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THE FIFTY-YEAR REVOLT  
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Dan Berger
August 22, 2024
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_ On prison organizing: Two reviews _

Remember Attica. Circa 1971. , Photograph via Library of Congress.

 

Orisanmi Burton. _Tip of the Spear: Black Radicalism, Prison
Repression, and the Long Attica Revolt._ University of California
Press, 2023.

Jocelyn Simonson. _Radical Acts of Justice: How Ordinary People Are
Dismantling Mass Incarceration_. The New Press, 2023.

In 1969, a writer who styled his name as raúlrsalinas wrote an ode
to the places he called home and an indictment of the forces that
oppressed him. “You live on, captive, in the lonely / cellblocks of
my mind,” runs the opening stanza of “A Trip Through the Mind
Jail,” surveying the neighborhoods of Salinas’s youth. By the end,
he visits California, Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, and “all /
Chicano neighborhoods that now exist and once / existed;
somewhere . . . . . , someone
remembers . . . . .” More than fifty years on, the poem
has been widely anthologized as a singular expression of Chicanismo
across the American Southwest.

“A Trip Through the Mind Jail” first appeared in the inaugural
issue of _Aztlán de Leavenworth_, a Chicano newspaper produced at a
federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, where Salinas was
incarcerated on a felony drug charge. Prison was where Salinas became
a poet. It was also where he became a revolutionary, thanks in part to
the people he met at Leavenworth, including Puerto Rican nationalists
Oscar Collazo and Rafael Cancel Miranda, whose respective attacks on
President Truman in 1950 and inside the US Capitol in 1954 had called
attention to the US colonization of Puerto Rico. “We immersed
ourselves in the Puerto Rican history and united our struggles,”
Salinas later said of the Chicano prisoners at Leavenworth. But this
organizing was more than an expression of pan-Latinx unity: “Through
that connection and the Black Muslims that were coming in, and the
Republic of New Africa, and the Black Liberation Army people, we began
to talk.”

They did more than talk. On September 16, 1971, militants incarcerated
at Leavenworth went on strike to protest their working conditions in
the prison’s brush, furniture, and clothing factories. There was
more to the strike than that: rebels were also protesting the murders
of imprisoned comrades, including Black Panther Field Marshal George
Jackson in San Quentin on August 21 and the twenty-nine prisoners
killed by state troopers at Attica Correctional Facility on September
13, where an uprising had been violently suppressed. For days
afterward, hundreds of surviving dissidents at Attica were tortured by
New York State Police and prison guards. The Leavenworth rebels joined
a wave of incarcerated militants around the country who were rising up
in revolt. 

Participants in these protests, including rebels from Leavenworth,
would soon become the inaugural cohort of a new experiment in human
caging: the control unit, a special wing of the prison that combined
isolation with a kind of psychological warfare officials called
“behavior modification.” In 1972, prison officials from across the
US transferred some of their most rebellious and troublesome charges
to a single federal prison in Marion, Illinois. Shortly after their
arrival, these charges formed the Political Prisoners Liberation
Front. “The convicts of this institution of Marion prison have in
the past experienced many difficulties which were resolved by a
collective effort,” the group wrote in a July 1972 statement
announcing a strike after the beating of a Chicano prisoner. “And
this collectivism is being called upon for still another serious
problem confronting us today that must be resolved by whatever means
necessary.” Yet the control unit would require new forms of
resistance. To reorganize the men’s minds, the “behavior
modification” program at Marion imposed prolonged isolation
(culminating in a 23/7 lockdown), coerced psychotropic drugging, and
brute force. Edgar Schein, the MIT psychologist who helped create the
unit, drew on the brainwashing techniques used by China and North
Korea against US prisoners of war in the early 1950s. As chronicled by
the scholar Alan Eladio Gómez, these practices included isolation,
“spying on prisoners and reporting back private material, tricking
men into writing statements then shown to other inmates, exploiting
informers and opportunists, [and] the disorganization of all group
standards among prisoners.” Prisons, Schein and his colleagues
recognized, were war zones: they were in the business not of
“rehabilitation” but of vanquishing enemies. As Marion’s warden
declared, “the purpose of the . . . Unit is to control
revolutionary attitudes in the prison system and in the society at
large.”

