In this @TIME op-ed, @smithea1 & @AngelaHattery (@UDelaware) explain that Black women bear a disproportionate share of domestic violence's lethal consequences, while Black communities receive a fraction of the prevention resources they need.
Read: https://t.co/j3KwwSsO2A
https://t.co/FyQLr2i3Gc I found the use of the term 'scalp' in the headling--a reference to the genocidal history in the US-- to be quite offensive and racist. @semaforben@semafor
And that my friends, is how it happens — how someone goes in on a nickel & dime charge & doesn’t get out. For those who think you just do your time, obey the rules and go home – guess again.
Since I’d refused gang membership, no one would come to my defense. I was advised to start sharpening a knife and to keep it with me at all times. After that, it was on, if I was to stay alive.
Next morning, I learned that I’d injured two high-ranking gang members & that a “green light” had been put out on me – that I was to be killed on sight – by a gang of about a hundred guys looking to make their bones.
Knuckles bolted from the cell, stumbling out into the tier bars. Copper was on his knees covering his head with his arms. I stopped when I saw how badly his head was bleeding.
Copper punched me in the forehead. But he stumbled, and I hit him hard and solid above his right ear. I swung again and hit him in the head, and then I began swinging fast and hard at both Copper and Knuckles, connecting easily.
I saw Knuckles tense up and I knew what was up. Fear, anger, disgust and panic flooded my veins, and I grabbed the wooden brush handle and swung it at Knuckles, who was the bigger of the two. I clocked him in the cheek. He dropped down, holding his face. The gophers took off.
They started making small talk, asking me stupid questions. I tried to appear calm. But when I told Copper his questions didn’t make sense, he laughed, and said, “No, no, baby. What I mean is -- a pretty young thing like you needs someone to take care of him.”
They were all smiles, but my adrenaline was pumping, and my eyes sought the long-handled wooden toilet brush in the corner. I recognized two of them as gang members. The one in charge was Copper Slim, and his second in command was called Knuckles. The other two were gophers.
It was one evening that it all unraveled. I’d gotten up to wash my hands when four cons strolled into my cell without permission. Going into a cell without permission was not how things were done. Something was very wrong.
After a year went by, I started counting down the weeks, days and minutes till I got out. I tried not to get ahead of myself, though, as I had to stay very focused. But when I was looking at 8 months to go, I couldn’t help dreaming of home –– my girlfriend, my job, my family.
Out in the yard, I witnessed knife fights, gang huddles, and walked through pools of blood. I refused a gang invitation, kept my head down and said nothing. I was so scared and lonely. At night, I lay on my bunk, listening to the radio my dad had given me.
The sentence was actually supposed to have been suspended, but the judge didn’t like my apology, so I wound up at the Nevada State Prison. When I got there, I was terrified. I was thrown in with about 600 hardened convicts, many in for life. I was the youngest one in the place.
Hello friends, I thought I’d share how it all started for me: Almost 50 years ago, before the nightmare of my 43-year incarceration began, I was a 19-year-old kid serving what was supposed to be 2 years in prison for a non-violent offense.