Death Blossoms. Mumia Abu-Jamal
I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you,
So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,
So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all.
Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self.
You are the way and the wayfarers.
And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone.
Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone.
Here I sat, on death row, of all places, and not only on death row, but on Phase II, beside men who, like me, had a few weeks left to live.
One of them, a middle-aged, frog-voiced Vietnam vet, would rather die, than live in this Hell of cells, and, refusing all appeals, did die by lethal injection; by judicial murder, by state diktat. His name was Leon Moser.
Two doors down from me, I tried to get him to fight for his life, to get him to battle the political whores who were using his life, and his very death, as stepping stones to higher political office such as elected judgeship:
“Look, man. I understand how you feel. Hell, if I was a middle-aged white dude from the boondocks stuck down here in this black ‘n’ Spanish village, well—hey—I might do the same thing, or feel like it. Graterford must make you feel as if you were in a foreign country.
“Also, wouldn’t it be good to beat those slimy lawyers in the D.A.’s office, who owe their careers to your life—and your death? I know you hate lawyers!”
“I think lawyers are sleazy, yes. But I don’t really care about being executed. As far as I’m concerned the man they sentenced to death died over ten years ago. To execute me won’t mean nothing, ’cause that man ain’t alive no more. To kill me, Jamal, is just like puttin’ out garbage.”
Moser welcomed death like a long-lost lover, and the State, thirsty for his blood, rushed him off into eternity, ignoring even the attempted telephonic intercession of a federal judge. Defense lawyers criticized his execution as a rush to death.
In those few times I saw him in that dark, humid, and stifling Phase II, Moser appeared fifteen years older than he really was; his hair more white than brown, his beard a whitened, chest-long brush, his visage a stark contrast to pictures published in the daily press, which showed a younger, browner-haired, less furtive face.
He walked with a permanent hump, as if a demon the size of a rogue elephant rode his back, bending him down, down, and still farther down.
For such a one, might not death bring the hope of a respite?
PEOPLE SAY they don’t care about politics; they’re not involved or don’t want to get involved, but they are. Their involvement just masquerades as indifference or inattention. It is the silent acquiescence of the millions that supports the system. When you don’t oppose a system, your silence becomes approval, for it does nothing to interrupt the system. People use all sorts of excuses for their indifference. They even appeal to God as a shorthand route for supporting the status quo. They talk about law and order. But look at the system, look at the present social “order” of society. Do you see God? Do you see law and order? There is nothing but disorder, and instead of law there is only the illusion of security. It is an illusion because it is built on a long history of injustices: racism, criminality, and the enslavement and genocide of millions. Many people say it is insane to resist the system, but actually, it is insane not to.
The Search
I
LIFE HAS EVER BEEN in search of answers to basic questions—What is Life? Who is God? Why?
As a boy, this quest took me to the oddest places. When Mama dragged us to church, it seemed more for her solace, than ours. A woman who spent most of her life in the South, she must’ve felt tremendous social coldness up North. “Down home” was “down South,” for even after over a decade, the brick and concrete jungle we walked daily didn’t seem like home.
Only at church did it seem that Mama returned home. It was a refuge where women her age sought a few hours for the soul’s rest while the preacher performed. In a sense, Sunday trips to church were her weekly “homegoing.” They were islands of the South—its camaraderie, its rhythms, its spiritual community—come north.
Yet for myself, as for most of my siblings, church was a foreign affair. We had never lived (and seldom visited) in Mama’s Southern birthland, and the raucous, tambourine-slapping, sweat-drenched, organ-pounding milieu couldn’t be more alien. We weren’t Southerners.
Black preachers, especially those of Southern vintage, are extroverts in style, diction, and cadence. They may yell, shriek, hum, harrumph, or sing. Some strut the stage. Some dance. Black Baptist preachers, especially, are never dull or monotonal. Their sermons aren’t particularly cerebral. Nor should they be. They preach to congregations whose spirits have been beaten down and battered all week long. To them, Sundays are thus days when the spirit, not the mind, needs lifting. So preachers must perform, and sermons become exercises in exuberance.
I remember staring at the preacher—his furrowed face shining with perspiration, eyes closed, lips locked in a holy grimace—and wondering to myself, “What da hell did he just say?” His thick, rich, southern accent, so accessible to Mama, was Greek to me.
Part of me was embarrassed, but the other couldn’t give a damn. I couldn’t care less what the preacher was saying, and he couldn’t care less what I was thinking. I was thinking: I am bored to tears.
The only “salvation” I felt in church was the rapturous joy I felt when I looked around me. Here, I thought, are some of the most beautiful girls in the world.
I was lost in a reverie, in rapt adoration, my eyes locked on a girl a few pews back. She had fresh pressed hair; a crisp, starched dress; patent leather shoes that shone brighter than the real stuff. Her dark brown legs shimmered with the luster of Vaseline. . . .
Then a painful pluck would pull me from my rapture, and Mama’s clenched lips whispered, “Boy! Turn yo’ narrow behind around now! Straighten up!” I would simmer. Who would choose to stare at an old preacher when there was a pretty girl to look at? If I hadda choice between ’em—well, that wouldn’t be no contest. But I was only ten. Mama made the choice for me. I turned, glowering.
It was only several years later, when I was no longer forced to go to church, that I really began to explore the realm of the spirit. Sometimes I went to Dad’s church. Although Mama was a bred-in-the-bone Baptist, Dad was Episcopalian. He had taught me how to read by using the Bible, and seemed to take pleasure in listening to me read Holy Scripture.
After the raucousness of Mama’s Baptist church, Dad’s Episcopalianism seemed its quiet antithesis. Whereas Second Pilgrim’s was cramped, Episcopal was spacious. Baptists sang and danced; Episcopalians were reserved and stately. Mama’s friends shook their tambourines in North Philly. Dad’s sang hymns in the foreign outlands of Southwest Philly.
Dad’s church was vast, reflecting substance and wealth, yet it didn’t feel like home. Maybe Mama’s church was a sweatbox. Dad’s seemed a cold fortress. Soon I began to seek my own spirit-refuge, going wherever I felt the spirit lead me. Like to the synagogue.
II
THROUGH READING the Bible and other books, I knew that the Scriptures were supposed to be the Word