I just can't do it again this year.
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Showing posts with label Mumia Abu-Jamal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mumia Abu-Jamal. Show all posts
Thursday, December 9, 2010
'Nuff Said
Click on the plaque to read my entry on this subject, written exactly one year ago today.
I just can't do it again this year.
I just can't do it again this year.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Today, I'm Going to Rip NPR a New Asshole
If this isn't your thing, you've been forewarned. Go somewhere else today, or take it like a grown-up.
If you're Terry Gross, and you got to this blog by Googling yourself, I'm very disappointed in you and your employer. Not surprised, just disappointed.
If you're Wilbert Rideau, and you got to this blog by Googling yourself, enjoy the ride, pal.
There. That's enough preamble, I think. Let's get on with the amble.
----------------------
I like NPR.
I listen to "On the Media," "All Things Considered," "Car Talk," "A Prairie Home Companion," "This American Life," "Thistle & Shamrock," "Morning Edition," "BBC Newshour," and pretty much whatever else I can wrap my hair-sprouting little ears around.
I consider myself a better person for having NPR in my life. I've never donated money to NPR, and I never will, but that's just how I roll. I'm a pretty tightfisted sonofabitch, unless I love you, in which case I will spend inordinate amounts of money to prop up your ego, make you smile, and/or enhance your personal satisfaction with life.
I like NPR. I don't love NPR. There is a definite difference. I like it, and I feel that my life is fuller and richer for liking it, but you won't catch me with a "I ,<3 NPR" bumpersticker on my Volvo's ass, like you'll find on the asses of many a Volvo where I live.
Why not?
Well, NPR has this funny, frankly repellent little habit of glorifying minority prisoners, usually murderers, that I sort of find, um, distasteful.
First came Mumia Abu-Jamal. Those of you who read this blog as it should be read (obsessively and with a steady supply of nachos con carne) will recognize this name. Mumia Abu-Jamal blew apart the head of a Philadelphia Police Officer named Daniel Faulkner on December 9th, 1981. While Jamal was in prison, NPR commissioned him to record "a series of monthly commentaries on the subject of crime and punishment." Understandably, Philadelphia's Fraternal Order of Police popped a gasket when they heard, and they raised such an uproar that the plans were canceled. His commentaries later appeared in print, in one of the many books he was allowed to write and publish whilst on Death Row.
Now we have Wilbert Rideau. His name isn't nearly as prominent and recognizable as Jamal's, but his crime is no less horrific. In 1961, Rideau robbed a bank in Louisiana. He kidnapped two tellers and the bank manager, shoving them all into a car owned by one of the tellers, Julia Ferguson. The manager, Jay Hickman, leapt out of the car in an attempt to escape. Rideau jumped out and shot Hickman, wounding him. He then shot tellers Dora McCain and Julia Ferguson. Hickman fled and hid, McCain played dead, but Rideau found Ferguson still alive. He stabbed Ferguson straight through the heart with a hunting knife, killing her. Rideau never denied that he robbed the bank, and he never denied shooting McCain & Hickman, and killing Ferguson. He was sentenced to death by an all-white jury but, in 1972, when the death penalty was abolished in Louisiana, his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment.
While in jail, he became the head of the Angolite, the prison newspaper for the Louisiana State Penitentiary (commonly referred to as Angola). His writing earned him nominations for seven national literary awards. He was NPR's "Fresh Air" prison correspondent from 1992-1995. He has had book deals and book signings and probably even book release parties.
In 2000, Rideau's conviction for murder was overturned on the basis that blacks had been excluded from his original trial jury. He was retried and found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to 21 years in prison. Having already served 44, he was released.
He's been referred to by "Life" magazine as "America's Most Rehabilitated Prisoner."
You can probably guess by now that I'm not someone who's easily impressed by such accolades.
The fact that NPR feels compelled to lay laurels and garlands at the feet of a convicted, admitted murderer is something that utterly repulses me. If I had a subscription, I'd cancel it. If I donated money, I'd make them give it back. If I had a ceramic NPR coffee mug, I'd break it on my formica counter. I considered writing an angry letter, but nobody reads those, so I thought I'd write an angry blog post, because I know at least you will read that.
And maybe you'll be angry with me. Or maybe you'll challenge me to look at this in a different light. I've got to warn you, though: I'm a pretty tough nut to crack, especially when innocent blood has been spilt.
You may be of the opinion that Wilbert Rideau, who spent forty-four years of his life in prison, is a victim. This is certainly how NPR looks at him, or at least, it's one of the ways in which NPR looks at him. They also look at him, I feel, as a lightning rod-- for controversy, for educated, well-coiffed white people (some in Volvos!) to feel good about championing, from a comfortable distance, of course.
NPR loves the eloquent, felonious minority. It gets practically squishy when it learns of a well-written, well-spoken minority prisoner who "tells it like it is" and who "isn't afraid to go there." Someone who brings a sensitive, weathered, dignified face to the imprisoned masses of America. If they turn out to be wrongly convicted and incarcerated, so much the better-- but NPR is not particular about that.
You can practically smell the festering, woefully inadequate and apologetic tone of the following sentence in the piece about Rideau on NPR's website:
"Rideau always acknowledged his victims and took full responsibility for his crime."
As if we should all be lining up to pin a merit badge on his shirt. Careful, Wilbert: I may pin that sucker on a little harder than expected.
Probably in a month or two, NPR will throw an obligatory, conciliatory bone to Julia Ferguson's family members, if there are any who are still alive, by giving them a minute or two of airtime, you know-- to show how fair and balanced they are. And, with that, their hands will be as clean as the morning dew. Certainly cleaner than Wilbert Rideau's hands-- forever stained with the blood that flowed from a grotesque murder, from the heart of an innocent woman. I agree that this is America, and that everybody deserves a voice. But does the voice of a convicted murderer need to be on NPR? Maybe Rideau should stick to blogging.
Not only that: what about Julia Ferguson's voice? Why does the man who silenced that voice forever get to be heard? Where is the justice? Where is the logic? Where is the sense of decency?
They say that time heals all wounds, but it doesn't bring murdered people back to life, and it doesn't create celebrated journalists out of their killers.
Or does it?
If you're Terry Gross, and you got to this blog by Googling yourself, I'm very disappointed in you and your employer. Not surprised, just disappointed.
If you're Wilbert Rideau, and you got to this blog by Googling yourself, enjoy the ride, pal.
There. That's enough preamble, I think. Let's get on with the amble.
----------------------
I like NPR.
I listen to "On the Media," "All Things Considered," "Car Talk," "A Prairie Home Companion," "This American Life," "Thistle & Shamrock," "Morning Edition," "BBC Newshour," and pretty much whatever else I can wrap my hair-sprouting little ears around.
