#solidarity work

And I think sometimes people approach stories with the best of intentions, but you can’t get to the one-to-one if you can’t literally put on someone’s shoes, you know. If the shoes don’t fit—or, to be brutally honest, [if] you would never wear that damn shoe, because your life is comfortable enough that you don’t have to—then it’s hard for you to create a piece of art about what it’s like to wear that damn shoe.

Here is the moment of her life as a prison-slave-in waiting, which is to say, a moment as an ordinary Black person, when she finds herself among "friends"-abolitionists, at least partners in purpose, and yet she feels it necessary to adopt the same coiled anticipation, the same combative "one-liners", that she will need to adopt just one year later to steel herself against the encroachment of prison guards. The verisimilitude between Assata's well-known police encounters, and her experiences in civil society's most nurturing nook, the radical coalition, raises disturbing questions about political desire, Black positionality, and hegemony as a modality of struggle.

You mask that knowledge because you thing you need allies to protect against isolation, because you think solidarity is always and only engendered by coalitions, because you think you need friends beyond those who raised hands like yours make no earthly difference, except to elongate the target, because you think you have some already.

The coalition emerges out of your recognition that it's fucked up for you, in the same way that we've already recognized that it's fucked up for us. I don't need your help. I just need you to recognize that this shit is killing you, too, however much more softly, you stupid motherfucker, you know ?"

And it bears repeating here that the etymology of the word “coalition” relates to nourishment; to coalesce is to nourish one another, to supply what is necessary for life, together,whatever that may be.

After explanations and regulations, he Walked warily in. Black hair covered his chin, subscribing to Villainous ideal. “This can not be real,” he thought, “this is a Classical mistake; This is a cake baked with embarrassing icing; Somebody’s got Likely as not, a big fat tongue in cheek! What have I to do With a prim and proper-blooded lady?” Christ in deed has risen When a Junkie in prison visits with a Wasp woman. “Hold your stupid face, man, Learn a little grace, man; drop a notch the sacred shield. She might have good reason, Like: ‘I was in prison and ye visited me not,’ or—some such. So sweep clear Anachronistic fear, fight the fog, And use no hot words.” After the seating And the greeting, they fished for a denominator, Common or uncommon; And could only summon up the fact that both were human. “Be at ease, man! Try to please, man!—the lady is as lost as you: ‘You got children, Ma’am?’” he said aloud. The thrust broke the dam, and their lines wiggled in the water. She offered no pills To cure his many ills, no compact sermons, but small And funny talk: “My baby began to walk... simply cannot keep his room clean...” Her chatter sparked no resurrection and truly No shackles were shaken But after she had taken her leave, he walked softly, And for hours used no hot words.