ABOLITION OPERATES ON A DIFFERENT TIMELINE. ITS UNSHAKABLE DEMAND FOR
IMMEDIATE FREEDOM STARTS FROM THE IMPOSSIBLE CONDITIONS OF THE
DYSTOPIAN HERE AND NOW.

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That declaration could serve as a mission statement for mass
incarceration itself. More than just an unprecedented physical
expansion of the US prison system since 1973, mass incarceration has
also long been a form of counterinsurgent warfare aimed at those who
would upend the order of things. Buoyed by participation in Black and
associated radical movements, cadres of militants in the early 1970s
inspired broader groups of incarcerated people to make the US prison
system ungovernable, through uprisings, strikes, lawsuits,
unionization drives, and other means. The organized revolt and
accompanying polemics — from a mix of dedicated revolutionaries,
newly politicized bandits, and people who simply seized any
opportunity to resist their captivity — put the question of
prison abolition squarely on the table. But the control unit and
similar efforts answered revolutionary challenges to authority with
brutality. Policies of isolation and behavior modification built
today’s American prison system, and Marion was part of an epochal
turn in carceral governance that abandoned even the pretense of
reform. The result not only sent massively more people to prison, but
kept them in more atomized and austere conditions.

After nearly a half century, a new wave of antagonists rose to
challenge the American carceral state amid the volatile political
economy of the 2010s: Black Lives Matter, Idle No More, #NoDAPL,
#Not1More antideportation campaigns led by undocumented people, and a
rolling series of prisoner-labor and hunger strikes. Such efforts
began to shatter the illusion of invincible police power in the 2010s,
leading to the George Floyd uprisings in 2020. These movements were
the outcome of a fifty-year fight over human caging that began in the
cells of places like Attica, Leavenworth, and San Quentin. As in all
struggles between liberation and oppression, the battles have occurred
on ideological and material fronts: as movements work to close prisons
and free their captives, they call into question a society rooted in
punishment. The grim conditions of incarceration have always lit
sparks of solidarity, but the past half century of escalating state
violence in the forms of prisons and police has revived the
abolitionist spirit — both in prison and on the
streets — in greater numbers than ever. And while the tactical
terrain shifts as more nonincarcerated people join the fight against
an expanding punitive state, the strategic imperative and moral
urgency remain. Much as an earlier generation said the future offered
two paths, “socialism or barbarism,” the closing decades of the
20th century and the start of the 21st have presented a choice:
abolition or authoritarianism.

Two new books examine revolutionary challenges to different phases of
the US carceral order, linked in purpose but separated by over four
decades. Orisanmi Burton’s _Tip of the Spear _studies the prison
uprisings of the 1970s that reached their apex in what Burton, an
anthropologist at American University, calls the “Long Attica
Revolt.” In _Radical Acts of Justice_, legal scholar Jocelyn
Simonson surveys the past decade of grassroots urban resistance to
police and the courts. Despite their different temporal and
institutional areas of focus, both books examine abolition as an
epistemology and a praxis, and both understand the organic
intellectualism of antiprison movements: the way these movements ask
us to think differently about justice, safety, and politics. Reading
them together helps connect two eras of insurgent organizing against
the prison state. Each text recognizes, as do their protagonists, that
the carceral system makes manifest the logic of patriarchal racial
capitalism in its most violent extremes, which is what makes
antiprison organizing so perilous, but also so rife with potential.
“Amid conditions of extreme duress,” Burton writes, “the dregs
of the capitalist order began to fashion themselves anew.”

That self-fashioning exceeds the limited framework typically applied
in evaluations of protest movements, especially those led by
incarcerated people. Burton rejects the conventional focus among
activists, journalists, historians, and others on what he calls the
“minimum demands” prisoners make to improve prison conditions,
drawing from Black studies thinkers such as Sylvia Wynter to consider
the more profound political struggle in which prisoners have engaged.
Denigrated as poor and racialized as disposable, these incarcerated
radicals challenged a larger conception of human value. _Tip of the
Spear _restores attention to prisoners’ own self-understanding and
political objectives, and the overarching ideals of freedom to which
they aspired. Burton calls these “maximum demands,” the holistic
view formed through an accumulating process of struggle: at their most
expansive, they are “communal, internationalist, and autonomous
practices . . . presag[ing] a new social order, a new ethics,
and new forms of human sociality.” Their visionary scope is integral
to Burton’s project to “decarcerate the revolutionary meaning and
significance of Attica” — to break from the “mind jail”
that would see Attica only as a tragedy of state violence rather than
a site of revolutionary possibility.