I consider myself a better person for having NPR in my life. I've never donated money to NPR, and I never will, but that's just how I roll. I'm a pretty tightfisted sonofabitch, unless I love you, in which case I will spend inordinate amounts of money to prop up your ego, make you smile, and/or enhance your personal satisfaction with life.
I like NPR. I don't love NPR. There is a definite difference. I like it, and I feel that my life is fuller and richer for liking it, but you won't catch me with a "I ,<3 NPR" bumpersticker on my Volvo's ass, like you'll find on the asses of many a Volvo where I live.
Why not?
Well, NPR has this funny, frankly repellent little habit of glorifying minority prisoners, usually murderers, that I sort of find, um, distasteful.
First came Mumia Abu-Jamal. Those of you who read this blog as it should be read (obsessively and with a steady supply of nachos con carne) will recognize this name. Mumia Abu-Jamal blew apart the head of a Philadelphia Police Officer named Daniel Faulkner on December 9th, 1981. While Jamal was in prison, NPR commissioned him to record "a series of monthly commentaries on the subject of crime and punishment." Understandably, Philadelphia's Fraternal Order of Police popped a gasket when they heard, and they raised such an uproar that the plans were canceled. His commentaries later appeared in print, in one of the many books he was allowed to write and publish whilst on Death Row.
Now we have Wilbert Rideau. His name isn't nearly as prominent and recognizable as Jamal's, but his crime is no less horrific. In 1961, Rideau robbed a bank in Louisiana. He kidnapped two tellers and the bank manager, shoving them all into a car owned by one of the tellers, Julia Ferguson. The manager, Jay Hickman, leapt out of the car in an attempt to escape. Rideau jumped out and shot Hickman, wounding him. He then shot tellers Dora McCain and Julia Ferguson. Hickman fled and hid, McCain played dead, but Rideau found Ferguson still alive. He stabbed Ferguson straight through the heart with a hunting knife, killing her. Rideau never denied that he robbed the bank, and he never denied shooting McCain & Hickman, and killing Ferguson. He was sentenced to death by an all-white jury but, in 1972, when the death penalty was abolished in Louisiana, his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment.
While in jail, he became the head of the Angolite, the prison newspaper for the Louisiana State Penitentiary (commonly referred to as Angola). His writing earned him nominations for seven national literary awards. He was NPR's "Fresh Air" prison correspondent from 1992-1995. He has had book deals and book signings and probably even book release parties.
In 2000, Rideau's conviction for murder was overturned on the basis that blacks had been excluded from his original trial jury. He was retried and found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to 21 years in prison. Having already served 44, he was released.
He's been referred to by "Life" magazine as "America's Most Rehabilitated Prisoner."
You can probably guess by now that I'm not someone who's easily impressed by such accolades.
The fact that NPR feels compelled to lay laurels and garlands at the feet of a convicted, admitted murderer is something that utterly repulses me. If I had a subscription, I'd cancel it. If I donated money, I'd make them give it back. If I had a ceramic NPR coffee mug, I'd break it on my formica counter. I considered writing an angry letter, but nobody reads those, so I thought I'd write an angry blog post, because I know at least you will read that.
And maybe you'll be angry with me. Or maybe you'll challenge me to look at this in a different light. I've got to warn you, though: I'm a pretty tough nut to crack, especially when innocent blood has been spilt.
You may be of the opinion that Wilbert Rideau, who spent forty-four years of his life in prison, is a victim. This is certainly how NPR looks at him, or at least, it's one of the ways in which NPR looks at him. They also look at him, I feel, as a lightning rod-- for controversy, for educated, well-coiffed white people (some in Volvos!) to feel good about championing, from a comfortable distance, of course.
NPR loves the eloquent, felonious minority. It gets practically squishy when it learns of a well-written, well-spoken minority prisoner who "tells it like it is" and who "isn't afraid to go there." Someone who brings a sensitive, weathered, dignified face to the imprisoned masses of America. If they turn out to be wrongly convicted and incarcerated, so much the better-- but NPR is not particular about that.
You can practically smell the festering, woefully inadequate and apologetic tone of the following sentence in the piece about Rideau on NPR's website:
"Rideau always acknowledged his victims and took full responsibility for his crime."
As if we should all be lining up to pin a merit badge on his shirt. Careful, Wilbert: I may pin that sucker on a little harder than expected.
Probably in a month or two, NPR will throw an obligatory, conciliatory bone to Julia Ferguson's family members, if there are any who are still alive, by giving them a minute or two of airtime, you know-- to show how fair and balanced they are. And, with that, their hands will be as clean as the morning dew. Certainly cleaner than Wilbert Rideau's hands-- forever stained with the blood that flowed from a grotesque murder, from the heart of an innocent woman. I agree that this is America, and that everybody deserves a voice. But does the voice of a convicted murderer need to be on NPR? Maybe Rideau should stick to blogging.
Not only that: what about Julia Ferguson's voice? Why does the man who silenced that voice forever get to be heard? Where is the justice? Where is the logic? Where is the sense of decency?
They say that time heals all wounds, but it doesn't bring murdered people back to life, and it doesn't create celebrated journalists out of their killers.
Or does it?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Rage and The Machine
I've written some things in the past that I'm not proud of.
Let's just get that said right at the start.
As some of you know, one of the things I wrote that bore my name got me excused early from a temporary job that had all the trappings and promises of a possibly excellent career. It was that very regrettable incident that might have led me to silence myself forever, for fear of it, or something worse, ever happening again. Ironically, it was that very event that started my blog.
Lucky you.
I'm proud of most of the things I've written on this blog, except for maybe one or two things I've said about Meredith Vieira that probably border on slander, if you're a real stickler for that sort of thing. Though I can't say for sure, because I haven't written it yet, I'm pretty sure I won't be prouder of another post than this one.
Why? Because, today, I'm raging against the machine. And that always feels good.
You've probably heard of the band "Rage Against the Machine," right? Morello, etcetera... They're part of a large contingent of folks who support a new trial or the outright release of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. Just like Ed Asner, Mike Farrell, Danny Glover, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and a lot of other famous people who, apparently, are very bored and have already given as much time and money as they can to Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Barack Obama, and Angelina Jolie's Give-Me-More-Children Foundation.
It's kind of funny, actually, that a band calling itself "Rage Against the Machine" is a notable member of what is arguably the most organized, well-coordinated, web-savvy social movement engaged in attempting to gain freedom for a killer in the 20th, 21st, or any century. "Rage Against the Machine," and the thousands and thousands of Mumia supporters all over the globe are, effectively, "The Machine."
They've got the power, they've got the money, they've got the sexy message, the alluring cause, the first-rate legal assistance, the constant web and media exposure. And they've got you Googled. Google "Justice for Mumia" and you get 396,000 hits. Google "Justice for Daniel Faulkner," Mumia's victim, and you get less than half that many.
