There is so much that I have never told you.
Not because I did not want to.
But, because I felt it would all just be so awkward and inappropriate to share.

Me. “Free”. A political rebel. In several police states.
A columnist who has never penned a word to the world (until now) about how I revere and adore you, for fear that it will exploit what is passionately real between us.

You. “Incarcerated”. A political prisoner in a state penitentiary. How drastically different our lives are, and yet how seethingly similar.

You. Heterosexual kindred renowned and revolutionary warrior.
Me. Radical intellectual celebrity lesbian.
Us. Two afrocentric sistahs, trapped by revolution and rage.
We find spiritual freedom and healing connection in the letters we share…

For decades, I have tenderly censored my missives to you.
I expect that you have done the same.
And still, I have shared nearly all of the trials of my life with you…deeply.
From lost loves to address changes.
I never assumed that you have been celibate.
But, I could never ask you to discuss any joys that you relinquished under duress…
So, I have never asked about your love life.
Though I often felt selfish and guilty as you remained such a faithful confidante regarding my own.
I am eternally grateful to you, my dear captive sistah, for this and so much more…
I truly cherish your spirit in my life.

Your career is now your constant revolutionary warrior vigil.
From the belly of The Beast, you maintain your global alliances.
Beyond that monster, you guard your sanity.
Beyond that concrete jungle, you protect your heatlh within that toxic concentration camp.
Unable to move, yet your indelibly rebel being moves millions.

I never told you that I consciously try to write letters to you that I would like to receive if I was in a cage owned by the state.
But, I have never been away, that way.
So, my emotional charade is inadequate at best, patronizing at worst, and sincere, at least.
It leaves me only prayer as reassurance.
I pray that my letters bring you comfort behind those bars designed to torment you.
I hope that my letters bring a warm breeze that glides through the still iciness that steel casts…
just as your letters magically shine beams of light from the darkest place I can fathom, that brighten the tunnels in my life.

I hope that the news I send will be a diversion from the normal topics of discussion that arise in abnormal spaces.
There is so much irony behind those iron bars.
There is so much where you are that is criminal to the spirit,
in that place run by keepers who dare to slander you as a criminal,
while they criminally act as accomplices to the institutional inhumanity of new factories,
fueled by new slaves, empowering new stock, in this new millennium.

There is so much more that can mentally imprison a mind and emotionally imprison a spirit in any place that imprisons a body.
I want my letters to steal your mind and spirit back from the thieving lying amoral state.
Even if only for a moment…
Because each such moment is an eternal act of mutual rebellion for our kindred sister warrior souls.
Souls which will remain eternally free…
Me. Acting as a literary accomplice in your spiritual and mental escapes.
You. Defying the keepers who long to cage our literal souls as they have caged your body.

I never told you that I am enraged by every gift that I am unable to send.
I beg you to ask for more than my letters.
I long to send you music and books.
These are the items that bring me joy in my prison without walls, behind those gates that separate us.
I wish I could share these favored joys with you.
But, by law, I send only what I can: occasional money orders, calendars (by request), photos, articles, etc.…
I proudly send whatever you request.
Whatever the sadistic keepers will allow.
Always feeling that nothing I send could ever be enough to show you how much I care about you.
How I live in awe of you and your strength, courage, and beauty…

How do I tell you that I try not to sound too happy within my letters?
I toil to sound just happy enough to cheer you.
But, not so happy that I may depress you.

How do I tell you that I feel I cannot express all of my intense sorrows without disrespecting your more extreme pains?
I feel that no misfortune or heartache I endure could ever compare to the misery of your decades of political imprisonment.

I never told you that I feel as if I am going to vomit every time I write those damned numbers underneath your name!
They are akin to the tattoos that Jews were forced to wear in Nazi death camps.
I hate the demonic bureaucratic bastards who make me replicate your tattoo on every envelope that I send to you!
Our Afrikan Holocaust is ongoing…still.
Our prison industrial complex is their newest Final Solution.
And, you my regal rebel sistah, repeatedly proclaim your victory over their genocidal plans,
with the legendary life you reveal to me and celebrate with me in every letter.

It is said that writing is fighting.
Me and you sistah, we brawl!
For the revolution! For sisterlove! Forever!
We beat down those bars.
With the help of the USPO.
United Sistahs Penning Overtime!...

Together, my beautiful Afrikan sistah fire, we do routinely escape.
Our pens, sharper than any files.
Our shared memories, deeper and more secret than any underground tunnels.
Our defiant rebel love, like acid that erodes the bars of your cage
as it spills from our pens, upon each page of our letters…

The Eloquent Fury Index

at

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