Prison Writings - Softcover

Peltier, Leonard

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312263805 ISBN 13: 9780312263805

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2000

Synopsis

In September of 2022, twenty-five years after Leonard Peltier received a life sentence for the murder of two FBI agents, the DNC unanimously passed a resolution urging President Joe Biden to release him. Peltier has affirmed his innocence ever since his sentencing in 1977--his case was made fully and famously in Peter Matthiessen's bestselling In the Spirit of Crazy Horse--and many remain convinced he was wrongly convicted.

Prison Writings is a wise and unsettling book, both memoir and manifesto, chronicling his life in Leavenworth Prison in Kansas. Invoking the Sun Dance, in which pain leads one to a transcendent reality, Peltier explores his suffering and the insights it has borne him. He also locates his experience within the history of the American Indian peoples and their struggles to overcome the federal government's injustices.

Edited by Harvey Arden, with an Introduction by Chief Arvol Looking Horse, and a Preface by former Attorney General Ramsey Clark.

About this title

About the Authors

Leonard Peltier emerged as a Native American leader in the 1960s, was arrested in 1976 in Canada and extradited. He has been in prison ever since and is now confined at Leavenworth. Prison Writings is his first book.

Harvey Arden is the author and co-author of several books, including Wisdomkeepers and Travels in a Stone Canoe (both with Steve Wall) and Noble Red Man. He lives in Washington, D.C.

From the Back Cover

"A deeply moving and very disturbing story of a gross miscarriage of justice and an eloquent cri de coeur of Native Americans for redress, and to be regarded as human beings with inalienable rights guaranteed under the United States Constitution, like any other citizens. We pray it does not fall on deaf ears. America owes it to herself." --Archbishop Desmond M. Tutu, Nobel Peace Laureate

"For too long, both Leonard's supporters and detractors have seen him as a metaphor, as a public figure worthy of political rallies and bumper stickers, but very rarely as a private man who only wants to go home. I pray this book will bring Leonard home." --Sherman Alexie, author of Indian Killer

"It would be inadequate to describe Leonard Peltier's Prison Writings as a classic of prison literature, although it is that. It is also a cry for help, an accusation against monstrous injustice, a beautiful expression of a man's soul, demanding release." --Howard Zinn, author of --A People's History of the United States

"Listen to this fresh, brave voice, then inform yourself about the shameful case of Leonard Peltier." --Peter Matthiessen, author of In the Spirit of Crazy Horse

"This book takes the reader on an emotional and spiritual journey as Leonard Peltier's surprisingly hopeful reflections make the terrible injustice of his imprisonment for 24 years even more difficult to accept. Peltier's important journal details his trial and conviction which was based in part on admittedly false testimony and evidence so inconclusive that reasonable people everywhere have concluded that he should be granted clemency." --Wilma Mankiller, former chief of the Cherokee Nation, and author of Mankiller

"Leonard Peltier's words reveal a wise man who has become freer than his captors, despite his false imprisonment for a crime he did not commit. His thoughts here remind us of our true mission as Indian people, as human beings here on this humble, beautiful planet. These thoughts cannot be captured or locked behind bars, or destroyed by gunfire. They fly free." --Joy Harjo, Muskoke poet and musician, author of The Woman Who Fell From the Sky

ql"If you care about justice, read this brave book. If you care about the perpetuation of the white man's justice against the Native American, you must know the Leonard Peltier story." --Gerry Spence, author of Give Me Liberty!

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Prison Writings

My Life is My SundanceBy Leonard F. Peltier

St. Martin's Press

Copyright ©2000 Leonard F. Peltier
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780312263805

Chapter One

10:00 P.M. Time for the nightly lockdown and headcount. The heavy metal door to my cell lets out anominous grinding sound, then slides abruptly shut witha loud clang. I hear other doors clanging almost simultaneouslydown the cellblock. The walls reverberate,as do my nerves. Even though I know it's about tohappen, at the sudden noise my skin jumps. I'm alwayson edge in here, always nervous, always apprehensive.I'd be a fool not to be. You never let your guard downwhen you live in hell. Every sudden sound has its ownterror. Every silence, too. One of those sounds?or oneof those silences?could well be my last, I know. Butwhich one? My body twitches slightly at each unexpectedfootfall, each slamming metal door. Will mydeath announce itself with a scream or do its work insilence? Will it come slowly or quickly? Does it matter?Wouldn't quick be better than slow, anyway?

    A guard's shadow passes by the little rectangularwindow on the cell door. I hear his keys jangle, andthe mindless squawking of his two-way radio. He'speering in, observing, observing. He sees me sittinghere cross-legged in the half-light, hunched over onmy bed, writing on this pad. I don't look up at him. Ican feel his gaze passing over me, pausing, then movingon, pausing again at the sleeping form of my cellmatesnoring softly in the bunk above. Now he goesby. The back of my neck creeps.