It sure sounds like the Free Mumia Movement is The Machine to me.
In case you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me take you back in time-- 28 years to the day, in fact. It's December 9th, 1981. 3:50am Picture yourself standing in the freezing cold of a Philadelphia night at the intersection of 13th and Locust Streets. It's a pretty seedy block in a seedier time-- it's not the bustling, jovial gayberhood of today. A scuffed up, dented, blue Volkswagen Beetle is traveling the wrong way down the street. It does so a couple times. Officer Daniel Faulkner, with five years on the force at the age of twenty-five, observes this behavior and activates his patrol car's emergency lights, pulling the car over.
He keys his radio and reports the location of the traffic stop: 1234 Locust Street. Moments later, it appears that he is going to effect an arrest, as he calls for back-up, and then changes his mind and requests an EPW (emergency patrol wagon) to come to the scene.
He'll be dead in a minute.
Faulkner moves in to arrest the driver of the Beetle for an unknown reason. As Faulkner is searching the driver, he swings around and punches Officer Faulkner in the face. A scuffle ensues. From a parking lot across the street, a cab-driver named Mumia Abu-Jamal witnesses the fracas and runs over, pulls out a revolver and shoots Daniel Faulkner in the back. Faulkner spins around and shoots his assailant once in the chest. As he lies there on the pavement, looking up, Mumia Abu-Jamal straddles Faulkner and fires a high-velocity bullet into his brain, killing him instantly. Jamal takes a few steps before he collapses, wounded and losing blood, on the pavement as the sirens of an approaching police unit are heard. The first responding officers found their dead comrade, Jamal's brother standing there with his hands up shouting, "I ain't got nothin' to do with it!" and Mumia, bleeding, his gun next to him.
Jamal was immediately arrested, treated at Jefferson University Hospital, and tried for murder at a trial he routinely and obscenely disrupted-- threatening the judge and berating his defense attorney. He was convicted by a racially-mixed jury and was unanimously sentenced to death. That was back in 1982. Since then, the Free Mumia Movement has grown like an aggressive cancer, and it has been just as devastating to Officer Faulkner's widow, his police colleagues, his friends and his family. His conviction has been upheld time and time and time and time again.
It seems, unfortunately, that there just aren't enough people out there raging against this particularly insidious, misguided, ill-informed, often abusive and threatening machine.
28 years later, the Mumia Machine is operating as smoothly and efficiently as ever, organizing parades and protests and misinformation campaigns, conducting benefits and raising money. Jamal speaks and writes from beyond prison walls, though the one thing he steadfastly refuses to speak about at any length and detail are the events of December 9, 1981, and I suppose that is with good reason-- it seems like he has finally decided to start listening to his lawyer.
They call him "The Voice of the Voiceless" which I find kind of ironic, seeing as Mumia supporters don't really seem terribly voiceless to me-- their shouts ring in my ears constantly. Daniel Faulkner is really the one whose voice was silenced, 28 years ago, by a bullet to his brain. If Mumia is the supposed voice of the voiceless, who is being Daniel Faulkner's voice? Sure, he has friends and allies, and they may be strong in numbers, but their voices do not always get the attention they deserve, perhaps because there are precious few celebrities who can claim Justice For Daniel Faulkner on their roster of favored charities. And that's a shame, but I guess supporting an incarcerated African-American "political prisoner" is a lot sexier and does more to boost your star power in Hollwyood than backing a dead 25-year-old policeman and his now middle-aged widow.
I suppose you may be asking yourself right about now, "Well, okay, but, what does he want from ME?" I don't know, really. Maybe I just wanted to let off a little steam. Maybe I just wanted to recognize what went down on that Philadelphia street corner twenty-eight years ago. Maybe I just wanted to rage a very little against a very large machine. Maybe I just want to be David to its Goliath. Or maybe I want to influence you-- to make you care about something I care about, to see it from another perspective. I hope you don't think I'm shoving it down your throat. I don't want to do that to you-- I'm very fond of you after all-- and you have such a nice throat.
Just take a moment today. Send up a quick prayer for Daniel Faulkner, if you do that sort of thing. If you don't, noodle around online and take ten minutes out of your day and educate yourself a little more about this case. Maybe write something. Tell your friends. Join a Facebook group. Learn about it. Talk about it.
And rage.
Let's just get that said right at the start.
As some of you know, one of the things I wrote that bore my name got me excused early from a temporary job that had all the trappings and promises of a possibly excellent career. It was that very regrettable incident that might have led me to silence myself forever, for fear of it, or something worse, ever happening again. Ironically, it was that very event that started my blog.
Lucky you.
I'm proud of most of the things I've written on this blog, except for maybe one or two things I've said about Meredith Vieira that probably border on slander, if you're a real stickler for that sort of thing. Though I can't say for sure, because I haven't written it yet, I'm pretty sure I won't be prouder of another post than this one.
Why? Because, today, I'm raging against the machine. And that always feels good.
You've probably heard of the band "Rage Against the Machine," right? Morello, etcetera... They're part of a large contingent of folks who support a new trial or the outright release of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. Just like Ed Asner, Mike Farrell, Danny Glover, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and a lot of other famous people who, apparently, are very bored and have already given as much time and money as they can to Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Barack Obama, and Angelina Jolie's Give-Me-More-Children Foundation.
It's kind of funny, actually, that a band calling itself "Rage Against the Machine" is a notable member of what is arguably the most organized, well-coordinated, web-savvy social movement engaged in attempting to gain freedom for a killer in the 20th, 21st, or any century. "Rage Against the Machine," and the thousands and thousands of Mumia supporters all over the globe are, effectively, "The Machine."
They've got the power, they've got the money, they've got the sexy message, the alluring cause, the first-rate legal assistance, the constant web and media exposure. And they've got you Googled. Google "Justice for Mumia" and you get 396,000 hits. Google "Justice for Daniel Faulkner," Mumia's victim, and you get less than half that many.
It sure sounds like the Free Mumia Movement is The Machine to me.
In case you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me take you back in time-- 28 years to the day, in fact. It's December 9th, 1981. 3:50am Picture yourself standing in the freezing cold of a Philadelphia night at the intersection of 13th and Locust Streets. It's a pretty seedy block in a seedier time-- it's not the bustling, jovial gayberhood of today. A scuffed up, dented, blue Volkswagen Beetle is traveling the wrong way down the street. It does so a couple times. Officer Daniel Faulkner, with five years on the force at the age of twenty-five, observes this behavior and activates his patrol car's emergency lights, pulling the car over.
He keys his radio and reports the location of the traffic stop: 1234 Locust Street. Moments later, it appears that he is going to effect an arrest, as he calls for back-up, and then changes his mind and requests an EPW (emergency patrol wagon) to come to the scene.
He'll be dead in a minute.
