleans, where I’d be for two nights before a meeting at Central Mississippi Correctional Facility (CMCF). The following day saw two important appointments: a blast from the past meet with my third grade teacher, and a visit to Junior Hooker’s family on Frenchmen Street.

My former elementary school teacher, Eve Abrams, had been the recipient of a grant I’d applied to and lost, and we connected last year after I’d seen the news of her recipience. Eve is a podcaster with a focus on New Orleans and mass incarceration, and our projects could be distant cousins. It was great to catch up with her after so many years. Check out her work — eveabrams.com — and listen to her powerful Unprisoned podcast.

The next NOLA stop was Junior’s family home, which I’d visited the past two times in the city. Junior comes from a family of musicians, and Mrs. Emelda, his mom, still plays the piano and sings at her local church. She is eighty-four years old. I’d forgotten that on my first visit in 2014, Mrs. Emelda played a gospel on the keys that really shook. We agreed that next time I’m in town we should record a song of hers, and if the timing lines up, drive down to the rodeo to see Junior. Thanks to Mrs. Emelda, Sennetta, and Ivan for their hospitality and the homemade cake.

I woke up early the next day for a meeting at CMCF, a state prison in Pearl, Mississippi, less than three hours from New Orleans and ten minutes from Jackson. My connection there was Professor Louis Bourgeois, who runs a creative writing program in several Mississippi prisons including CMCF. Courtesy of Mississippi Department of Corrections (note: The Hair Zone and free labor):

CMCF is located on 171 acres and includes thirteen housing units with a capacity of 3,557 beds. Offenders sentenced to the Mississippi Department of Corrections are brought to CMCF where they are processed through the Receiving and Classification unit. [In other words, all MDOC prisoners are sent to this prison upon starting their bid.]
Of the three state prisons, CMCF is the only facility to house female inmates. CMCF houses males and females classified to all custody levels, including minimum and medium security, close custody and death row. All female offenders sentenced to death are housed at CMCF.
CMCF I has a full-service hair salon open for the female offenders called The Hair Zone.
CMCF inmates provided more than 540 hours of free inmate labor at the end of May 2015 to adjacent municipalities and counties, as well as assisting other state agencies.

Based on my previous discussions with Bourgeois, I was expecting to pitch the project the women’s unit, but unbeknownst to me, the professor had spoken with the warden of Y.O.U. instead: the Youthful Offender Unit. This was a welcome surprise, albeit slightly jarring, but I went with the flow and embraced the situation. Die Jim Crow has yet to record at a juvenile facility, and if we’re gonna reach the kids, well, we should record them too. So, I entered the meeting with confidence and just a drop of trepidation.

When I met the warden, the drop evaporated quick. Leander Parker is one of those public servants who actually deserves the title: he is in it for the right reasons and he treats the job as a humanitarian, not an authoritarian. The meeting went well; Die Jim Crow was granted access on the spot, and Warden Parker agreed to identify five collaborators from the unit. Somewhat stunned, I left the prison feeling excited and equally overwhelmed. These kids were not doing a stint in reform school and coming home in a few months; they are all going to be sent to adult camps eventually, meaning they’re in prison for some heavy stuff and chances are I’ll be communicating with some of them for years to come. It’s tough to explain it to someone who doesn’t maintain relationships with folks in prison, but when you take that on, it’s a promise. Sometimes it’s the person on the inside who will fade away and lose touch for whatever reason, but for me, Die Jim Crow is about building real relationships when they happen organically. It doesn’t happen with everyone, but when it does, it’s a real thing.

I left Mississippi for Birmingham, Alabama, the first time eastbound on this trip. Though I was more than halfway through my voyage, the remainder of the trip would be the most intense part — meeting several new participants at two prisons in South Carolina and hearing their stuff — so I was glad my next step would be with an old comrade, Tameca Cole.

Tameca and I began corresponding in 2014 when she was incarcerated at Julia Tutwiler Prison for Women. We developed a close bond as fellow writers: we loved the dark and detailed lyrics in hip hop, the kind we both came up listening to although decades apart in age. I remember sending her Nas’ “Rewind” as a reference track and how much she dug that. “Dog whatever they call you God just listen / I spit a story backward it starts at the endin….”

Last time I saw Tameca it was our first time meeting in person, having exchanged letters and phone calls for three years. I even spoke at her parole hearing on a trip down south in 2016 where she made parole. This time would be just a lunch date, as I had to get to Allendale Correctional Institution early the next day for an epic meet and greet. More on that in Part 3. I was able to film a bit with Tameca before we left her apartment for Mexican food, so here she is in all her glory, a nice way to close out this Part 2.

Fury Young
November 2018

An excerpt from “Invisible Tattoos,” a song Tameca wrote in prison which will be recorded at Camille Griffin Graham, a women’s prison in Columbia, South Carolina.

From Tameca and Fury’s First In-Person Meet

All photos and videos by Fury Young unless otherwise noted.

XXIII: SOUTHERN TRIP 2018 – PART 2: ANGOLA, NOLA, PEARL, BIRMINGHAM

XXIV: 2018 // A YEAR IN REVIEW

XXII: SOUTHERN TRIP 2018 – PART 1: CINCINNATI, TULSA, DALLAS