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<b><small><small><small><a class="moz-txt-link-freetext" href="http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/35464-re-thinking-white-men-behind-bars-incorrigible-supremacists-or-allies-in-waiting">http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/35464-re-thinking-white-men-behind-bars-incorrigible-supremacists-or-allies-in-waiting</a></small></small></small></b><br>
<big><big><b><br>
</b><b>Rethinking White Men Behind Bars: Incorrigible
Supremacists or Allies in Waiting?</b></big></big><br>
<br>
James Kilgore - April 1, 2016<br>
<br>
Moments after I arrived in the living unit at the federal
penitentiary in Lompoc, California, a young white man named Carl
approached me. He seemed to be in charge of rolling out the welcome
mat to all the white "new fish." He wore standard day room fare --
black work boots, white boxer shorts and no shirt. But the only
thing I really noticed, while trying not to, was the six-inch, high
ink portrait of Adolf Hitler on his upper arm. He asked me if I
needed anything -- toothpaste, shower shoes, soap, Top Ramen Chili
Beef. I politely declined the offers, shook his hand and thanked him
for his hospitality. I did my best to keep my game face. People
wearing Hitler on their arm was a new experience for me, but over
the course of the next six years in prison, I would meet many Carls.
Their tattoos came in many flavors: SS lightning bolts on the calf
(a badge indicating a successful mission completed), "Skinhead" or
"Peckerwood" in bold face across the chest, "thank God I'm white" on
the back of the neck.<br>
<br>
The most popular was the back arm tattoo in Old English letters,
"white" down the left back arm, "pride," down the right. On one
occasion, I would even receive an invitation to attend a party to
celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King Junior's assassin,
James Earl Ray. Encounters with race hate became a significant part
of my prison life. To survive, I had to acquire the skill of
respectful conversation with people who sported a swastika on their
forehead without indicating the slightest support for their
ideology. In a moment when Donald Trump is opening the door to
further public displays of white supremacy, I spend a lot of time
thinking about the Carls of this world and their heirs, like young
Dylann Roof. How do we halt the spread of their ideas of violent
race hate?<br>
<br>
For the most part, opponents of mass incarceration tend to ignore
the presence of Carl and the hundreds of thousands of white men in
our nation's prisons and jails. Doubtless large numbers of these
incarcerated men back "The Donald." The complications of why some of
the poorest sections of the white working class cast their lot with
a bigoted billionaire instead of Black freedom movements or choose
race war against fellow prisoners, rather than join forces to fight
for better conditions, defy easy explanations. But it is time to
again unpack the race-class paradox that at various key moments in
US history has placed the racism of not very well-to-do white folks
squarely in the path of societal transformation.<br>
<br>
Rethinking White Men Behind Bars<br>
<br>
A logical starting point in this analysis is recognizing that in the
era of mass incarceration, the ranks of whites in prison have
escalated enormously, from about 90,000 in 1980 to nearly half a
million today. At about 450 per 100,000, white men are incarcerated
at roughly three times the rate of the general population in the
United Kingdom, the most prolific incarcerator in the G7. This is
far less than the figure for Black (2,306) or "Hispanic" men (831).
Yet, if considered as a nation, whites in the US would have a higher
incarceration rate than every country in the world except for
Thailand and Cuba, with more than 10 million people. The reasons for
rising white incarceration in many ways parallel what has happened
to inner city communities of color. Situated at the bottom end of
the white economic spectrum, the most vulnerable sectors of the
white working class have lost their jobs to de-industrialization,
lost access to welfare benefits, and been subjected to the vagaries
of mandatory minimums and a secondary war on drugs -- attacks on
methamphetamine use in small rural towns. While the scale of the
activity of the militarized police in trailer parks and areas that
elite Republicans are now calling "downscale communities" is not
equivalent to what happens in the Black and Brown inner city, poor
whites do not reside in police-free suburbs or university towns
where cops turn a blind eye.<br>
<br>
Delving deeper into this this issue necessitates eroding a few
stereotypes. First of all, while white supremacy has a strong
presence within certain prison populations, not all white men in
prison are Carls. The strength and character of white supremacist
organizations varies from state to state, from prison to prison.
California has the most storied legion of white supremacist
organizations and historically the most segregated prison system in
the country. I will take a minute to describe this in detail,
because while California may be an exception, it is important to
understand the depths to which racial politics can descend in US
prisons. Furthermore, as someone who lived in those California
prisons from 2006-09, I feel an obligation to the men I left behind
in those racist hellholes to keep telling their/our story.<br>
<br>
California's "Old" Jim Crow<br>
<br>
For the last three-plus decades, the California Department of
Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) has presided over an
essentially "old" Jim Crow situation. During my time of
incarceration, virtually all space was segregated. The institution
set the tone by controlling all cell-sharing arrangements, making
sure that no people of "different races" shared a cell. The leaders
of the racialized prison organizations, referred to as "shot
callers," went along with this and divided the space in the yard
according to "race." There were Black pull-up bars and white pull-up
bars, Black showers and white showers. One end of the basketball
court was for Black men, the other for whites. Latinos divided their
allegiance. Those who identified as "Northern Mexicans" aligned
themselves with the Black population, while the "Southern Mexicans"
sided with the whites, as did the Native Americans. Any violation of
these spatial or social boundaries would result in discipline from
the shot callers which, depending on the prison, could range from
getting "checked" (maybe a punch in the face) to a fatal stabbing.
