http://www.ThePortlandAlliance.org/walidaharchive
By Walidah Imarisha
I’ve recently had folks contacting me from across the country, even all around the world, about the upcoming documentary Whitelandia: Black Oregon/White Homeland (a play on the popular show Portlandia), which purports to explore the history of racism and white supremacy in Oregon. It currently is in the production stage, having publicly put out a trailer and launching a successful kickstarter program to fund it.
People having reached out to me about this film for several reasons. One is that I present a public program called “Why Aren’t There More Black People in Oregon: A Hidden History,” which features an interactive timeline I developed looking at the history of race, identity and power in Oregon.
But people also reached out to me because up until just a few weeks ago, the Whitelandia trailer featured clips of me speaking on this topic. Folks assume the footage of me means I have signed off and given my support for this project. It’s a good assumption to make - unfortunately in this case it’s dead wrong.
The truth is, Whitelandia’s producers (who are both white) used the footage of me without my knowledge or permission. They took it from a program of mine that is available for viewing on youtube. I also learned recently I am not the only one who has had this unfortunate experience. At least two local organizations th have said Whitelandia used footage from their projects without consent, credit, or notification. In addition, the Whitelandia creators told several media sources I was involved in the project, telling one I was an advisor to their project, before I had ever met with them.
More than just really bad filmmaking practices, these incidents speak to deeper issues of white privilege, appropriation and domination.
click at right for the rest of the story! http://walidah.com/node/369
Walidah has 3 more publications featuring her work!
Joe Strummer: Punk Rock Warlord, in which I have an essay about Strummer and hip hop.
Perspectives on Anarchist Theory, has an interview with Walidah about
Octavia's Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements and visionary fiction as strategy.
Lastly, Walidah has an ebook version of Near Kin, a collection of art and writing
inspired by Octavia Butler, which features a poem by Walidah!
Two Poems by Walidah Imarisha
Coffee and No Cigarettes
For Sundiata Acoli
by Walidah Imarisha
You wake up at 5:30 in the morning
sky sucked clean of stars.
You drag your body into clothes,
get into a borrowed car,
and drive two and a half hours until
You near White Deer, PA
sipping on your gas station
french vanilla cappucino
squirted out from a machine
at 6:45 am at the Hickory Run Plaza rest stop.
You turn off of 1-80 W onto 15 N
at the exit that says
Snake Reptile House.
Left at the wood carved sign that says
United States Penitentiary Allenwood.
The speed limit is posted at 35 mph,
but you drive 20.
You walk into the sterilized antiseptic
air conditioned
processing center
sign into the book
Write who you are visiting:
Clark Squire .
Slave names only.
It does not matter how many decades someone has been called
Sundiata Acoli,
only slave names permitted here.
The visiting room is like a storage freezer.
Voices echo hollowlyCoffee and No Cigarettes
if you speak
above a low murmur.
There are white plastic chairs
to sit at
as if you were at a picnic.
There are vending machines
and from these
you will drink countless cups
of french vanilla capuccino
(which tastes exactly like the coffee
at the gas station)
to stay warm
to stay awake
to keep your belly from rumbling.
See, you are a vegan
and can not eat anything else in the vending machines.
Somehow drinking coffee laden with milk
does not offend your veganness
but a snickers bar would.
These are the asinine lines you draw
for yourself ,
the compromises you make
on things that are utterly meaningless
in this place
where you have no control
over things that are utterly imperative.
You watch the families around you,
Waiting.
You watch the sun rise in an instant
on faces
as their loved one enters.
Hugs and long stolen kisses are given
under the watchful eyes of guardsCoffee and No Cigarettes
who must count in their head
“One one thousand two one thousand three one thousand--
All right, break it up.”
Finally the door opens
and Sundiata walks out,
all 5’7 of him
(which he believes to be 5’9).
His face is stern
his eyes drink in the room
in a second,
seeing who is there,
noticing their locations,
checking out the guards --
every day survival.
His eyes fall on you
and his face cracks open
like an egg releases a new born chick
with his wide welcome home smile.
It splits his face,
a watermelon chopped open
on a hot summer day.
His brilliant mind
and no nonsense attitude
can be brusque,
as you have learned.
But you have always appreciated
people
who speak truth
without malice,
who speak love
without bullshit.
In between conversations,
men who are coming out for visits
come up to your table
and say hello to Sundiata.
Older brothas with kufis
and grey flecks in their beards
will say
“Peace brotha.”
Bald tattooed stone-faced
young bucks will say
“Whassup, oldhead?”
and they will mean this
as a sign
of respect.
One time a prisoner
was out on a visit
with his wife/girlfriend/baby’s mama.
He was tall and rough hewn
with arms of granite and ghetto.
This brotha came over
almost shyly
held out a chocolate peanut butter tasky kake
to sundiata.
