And if it comes to it

To save face

You can lie

I’ll back you up

I've gotten very good at it lately

You should have told me

About your status —

| would have bowed to you
What’s one more bow, anyway?

| bow to the dollar

| bow to the scholar

| bow to the white house

| bow to the church mouse
| bow to tradition

| bow to contrition

| bow to the butcher

| bow to the baker

I bow to the goddamn
lightbulb maker —

Who the hell am | anyway
Not to bow?

What else do | know how to do?

But you should have told me baby
You should have hipped me momma
I didn’t know you would pull it out
And strap it on

Fucking me mercilessly
Long stroking me
So that even my shadow is moaning

But damn baby
I didn’t know
You coulda saved me the trip—

I thought | was on my way

To a garden

Where fruit ain’t forbidden

Where snakes do not crawl! to seduce
I thought for a second

That earth was a good thing

That acting had played out

And cotillions were outlawed

That bingo was over

And ladies had drowned in their tea

But now that I’'m hip momma
Come, fuck me.

(© Assata Shakur/Joanne Chesimard)

Some of Assata’s poems were accepted for
publication in,a literary magazine. Poets &
Writers gave us a grant to do an anthology of
students’ writing which Gail and | compiled. We
published it through the Print Center in Brook-
lyn and called it Songs from a Free Space: Writ-

ings by Women in Prison. The anthology was
sold in New York bookstores and distributed to
the women in the classes. It contained some of
the best work done in the classes.

By now | had handed over a rough script to
the poetry class and an idea about doing some
kind of theater piece. The women put together
a revue of loosely scripted poems, songs, and
vignettes called Next Time. They memorized
lines and improvised costumes. Karen Sander-
son, a friend and videotape expert, arrived at
the prison one Sunday with a crew of women
(after endless haggling for permission; we told
the Corrections Department that we needed the
videotape as a rehearsal tool for a play) and
taped for nine hours straight. Finally, after
months of editing, a half-hour tape emerged
which documents the poems, songs, love, and
exasperation of some of these incredible wom-
en. (This tape is available to anyone interested.)

In September 1975, FREE SPACE merged with
ART WITHOUT WALLS, another arts project for
women in prison. Now we were able to offer
graphic arts and dance, in addition to having a
larger staff. The publishing idea had fulfilled
itself, a renaissance. Juanita had begun a book
about her experiences; another woman, Isabelle
Newton, was collecting her poems in manu-
script. Then Assata, who had been held in soli-
tary for one year in New Jersey, whose cell was
raided by guards every day in search of contra-
band, and who had been beaten by the prison
goon squad on numerous occasions, completed
her book of poems and wrote two chapters of a
book, an account of her arrest and life in prison.
The warden stopped me in the hall one day and
told me that she knew we were collaborating on
a book with Assata and Juanita. She told me she
hadn’t forgotten the Elizabeth Powell case.

On November 26, 1975, Gail was preparing to
leave home to go to her fiction class (filled with
new students) when the phone rang. It was Dep-
uty Freeman, the WHD Program Director, who
advised her not to come to class: the program
had been cancelled. We were not allowed to do
anything after that except to pick up our books
and any program belongings; we couldn’t say
good-bye to anyone or discuss plans for any of
their work.

Naturally, we are contesting this decision,
but there isn't much hope in appealing a war-
den’s whim. It is, after all, her turf. Official
reasons for the cancellation were said to be
duplication of services (they stated that the
public school provided the same type of classes)
and irregularity of classes. The warden refused,
however, to put these reasons in writing for us.

Itis clear that the writing classes were taken
seriously only when the women wrote seriously
about their lives and published those writings.
Poetry is safe, women are safe until they begin
to make sense and communicate. Still, ART

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