Faulkner moves in to arrest the driver of the Beetle for an unknown reason. As Faulkner is searching the driver, he swings around and punches Officer Faulkner in the face. A scuffle ensues. From a parking lot across the street, a cab-driver named Mumia Abu-Jamal witnesses the fracas and runs over, pulls out a revolver and shoots Daniel Faulkner in the back. Faulkner spins around and shoots his assailant once in the chest. As he lies there on the pavement, looking up, Mumia Abu-Jamal straddles Faulkner and fires a high-velocity bullet into his brain, killing him instantly. Jamal takes a few steps before he collapses, wounded and losing blood, on the pavement as the sirens of an approaching police unit are heard. The first responding officers found their dead comrade, Jamal's brother standing there with his hands up shouting, "I ain't got nothin' to do with it!" and Mumia, bleeding, his gun next to him.
Jamal was immediately arrested, treated at Jefferson University Hospital, and tried for murder at a trial he routinely and obscenely disrupted-- threatening the judge and berating his defense attorney. He was convicted by a racially-mixed jury and was unanimously sentenced to death. That was back in 1982. Since then, the Free Mumia Movement has grown like an aggressive cancer, and it has been just as devastating to Officer Faulkner's widow, his police colleagues, his friends and his family. His conviction has been upheld time and time and time and time again.
It seems, unfortunately, that there just aren't enough people out there raging against this particularly insidious, misguided, ill-informed, often abusive and threatening machine.
28 years later, the Mumia Machine is operating as smoothly and efficiently as ever, organizing parades and protests and misinformation campaigns, conducting benefits and raising money. Jamal speaks and writes from beyond prison walls, though the one thing he steadfastly refuses to speak about at any length and detail are the events of December 9, 1981, and I suppose that is with good reason-- it seems like he has finally decided to start listening to his lawyer.
They call him "The Voice of the Voiceless" which I find kind of ironic, seeing as Mumia supporters don't really seem terribly voiceless to me-- their shouts ring in my ears constantly. Daniel Faulkner is really the one whose voice was silenced, 28 years ago, by a bullet to his brain. If Mumia is the supposed voice of the voiceless, who is being Daniel Faulkner's voice? Sure, he has friends and allies, and they may be strong in numbers, but their voices do not always get the attention they deserve, perhaps because there are precious few celebrities who can claim Justice For Daniel Faulkner on their roster of favored charities. And that's a shame, but I guess supporting an incarcerated African-American "political prisoner" is a lot sexier and does more to boost your star power in Hollwyood than backing a dead 25-year-old policeman and his now middle-aged widow.
I suppose you may be asking yourself right about now, "Well, okay, but, what does he want from ME?" I don't know, really. Maybe I just wanted to let off a little steam. Maybe I just wanted to recognize what went down on that Philadelphia street corner twenty-eight years ago. Maybe I just wanted to rage a very little against a very large machine. Maybe I just want to be David to its Goliath. Or maybe I want to influence you-- to make you care about something I care about, to see it from another perspective. I hope you don't think I'm shoving it down your throat. I don't want to do that to you-- I'm very fond of you after all-- and you have such a nice throat.
Just take a moment today. Send up a quick prayer for Daniel Faulkner, if you do that sort of thing. If you don't, noodle around online and take ten minutes out of your day and educate yourself a little more about this case. Maybe write something. Tell your friends. Join a Facebook group. Learn about it. Talk about it.
And rage.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
FOAD
When I was an undergraduate in college, I wrote and published a book in an attempt to garner public support for law enforcement. My main goal was to bring awareness to the fact that a police officer dies in the line of duty in America every 52 hours, and that there have been approximately 16,000 police officers who have fallen or have been felled since the whole American shabang began. I also wanted to promote a positive image of law enforcement in America, and to stand with young, broken widows and widowers, and fatherless or motherless children.
Of course, when you try to do this, you make some friends, mostly the uniformed kind. You also make a lot of enemies.
Before and after my book was published, I was (and am) a frequent editorial contributor to our two main Philly papers. I always request that my email address be printed along with the letter, because I like to hear what people have to say, whether it's positive or negative. In 2003, I wrote a long column in the Cincinnati Enquirer following a controversial arrest and I received such a tremendous outpouring of support from law enforcement officers all over the country, and I was quite moved.
It doesn't always go like that, though.
Rabid fans of local cop-killer and media darling Mumia Abu-Jamal have threatened to burn my house (and neighborhood, for that matter) down. I've had my life threatened numerous times and, at a Barnes & Noble book signing in a quaint little suburb, I was assigned uniformed and plainclothes police protection after a threat was called in to the store. After I get something in print, I always expect at least one nutjob to stand up and say "hello!"
I haven't written an editorial since July 27th, and so the email that popped up in my inbox this morning was surprising. Sometimes, unemployed people with chips on their shoulders spend their weary days trolling through the depths of the internet and find old articles of mine, and then, out of the blue, I get hate mail. It's like Christmas in October! Here's what this one said,
"FOAD you cop loving fascist goof. Oh yeah, you are also butt fuck ugly."
This is a typically eloquent example of the sort of emails that I receive from folks who disagree with my views on certain issues, mostly surrounding law enforcement, as you can tell from the choice adjective, "cop loving." Or is "cop loving" a verb? I guess, when used in the aforementioned manner, it's more a descriptor. Anyway, this email will go down in my own personal history as the first piece of hatemail in which I actually had to look something up to understand it. God bless the Urban Dictionary.
"F.O.A.D.
fuck off and die!
I wish rns would just F.O.A.D"
Nice. Apparently, I can order a mug from Urban Dictionary emblazoned with the definition of "F.O.A.D." And I might just do that, too.
After looking up F.O.A.D. I then, of course, had to look up what "rns" means. Don't you hate it when a word inside a definition requires a definition?
Turns out that RNS is an acronym, too, (and it would be really helpful, people, if, when utilizing an acronym, you put periods in between the letters to identify it as such) which could stand for any number of things, including but not limited to:
Regulatory News Service
Royal Numismatic Society
Radar Netting Station
Respiratory Nursing Society
Ruth Newman Shapiro Regional Cancer Center
and
Really Neat Stuff, Inc.
I doubt any of these acronyms are the one meant in the Urban Dictionary definition. It's hard to picture someone seriously saying, "I wish the Ruth Newman Shapiro Regional Cancer Center would fuck off and die."
After thinking about what I should do, I went to the website where the email supposedly originated, and I found a different email address for customer service. To my shock and chagrin, I found that the website where this email address came from is Canadian! Do you believe it? And Michael Moore tried to convince us all that they were the model society! I sent the following email, with the offending email pasted below it:
"Hi,
I received an unsolicited, unsigned email this morning from mrmeanman@meany.com (not the real email address, people) in which I was told to "fuck off and die," via the acronym "FOAD." I have pasted the email below for your perusal.
