 This is the second contribution to our new, bi-weekly blog post featuring creative content made by currently or formerly incarcerated people! Today, we're sharing a persuasive essay written by Sede Baker, who is currently incarcerated at Angola State Penitentiary.
What happens when the state slashes funding to educational programs? What happens to the students that depend on that funding to attain higher education? And what happens to upcoming generations when their parents come from an era where the government they had faith in denied them education? Government funding allows colleges to expand their educational programs to further their students’ ability to attain enlightenment. When there are major budget cuts, it prevents one class of people from elevating to a higher social class with a higher pay grade that would advance their means of living. In what is termed "the land of the free,” the cuts prevent this class from establishing wealth through free market principles and passing it on to their progeny to continue generational wealth-building.This creates no escape from oppressive bosses who utilize their position to control and manipulate. Instead, it creates high level of unemployment, and the stresses from such can cause one to become irrational. This leads to a variety of burdens, including crime. All humans have one thing in common, which is that we are born with innate capabilities to survive. In a mode of self-preservation, this is where robberies, selling/using drugs, and killing come into the equation. These are violations of the laws that lead to long prison terms, and they are also all acts of survival that ultimately stem from funding cuts for educational programs. This lack of academic opportunity keeps knowledge-seekers from the understanding needed to make better decisions. Worse, one group may suffer from these cuts, yet upcoming generations still inherit this hardships. This perpetuation of government-inflicted problems keeps many out of the realm of higher learning, and this is what I call a "boom in illiteracy". It transpires when the value system changes and the principles passed on are not of knowledge-seeking but of doing what must be done as a mean to put clothes on your back, food in your stomach, and pay the bills. It is easy to say in a harsh tone that crime is rampant and laws need to be passed. Being “tough on crime” with stiff laws doesn't eliminate the crime factor, and it deters attention from the government’s greedy move of cutting the education budget. It is a known fact that where education is high, crime is low, and where education is low, the level of crime is high. The government conveys that they seek to solve the crime issue, yet they don't realize that stripping schools of funding is a catalyst to the rise in crime, as it, in turn, strips people of chances to educate themselves. This affects every generation after the first group of people that was deprived of their education. Is it a problem? That’s a question our representatives must answer to. If you or someone you know is a currently or formerly incarcerated person with creative content to offer, please submit your materials to admin@vote-nola.org and we'll be in touch! We'll share the content on social media and always give credit to the artist(s) involved. Any type of submission--whether stories, poems, illustrations, music, videos or something else--are welcome!
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 Sade Dumas is the Executive Director of the Orleans Parish Prison Reform Coalition (OPPRC), a diverse, grassroots coalition of individuals and organizations from across New Orleans who have come together to shrink the size of the jail and improve the conditions of confinement for those held in detention in Orleans Parish. VOTE help found OPPRC in 2004, and today the coalition’s members include formerly incarcerated people and their family members, community activists, organizers, lawyers and service providers.
In honor of International Women’s Day, VOTE sat down with Sade and got the story about how she is able to bring formidable leadership to local criminal justice reform work. VOTE: What are you bringing to the table right now? How you feeling? Sade Dumas (SD): Today I’m feeling hopeful. Although this city at times seems divided, and there are so many issues to fight, I see so many people activated like they’ve never been before, and all of those fights--all of those issues--are interconnected. VOTE: And how is your heart? SD: My heart is overwhelmed but in a good way. There’s so much being done but there is so much more to do. I also feel a lot of gratitude for those working on these fights with us, and for divine timing and alignment, because even when it looks like we’ve lost something--or on the verge of losing something--everything always aligns itself perfectly when people are working together. VOTE: Can you share how you got started with OPPRC? SD: My journey with OPPRC started before I knew it even existed. I’m a native New Orleanian from the Lower 9th Ward, which means seeing someone involved in the criminal justice system was normal, a way of life. I know many people like my brother, cousin and ex-husband who have been in OPPRC and suffered from being in there. When I was younger, however, I thought they ended up there because of genuine mistakes they had made. It wasn’t until I went to Tulane University that I realized it’s not normal--other people don’t go through this. The way the system is set up is not by mistake, but by design. I learned about ALEC and other groups lobbying for the continued oppression of people. Seeing the oppression of people of color, of women, of any and all minorities compelled me to get involved. After