Burton achieves this larger view by extending the revolt beyond the
four-day uprising in New York in September 1971. For Burton,
“Attica” begins with a series of rebellions that convulsed the New
York City jails in the summer and fall of 1970, more than a year
before the uprising at Attica Correctional Facility. Many of the
latter’s defining features were already evident in the crisis in the
jails, where members of the Black Panthers and the Young Lords
spearheaded a frontal assault on an overcrowded and abusive jail
system. 

Amid a moral panic about rising crime, the New York City jail
population had nearly doubled between 1967 and 1970, and this rapid
expansion meant that many people, too poor to post bail pending trial,
ended up spending months or even years in jail. After more than a
dozen members of the Black Panther Party were arrested as part of a
sweeping COINTELPRO-generated conspiracy — among them Kuwasi
Balagoon, Lumumba Shakur, and Kwando Kinshasa — the Panthers
lost no time and began organizing throughout the city’s jails in
concert with Muslim and Puerto Rican militants. Burton quotes Victor
Martinez of the Young Lords, who told the _Black Panther _newspaper
about the founding of the Inmates Liberation Front at the Tombs jail
in Lower Manhattan: it “began as a committee of two people, which
grew to four and then kept multiplying until we were able to organize
the complete ninth floor.” The uprising spread until prisoners had
seized most of the facility. Then, Burton writes, “they swarmed
throughout the jail assaulting the physical expression of their
degradation: they set fire to bedding, destroyed their medical
records, smashed windows, and threw handwritten messages, burning
trash, and dead rats onto the downtown Manhattan streets.” Even
after they released the prison guards they’d taken hostage, the
captive militants continued to plot their next moves. Their rebellious
spirit soon spread from New York’s city jails to its state
prisons — partly because the government transferred people upon
conviction, and partly because state prisoners took inspiration from
the sight of fellow captives challenging the institutions that
controlled their lives.

“Prisons are war,” Burton writes. “They are state strategies of
race war, class war, colonization, and counterinsurgency.” As _Tip
of the Spear_ makes clear, however, the prisoner is not a helpless
victim of war but a disadvantaged combatant within it. “Against
carceral siege, revolting captives waged a people’s war, a
counter-war.” Reframing the carceral context as one of war helps
Burton take seriously both prisoners’ politics and their tactics.
While the political thought of incarcerated people has recently
received more attention in histories, memoirs, and journalistic
accounts, serious analysis of their tactical choices — which in
the 1970s included the taking of hostages and armed
revolt — remains lacking. Incarcerated militants challenged the
state’s monopoly of force with particular flair in that decade,
opening a new front in struggles that in many cases preceded their
incarceration. Black revolutionaries, sometimes joined by Puerto
Rican, Chicano, and Indigenous comrades, seized guards as hostages in
bold attempts to win their and their comrades’ freedom. These
measures succeeded, at least at first: in the New York City jail
rebellion of 1970, hostage taking led to an impromptu bail hearing
that resulted in the release of thirteen people, many of whom had been
held without trial for more than a year. The taking of hostages
continued to accompany strikes at the prisons where some of the
city-jail rebels — including Herbert X. Blyden, who would be
elected as a spokesman for the Attica Brothers — were later
sent: first Auburn, then Attica.