I have also forwarded a copy of the email to my attorney and I hope that you will conduct an investigation to determine the perpetrator who, I hope, will be dealt with appropriately.
Thank you,
My Real Name"
Don't I sound like I knew what "FOAD" meant all along? And don't I sound all scary with the mention of "my attorney?" Of course, we all know that I'm far too poor to have an attorney, but it sure sounds good. Imagine-- sending that from a business account. How stupid do people have to be?
Of course, he's at least smart enough to know what FOAD means. I thought he had just misspelled "TOAD."
Of course, when you try to do this, you make some friends, mostly the uniformed kind. You also make a lot of enemies.
Before and after my book was published, I was (and am) a frequent editorial contributor to our two main Philly papers. I always request that my email address be printed along with the letter, because I like to hear what people have to say, whether it's positive or negative. In 2003, I wrote a long column in the Cincinnati Enquirer following a controversial arrest and I received such a tremendous outpouring of support from law enforcement officers all over the country, and I was quite moved.
It doesn't always go like that, though.
Rabid fans of local cop-killer and media darling Mumia Abu-Jamal have threatened to burn my house (and neighborhood, for that matter) down. I've had my life threatened numerous times and, at a Barnes & Noble book signing in a quaint little suburb, I was assigned uniformed and plainclothes police protection after a threat was called in to the store. After I get something in print, I always expect at least one nutjob to stand up and say "hello!"
I haven't written an editorial since July 27th, and so the email that popped up in my inbox this morning was surprising. Sometimes, unemployed people with chips on their shoulders spend their weary days trolling through the depths of the internet and find old articles of mine, and then, out of the blue, I get hate mail. It's like Christmas in October! Here's what this one said,
"FOAD you cop loving fascist goof. Oh yeah, you are also butt fuck ugly."
This is a typically eloquent example of the sort of emails that I receive from folks who disagree with my views on certain issues, mostly surrounding law enforcement, as you can tell from the choice adjective, "cop loving." Or is "cop loving" a verb? I guess, when used in the aforementioned manner, it's more a descriptor. Anyway, this email will go down in my own personal history as the first piece of hatemail in which I actually had to look something up to understand it. God bless the Urban Dictionary.
"F.O.A.D.
fuck off and die!
I wish rns would just F.O.A.D"
Nice. Apparently, I can order a mug from Urban Dictionary emblazoned with the definition of "F.O.A.D." And I might just do that, too.
After looking up F.O.A.D. I then, of course, had to look up what "rns" means. Don't you hate it when a word inside a definition requires a definition?
Turns out that RNS is an acronym, too, (and it would be really helpful, people, if, when utilizing an acronym, you put periods in between the letters to identify it as such) which could stand for any number of things, including but not limited to:
Regulatory News Service
Royal Numismatic Society
Radar Netting Station
Respiratory Nursing Society
Ruth Newman Shapiro Regional Cancer Center
and
Really Neat Stuff, Inc.
I doubt any of these acronyms are the one meant in the Urban Dictionary definition. It's hard to picture someone seriously saying, "I wish the Ruth Newman Shapiro Regional Cancer Center would fuck off and die."
After thinking about what I should do, I went to the website where the email supposedly originated, and I found a different email address for customer service. To my shock and chagrin, I found that the website where this email address came from is Canadian! Do you believe it? And Michael Moore tried to convince us all that they were the model society! I sent the following email, with the offending email pasted below it:
"Hi,
I received an unsolicited, unsigned email this morning from mrmeanman@meany.com (not the real email address, people) in which I was told to "fuck off and die," via the acronym "FOAD." I have pasted the email below for your perusal.
I have also forwarded a copy of the email to my attorney and I hope that you will conduct an investigation to determine the perpetrator who, I hope, will be dealt with appropriately.
Thank you,
My Real Name"
Don't I sound like I knew what "FOAD" meant all along? And don't I sound all scary with the mention of "my attorney?" Of course, we all know that I'm far too poor to have an attorney, but it sure sounds good. Imagine-- sending that from a business account. How stupid do people have to be?
Of course, he's at least smart enough to know what FOAD means. I thought he had just misspelled "TOAD."
Monday, June 8, 2009
Oh, Give Me a Cause
As a member of 20Something Bloggers, I sometimes feel myself duty-bound to write blog posts directed at that particular sector of the population-- not necessarily 20something bloggers, but 20somethings in general. As a 29-year-old, I feel that I have attained sufficient wisdom to make a direct address to some of the 22-year-olds or *gasp* nubile, malleable-minded 20-year-olds who might chance to read this blog.
Hi.
If there's one thing that's endemic to 20somethings, it's causes. 20somethings LOVE their causes. If you don't believe me, just look at any one of their Facebook pages. Ensconsed somewhere therein, in between the pictures of them wearing pink tank-tops and downing bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade and the ceaseless "Which Gangasta Rapper Are You?" or "Which STD Are You?" quizzes, you'll find the "Causes" that any particular 20something supports. Maybe it's "Save the Koala Bears" or "Save the Chinstrap Penguin" or "Save the Arts in Education" or "Save Private Ryan."
20somethings are always trying to save something. If they're not trying to save something, they're more likely than not trying to free it.
"Free Tibet" is always a popular one. "Free the Exploited Children." "Free the FDLS Children."
Lots of children need freeing, apparently. Which, I suppose, is better than freezing the children.
20somethings also love trying to free things or groups with numbers attached.
"Free the Move 9." "Free the Chicago 7." "Free the Cuban 5." "Free the New York 3."
20somethings also, for some reason, are oftentimes pretty hopped up on freeing cop-killers.
"Free Leonard Peltier." "Free Assata Shakur." And, the grand-whammee of them all: "Free Mumia."
Although I know it doesn't sound like it from my tone so far, I like and respect 20somethings for looking for causes to support. 20somethings, by and large, have their hearts in the right place. Not only that but, exiting college into an uncertain occupational and economic world, they have the potential to have their heads shoved so far up their own asses in the search for a way out of their parents' basements that they might just as well not fight for causes they believe in.
As my great-grandmother was fond of saying, "Look-- it's a selfish world." But, Bubbe, not for most 20somethings. They want to share their ire and frustrations at an unjust world. And I'm glad they do. Sometimes, however, I wish they would do it in a more constructive way than by trying in vain to free a man who shot a young policeman in the back, and then blew his brains out all over a Philadelphia sidewalk.
So, this is an urgent message to all you 20somethings out there looking for a bone to pick, a cause to support, a banner to wave, a sandwich board to paint, a drum to beat, a song to sing, a bandwagon to climb on:
North Korea has just sentenced two young, female journalists to 12 years of hard labor for slipping into North Korea illegally and reporting on humanitarian conditions.
Now, if that's not a cause worthy of getting your panties in a twist, then I don't know what is.