He rumbled,
“My girl got one of these for me
and I know you kinda feel them.”
Smiled and ambled back to his assigned table.
Sundiata asks for report backs
information
ideas thoughts
experiences
You bring him back
anything you touched
or felt
or saw
or smelled.
You tell him about the beaches of Puerto Rico
and the grave of Albizu Campos.
You tell second hand tales
of the jungles of Chiapas
and the struggles for land and dignity,
second hand tales of the dusty roads of Palestine
lined with bulldozers
and the struggle for land and dignity
You listen
spellbound
to his tales
of life in poor black Texas
life in the Panther party
life in the 60s.
He does not tell so many tales
of life in prison.
He tries to keep these visits
away from guard towers and work crews.
Brutal beatings and cold midnight cell bunks.
Sundiata’s mind,
normally a steel trap,
begins to pull in different directions
as the tobacco withdrawal
grabs ahold of him.
He says, “Aw shit,
the nicotine’s got me again”
when he loses the train of his thoughts
for the third time in an hour.
He can not go out to grab a couple of puffs
because that is not allowed
and the visit
will be terminated.
He wants to quit,
but he has been smoking
for half a century
and prison is no place
to quit smoking.
He’ll tell you
you’re getting too skinny
every visit.
He will tell you you need to make sure you are eating
He will tell you to take care of yourself
every visit.
You know that he will call you later that evening
just to make sure you got home safe
every visit.
He will remind you of a father
every single visit.
A visit can feel like an entire universe
crushed and compressed until it fits
into a plastic chair.
Even the universe must end.
It is a time of hurried goodbyes
of cleaning up the trash
so you have something
to do with your hands,
duplicated and multiplied
forty times
through the visiting room
as the collective unraveling
begins.
Sundiata flashes you his sun smileCoffee and No Cigarettes
and a raised black first.
And then the door slides open to swallow him whole.
All that is left to do:
return the locker key
get your id back
walk out
get in the car.
At the stop sign right before you clear
the prison grounds,
you look up
and see four deer
two of them newborn fawns
still shaky in the legs.
They are so close
you can see the sheen
of their coats,
and the moisture
on their noses.
They stare at you
with eyes limpid and trusting
twenty feet away from the outer prison wall
and the
concertina wire.
Inside, one of the guards
said
they had to pull a deer
off of the barbed wire
two days before.
It had gotten caught in it
and struggled
until it flayed itself open.
The guard shook his head
and said,
“Dumb deer.
They’re too stupid to know
they don’t belong
here.”
Masterpiece
By Walidah Imarisha
“When I die
I wear nothing but the tats on my back”
- Kakamia Jahad Imarisha, “The Last Stand”
His body
Tapestry
memory
Masterpiece
Writing his name on the sun his skin
Roadmap of ink and flesh
Raised keloid scars
That can be read like Braille
My adopted brother
Kakamia Jahad Imarisha
I named him when I was 17
He was reborn under my breath
And you know what the elders say
If you name it,
It is yours
mouth full of broken angel wings
and arm full of India ink
Rage seeped in with that ink
Injected by a prison gun
Deposited just beneath the exterior
In bold styles
No one could ignore
Creeped up his neck like ivy
Encased him in an armor of his own design
the cynicism of
“fuck the world”
spans his back
in bold old English letters
intersecting his hope
Afrikan warrior
Shield and spear in hand
Rises like the sphinx from the small of his back
Shadowed by a one foot anarchy symbol
Thug scholar to ruffneck revolutionary
Machetero symbols
Kamikaze graffiti
And a fucked up picture of Da Brat from when he was 15
And no box can hold him
the doctors told him to lay off the toxins
when they cut out the cancer
that was located directly under his right nipple
there is a two inch scar
camaflouged by the afrikan symbol for
eternal energy
he paints his scars brightly
in defiance of death
mocks the grim reaper
by taking his name
and painted a bulls eye in the middle
of his chest
with the edict “no warning shots”
His whole life has been a carcinogen
My brother is a living memorial
A walking Vietnam wall
A place people go
To remember atrocities
To mourn lost loved ones
To pray for forgiveneness
To vow
Never
Again
Victoria
Jackie Jr.
Thearon
Dice
Qui-Que
A litany of those
Who slipped through fingers
Outstretched through bars
Dead partnas
And mommas
Sons
Brothers
Cousins
All on his body
They walk with him
He walks with the weight
Of exquisite corpses
His footsteps thump
Like thunder
And echo tenfold
For the multitudes
Who live
Under his skin
He carries a picture of me embedded over his heart
We breath as one
His name soaked into my wrist
Pulsing with my pulse
We inject our familial bonds
Needle connecting us like an umbilical cord
Blood clots slightly around
Tender flesh
We are joined by more than blood and ink
We chose family