By the time the revolt reached Attica, many of the participants were
battle-tested and ready to fight. And fight they did. Burton
emphasizes the revolutionary convictions of the rebellion’s leading
participants. Some were members of the Black Liberation Army (BLA),
the clandestine offshoot of the Black Panther Party, which found new
recruits among the prisoner ranks and whose outlook defined the public
statements issued by the Attica rebels. Others, including a figure
interviewed by Burton whom he dubs Bugs, saw themselves as
“gangsters” who put their self-taught skills to use. (Bugs, for
his part, helped blow up the prison’s chapel.) In fact the rebellion
fused the revolutionary and the gangster, the propagandist and the
saboteur, in a shared project that Burton describes as a
“commune . . . of ecstasy, joy, love, intimacy, pleasure, and
collective Black radical becoming.” Beyond the tactical drama, it is
this process of self-actualization amid state repression that makes
the rebellion’s image and memory endure. As Burton writes in the
book’s conclusion, “more than fifty years later, Attica remains a
living example that collectively, ordinary people can be more than the
sum of their parts.”

To those in power, from the police to the governor, the scene of
incarcerated people asserting their political will as part of a
third-worldist revolutionary project was a crisis to be crushed by any
means necessary. The Long Attica Revolt was killed in what Burton
describes as a “war on Black revolutionary minds,” part of a
coordinated program of “pacification.” In the book’s grim second
half, he traces this pacification across three related domains: racist
sexual terrorism against participants in the revolt; reformist
counterinsurgency to defuse the revolt’s incipient sense of
possibility; and new forms of captivity (including programs like the
control unit) to preempt any future revolt. This tripartite regime of
physical violence, co-optation, and renewed social control built the
system we now call mass incarceration and soon spread nationwide, led
by states with large prison systems — New York, as well as
California and Texas — after they experienced their own episodes
of revolutionary unrest. Prison officials looked to obstruct
organizing through isolation and atomization, and used collective
punishment to keep prisoners divided and demoralized.

Mao Zedong famously declared that the relationship between guerrillas
and the people is that of fish to water. America’s policing
apparatus worked to capture the fish and drain the sea. While the FBI
targeted leftist leaders and organizations with particular intensity
in the 1960s and 1970s, federal and state governments hardened
penalties and expanded the bureaucracy of punishment beginning in the
’70s. The ensuing decades of get-tough criminal policy not only made
it harder to be a revolutionary, but also undermined the communities
that had nurtured such organizations and supplied their militant
members. These policies targeted not just the fish but the water.

Yet following the 2008 financial crisis, as states looked to cut
expenses and costly prisons were bursting at the seams, it became
harder to sustain the illusion that safety was perpetually just one
more jail cell away; the profound human (and fiscal) cost of pervasive
incarceration came to seem too high. The attempt to solve
political-economic crisis through punishment generated its own crises,
and the past decade has shown once again that, in the words of Assata
Shakur, “a wall is just a wall.” Long-standing organizing against
the prison industrial complex by groups like Critical Resistance and
the Prison Moratorium Project, as well as campaigns in support of
political prisoners, reached new recognition in the 21st century as
the concept of mass incarceration entered the popular lexicon. Against
unchecked police power and the biggest prison system the world has
ever known, the past fifteen years have seen a new anticarceral
upsurge. The current revolt has many sources, including incarcerated
people themselves, who have organized a wave of prison strikes, from
Georgia and Alabama to California to Guantánamo Bay, that have taken
on everything from labor exploitation to long-term solitary
confinement to medical neglect. Formerly incarcerated people and their
family members have waged campaigns against prison censorship, sexual
violence, and death-by-incarceration sentences. And every day the
pedagogy of the police officer’s truncheon continues to mobilize new
generations of activists against the violence of austerity that cops
uphold. These new militants, Jocelyn Simonson writes in _Radical Acts
of Justice_, “redefine the concept of justice itself: perhaps
justice is when the state provides communities with what they need to
support each other and keep each other safe. Perhaps safety means
freedom, not incarceration.”

Focused on bail funds, court watching, participatory defense (which
“combine[s] collective advocacy in individual cases with the
building of power to change public conversations and policies”), and
solidarity budgeting (collective organizing to “demand
that . . . governments play a part in supporting forms of
justice and safety that don’t include punishment”),_ Radical Acts
of Justice_ is a compact history of recent grassroots decarceral
organizing that gestures toward the deeper roots of these strategies,
each of which is the subject of a chapter in the book. Throughout this
lively, hopeful, and well-reported work, Simonson shows how specific
campaigns have won material changes in the lives of criminalized
people and helped shift collective understanding of safety, justice,
and “the people.” One story follows Tracy McCarter, the New York
City nurse who was arrested for killing her abusive ex-husband in
2020. Members of the local feminist anticarceral organization Survived
& Punished took up McCarter’s case, supporting her in court while
pressuring the district attorney to drop the charges. At public events
and on social media, they used her case to illuminate the linkages
between state and interpersonal violence, highlighting the injustice
of a city that would rather incarcerate survivors of domestic violence
than provide for their needs. After more than two years, they won:
McCarter went free and joined Survived & Punished. “They thought
they were building me a cage,” McCarter wrote upon her release.
“Instead they were building me a pulpit.” 

