A L L WAT E R H A S FU TU R E ME MO RY st o r ie s fo r a p ost-pr i son Loui si a na vol .2
Leah A. Kahler
A BOU T THE SLAVERY E XCEPT ION CLAUSE O n Apri l 7 t h 2021, Repre sentat i ve Ed m o nd J o rd a n i nt ro d uc e d Hou s e Bi l l 196 to the Louisian a l e g i sl ature . If pa sse d , the b i l l woul d remove the slavery excepti o n c l a use fro m t he Lo ui si a na state constitution, mak ing it i l l e g a l fo r i nc a rc e rate d p e o p l e to c o nduct forced labor or wo rk fo r l e ss tha n a l i vi ng wa g e . Speak ing in support of the b i l l o n the ste p s of t he c a p i to l , Exec u tive Director of D ecarcerate Lo ui si a na , Curti s D avi s i nvo ke d the de ma nds of Angola incarcerate d m e n w ho c o nd uc te d a wo rk stoppa g e by laying dow n in the mi d d l e of a wo rkl i ne a nd refusi ng to l a b or in May of 2018. D av i s re m i nd e d the c rowd that the incarcerated p e o p l e’s uni o n ha d c a l l e d fo r: We a re d emand ing a national co nve rsati o n i nq ui ri ng how state pr ison farms acro ss the co unt ry c a m e to ho l d hund re d s of th o usands of people of Afri c a n d e sc e nt a g a i nst the i r w i l l . We a re demand ing an end to the sy ste m ati c o p p re ssi o n a nd expl oitatio n of prisoners and thei r o ut si d e fa m i l y a nd sup p o rte rs fo r p rof i t . We are demand ing cla ssro o m s fo r o ur e d uc ati o n a nd re ha b i l i t at i o n, not sl ave ry. Th is stor y take s place in the future w he re HB 196 i s pa sse d a nd ratif ied by the Louisiana publ ic, a p l a c e w he re l i fe -af f i rm i ng l a b o r a nd l ife c reate the cond itions for s afety.
A L L WAT E R HAS FUTURE M EM ORY The dense late summer air carried a throng of excited and anticipatory voices. Families of formerly incarcerated people at Angola were gathered for the first time at what was to become their place of inhabitation, care, and leisure. Members of the Louisiana public had just completed the first phase of a sweeping transformative justice process following the removal of the slavery exception cause from the state constitution. Unable to secure the public support or funding to the Louisiana department of Corrections, the land that since 1901 had been a place of confinement, dispossession, and coerced labor was at last free to become a partner in care to the formerly incarcerated and their families. Today, a group of them had gathered on site to review plans for Angola’s post-prison transition, including a new residential development near the Hills next to the old K-9 unit, subleases to local Black and Brown farmers for sustainable agriculture, a walking trail dedicated to the history of
enslavement and incarceration in the Delta, a transformative justice training center, and a land trust with a group of Houma-descendant river cane farmers. Their task today was to decide a name for the new place; the meaning carried by “Angola” had been a topic of debate during the transformative justice proceedings. Curtis Davis, Executive Director of Decarcerate Louisiana, cleared his throat and asked the group to start their walk towards the levee look out. Curtis, his wife, and three children walked arm in arm, cutting the furrowed corn field on the bias with a quiet mix of celebratory cheer and somber remembrance. At the top of the twenty-foot tall levees, originally constructed by enslaved people and maintained by twentieth century chain gain, Curtis swung onto the balls of his toes as he was accustomed to doing before launching into a speech. “Today, friends, we celebrate a huge
step forward for our great state of Louisiana, and we remember our stolen brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers who were victims of this country’s original sin. Today, friends, we are getting the abolition of slavery, abolition of the very idea of crime, abolition of the will to punish our fellow Louisianians, right for the first time.” With his typical charisma that could only have originated from a long lineage of Southern preachers, Curtis gestured out to the vast, flat landscape of the floodplain, where the decaying prison buildings, fallen fences, and abandoned rail tracks stood almost in protest of their own existence. Beyond him, the muddy Mississippi lapped at the banks of the levee. “Our task today is one of listening. “Angola’s name,” he continued “the same as the country from which enslaved ancestors came to this land, the same name as the plantation that was a prison to so
many, cannot stand as how we are to call this land in the future. Let us hold our tongues now, listen for our new name.” A hush fell onto the people and the landscape. Then, the low hum of gospel emerged from the crowd. Some of the older Angolites had started to sing old work songs, freedom songs of their own. The river’s rushing waters grew louder and louder, singing across the levee to the large oxbow Lake Kilarney at the prison’s center. Davis’ youngest daughter, Ruth, started to feel the hairs on her arms raise up, and she knew she was in the presence of those who had lived before and the whole community of souls prevented from a dignified rest either toiling in the fields, languishing at the levee camps, or from the unrelenting isolation of solitary confinement. As the whole group of people began to sway, Ruth felt the earth shift ever so slightly
beneath her. The rest of her family looked unconcerned, so she chose not to call attention to her growing feeling that the ground beneath them was about to change. When the singing came to its gentle close and the clouds parted to restore the sun to its blazing perch, members of the crowd started to shout ideas for new names. “We should keep Angola! So as not to forget where we’ve come from!” yelled one grandfather, a former Red Hats inmate. “No no, we should call it Heel String Bougie after our brothers who laid this freedom ground back in the ‘50s!” suggested a historically-inclined young activist from Ville Platte. After what felt like hours to Ruth, her father finally called the meeting to a close. His training in transformative justice had taught him that they needed to be on site, that they needed this first meeting
to open things up, and that there certainly would not be an answer at the close. Besides, the customary 3 o’clock in the afternoon Louisiana summer deluge had begun. Maybe that’s what those clouds were about? As Davis, Ruth and the rest of their family were driving back along the gloriously cop-free LA-66, Ruth felt the same ground shift beneath her feet as earlier that afternoon. Hoping she was only getting car sick, she asked to step out of the car for some fresh air. Her hopes were all in vain though. When she closed her eyes, she saw the great force of the Mississippi River swell and overtop the levees, a phenomenon of which she had only heard tale from her father and his buddies from the inside. All of a sudden, an enormous portion of the levee’s earthen wall sunk beneath the surface of the water, became liquid, and washed away. An angry sheet of floodwaters began to take over the
floodplain’s vast flatness. It seemed the river had other plans for the post-prison landscape of Angola… The next week, Ruth was allowed to accompany her father to survey the damage. He pointed out across the floodplain, saying “Change, Ruth. See it. Respect it. Those levees had held too much pain for too long. Now it’s time we let the river remembers its freedom too.”
L EA R N M OR E AB OUT TH E F IG H T FOR A P OST- P R ISON LOUISIANA
VOT E (Voices of the Exp erienced) vot e n o l a . o rg D ecarcerate Louisiana d e c a rc e rat e l a . o rg Orle ans Parish Prison Refo rm Co a l i t i o n o p p rc . o rg Louisianians for Prison Alternat i ves p r i so n refo rm l a . o rg