graduating college, I became involved with VOTE, WWAV, and LPEC. I worked on the micro level, running a tutoring program for formerly incarcerated women. Although there was joy in working with directly impacted people, I wasn’t pleased because I felt like I was working on something after the damage was done. Instead, I wanted to focus on preventing people from getting in the cycle and going down the hole. I had also been working at Tulane’s medical school because I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. Once I realized that all families I was working with were impacted by the criminal justice system, I got really sad about being the one putting on a bandaid, so that also helped me switch to macro level, too. VOTE: And how did you make that switch? SD: I started traveling across Louisiana with Robert Goodman, who was VOTE’s Statewide Organizer at the time. We spoke with people about the challenges they face when they are released from prison. I also learned how to encourage local policymakers to divest from funds that build prison infrastructure to programs that truly keep communities safe. When I went to OPPRC’s steering committee meetings as a representative for VOTE, I realized they were doing the same thing--policy reform work that was truly changing the system. VOTE: Who are your (s)heroes? SD: There are a lot of women I respect for their contributions, but wouldn’t necessarily call them (s)heroes because I do think it’s important to look to other people for inspiration, advice, mentorship, but we all have to be our own heroes. For too long women, whether told by society or themselves, are made responsible for taking care of themselves and everyone else around them. VOTE: How does moving away from that false sense of responsibility help movement work? SD: You can’t save other people, but you can empower them to save themselves. You can give them the tools, but you can’t fight their fight alone, and you shouldn’t expect to. It also changes the people you’re working with from victims to people empowered to do the work. And we don’t need any more victims, we need fighters. VOTE: Absolutely, we need those directly impacted to lead the fight. How do you make your work accessible to those most affected? SD: It’s about making it meaningful to each person and working with their capacities. Sometimes that means not coming to a meeting but doing the work of reading an email, passing out a flyer, or talking to someone about different campaigns we have. Informing people in the community is a big part of the movement, whether you’re sitting at the meeting table or not. You have to build the systems and structures so directly impacted people can all be at the table eventually, even if that day is not today, but we can’t stop the movement until then. For example, my sister worked in the sheriff’s office hoping make a change, but only lasted a year because the culture was that bad. Will she come to every OPPRC meeting and share? No, because she’s a single mother and has a lot going on, but she’ll come out to an event. So accessibility has a lot to do with the format of the organization and the way that people can carry and share that info. We’re not asking people to join OPPRC, we’re asking people to join a movement. VOTE: Yes, that’s why coalitions are so important! What would you say has been your most defining moment as an organizer so far? SD: I have many defining moments each day, but those that matter the most to me are when other young women of color write me little notes telling me how I’m inspiring them or serving as a mentor to them, because I don’t think of myself that way. Knowing people feel that way is the best thing. The best thing we can do is create more fighters, and that’s been one of the most enjoyable moments thus far. VOTE: So sweet and inspiring! As a leader who clearly does so much, how do you practice self-care? SD: I just started yoga. I’ve always been into alternative routes of self-care that are not mainstream, so I enjoy making tinctures, blending oils, and now yoga. It’s been great for me because in doing movement work I often have trouble finding balance, and now I’m literally finding it. I’m constantly reminded that things I’m doing on the mat transcend into other parts of my life, like taking care of myself and my body. VOTE: That’s so important. Ok, last question, what would a world of total liberation feel like, look like, taste like, smell like and sound like to you? SD: We are so far from liberation that I can’t fully imagine what that would be like. But to me it’s clean air, clean food, clean water. It’s a life where everyone has equal access, where everyone’s future is determined by their will to do more as opposed to what identity they were born into. It feels like you don’t have to fight harder or compete with others just because you’re expected to be at the bottom of the chain. It feels like confidence because you don’t have to worry about being judged because of real or perceived identities that you carry. Liberation feels like health because the fear of all the burdens that I and many other women of color carry would not exist. This coming Wednesday, March 13, from 5:30 to 7:30pm, OPPRC is hosting a teach-in about how to help stop the jail expansion in New Orleans. RSVP here. Then, on the 25th, they’ll be hosting a town hall with local elected leaders about. Follow them on Facebook to learn more and get involved!  We're excited to announce the launch of Creative Corner, a bi-weekly blog post featuring creative content made by currently or formerly incarcerated people! For our inaugural post, we're sharing a short story written by Jeremy Richard, who is currently incarcerated at Angola State Penitentiary.
