I feel numb. I feel defeated. I don't want to read any more stories or news reports or even any more calls to action. Then I feel ashamed. I want to be strong. I want to know what the right thing to say is at this moment for this moment.

"There is nothing to say," Ronnie Kitchen said when we talked on the phone this morning. Ronnie was the twentieth death row prisoner to be exonerated from Illinois' death row. We've known each other for fourteen years. We hung on the phone for a few moments in silence. Then we remembered our visit to Savannah. In the summer of 2009, when Ronnie walked out of Cook County Courthouse a free man, we went down to Georgia to see his mom. Since we were near Savannah, we decided to visit Martina Correia, Troy Davis' sister.

I remember sitting in Martina's living room with her mom and sister. They were so pleased to meet Ronnie. I think they saw Troy in him. Ronnie was living proof that Troy could be free one day. This past spring, Virginia Davis passed away just days after the Supreme Court denied Troy's appeal. With this decision, we knew that an execution date would soon be set. Martina said she thought her mom died of a broken heart.

That day, Martina took us to the scene of the crime, the Burger King parking lot where Officer Mark MacPhail was killed. She took us to the balcony of the motel where one of the eyewitnesses had supposedly seen Troy shoot the officer. We stayed on the balcony while Martina went across the street to the parking lot. In broad daylight, we couldn't identify Martina from where we were standing, let alone a stranger in the middle of the night.

Then Martina, a gracious host, took us to downtown Savannah where Ronnie got to taste his first pralines. They were smooth and sweet and melted in your mouth. We sampled pralines from every candy store that we walked by. Amidst the beauty of Savannah, the harbor and the cobble-stone lined streets, Martina pointed out the spot where slaves were once auctioned off.

I think fondly of that day we spent with Martina. It was a hopeful time.

Now, I hear how weak Martina's voice sounds in an interview she gave on the day of Troy's execution. Photographs taken of her in the protest area outside the prison show tears in her eyes. She insists that her brother's death will not be in vein. I want to honor Troy, Martina, and their family.

I wish I had deep, profound words of wisdom to offer. What I can offer is my love. In the face of this overwhelming injustice, I ask us all to love fiercely, to refuse to look away even when it's hard, and to never forget. In Troy's memory, in solidarity, in struggle, and in sorrow.
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  1. Sending love to you, Alice, to Troy, and to this movement that will see justice.

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  2. In any war, there are moments of victory and moments of defeat. As soldiers in the war against injustice, we must learn to encounter each of these moments with the same mindset. We mustn't become complacent in our moments of victory nor despondent in our moments of defeat.

    Ronnie was a moment of victory; Troy is a moment of defeat. It is a tough moment. It is a moment we wish we didn't have to endure. But endure we must. We must stand up, draw in a deep breath, and step forward. As soldiers in the war against injustice, that is what we do. What is what those who have fallen would want us to do. That is what Troy would want us to do.

    In love, in peace, in light. Always.

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  3. dear Penknife Press, thanks for reading and your encouragement. i respectfully differ with you that "we must learn to encounter these moments with the same mindset." different moments elicit and require different responses. this was a tragic loss and shameful day in U.S. history. we endure. we mourn. and we organize.

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  4. I wrote this on the 22nd of September. This was how I felt:

    http://brothawolf.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/untitled/

    ReplyDelete

Louva Grace Bell was one of the pioneering mothers who helped their sons organize the Death Row 10 campaign. When I met Louva in 1998, her son Ronnie Kitchen was on Illinois' death row for a crime he did not commit. The story of the Death Row 10 is little known to the public: how a group of Black men who had been tortured by former Commander Jon Burge and a ring of white detectives, courageously organized from behind bars to fight for justice. Insisting that their lives matter, the Death Row 10 and their moms linked up with activists to interrupt Illinois' death machine when no one seemed to care that a ring of white officers had tortured them, forcing confessions that were used to convict and condemn them to death.

Earlier this week at the final mayoral debate in Chicago's unprecedented run-off election, the scene outside WTTW Studios was a strange mix of about 75 Rahm supporters from SEUI Local 73, mostly middle-aged white men some wearing hard hats, carrying their shiny blue "I'm for Rahm" placards, a larger group of residents from the northwest side of Chicago protesting airport noise, and then there was us.

This morning I will be attending the Chicago City Council hearing along with dozens of other Chicagoans in support of the Reparations Ordinance for Chicago police torture survivors.

I’m a sucker for super heroes and the endless stream of Hollywood movie remakes offering me a thrilling escape where justice is always served.
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Dear God, this is a prayer

from an atheist who wants to believe

in the higher power of humanity

and herself. She wrote this poem in a dream.

When she woke she could

only remember this beginning.

She went on with her day.

A morning walk with her dog.

Another day at the office.

Meetings, lunch, emails.

A rap session at a west side barber shop.

Talking to strangers, that’s her job.

Seeking absolution and to forget,

after work she went to the beach.

It was a glorious Friday night.

Earlier this month, I spent a Saturday evening with Darby Tillis, Delbert Tibbs, Ronnie Kitchen, Nathson Fields, Dicky Gaines, Mark Clemens, Marvin Reeves, Darrel Cannon, and Montell Johnson. In other circumstances, some might call these men thugs. I call them my heroes. Each of these men were wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death or life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Jiro Ono dreams of making sushi. But he doesn't just dream about it. He does it -- for the last sixty years of his life, seven days a week with the exception of national holidays. Making sushi. It's his ecstasy, his obsession, his raison d'etre. The movie about him, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, makes you want to eat sushi. Not just any sushi, but the mouthwatering delectable bites of sushi meticulously prepared by Jiro and his team. The art of making sushi is both laborious and beautiful.

I can’t stop thinking about him, this man I saw on State Street. I almost didn’t notice him as I hurried by with envelope in hand, anxious to get to the post office to mail my request for a tax extension by tax day deadline.

He was Asian like me, older than me, sitting on the corner, wearing a blue windbreaker, holding the neck of an instrument - black and worn - with just a few strings.
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I was planning to see Hunger Games when it first came out, but life intervened. I finally saw a matinee show last Saturday, and I have a few thoughts. For me, the Hunger Games resonates with these times because it is about hope in the face of hopelessness and humanity in the face of barbarism. It's about a 1% that lives in opulence and luxury while the 99% are forced to compete with each other for their very survival as they struggle to subsist and live with dignity.
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Dear Trayvon,

What was it like for you in those last moments of your life? One moment you were carefree, or so you thought, the next, shot dead. Sometimes things stay the same, then suddenly they change.

I took a picture of myself with a hoodie on, and posted it on Facebook to stand in solidarity with your family and with all the Trayvon Martin's of the world. A million others have done the same, a symbolic gesture to remember you, to honor you, to mourn for you.
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Chicago, IL
I believe writing is meant to be shared, there’s a poem for every moment, generosity of spirit is a way of life, and we choose how we approach each day. I'm working on a memoir about things my mother doesn't want to know, so you might find bits and pieces of it here.
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On this blog, you'll find my musings on the extraordinariness of the ordinary, adventures in activism, poems I like, and (every so often) poems I write.
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