The white shot callers talked about maintaining segregation as
essential to advancing the "white race." Whites who deviated were
labeled "race traitors." As revolting as I and some of the other
whites on the yard found this segregation, we played mostly by the
rules, opting to push the envelope in other ways rather than commit
suicidal acts in defiance of the spatial status quo. <br>
<br>
In 2005, a Federal court order mandated the CDCR to desegregate cell
assignments, but officials dragged their feet. While they have
managed to break down segregation on the lower security level yards,
in the medium and high security facilities, much of the old ways
still dominate. The authorities have argued that integration would
precipitate too much violence. Because the anti-Black racism of
white supremacists and of some Latino communities has such deep
roots, there has been some truth to their claims, though authorities
haven't tried very hard either. The CDCR created a segregationist
monster that revives the days of the old South and, in political
terms, fulfills the mandate to divide and conquer. In the past
couple years, however, it has started to break down -- more on this
later.<br>
<br>
Other States<br>
<br>
The California prison system represents an extreme. In other states
different dynamics appear. After the 1954 Brown v. the Board of
Education decision, which aimed to desegregate public schools, a sea
of litigation arose concerning segregation in prisons. From the
1960s to the 1990s the federal courts heard more than 40 cases
addressing prison segregation, consistently deeming it
unconstitutional. Most state prison systems have moved, albeit very
slowly, toward some form of desegregation. Texas likely implemented
the most systematic desegregation of cell assignments. Beginning in
1991, Texas corrections officials began placing people in the first
available and appropriate cell, eliminating race as a criterion for
such assignments.<br>
<br>
Other states have taken different paths to curb segregation, often
leaving it to the dynamics of the population itself. Ultimately, the
influence of racist ideology varies depending on both the
demographics of the state prison system and the political evolution
of prison organizations. In Illinois prisons, for example, white
supremacists have less sway because two main organizations,
popularly known as "Folks" and "People" exercise considerable
influence, according to a number of men who served multiple terms in
prison. Both of these grew out of an amalgamation of a range of
predominantly Black street organizations.<br>
<br>
The best known of these are the "Gangster Disciples," the "Black P.
Stones" and the "Vice Lords." However, unlike their California
counterparts, in Illinois these organizations have merged with
Latino and white organizations. Race is not a primary factor in
membership or in how daily life is organized. Prison organizations
have considerable power to control cell assignment. Jobs and other
benefits are also largely dispensed through networks controlled by
the organizations, not allocated by race. With a state prison
population that is 58 percent Black, white supremacists have very
little influence in Illinois prisons. While a white supremacist
group known as the "Northsiders" exercised some muscle in the 1980s,
in more recent years their power has been eclipsed.<br>
<br>
According to Cory Greene, who served time in New York prisons in the
early 2000s, racial dynamics in New York prisons are much like those
in Illinois, with Black street organizations occupying such a
dominant position that white supremacists are largely pushed to the
side.<br>
<br>
Staff and White Supremacy<br>
<br>
White supremacy doesn't only find expression in prison among the
incarcerated. In many facilities, white supremacy also has strong
footholds among guards. A recent case in Florida is instructive. In
April 2015 the FBI arrested three white former state prison guards
and charged them with conspiracy to murder a Black man who was
previously incarcerated at a facility where the three worked. The
media release for the arrest described the three as members of the
"Traditionalist American Knights of the Ku Klux Klan."<br>
<br>
Florida is not alone. A 2012 New York Correctional Association
investigation of Clinton Correctional Facility, the institution from
which David Sweat and the late Richard Matt escaped last year,
reported "that racist attitudes play a significant role in the
physical violence at Clinton." One survey respondent reported,
"murder, assault, harassment, threats, intimidation, etc. is all
motivated by race. For every time an officer or officers assault,
kill, or maim an [incarcerated person], racial slurs are always
hurled all over the place, and all this criminal behavior goes on
directly under the eyes of an administration that looks the other
way."<br>
<br>
Similar sympathies surfaced during a 2015 investigation of guards in
Camden, New Jersey, jails. An information act request for text
messages between guards unearthed many containing racial epithets:
"To me a really good high is stomping the shit out of a n----- for
no reason" and "no matter how they look at things, no matter how
dressed up they get… When they wake up tomorrow morning they're
still just N------s," (original in caps).<br>
<br>
All the men I interviewed for this article noted the presence of
white supremacist attitudes among prison staff. Greene related that
he once received a death threat if he got out of line from a guard
who identified as a Ku Klux Klan member. Brian Nelson, who spent 28
years in state prisons in Illinois and other states, reported
receiving his property from a guard who had "KKK" tattooed on his
fingers. In both California and Illinois interviewees reported that
racist attitudes were most prevalent in prisons located in rural,
predominantly white towns. According to Gregory Koger, one such
prison in Illinois, Vandalia, had such a reputation for white
supremacy that Black men renamed it "Klandalia." Manuel Lafontaine,
who spent several years in CDCR institutions, recalled a form of
white privilege where guards consistently favored whites in work
assignments visiting access and dispensing of other favors.<br>
<br>
Despite the strong presence of white supremacy, a number of white
men described how they confronted racist practices in the prison.