Where Burton focuses on people’s attempts to overthrow or break out
of prisons in _Tip of the Spear_, Simonson’s attention in_ Radical
Acts of Justice _remains on external efforts to get people out, or
keep them from going in at all. Revolutionary vigor looks different
in a world reshaped by the pacification programs used to crush the
prisoner revolts of an earlier generation. On the surface, the
hostage-taking, chapel-burning rebels of the early ’70s have little
in common with, for example, contemporary court
watchers — community volunteers who “sit in the audience
section of criminal courtrooms to demonstrate support for the
accused,” observe the proceedings, and publicize the actions of
judges and attorneys. But court watching similarly defies authorities
who are unaccustomed to being challenged, and at the point of their
greatest power. Likewise, when opponents of mass incarceration reject
prosecutors’ legal claim to represent “the people,” they
continue the kind of political self-fashioning that Burton ascribes to
the Long Attica Revolt. The tactics have shifted, but the purpose
remains constant: to push the state to live up to its putative
democratic values in the short term, and to delegitimize the state’s
monopoly on violence in the long term. The insurgent forms Burton
discusses had their parallels in clandestine revolutionary
organizations of the ’70s like the BLA, which also operated in
prison, much as contemporary prisons house the type of community
organizers Simonson profiles — such as those of the Green Haven
Think Tank, the in-prison study group that Simonson credits with
developing a now common approach to studying incarceration rates in
tandem with urban divestment. Though much of the United States has
been organized to stymie the revolutionary challenges of the early
1970s, Burton’s and Simonson’s books voice a resounding echo
between past and present. They also highlight the necessity of a
certain kind of “inside-out” strategy that challenges the prison
state from within while also working to block its tributaries.

THOUGH MUCH OF THE UNITED STATES HAS BEEN ORGANIZED TO STYMIE THE
REVOLUTIONARY CHALLENGES OF THE EARLY 1970S, BURTON’S AND
SIMONSON’S BOOKS VOICE A RESOUNDING ECHO BETWEEN PAST AND PRESENT.

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The carceral system is vastly larger and more pervasive now than it
was a half century ago. When the revolt began, the United States
incarcerated approximately two hundred thousand people; today it
imprisons almost two million. This expansion in turn presents
contemporary abolitionists with different challenges. Simonson
outlines a multipronged movement strategy of people working within,
alongside, and against the criminal legal system. She offers no
electoral solutions to end mass incarceration and is critical of the
move to elect “progressive prosecutors,” whom, because they seek
to apply the levers of the existing system more equitably, she sees as
already captured by the system. Instead, her focus is on the ways
collective organizing outside and against the system remakes our
sense — and the very infrastructure — of justice itself.
She acknowledges that bailing people out of jail, observing a criminal
trial, or influencing city budget priorities also necessarily engage
with the system as it is — but they do so in order, one hopes,
to limit, change, or even eradicate it altogether. And as the
prosecutorial targeting of bail funds shows, working to subvert the
system from within can make people a target of the legal apparatus
they wish to diminish.

Resisting jail and prison expansion also refashions questions of
safety and social priorities. Restorative and transformative justice
organizations implement collective and reparative models of
accountability without punishment that, as one of Simonson’s
respondents put it, “look backward” to move forward. “When
movement actors come together to bail someone out, to observe
courtroom proceedings, or to create a video for their sentencing
hearing, they enter the carceral space of the courtroom as a
collective, as the community,” Simonson writes. “The public
becomes a concrete presence” in spaces normally organized around
individualizing and isolating punishment. In turn, activists from
groups like Court Watch Baton Rouge, Philadelphia Bail Fund, or
California’s Faith in the Valley participatory-defense hub
“inevitably understand what they see and do from a collective
perspective.” The same could be said of incarcerated organizers,
highlighted only briefly in Simonson’s book but central to _Tip of
the Spear_: their resistance collectivizes justice, seizing power from
a system accustomed to treating justice as a bludgeon against the
disenfranchised.

