The Empowerment Avenue collective emerged from a simple need: incarcerated folks have limited support, on top of no internet and email access, to get their writing out of prison and into the hands of editors. The founder, Rahsaan Thomas, was writing at San Quentin State Prison at the time, and envisioned an effort that could address that gap.
Four years later, our efforts to support incarcerated writers have evolved into an inside-outside community surpassing all expectations. Writers outside of prison work directly with incarcerated writers, building relationships, collaborating, and ultimately helping bring writing outside prison walls and through an editing, publishing and payment process. We have supported hundreds of stories — reporting, op-eds, nonfiction essays, poetry — which have been published in hundreds of publications around the world. Incarcerated writers, most of whom earn pennies per hour in prison jobs, have collectively earned over $300,000.
Writers do this work in face of retaliation, oppression, unexpected prison transfers, conditions like extreme weather and parking-lot-sized cells. The writing should be understood as resistance, as humanity in the face of an inhumane system, as a window to a world where we refuse to let cages erase humans and their endless creativities.
Below are selected poems from three writers who are part of our collective. We’ve included their contact information below each selection. If something resonates with you, we encourage you to reach out and build your own bridge across prison walls. And if you’d like to further build with us, you can email [email protected].
-Emily Nonko
***
Down down Down
Demetrius Buckley
It’s 7 o’clock
and it’s time to hoop. We pick basketball teams
and down below the rim I gotta be
big hog, boss hog of prison ball.
Who they be picking up first on the court: me.
My whereabouts is always around mid-day,
then I be in kennel. You should see how the unit’s
second floor shapes a beak by the stairs. I beeline
down steps for speaks, you be waiting
and I be waiting.
I be waiting next,
be waiting for you in the morning.
You in routine,
be waiting jpay.
Be waiting store N ‘ shit.
Something is missing.
Some thing is listening.
Is someone listening?
I woke up today and ran through a field of cacobees—
you know them stupid things that stick to your pants,
bent to leg in the chair thinking that plant be pokey as shit.
And when the sky whirled around a brown Toyota,
you couldn’t tell me nothing,
tight ass pants, lil pee He-man draws
cuz I drunk all the damm Strawberry Faygo soda. And
moms kept hitting every single bump
on Jefferson, on 7 Mile, on State Fair, on Woodard.
Wish them dreams stick like that.
And why we always throwing change
in wells, mall fountains,
tarot cards?
I had a crazy ass dream the other night
that I ate the entire prison system, guards and all.
My momma at the glass dinner table like:
You greedy muthfucka! Nah, take you ass straight to bed.
You gotta go to school in the morning.
Then I woke up in a musty ass cell so tiny
I had to pee from outside the room.
Ain’t that shit funny
down down down
here.
Demetrius A. Buckley #449071
Cotton Correctional Facility
3500 N. Elm Road
Jackson, MI 49201
***
Liminal
Elizabeth Hawes
years ago, you told me
suicide was the way
to go, yet when it happened,
it took me by surprise
the rest of that summer I wondered
where you were
in the in-between? Right with God or
not unlike prison; a world kept
apart from all
that moves, with God or not
brimstone, angry gods, and bad burial; no
comfort, no rejoicing
abyss or waiting room, cloud
or loam, rain or music in the wind?
minutes after
I find your body, in my mind
we dance a fast-paced cha-cha
You in a tux; me in cream satin
l see you floating up
past white fluffy clouds playing your banjo
I take this as
a good omen, a sign
you are okay
banjos are intentional
You used to play Michael Row the Boat Ashore,
by the Kingston Trio and Pete Seager’s Ecclesiastes
I notice no arthritis
in your fingers
You are now wearing a white crewneck and dark slacks
You have lost thirty years,
isn’t this a good sign?
