| His life, and his life sentence
It was late afternoon when I laid my head to rest against the seat on the train headed toward New York's Grand Central Station. I'd just spent six hours with Kenyatta, on my first visit in years. It was mid-February of 2002, twenty-five years after I first met Kenyatta at Green Haven's prison school, and his fiancée, Safiya Bandele, shortly thereafter. The sun was setting over the Hudson as I reviewed not only the day but also the long years of knowing Kenyatta and Bandele. I had witnessed their struggle from afar, and here I was back again, passing through the Hudson Valley landscape I'd loved but hadn't enjoyed like this for years, rolling on the rails south to the city. Bare trees streaked by the train window as I was carried past marinas, warehouses, and people waiting at stations. Back at the prison, time had stood still. Even Kenyatta appeared in a perpetual state of waiting. When Kenyatta first told me about his decision to refuse parole, I knew better than to argue. It was his life, and his life sentence, after all. I said something like, "I suppose you know what you're doing." Soon thereafter, I recall remarking in jest to a friend that Kenyatta had the most unusual freedom committee requirements I'd ever encountered. There were no letters to write in support of his release from prison, no public officials to convince. My participation was simple. I didn't have to do a thing. In 1988, when Kenyatta was first eligible for supervised freedom, he made it clear he wasn't interested in cooperating, stating his intent to the parole board chairman. Kenyatta wished to be unconditionally released to the African American community in New York, from whence he came and to which he intended to return and make a significant contribution. He made it clear that he would leave prison on his terms, not theirs. Then came the year from hell, 1994. Kenyatta fell ill. At the same time, he was scheduled to appear before the parole board, and had declined to cooperate. A guard cited him for refusing a direct order to leave the cellblock and report to the parole board. Kenyatta argued that parole was a privilege and therefore not mandatory, but that didn't prevent him from spending two days in solitary confinement--a.k.a "the box," "the hole," or "segregation." Bandele and a group of close friends in New York bombarded the warden's office with phone calls. Kenyatta was removed from "the box," but the calling campaign continued until he was finally sent to a hospital ten days later. Bandele’s wrenching account of Kenyatta's illness describes a man within days of death. Yet he showed no signs of retreating from his parole refusal position. More than one person in Kenyatta and Bandele's circle of acquaintances dropped their support of what they considered a crazy position. Some hung on. "I don't like to speak about Kenyatta refusing parole," says friend and former inmate Trevis "Spiritwalker" Smith. "Not because he's wrong, but because my place is to be his brother and support him, no matter what choices he makes. He believes in something. So many people don't believe in anything." In 1999, Kenyatta finally appeared before the state parole commissioners--but only to explain why he continued to refuse parole. He wasn't permitted to read the formal statement he'd constructed. He left with no resolution. His next parole hearing is in November 2002. His life, and his life sentence 'Sit up straight and exercise' |