Cecily McMillan. (photo: Andrew Gombert/EPA)
18 May 14
ood morning. I’m writing from the Rose M. Singer Correctional Facility, dorm 2 East B on Rikers Island – where I’ve been held for the past 4 days.
Admittedly, I was shocked by the jury’s verdict on
Monday, but was not surprised by the events that followed. An
overreaching prosecutor plus a biased judge logically adds up to my
being remanded to Rikers.
I was prepared then, as I am now, to stand by my
convictions and face the consequences of my actions – namely that of
refusing to forsake my values and what I know to be true in exchange for
my “freedom.”
Packed into a room with 45 other women – often
restricted to my cot – I’ve had nothing but time to measure the strength
of my beliefs alongside that ambiguous concept – “freedom.” (I’ve come
to the conclusion that it is far easier to weigh such tradeoffs from the
comfort of one’s own bed.)
At Rikers, the day begins with 4:30am breakfast. Milk
cartons in hand, the women echo a common set of concerns – “can’t reach
my lawyer, my family won’t speak to me, no commissary” – and I become
painfully aware of how privileged I am, despite what is supposed to be
the great equalizing suffering of the prison experience.
Unlike my peers, I have a hell of a lawyer – Marty
Stolar – who made the long journey to hold my hand and promise “I will
not stop fighting for you.” I also have a gifted team of friends and
organizers – #Justice4Cecily – that continue to provide around-the-clock
care and mobilize public support. Finally, I’m incredibly lucky to have
a vast and very much alive movement at my side, sending me “Occupy
Love” from across the world.
Despite how obscenely unbalanced our circumstances
are, my new-found friends – who have quickly become my comrades – are
outraged by my story and resolve to do their part to keep me out of
prison. After lunch, they spend their free time writing letters to Judge
Zweibel, defending my character and pleading for leniency.
At 6:00pm dinner, the cramped circle of ladies ask me
“What exactly is social justice organizing?” Over the complex
choreography of food trading I tell them about Democratic Socialist
leader Eugene Victor Debs. How nearly 100 years ago he publicly
criticized U.S. involvement in WWI – in violation of the Wartime
Sedition Act – and was sentenced to 10 years in prison for exercising
his constitutional right to free speech. “Sort of like that,” I explain,
“But he’s way out of my league – he’s my hero.”
By lights out, a subtle peace has begun to wash over
me. I page through a book stopping at Debs’ speech to the Federal Court
of Cleveland, Ohio – I read and reread, as if a personal mantra, these
opening lines -
“Your honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with
all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better
than the meanest on earth. I said it then, as I say it now, that while
there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal
element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.”
At the close of the night, I smile and shut my eyes. As I drift off, “Somehow,” I think, “this is all a part of the plan.”
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