You shot a perfect shot
is that okay to say?
one, clean, splatter-less shot
I appreciate your precision
I’m not encouraging
others to do the same.
clean or not, it is
difficult for those left
to clean up the blood
in their own heads
It never occurred to me to call
the police. And when I did, I couldn’t
find my phone
Mom called. but you know that already.
a young cop arrived with his gun
out of holster, raised at gunpowder still dancing
in the air
there is no one now to sing
There She is,
Miss America,
when I walk in a room
***
Don’t hit me I’m just a number
April Harris
There are many forms of abuse and abusers have many faces.
You can find all types of abuse in many different places.
The scariest abuse comes from those of authority, power, and esteem.
Power and control is hidden behind the law, let me tell you what I mean. The Parole Board uses the cycle of violence as a normal abuser would do
The compare and contrast is so eerily similar with all we have to go through
As a woman trembles when her abuser arrives and turns to hang up his jacket
The prisoner’s first breath of fear comes when it’s time to turn in our ten day packet
Say the right things and remember, do not make them upset
Pause when you’re supposed to and never interject.
The cycle of violence is so present when it’s time to face the panel
The deciding factor boils down to how much scrutiny you can handle
They coax you by telling you, “It’s your hearing,” that it’s up to you, no tossing of coins
But then they cut you off mid sentence and intentionally hijack your point
You do not dare try to get your point back because you’ll be considered aggressive
You’re now forced to sit there and listen to their criticism because the missed the pertinence of your message
Inconsistencies in their statements, you have to accept them, because it’s not the time nor the place to detect
Make sure to keep eye contact and make sure to never deflect.
In the honeymoon phase they list off all of your accomplishments, magnify your achievements, and give you praise.
Seeing this your desire to please the panel and show yourself approved intensifies as you, with renewed confidence, give your best answers to the questions raised.
Slowly you deflate as tension starts to build while they question your credibility and side eye your insight.
You immediately notice the temperature change in the room as you convince yourself that everything will be alright.
You begin to walk on eggshells, you are now nervous and you begin to guard what you say. Your efforts have just betrayed you, your hope has escaped you as you realize it’s their decision at the end of the day.
These are the feelings that the battered goes through when she knows what part of the cycle is next.
Now you’re stumbling over your words, not making sense, taking everything they say out of context.
There is no way to recover when you are familiar with the blow that you know is about to come. The commissioners are saying a lot but you can’t catch it all, you’re trying your best not to freeze up and go numb.
There is a look that the abuser gives to the battered.
A look that says, “Whatever you have to say does not matter.”
A look that says, “Do not speak to anyone about this abuse.”
A look that has you fumbling their questions, while you make up an excuse.
The only unhealthy relationship I have is with the commissioners.
But who do I voice this to when I myself am only a prisoner.
I do not dare tell the panel that I have done all that they have asked, that I have done all that I can.
When my abusers are the very ones who have my freedom in the palm of their hands.
There are moments when there is a ray of hope and you think you just might get it as they look slowly through your file.
That assumption is soon realized immediately by the explosion phase which comes in the form of a denial.
There is a lot going through your mind, a lot to assess. I’m only speaking to the feeling at the Parole Board not the process.
They tell you to try again that you are currently not suitable for parole.
They found a kink in your rehabilitative armor as they exert their power and control.
Perfunctory and fruitless hearings erode our confidence.
Many women I know went once and have not gone back since.
I spent my life abused then turned into the abuser.
I’m paying my dues and doing my time for all that I’m accused of.
It is scientifically proven that a single traumatic event can cause extreme PTSD.
It speaks to the psyche of the prisoner when the Parole Board cycle is stuck on repeat.
How then is it that you now get to abuse me?
When your institution is the one who put the “R” in CDC.
In a few years we get the chance to relive all that we’ve been through.
As I stated before, abuse comes in many forms, and like with the Parole Board the cycle of violence will inevitably continue.
April Harris W74178
California Institution for Women
16756 Chino Corona Rd.
Corona, CA 92880
