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[331] 12 Healing Healing from the massacre was a long journey that stretched through the 1980s and 1990s into the millennium. During these decades, the plight of the poor grew worse in the United States, even as the country’s economy boomed. Inequality increased as most of the economic gains went to the small fraction of the nation’s wealthiest people. At the same time, there was a prison construction boom and a big rise in incarceration, especially among people of color. By the year 2000, there were more young black men in prisons and jails than there were in colleges and universities.1 One of them was Kwame Cannon. Sally ■ I interviewed Kwame in the North Carolina Penitentiary in Reidsville on March 9, 1992. To tape an interview with an inmate, I had to get permission from the sergeant in charge for a special appointment. I was escorted into an administrative building within the prison compound. Two armed guards brought Kwame, in handcuffs, into the room. During the entire interview, Kwame had to sit awkwardly with his wrists cuffed behind his back, while an armed guard stood just outside the open door. I felt like telling the guard: “Kwame’s not dangerous. He is a sweet kid I have known since he was little.” But I said nothing, and Kwame ignored the handcuffs. We talked for the one hour allotted us. The Prison Interview Kwame ■ I’ve been in prison for six years, and it’s good to look back to where I was and see where I am now. When I first got locked up, I had an angry frame of mind. Any little thing that someone said would set me off. When I first was sent to prison in 1986, and my counselor told me I couldn’t come up for parole until 2006, my attitude was “Whomp it!” I used to walk around muttering , “I got two life sentences, and I don’t care!” I got infractions [write-ups] because I would blow up at whoever I was talking to, officer or inmate. I was assigned to work in the kitchen. I’d be doing my work, cleaning, and then the supervisor would try to tell me a way to get it cleaner or a way to do it better. And I’d just start yelling. People shied away, left me alone. I was pretty much [332] Through Survivors’ Eyes isolated, along with the other thugs, the crazy ones, the crowd that had the life sentences. I didn’t care. I wasn’t coming home. I wasn’t going to listen to nobody . My counselor called me down to talk, probably after an officer had told him that I was on the wrong road. I was at Morgantown High Rise, a youth prison, because I was seventeen. My counselor told me, “When you’re eighteen, you gotta leave, because this is a youth camp.” He said they were planning to send me to Polk Youth Center, a tougher prison. At the time, there were rumors running around that at Polk the bigger ones molest the little ones. Those kind of rumors frightened me. I said, “What if I’m good?” He said, “Well, sometimes, if you’re not causing the officers any trouble, if you’re working and your bossman throws in a good recommendation for you, they’ll hold you here.” I said, “I’m going to try to be good.” But it seemed like just as soon as I left my counselor, I was right back to the same bag of trying to throw my weight around. And by then, I had some weight to throw around. I gained a lot and was pretty close to 200 pounds. I had been lifting weights, so I was strong. Now I’m back down to 165. Me and a few guys got into horse playing. The guards kept catching us. One time, I’m down in the kitchen, horse playing, and one of the guys I’m playing with burns me on the arm with this steam faucet that shoots hot water and steam. He was a little white kid. Me and him were good friends, and I wouldn’t have done nothing in the world to hurt him. I looked out for him. I liked him because he was small and stood his ground. He didn’t let people push him around. But he burned my arm, and I had to go up to the...

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