Writer's Block Magazine

TW: Depression, death, suicide

When the director of Mississippi Prison Writing Louis Bourgeois contacted our magazine for possible coverage of Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison, a collection of personal vignettes and poems written by men incarcerated at Mississippi State Penitentiary, we were beyond honoured to take upon his request. I had been somewhat aware of the United State’s mass incarceration crisis through documentaries like 13th (Netflix), Audre Lorde’s teachings, and more easily digestible media like Olivia Gatwood’s and Melissa Lozada-Oliva’s podcast episode on prison abolition. Informally, the question of what function prison fulfills in our society is one I have unconsciously mulled over as someone who is acquainted with violence in a more intimate manner than most. The times that I’ve shared this fact with others, they seem to believe that a statement such as hoping that “those kind of people rot away in prison” is comforting. It is not uncommon to find similar takes plastered all over the internet under media articles displaying crimes committed. It is also particularly interesting to live in The Netherlands, a country where our prisons are so empty they have to be closed down, while simultaneously being a country where you often hear people say the offender should have received a harsher prison sentence after the results of a hearing become accessible to the public. To these people, I’d gift Unit 29. 

Before starting this book, I thought I’d read about the past and future lives of men in Parchman prison: I thought that, similarly to me when I grab my notebook to journal, they would mostly write of either sweeter days long gone or their plans for the future ahead, with the occasional diary entry of what was going on that particular day, and this kind of writing is certainly present in Unit 29. In My Prison Walk, Leon Johnson writes about regularly talking with his brothers Sylvester and Lorenzo, about spending alone time and how good it is to “just think about life in general”. Elijah Stamps mentions how ready he is to marry the love of his life and start a family once he finishes doing time. Men naturally write wishing to go back to their lives, about wanting to have dinner at their favourite restaurant or paying Walmart a simple and banal visit.

Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison

I knew the passages in this book would be filled with sadness and longing, but I was quickly humbled to learn that mostly, these men can’t use the creative writing class that birthed this book to process past trauma in a healing and rehabilitating way, but rather need to utilise the pen and paper they’re given to relieve some of the pain caused by the trauma they’re experiencing currently. Nathan Sumrall, for example, writes about Chris, a Muslim man whom he befriended in prison and who would “give you the shirt off his back if you asked for it”. Chris was very close to his mom, so much so that he would put Nathan on the phone with her. After getting the news that his mom had passed, Chris died by suicide in Parchman. Even though this is enough tragedy for an individual, Nathan also had to witness his neighbour hanging himself, getting to know immates who got out of prison only to die from car wrecks and overdoses, and daydreaming about suicide himself due to the inhumane treatment he is forced to endure. The message of worthlessness that the criminal justice system is built on is reinforced every day by the lack of dignified living conditions incarcerated people have to deal with: no air conditioning during the excessive heat of Mississippi summers, food that is not cooked through, mold in food trays and walls, and poorer treatment and resources if you don’t have the means to sneak in contraband.

The reader on the other end of this article might take this into consideration and still find it hard to muster sympathy for said criminals. Engaging in acts of violence is problematic, but the context and motivations behind these actions are equally complex, and I do wonder if the right answer to the problem of violence is to perpetuate the cycle of harm. Inevitably, our cultural obsession with the dichotomy of good versus evil comes to mind, specifically Mary Douglas’ Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. Douglas argues that what a society deems “polluting”, i.e. bad, or “pure”, i.e. good, are not characteristics that objects (or in this case, people) inherently possess, but are rather symbolic; these classifications reflect a society’s broader worldview of what is good and righteous and what is not. According to Douglas, “dirt” symbolises disorder in a culture: dirt are things that do not fit neatly into the cultural categories that we have made up. Now, note the language commonly used around incarcerated people: wishing that they “rot away in jail”; labelling incarcerated people as “scum” or “thug”. It is essential to strip people from their names and humanity in order to feel comfortable doing the rest: removing them from society, throwing them in a cell and separating them from the rest of us, denying them basic human rights, and feeding the cycle of harm. If we create arbitrary distinctions between “pure” and “wrong”, and us from them, it is a lot easier to believe that we would never find ourselves in their shoes, that we possess a humanity that they don’t. Treating people according to the lack thereof then feels justified, and the question of rehabilitation and reparation is disregarded as an option.

Unit 29 gives incarcerated men back their names. It is a necessary reminder that the space that sits between someone enjoying an education, a stable home and income, and getting charged with a crime, is more often than not made out of privilege and luck. Privilege to have been born in the right time and under the right circumstances, and luck to be seen by others in your full humanity.

Written by Lhya Munive

Purchase Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison here

Writer’s Block Magazine was not in any way compensated for this article. The opinions stated above are fully my own.