"Prison Poetry--The Play and the Writer"

Though Kymone Freeman never envisioned a career in writing, he knows well “writing is the poor man’s weapon.” As author of award-winning play “Prison Poetry,” he strikes decisively against the U.S. prison system that disproportionately incarcerates black men and paralyzes the black community.

Setting three men in a single jail cell for one night, Freeman delves into a situation Human Rights Watch (HRW) calls a “cause for national concern.” Yet echoing dissension of pioneers before them--Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. DuBois, Malcom X and Martin Luther King, Jr., -- their conversation reveals internal disagreement about defeating the system, colored by class and age, may enslave them as potently as prison bars.

The play will premier Saturday, February 25th at the historic Lincoln Theatre in Washington D.C.

According to the organization Critical Resistance, “black men in the 20s and 30s have the highest rates of imprisonment when broken down by race and age. Among the more than two million prisoners, and estimated 577,300 were black men between 20 and 39.” Adds HRW, nearly five percent of all black men are incarcerated.

Each statistic represents a man’s life story, and “Prison Poetry” brings to fore three men of different eras and perspectives: the upper class “Tobias” (Baye Harrell), the contemplative “Poet” (W. Ellington Felton) and the uncompromising “Shujaa” (Duane C. Rawlings).

Based on the real experiences of exonerated death row inmate and anti-dealth penalty activist Shujaa Graham, and Al Malik Farrakhan, founder and executive director of non-profit “Cease Fire: Don’t Smoke the Brothers and Sisters, “Shujaa” is a particularly special character to Freeman.

Freeman met Shujaa Graham in 2001 at a Socialists convention in Chicago. Three years later, their paths crossed again while working on Ralph Nader’s 2004 presidential campaign. While driving the streets of New York as part of the street team, Freeman says Graham confessed to him “everyone he’d ever loved was dead, in jail, or on drugs.”

Graham had more than vicarious experience with the justice system. He was assigned to juvenile detention centers as a youth, and California’s Soledad Prison at age 18.

Graham’s legal troubles escalated when he was convicted in the murder of a prison guard at the Deul Vocational Institute in 1973, and spent three years on San Quentin’s death row until a fourth retrial found him and his co-conspirator innocent of murder charges in 1981. He retreated to a quiet life with his wife and children until a 1999 invitation by the Alabama Death Penalty project called for him to tell his story. Since then he’s been speaking around the country against the death penalty.

Freeman met Al Malik Farrakhan in 1997 either at the Black L.U.V. festival Freeman organized, or at a “subversive event” neither Farrakhan nor Freeman remembers. His story spilled out over a meal at Ben’s Chili Bowl: Farrakhan was imprisoned at 21 years old for murder and served until 53. His sentence included time in solitary confinement. A native Washingtonian, Farrakhan became actively involved in community politics and established “Cease Fire, Don’t Smoke the Brothers and Sisters,” an organization dedicated to ending violence in DC.

Having witnessed his cousin’s murder outside of a DC nightclub, Freeman related to Farrakhan’s mission, and pain.

In an “act of desperation,” an “act to prove [he] was alive,” Freeman sat in a corner of his apartment and wrote twelve pages freehand that later became “Prison Poetry.” He submitted the manuscript to the 22nd Annual Larry Neal Writer’s competition, and won an award for drama.

During our conversation at Busboys and Poets, Farrakhan walks into the restaurant, and showers Freeman with praise and support that humbles him into awkward glances and silences. “You’ve got more love than you know,” Farrakhan reassures him. Farrakhan was one of several people who greeted Freeman over the hour and a half we were at the busy 14th street restaurant.

Freeman admits that as the opening day nears, he’s overcome with the anxious energy. The play’s success is a “sink or swim” moment for him in his life.

A graduate of the University of the District of Columbia, Freeman has been a schoolteacher, an activist, and an organizer.

He says urgently, “I haven’t felt like this since I was standing on that cliff in Jamaica.” Though he says this over the phone, it is easy to envision the urgency evident on his chiseled face.

Freeman returns to a pivotal moment in his adult life. Vacationing in Jamaica, he watched swimmers diving off of a cliff into clear water. The spectacle marveled him, and though he wanted to do the same, he was too overcome with fear to make the jump. He left the island with only the commitment to return and make the dive.

Freeman did return the next year, and made the dive. Despite the temporary damage the impact inflicted on his eyesight, (he hurriedly returned to the States for corrective surgery) Freeman was elated at his conquest. The confidence motivated him to organize the District’s annual “Black L.U.V.” (Love, Unity, Vision) Festival, an annual late summer “community awareness event that combines art with activism.”

“Why are most of the movements and activities [in DC] led by people not from DC?” he wonders with more than a little resentment of the influence non-natives have on the city’s cultural and political landscape.

He is also on the board of the organization Words, Beats, and Life, a group that provides art instruction to DC youth.

Among these projects, “Prison Poetry” is obviously the most monumental Freeman has staged, and Freeman is concerned with Saturday night’s attendance.

“I’m confident in the quality of the performance and the readiness of the performance. My concern is the number people [who will] come to support” he says.

Early responses have been positive. In addition to the critical acclaim of the Larry Neal award, crowds confirmed their interest and packed to “standing-room” only capacity at a December staging at Busboys and Poets.

The premier at the Lincoln Theatre is of tremendous significance to this DC native. Even as the neighborhood gentrifies beyond recognition, Freeman remembers the U. Street that was D.C.’s Harlem. “We belong on U. Street. This is where I belong. I grew up here. Being at the Lincoln is significant.”

An independent filmmaker, Freeman hopes “Prison Poetry” opens doors for future projects he is developing with Straight No Chaser Films, a collective of African American filmmakers.

“We’re ignored, people of color,” he says.

Though Freeman may not have envisioned a professional career as a writer or filmmaker, his passion for conveying his truth would probably not allow him to live any other life.