    Another day ends. That's good. But now anothernight is beginning. And that's bad. The nights areworse. The days just happen to you. The nights you'vegot to imagine, to conjure up, all by yourself. They'rethe stuff of your own nightmares. The lights go downbut they never quite go out in here. Shadows lurkeverywhere. Shadows within shadows. I'm one of thoseshadows myself. I, Leonard Peltier. Also known in mynative country of Great Turtle Island as Gwarth-ee-lass?"HeLeads the People." Also known among mySioux brethren as Tate Wikuwa?"Wind Chases theSun." Also known as U.S. Prisoner #89637-132.

    I fold my pillow against the cinderblock wall behindme and lean back, half sitting, knees drawn up,here on my prison cot. I've put on my gray prisonsweatpants and long-sleeved sweatshirt. They'll do forPJs. It's cool in here this late winter night. There's ashiver in the air. The metal and cinderblock walls andtile floors radiate a perpetual chill this time of year.

    Old-timers will tell you how they used to getthrown, buck naked in winter, into the steel-walled,steel-floored Hole without even so much as a cot or ablanket to keep them warm; they had to crouch ontheir knees and elbows to minimize contact with thewarmth-draining steel floor. Today you generally getclothes and a cot and blanket?though not much else.The Hole?with which I've become well acquaintedat several federal institutions these past twenty-threeyears, having become something of an old-timermyself?remains, in my experience, one of the mostinhuman of tortures. A psychological hell. Thankfully,I'm out of there right now.

    I'm also out of the heat that used to afflict us untilthey finally installed air-conditioning in the cellblockabout ten years back. Before that Leavenworth was infamousas the Hot House, because there was no air-conditioninghere, just big wall-mounted fans that,during the mind-numbing heat of a Kansas hundred-degreesummer day, blew the heavy, sluggish, unbreathableair at you like a welding torch, at timesliterally drying the sweat on your forehead before itcould form, particularly on the stifling upper tiers ofthe five-tier cellblock.

    But we still have the noise, always the noise. I supposethe outside world is noisy most of the time, too,but in here every sound is magnified in your mind.The ventilation system roars and rumbles and hisses.Nameless clanks and creakings, flushings and gurglingssound within the walls. Buzzers and bells grate at yournerves. Disembodied, often unintelligible voices droneand squawk on loudspeakers. Steel doors are forevergrinding and slamming, then grinding and slammingagain. There's an ever-present background chorus ofshouts and yells and calls, demented babblings, crazedscreams, ghostlike laughter. Maybe one day you realizeone of those voices is your own, and then you reallybegin to worry.

    From time to time they move you around fromone cell to another, and that's always a big deal in yourlife. Your cell is just about all you've got, your onlyrefuge. Like an animal's cage, it's your home?a homethat would make anyone envy the homeless. Differentcellblocks in this ancient penitentiary have differentkinds of cells, some barred, some?like the one I'mcurrently in?a five-and-a-half-by-nine-foot cinderblockcloset with a steel door. There's a toilet and sink,a double bunk bed, a couple of low wall-mounted steelcabinets that provide a makeshift and always cluttereddesktop.

    Right now they've put another inmate in here withme after I'd gotten used to being blissfully alone forsome time. He's got the upper bunk and his inert, snoringform sags down nearly to my head as I try to halfsit in here with this legal pad on my lap. At least I getthe lower bunk because of the bad knee I've had foryears. I presume that they put my new cellmate in herewith me as a form of punishment?a punishment forboth of us, I suppose?though for what, neither he norI have the slightest idea.

    The first thing you have to understand in hereis that you never understand anything in here. Forsure, they don't want you ever to get comfortable. Nordo they ever want you to have a sense of security. And,for sure, you don't. Security's the one thing you neverget in a maximum-security prison.

    Now, on this chilly night, I toss the rough greenarmy blanket over my knees, and drape a hand towelover the back of my neck to keep the chill off. I keepmy socks on under the sheets, at least until I finally goto sleep. On this yellow legal pad purchased at theprison commissary I scrawl as best I can with a pencilstub that somebody's been chewing on. I can barelymake out my own handwriting in the semidarkness,but no matter.

    I don't know if anyone will ever read this. Maybesomeone will. If so, that someone can only be you. Itry to imagine who you might be and where you mightbe reading this. Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure?Let me write these words to you, then, personally.I greet you, my friend. Thanks for your time andattention, even your curiosity. Welcome to my world.Welcome to my iron lodge. Welcome to Leavenworth.

Chapter Two

I have decided the time has come for me to write, toset forth in words my personal testament?not becauseI'm planning to die, but because I'm planning to live.