A few years before the uptick in anticarceral organizing that
Simonson chronicles, I went to visit a former BLA member at a federal
prison in the Catskill Mountains. The bucolic drive up a windswept
road culminated in a medium-security facility whose hilltop location
obscured much of the surrounding natural beauty. The person I was
there to visit had already spent forty-five years in various prisons.
Through our mail correspondence, I had accompanied him for a dozen of
those years as he was shipped from one federal prison to another. He
was now in his seventies and I was concerned about his health; one of
his BLA comrades had recently died in prison. I did not want him to
suffer the same fate.

“How do we get you out?” I asked him on that visit.

“Time was,” he smiled, nodding toward a small patio outside the
window of the visiting room, “I would have said a helicopter on that
yard.”

I smiled back. Long before reading Burton’s book, I had heard tell
of the many daring, almost cinematic prison-escape attempts of the
1970s: the time BLA members tried to bust out their imprisoned
comrades with acetylene torches, or when a long-planned escape effort
was foiled by a rival group of prisoners who were caught attempting
their own comparatively haphazard escape. The ’70s were not short on
bold efforts. But three decades later, the carceral state had
vanquished armed struggle. We both knew there would be no helicopter.
But we would not accept the grim condemnation passed down by the state
decades earlier, either.

In the next few years, an intergenerational group of organizers worked
tirelessly for my friend’s release and that of several other
political prisoners who had spent decades in some of the nation’s
worst prisons. They did so through the kinds of strategies highlighted
in _Radical Acts of Justice._ They launched public campaigns
targeting the cruelty of “death by incarceration.” They protested
the police capture of parole boards. They wrote letters and made
visits and kept prisoners at the heart of organized communities. “WE
ARE ONE PEOPLE,” reads a political statement from the New York jail
rebellion that initiated the Long Attica Revolt. By the 2010s,
abolitionists had put this message into practice as a form of
solidarity between inside and outside. Cumulatively, their efforts led
to the release of more than a dozen aging revolutionaries, my friend
among them. Many of them had been serving life sentences.

Such hard-won freedom was once unthinkable — not only to the
state, but to the pundit-brain logic that measures political efficacy
purely in polls and ballots. These were people who were meant to be
buried under the prison. Abolition operates on a different timeline.
Its unshakable demand for immediate freedom starts from the impossible
conditions of the dystopian here and now. _Free them
all_, _abolition now_, _defund the police_: the concepts dismissed
as political immaturity bestow a sense of possibility. “We cannot
underestimate the movement visions that emerge from these
experiences,” Simonson notes toward the end of her book, “if for
no other reason than because these visions are _possible_. They are
the fuel for everything.” Yesterday’s tactics are unlikely to
secure tomorrow’s victories. The past offers an orientation, not an
instruction manual, and successful struggle often requires an
improvisational response to the moment. But abolition continues to
promise an escape from the mind jail that Salinas named decades ago.
And in making or even attempting that escape, we can know freedom. 

DAN BERGER is an author, historian and professor at the University
of Washington Bothell. His interests are critical race theory,
prison studies, and contemporary social movements in the US, focused
on prisons and "diverse ways in which imprisonment has shaped social
movements, racism, and American politics since World War II." He
received his Bachelor of Arts in interdisciplinary studies and
Bachelor of Science in journalism from the University of Florida,
and a doctorate in communications from the University of
Pennsylvania.

Berger has written for _Black Perspectives_, _Boston
Review_, _Dissent_, _Jacobin_, _Truthout_, _Time_, Salon.com and _The
Nation_.

_N+1_ is a New York–based American literary magazine that
publishes social criticism, political commentary, essays, art,
poetry, book reviews, and short fiction. It is published in print
three times annually with regular articles being published online.
Each print issue averages around 200 pages in length.

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