After 28 years of trying to convince the world that he's a "political prisoner," Mumia Abu-Jamal could learn a thing or two about the real definition of that term from Laura Ling and Euna Lee.
20somethings: your time to chant has come. Here is a cause worthy of your attention, your devotion, your petitions and, yes, your coveted Facebook statuses. Let's get crackin' all's y'alls.
The cause you have been waiting for has arrived.
Hi.
If there's one thing that's endemic to 20somethings, it's causes. 20somethings LOVE their causes. If you don't believe me, just look at any one of their Facebook pages. Ensconsed somewhere therein, in between the pictures of them wearing pink tank-tops and downing bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade and the ceaseless "Which Gangasta Rapper Are You?" or "Which STD Are You?" quizzes, you'll find the "Causes" that any particular 20something supports. Maybe it's "Save the Koala Bears" or "Save the Chinstrap Penguin" or "Save the Arts in Education" or "Save Private Ryan."
20somethings are always trying to save something. If they're not trying to save something, they're more likely than not trying to free it.
"Free Tibet" is always a popular one. "Free the Exploited Children." "Free the FDLS Children."
Lots of children need freeing, apparently. Which, I suppose, is better than freezing the children.
20somethings also love trying to free things or groups with numbers attached.
"Free the Move 9." "Free the Chicago 7." "Free the Cuban 5." "Free the New York 3."
20somethings also, for some reason, are oftentimes pretty hopped up on freeing cop-killers.
"Free Leonard Peltier." "Free Assata Shakur." And, the grand-whammee of them all: "Free Mumia."
Although I know it doesn't sound like it from my tone so far, I like and respect 20somethings for looking for causes to support. 20somethings, by and large, have their hearts in the right place. Not only that but, exiting college into an uncertain occupational and economic world, they have the potential to have their heads shoved so far up their own asses in the search for a way out of their parents' basements that they might just as well not fight for causes they believe in.
As my great-grandmother was fond of saying, "Look-- it's a selfish world." But, Bubbe, not for most 20somethings. They want to share their ire and frustrations at an unjust world. And I'm glad they do. Sometimes, however, I wish they would do it in a more constructive way than by trying in vain to free a man who shot a young policeman in the back, and then blew his brains out all over a Philadelphia sidewalk.
So, this is an urgent message to all you 20somethings out there looking for a bone to pick, a cause to support, a banner to wave, a sandwich board to paint, a drum to beat, a song to sing, a bandwagon to climb on:
North Korea has just sentenced two young, female journalists to 12 years of hard labor for slipping into North Korea illegally and reporting on humanitarian conditions.
Now, if that's not a cause worthy of getting your panties in a twist, then I don't know what is.
After 28 years of trying to convince the world that he's a "political prisoner," Mumia Abu-Jamal could learn a thing or two about the real definition of that term from Laura Ling and Euna Lee.
20somethings: your time to chant has come. Here is a cause worthy of your attention, your devotion, your petitions and, yes, your coveted Facebook statuses. Let's get crackin' all's y'alls.
The cause you have been waiting for has arrived.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Unless It's Mean
I pissed somebody off in the blogosphere recently.
This should not be altogether surprising.
I don't like upsetting people, but it happens. In my insatiable quest to be humorous and entertaining, I realize that I will inevitably rustle a feather or two. It can't be helped. I mean, some people are sensitive. And others are Catholic. I think one or two people might even be a combination of the two.
See what I mean?
I wrote a comment on a blog that hamhandedly suggested that someone's 90-year-old grandfather might have "something in common" with a beautiful, blue Beta fish which, unfortunately, had a life-altering ailment. This person thought I meant that her grandfather was "on the way out, like the fish." That wasn't what I meant, but my remark wasn't carefully thought out, keeping in tradition with 99.7% of the remarks I make on any given day, and the young lady freaked on me, old school. Well, I guess actually it was more like "new school" since it was done in the comment section of a blog and utilized a keyboard, as opposed to on the mulch pile at an elementary school playground, utilizing fists, and/or a tire-iron.
Flip comments get people into trouble all the time, but they shouldn't. Look at the tumult and backlash that poor Joe Biden created when he said on the Today Show that he would advise his family members not to get on a subway or a plane during the apex of the swine flu outbreak. People freaked-- namely, people who routinely get on planes and subways, because they don't want their way of life jeopardized or questioned, even if it's for their own good. So everybody went ape on Big-Mouth Joe. I don't see what the big deal is. If I had kids, I would bar them air, ground and sea travel as well, and I would place them in isolation during such an outbreak, home-schooling them while wearing matching wet suits and scuba-gear.
Part of the problem isn't just the people who make flip or cavalier comments, it's the people on the receiving end. There are some people out there, lots of them, actually, who like to get offended. They enjoy being outraged, or slighted, or indignant. They, well, kind of get off on it. You know who I'm talking about-- the woman who hears someone swearing in the bread aisle at the supermarket. She thins her lips, crosses her arms in front of her chest and exclaims, "Well, I never!"
Sure you've evered, biatch, and don't tell me you haven't.
There are just these people out there who will look for any excuse to get their nose out-of-joint. And that's okay, really-- that's their thing. Some people have a fetish like that. Other people are obsessed with... other things. There's a woman on my street who, every time she sees me picking up my dog's shit, she thanks me and launches headlong into a monologue about how her husband would have stepped in that if I hadn't picked it up. I've heard this now several times.
That, I guess, is her thing. And I admit that it makes me feel awkward and weird to stand there holding a bag of shit while I get praised for it in a rather mechanised, rehearsed style-- but I also admit that it's damn better than getting laughed at and ridiculed by the young, black children in the ghetto for picking up after my dog.
I think it's kind of funny that there are some bloggers out there who are very sensitive to anything less than ego-enhancing praise left in their Comment section. I mean, it says "Comments," right? It doesn't say "Affirmations" or "Supportive, redundant missives." If a blog is a place for you to say anything you damn well please, then your comment section should, really, be a place for your readers to say anything they damn well please. There's a blogger out there whose comment section has a warning that reads something like, "Leave it here. Unless it's mean. Then either click that red box/circle in the top corner, or try email." So, it's okay to be mean to you in an email, as long as your readers don't have to see it? Hell, we all know they'll see the mean comment the very next day, when you write a blog post about how mean someone was to you, and you lambast them with all the clever retorts you were able to brew up in your head during the night.
Come on. "Unless it's mean?" Grow up, buttsuck.