Mike Fore, who did time in Illinois, Indiana and Nevada, stressed
that a lot of white men who affiliate to supremacist groups are far
more the victims of "peer pressure" and "fear mongering" than
dedicated racists. To Fore, the white supremacists were "just
another class of citizen to avoid."<br>
<br>
Nelson came into prison after having spent many years on the outside
as part of Black and Latino street organizations. When white
supremacists in New Mexico tried to recruit him, he rejected their
offers. "I knew who had my back," he said, "and it wasn't the white
boys." Koger, who spent 11 years incarcerated in Illinois, told a
similar tale. For him, white supremacists held no attraction. While
most of his cellmates were Black, on one occasion he shared a cell
with a Nazi sympathizer. Koger took the trouble to research the
history of the swastika, noting the origins of the word and symbol
in Sanskrit and Asian religious traditions. His cellmate didn't
appreciate the history lesson and the two ended up in a physical
fight.<br>
<br>
Solidarity in the Movement Against Mass Incarceration<br>
<br>
In a period during which criticism of the prison-industrial complex
is gaining increasing traction, a key question becomes how can a
movement against mass incarceration gain adherents among
incarcerated white people and their loved ones. One important
example comes from the hunger strikes at Pelican Bay Prison in
California in 2011 and 2013. The third hunger strike entailed the
participation of some 30,000 incarcerated people in California
(nearly one-fourth of the California prison population at the time)
and hundreds nationwide. The catalyzing force for this mass action
was the "Agreement to End Hostilities," a document circulated by the
leadership of the strike.<br>
<br>
This leadership, known as the Short Corridor Human Rights
Collective, was a group held in solitary confinement at Pelican Bay
State Prison. The document declared: "Now is the time for us to
collectively seize this moment in time and put an end to more than
20-30 years of hostilities between our racial groups." The agreement
went on to urge all people in the state prison system to "focus our
time, attention and energy on mutual causes beneficial to all of us
(i.e. prisoners) and our best interests. We can no longer allow CDCR
to use us against each other for their benefit."<br>
<br>
LaFontaine, who is now an organizer for All of Us or None, a group
that fights for the rights of the formerly incarcerated, called the
agreement "monumental." He explained to Truthout how it has reduced
racial violence and changed the nature of the dialog among people in
the prisons. The first signatory on the agreement was Todd Ashker,
labeled by prison authorities as a former leader of the Aryan
Brotherhood. Ashker has spent more than a quarter-century in
solitary. He was joined in signing the agreement by one Black man
and two Latino men: Sitawa Nantambu Jamaa, Arturo Castellanos and
Antonio Guillen.<br>
<br>
Ashker described his path to solidarity to Democracy Now! in 2013.
After reading the works of Che Guevara, Howard Zinn and Thomas
Paine, Ashker said he "became more class-conscious of the prisoner
class as a microcosm of the working-class poor in this country, and
that it was in our best interest to evolve our strategies and come
together and utilize peaceful civil disobedience-type actions, in
tandem with litigation, to try to force the changes that were long
overdue."<br>
<br>
While Ashker's example as a transformed racist is inspiring,
individual converts to revolutionary ideology are not enough to
consolidate a movement. According to LaFontaine, conversations
should shift toward considering some kind of truth and
reconciliation process where white groups not only "make a stance,"
but work toward "repairing the harm they have done." That would
require not only individual changes of consciousness, but reaching
into marginalized white working-class communities, the waters where
Donald Trump is currently fishing.<br>
<br>
To forsake anti-Black, anti-immigrant and homophobic/transphobic
ideologies for such a process involves imagining a different form of
democracy and equality than what we have seen to date. However, in
moments where social justice movements are active, the possibilities
for new forms of unity open up rapidly. Moreover, in a time of
escalating poverty and inequality overall, the imperatives of
bonding together key elements of the bottom tiers of the 99% make
building unity across racial lines, without capitulating to white
supremacy, imperative to a transformative project.<br>
<br>
<div class="moz-signature">-- <br>
Freedom Archives
522 Valencia Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
415 863.9977
<a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.freedomarchives.org">www.freedomarchives.org</a>
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