    This is the twenty-third year of my imprisonmentfor a crime I did not commit. I'm now just over fifty-fouryears old. I've been in here since I was thirty-one.I've been told I must live two lifetimes plus seven yearsbefore I get out of prison on my scheduled release datein the year 2041. By then I'll be ninety-seven. I don'tthink I'll make it.

    My life is an extended agony. I feel like I've liveda hundred lifetimes in prison already. And maybe Ihave. But I'm prepared to live thousands more on behalfof my people. If my imprisonment does nothingmore than educate an unknowing and uncaring publicabout the terrible conditions Native Americans and allindigenous people around the world continue to endure,then my suffering has had?and continues tohave?a purpose. My people's struggle to surviveinspires my own struggle to survive. Each of us mustbe a survivor.

    I know this. My life has a meaning. I refuse tobelieve that this existence, our time on Mother Earth,is meaningless. I believe that the Creator, WakanTanka, has shaped each of our lives for a reason. Idon't know what that reason is. Maybe I'll never know.But you don't have to know the meaning of life toknow that life has a meaning.

I acknowledge my inadequacies as a spokesman. I acknowledgemy many imperfections as a human being.And yet, as the Elders taught me, speaking out is myfirst duty, my first obligation to myself and to my people.To speak your mind and heart is Indian Way.

    This book is not a plea or a justification. Neitheris it an explanation or an apology for the events thatovertook my life and many other lives in 1975 andmade me unwittingly?and, yes, even unwillingly?asymbol, a focus for the sufferings of my people. But allof my people are suffering, so I'm in no way special inthat regard.

    You must understand.... I am ordinary. Painfullyordinary. This isn't modesty. This is fact. Maybe you'reordinary, too. If so, I honor your ordinariness, yourhumanness, your spirituality. I hope you will honormine. That ordinariness is our bond, you and I. Weare ordinary. We are human. The Creator made usthis way. Imperfect. Inadequate. Ordinary.

    Be thankful you weren't cursed with perfection. Ifyou were perfect, there'd be nothing for you to achievewith your life. Imperfection is the source of every action.This is both our curse and our blessing as humanbeings. Our very imperfection makes a holy life possible.

    We're not supposed to be perfect. We're supposedto be useful.

I realize that I can be moody. That's about all you haveleft here in prison, your moods. They can gyrate wildly,uncontrollably. You'll find many of those moods inthese pages, ranging from near despair to soaring hope,from choking inner rage to everyman's fear and self-doubt.A mood can be overpowering, especially onthose days when the endless privations and frustrationsof prison life build and build inside me.

    And yet, more and more in recent years, I feeldetached from it all and strangely free, even withinthese enclosing walls and razor wire. I credit that toSun Dance. A man who has Sun Danced has a specialcompact with Pain. And he'll be hard to break.

    Sun Dance makes me strong. Sun Dance takesplace inside of me, not outside of me. I pierce the fleshof my being. I offer my flesh to the Great Spirit, theGreat Mystery, Wakan Tanka. To give your flesh toSpirit is to give your life. And what you have given youcan no longer lose. Sun Dance is our religion, ourstrength. We take great pride in that strength, whichenables us to resist pain, torture, any trial rather thanbetray the People. That's why, in the past, when theenemy tortured us with knives, bullwhips, even fire,we were able to withstand the pain. That strength stillexists among us.

    When you give your flesh, when you're pierced inSun Dance, you feel every bit of that pain, every iota.Not one jot is spared you. And yet there is a separation,a detachment, a greater mind that you become part of,so that you both feel the pain and see yourself feelingthe pain. And then, somehow, the pain becomes contained,limited. As the white-hot sun pours moltenthrough your eyes into your inner being, as the skewersimplanted in your chest pull and yank and rip at yourscreaming flesh, a strange and powerful lucidity graduallyexpands within your mind. The pain explodesinto a bright white light, into revelation. You are givena wordless vision of what it is to be in touch with allBeing and all beings.

    And for the rest of your life, once you have madethat sacrifice of your flesh to the Great Mystery, youwill never forget that greater reality of which we areeach an intimate and essential part and which holdseach of us in an embrace as loving as a mother's arms.Every time a pin pricks your finger from then on, thatlittle pain will be but a tiny reminder of that largerpain and of the still greater reality that exists withineach of us, an infinite realm beyond reach of all pain.There even the most pitiable prisoner can find solace.

    So Sun Dance made even prison life sustainablefor me.

    I am undestroyed.

    My life is my Sun Dance.

Continues...

Excerpted from Prison Writingsby Leonard F. Peltier Copyright ©2000 by Leonard F. Peltier. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2000
• ISBN 10: 0312263805
• ISBN 13: 9780312263805
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 270
• Editor: Arden Harvey