Maybe it's because I used to frequently engage in the socially ill-advised practice of writing editorials and commentaries, and a book that advocated for the continued imprisonment of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal that "mean comments" really don't bother me very much. I've had people threaten to kill me, and my family. I had one person threaten to burn my house down, and he even went so far as to mention my neighborhood, which kind of freaked me out, but it never happened. At a book signing event, the book store received threats and contracted the services of two uniformed police officers and one plainclothes officer to protect me and others who might have been caught in the cross-fire. Nothing bad ever happened, because most people are just angry and full of shit-- only a choice few are actually armed and insane. But those episodes, the hate and vitriol that has been spewed in my direction by people who love freedom of speech as long as you agree with them has definitely changed my view on the whole commenting thing.
Mean comments? Sure. Why not? You're allowed, aren't you?
On the old blog, I wrote a review of a concert I attended with Mrs. Apron. The opening act was Sean Hoots. I didn't like him, I thought he was a phony and a narcissist, so I wrote about it. A couple months later, his friendlettes and hangersons littered the comment section of that blog post with criticisms of my review, some were downright abusive. Did I delete their comments or tell them to stop "being mean" to me? Fuck no. I just let them go on and on, and, in doing that, I was able to let them show everyone else how petty, obsessive and stupid they were. See? People generally take care of things like that themselves-- especially idiots and assholes.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: lighten up, world. Don't be afraid to speak your mind, especially here. If you don't like something, speak up. I don't mind. I'll still love you in the morning. You don't have to stop reading just because I made a comment that offended you, or burned you, or pissed you off or made you put your dog in a headlock. It's okay. We're human. We do that shit to each other. But don't just read things you agree with, and don't just leave warm and fuzzy comments that mimmick everybody else's. Don't be afraid to stir up the pot. Don't be afraid to disagree.
Don't be reluctant to speak your mind-- because nobody's going to do it for you. The blog is the champion of mind-speaking. So speak it, bitch.
This should not be altogether surprising.
I don't like upsetting people, but it happens. In my insatiable quest to be humorous and entertaining, I realize that I will inevitably rustle a feather or two. It can't be helped. I mean, some people are sensitive. And others are Catholic. I think one or two people might even be a combination of the two.
See what I mean?
I wrote a comment on a blog that hamhandedly suggested that someone's 90-year-old grandfather might have "something in common" with a beautiful, blue Beta fish which, unfortunately, had a life-altering ailment. This person thought I meant that her grandfather was "on the way out, like the fish." That wasn't what I meant, but my remark wasn't carefully thought out, keeping in tradition with 99.7% of the remarks I make on any given day, and the young lady freaked on me, old school. Well, I guess actually it was more like "new school" since it was done in the comment section of a blog and utilized a keyboard, as opposed to on the mulch pile at an elementary school playground, utilizing fists, and/or a tire-iron.
Flip comments get people into trouble all the time, but they shouldn't. Look at the tumult and backlash that poor Joe Biden created when he said on the Today Show that he would advise his family members not to get on a subway or a plane during the apex of the swine flu outbreak. People freaked-- namely, people who routinely get on planes and subways, because they don't want their way of life jeopardized or questioned, even if it's for their own good. So everybody went ape on Big-Mouth Joe. I don't see what the big deal is. If I had kids, I would bar them air, ground and sea travel as well, and I would place them in isolation during such an outbreak, home-schooling them while wearing matching wet suits and scuba-gear.
Part of the problem isn't just the people who make flip or cavalier comments, it's the people on the receiving end. There are some people out there, lots of them, actually, who like to get offended. They enjoy being outraged, or slighted, or indignant. They, well, kind of get off on it. You know who I'm talking about-- the woman who hears someone swearing in the bread aisle at the supermarket. She thins her lips, crosses her arms in front of her chest and exclaims, "Well, I never!"
Sure you've evered, biatch, and don't tell me you haven't.
There are just these people out there who will look for any excuse to get their nose out-of-joint. And that's okay, really-- that's their thing. Some people have a fetish like that. Other people are obsessed with... other things. There's a woman on my street who, every time she sees me picking up my dog's shit, she thanks me and launches headlong into a monologue about how her husband would have stepped in that if I hadn't picked it up. I've heard this now several times.
That, I guess, is her thing. And I admit that it makes me feel awkward and weird to stand there holding a bag of shit while I get praised for it in a rather mechanised, rehearsed style-- but I also admit that it's damn better than getting laughed at and ridiculed by the young, black children in the ghetto for picking up after my dog.
I think it's kind of funny that there are some bloggers out there who are very sensitive to anything less than ego-enhancing praise left in their Comment section. I mean, it says "Comments," right? It doesn't say "Affirmations" or "Supportive, redundant missives." If a blog is a place for you to say anything you damn well please, then your comment section should, really, be a place for your readers to say anything they damn well please. There's a blogger out there whose comment section has a warning that reads something like, "Leave it here. Unless it's mean. Then either click that red box/circle in the top corner, or try email." So, it's okay to be mean to you in an email, as long as your readers don't have to see it? Hell, we all know they'll see the mean comment the very next day, when you write a blog post about how mean someone was to you, and you lambast them with all the clever retorts you were able to brew up in your head during the night.
Come on. "Unless it's mean?" Grow up, buttsuck.
Maybe it's because I used to frequently engage in the socially ill-advised practice of writing editorials and commentaries, and a book that advocated for the continued imprisonment of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal that "mean comments" really don't bother me very much. I've had people threaten to kill me, and my family. I had one person threaten to burn my house down, and he even went so far as to mention my neighborhood, which kind of freaked me out, but it never happened. At a book signing event, the book store received threats and contracted the services of two uniformed police officers and one plainclothes officer to protect me and others who might have been caught in the cross-fire. Nothing bad ever happened, because most people are just angry and full of shit-- only a choice few are actually armed and insane. But those episodes, the hate and vitriol that has been spewed in my direction by people who love freedom of speech as long as you agree with them has definitely changed my view on the whole commenting thing.
Mean comments? Sure. Why not? You're allowed, aren't you?
On the old blog, I wrote a review of a concert I attended with Mrs. Apron. The opening act was Sean Hoots. I didn't like him, I thought he was a phony and a narcissist, so I wrote about it. A couple months later, his friendlettes and hangersons littered the comment section of that blog post with criticisms of my review, some were downright abusive. Did I delete their comments or tell them to stop "being mean" to me? Fuck no. I just let them go on and on, and, in doing that, I was able to let them show everyone else how petty, obsessive and stupid they were. See? People generally take care of things like that themselves-- especially idiots and assholes.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: lighten up, world. Don't be afraid to speak your mind, especially here. If you don't like something, speak up. I don't mind. I'll still love you in the morning. You don't have to stop reading just because I made a comment that offended you, or burned you, or pissed you off or made you put your dog in a headlock. It's okay. We're human. We do that shit to each other. But don't just read things you agree with, and don't just leave warm and fuzzy comments that mimmick everybody else's. Don't be afraid to stir up the pot. Don't be afraid to disagree.