It’s a cold winter day, the prisons steel bars icy to the touch. I exhale a foggy cloud of breath with a sigh and slump my shoulders at the thought of spending yet another lost day in this empty cell. The television has become boring, and with it, so have I. The only “getting lost” I’m doing these days is in my thoughts, memories. Hours spent dreaming about freedom. It seems as though I can recall every single day of my past life. My life before prison. My stomach growls angrily as I count down the minutes until chow (prison slang for breakfast, lunch and dinner.) It makes me feel like a dog, one awaiting its negligent owner to feed it. And I pace, back and forth--a yellow plastic spoon in hand--from one end of my cell to the next. Even though it’s only nine feet to and fro, it’s still sort of soothing, calming. Though I hate behaving like this, like an animal. It’s becoming something I can’t control as easily as I once did. A result of being caged in a box twenty-three hours a day for the past five years. I find it simply fascinating that I have walked more miles in this cell than I ever did out of it. They say you never fully appreciate the value of something until that thing is gone. I find this to be true. For me, it’s walking ten feet without hitting a brick wall. You could say, I’m in a tight spot. If it wasn’t for my good humor, I would have lost a few screws long ago. Breakfast arrives and with it, so does my favorite drink. This is a booze free facility, so I’ve had to substitute my drinking problem. I still have one but now, if I drink too much coffee, at least I won’t be found the next morning sleeping it off on my neighbor’s lawn. The pancakes are dry and the oatmeal’s soggy but it’s all going to end up in my belly so who cares? I empty six packs of sugar on top of my oatmeal, whip it up, then add six more on top of that. I like my oats super sweet, my coffee bitter. Not using this many packs would be like breaking the law because I’ve been using this exact amount of sugar in my oatmeal for about three years now. I wasn’t like this before prison, but this place has either given me OCD, or gone into my treasure chest of hidden disorders to fish it out. Now that my breakfast is finished, it’s time to wait on my owner, the correction staff, to bring the chains to take me and any other inmates who wish to go on a walk to the yard. We get a one hour yard three times a week. Sgt. Loyd approaches my cell with a set of shackles and I greet him with a respectful and positive attitude just like I would were I in his shoes and he in mine. “Good morning, Mr. Loyd,” I say, unconsciously tilting my hands in an attempt to make his job easier. “Keep getting smart, boy, and I’m gonna show you a good morning,” he replies with a look I’m glad can’t kill me. Sometimes I think this place screws them up more than it does the inmates. The lady in the control booth opens my cell door at his command, and I wonder as I trudge down the tier if she laughs at my pacing while watching me via the camera in my cell. I assure myself it doesn’t matter and continue on, down the familiar path that leads the way out of this building. A building that, give or take nineteen, maybe twenty, is home to over eighty other inmates who have been sentences to the grim reality of death, of which I’m not one. I’m glad that yard-call has started in the front of the tier today. I’m in cell number 1. This means I get dibs on the yard pens, to pick the best basketball and goal. Some of them are in pretty bad shape. It’s sad this has become my life, but yard eighteen’s got the goods, so that’s where I’m headed. On the outside, I may seem happy and content, but deep inside there is a bulging box of hurt and shame that weighs me down. If you pay close enough attention, you’ll notice the lazy drag of my feet across the concrete walkway and how my head hangs low. Behind my bright, engaging smile, a storm system silently brews. Not one with violent intentions, but one in search of relief. Like a bloated cloud heavy with the need to rain. After the yard, Sgt. removes my shackles. I let out a joyful burst of barks. This receives a few questioning looks from the staff and my fellow inmates alike. The ones that don’t know me probably think I’m losing it, but those who do, know that this is just me making light of my situation. If you can’t do that, then your time will do you. My first five shots are nothing-but-net, but there isn’t anyone watching so they don’t count. I miss the next ten before finally making another, and I notice I’ve been talking to myself the entire time. I should be embarrassed but most of the others are doing it too. So I say, the hell with it, and take another jumper. “Swish.” I had a few fans for that one. Let me tell you, a huge ego boost. And for a moment, the razor wire and concrete is replaced by a wooden floor that’s been polished to a high sheen, with all the makings of a pro-court. There is only one lonely second left on the game clock and coach knows I’ve got the best long distance shot. “Make me proud, Richard.” With the coach’s plea, my teammates know to get me the ball as soon as possible. We’re down by two points but there’s not enough time to tie it up. It’s on me to win this thing. I take my position at the half court mark and shake out the tension from my hands. This is going to take my all. Our team’s center, Jack, a seven-foot giant, shoots a bullet at me and I catch it, fighting back the pain from the sting of ball connecting with hand. I take two steps towards the goal and let it fly. A beautiful arc. Time slows to a snail’s crawl. The only audible sound in the stadium is the pounding of my racing heart. The slow rotation of the ball in mid-air reminds me of the earth spinning on its axis. And I watch it, falling back...slow, slow, heading for the goal. Almost there, dipping towards the lip of the rim as the clock ticks its last second. Almost...Almost… “Richard, if you keep blacking out, I’m gonna put you on mental health watch!” The yard sarge yells, loud enough to hurt my ears. He’s standing at the gate, waiting with a set of shackles in his hand. I blink my eyes and take one last look at the threadbare ball as it gently rolls away. My hour is up. If you or someone you know is a currently or formerly incarcerated person with creative content to offer, please submit your materials to admin@vote-nola.org and we'll be in touch! We'll share the content on social media and always give credit to the artist(s) involved. Any type of submission--whether stories, poems, illustrations, music, videos or something else--are welcome! |
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