Don't be reluctant to speak your mind-- because nobody's going to do it for you. The blog is the champion of mind-speaking. So speak it, bitch.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The High Court Has Spoken
Twenty-eight years ago, a young Philadelphia police officer out on patrol alone was murdered in the middle of a cold, December night. He was in the process of arresting a man who had just assaulted him, when another man walked up and shot him in the back. The police officer spun around and fired once at his attacker, hitting him in the chest. The officer then fell to the ground and stared, face-up as his assailant stood over him, put the muzzle of his revolver not inches away from the officer's face, and fired-- ending a new marriage, a budding police career, and a promising life.
Thanks, Mumia.
Twenty-eight years later, after a myriad of appeals, a dizzying array of conspiracy theories, smokescreens and fantasies, and a revolving door of defense attorneys, the United States Supreme Court has denied Mumia Abu-Jamal's request for a new trial, period. Now, barring any extraordinary new evidence, the best Jamal can hope for is to avoid the death chamber, as the Supreme Court is still reviewing whether or not to reinstate his original sentence of death.
Abu-Jamal has long asserted that he was denied a fair trial. Yet, if one reviews the original court transcripts, it's easy to realize that Jamal did everything in his power to ensure that his original trial was not fair: he interfered with court procedure, he shouted profanities at the judge, he refused to cooperate with his attorney, he was disruptive, abusive and apathetic. He had to be removed approximately eleven times, just so the trial could proceed. Blame it on youth, rage, and hormones, I guess.
Now, a wizened, graying, 54-year-old prisoner called "Pops" by his fellow inmates, the more mature and mellow Mumia is all-of-a-sudden invested in a fair trial. I wonder, if he got one, if he would wear a coat and tie and follow court procedure this time. Would he keep the "Fuck you, Judge!" outbursts to a minimum? Probably. It's too little too late, though.
The fact of the matter is that this crime was committed by a hateful, thoughtless, fearless young man-- and the behavior exhibited in the courtroom during the 1982 trial matched his street actions quite accurately. But somehow Jamal has been able to make much of the world forget his violent and callous disposition of yesteryear and lull us into complacency with his eloquent poignancy of today. It's no different than imprisoned killers who suddenly find religion-- their's or somebody else's, in jail. Mumia found an attractive persona that endears him to white and black alike, and he wears it like a comfortable sport coat.
But, sport coat or not, he won't be getting a table at the Supreme Court's restaurant.
Nevertheless, the throng of Mumia supporters will not be quelled so easily. They do not want this book closed for, once it is, what is their purpose in the world? Who will they chant for in the street? Whose name will they shout relentlessly in the ear of a tired, ostracized widow?
I'd like to say something directly to all of you supporters of this man: you have devoted significant portions of your lives to the aim of supporting Mumia Abu-Jamal, a convicted cop-killer-- a man whose appeals have been slammed and rejected time and time again. Yet, each time, you take to the streets of Philadelphia, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris and beyond, and cheer him on. You write leaflets and create websites and you march and you speak and you write and you give time and compassion and energy and money. You have done much for him, and have asked for nothing in return.
Well, I think it's time you start asking him for something in return.
Ask him for his version of what happened on December 9th, 1981, between 3:50am and 3:52am.
Go ahead. Ask.
He's never volunteered the information, you know. Not once has he ever explained in detail his own actions and whereabouts during those critical two minutes-- two minutes that I am certain he remembers very, very well-- even after twenty-eight years. Maybe he hasn't described the events of that night because none of his supporters have asked him to. Well, no time like the present. The "Free Mumia Abu-Jamal" website even encourages you to contact him.
I think it's a great idea, too.
Mumia Abu-Jamal
AM 8335SCI-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370
Go ahead and drop him a line. He certainly has plenty of time to answer your letters now.
Thanks, Mumia.
Twenty-eight years later, after a myriad of appeals, a dizzying array of conspiracy theories, smokescreens and fantasies, and a revolving door of defense attorneys, the United States Supreme Court has denied Mumia Abu-Jamal's request for a new trial, period. Now, barring any extraordinary new evidence, the best Jamal can hope for is to avoid the death chamber, as the Supreme Court is still reviewing whether or not to reinstate his original sentence of death.
Abu-Jamal has long asserted that he was denied a fair trial. Yet, if one reviews the original court transcripts, it's easy to realize that Jamal did everything in his power to ensure that his original trial was not fair: he interfered with court procedure, he shouted profanities at the judge, he refused to cooperate with his attorney, he was disruptive, abusive and apathetic. He had to be removed approximately eleven times, just so the trial could proceed. Blame it on youth, rage, and hormones, I guess.
Now, a wizened, graying, 54-year-old prisoner called "Pops" by his fellow inmates, the more mature and mellow Mumia is all-of-a-sudden invested in a fair trial. I wonder, if he got one, if he would wear a coat and tie and follow court procedure this time. Would he keep the "Fuck you, Judge!" outbursts to a minimum? Probably. It's too little too late, though.
The fact of the matter is that this crime was committed by a hateful, thoughtless, fearless young man-- and the behavior exhibited in the courtroom during the 1982 trial matched his street actions quite accurately. But somehow Jamal has been able to make much of the world forget his violent and callous disposition of yesteryear and lull us into complacency with his eloquent poignancy of today. It's no different than imprisoned killers who suddenly find religion-- their's or somebody else's, in jail. Mumia found an attractive persona that endears him to white and black alike, and he wears it like a comfortable sport coat.
But, sport coat or not, he won't be getting a table at the Supreme Court's restaurant.
Nevertheless, the throng of Mumia supporters will not be quelled so easily. They do not want this book closed for, once it is, what is their purpose in the world? Who will they chant for in the street? Whose name will they shout relentlessly in the ear of a tired, ostracized widow?
I'd like to say something directly to all of you supporters of this man: you have devoted significant portions of your lives to the aim of supporting Mumia Abu-Jamal, a convicted cop-killer-- a man whose appeals have been slammed and rejected time and time again. Yet, each time, you take to the streets of Philadelphia, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris and beyond, and cheer him on. You write leaflets and create websites and you march and you speak and you write and you give time and compassion and energy and money. You have done much for him, and have asked for nothing in return.
Well, I think it's time you start asking him for something in return.
Ask him for his version of what happened on December 9th, 1981, between 3:50am and 3:52am.
Go ahead. Ask.
He's never volunteered the information, you know. Not once has he ever explained in detail his own actions and whereabouts during those critical two minutes-- two minutes that I am certain he remembers very, very well-- even after twenty-eight years. Maybe he hasn't described the events of that night because none of his supporters have asked him to. Well, no time like the present. The "Free Mumia Abu-Jamal" website even encourages you to contact him.
I think it's a great idea, too.
Mumia Abu-Jamal
AM 8335SCI-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370
Go ahead and drop him a line. He certainly has plenty of time to answer your letters now.
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