Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson George Jackson’s writings are an indispensable guide for exploring that unique environment where a criminal mentality can evolve into revolutionary consciousness and Soledad Brother is the place to begin. “If I leave here alive, I’ll leave nothing behind. They’ll never count me among the broken men, but I can’t say that I’m normal either. I’ve been hungry too long, I’ve gotten angry too often. I’ve been lied to and insulted too many times. They’ve pushed me over the line from which there can be no retreat. I know that they will not be satisfied until they’ve pushed me out of this existence altogether. I’ve been the victim of so many racist attacks that I could never relax again…I can still smile now, after ten years of blocking knife thrusts, and the pick handles of faceless sadistic pigs, of anticipating and reacting to ten years, seven of them in solitary. I can still smile sometimes, but by the time this thing is over I may not be a nice person. And I just lit my seventy-seventh cigarette of this twenty-one-hour day. I’m going to lay down for two or three hours, perhaps I’ll sleep… From Dachau, with love, George”
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Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson

George Jackson’s writings are an indispensable guide for exploring that unique environment where a criminal mentality can evolve into revolutionary consciousness and Soledad Brother is the place to begin.

“If I leave here alive, I’ll leave nothing behind. They’ll never count me among the broken men, but I can’t say that I’m normal either. I’ve been hungry too long, I’ve gotten angry too often. I’ve been lied to and insulted too many times. They’ve pushed me over the line from which there can be no retreat. I know that they will not be satisfied until they’ve pushed me out of this existence altogether. I’ve been the victim of so many racist attacks that I could never relax again…I can still smile now, after ten years of blocking knife thrusts, and the pick handles of faceless sadistic pigs, of anticipating and reacting to ten years, seven of them in solitary. I can still smile sometimes, but by the time this thing is over I may not be a nice person. And I just lit my seventy-seventh cigarette of this twenty-one-hour day. I’m going to lay down for two or three hours, perhaps I’ll sleep…

From Dachau, with love,

George”

Dedication in Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson To the Man-Child, Tall, evil, graceful, brighteyed, black man-child — Jonathan Peter Jackson — who died on August 7, 1970, courage in one hand, assault rifle in the other; my brother, comrade, friend — the true revolutionary, the black communist guerrilla in the highest state of development, he died on the trigger, scourge of the unrighteous, soldier of the people; to this terrible man-child and his wonderful mother Georgia Bea, to Angela Y. Davis, my tender experience, I dedicate this collection of letters; to the destruction of their enemies I dedicate my life.
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Dedication in Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson

To the Man-Child, Tall, evil, graceful, brighteyed, black man-child — Jonathan Peter Jackson — who died on August 7, 1970, courage in one hand, assault rifle in the other; my brother, comrade, friend — the true revolutionary, the black communist guerrilla in the highest state of development, he died on the trigger, scourge of the unrighteous, soldier of the people; to this terrible man-child and his wonderful mother Georgia Bea, to Angela Y. Davis, my tender experience, I dedicate this collection of letters; to the destruction of their enemies I dedicate my life.

We must accept the eventuality of bringing the U.S.A. to its knees; accept the closing off of critical sections of the city with barbed wire, armored pig carriers criss-crossing the streets, soldiers everywhere, tommy guns pointed at stomach level, smoke curling black against the daylight sky, the smell of cordite, house-to-house searches, doors being kicked in, the commonness of death.
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We must accept the eventuality of bringing the U.S.A. to its knees; accept the closing off of critical sections of the city with barbed wire, armored pig carriers criss-crossing the streets, soldiers everywhere, tommy guns pointed at stomach level, smoke curling black against the daylight sky, the smell of cordite, house-to-house searches, doors being kicked in, the commonness of death.

The Soledad Brothers were George Jackson, John Clutchette and Fleeta Drumgo, three inmates in Soledad Prison who were charged with the murder of a prison guard in early 1970.  Below is James Carr talking about one of his first encounters with George Jackson when they were both in Tracy prison. It’s taken from Carr’s autobiography, Bad, which is a great read. Our clique lifted weights together every day out on the yard. We had a fad going to see who could get the biggest arms. One day four friends and I went out to the weight pile right under the gun tower. After a couple of sets, Joey Aaron said that we didn’t have enough weight. Now, Joey was a beast; he was five ten, two hundred pounds, with a fifty-inch chest and a twenty-eight-inch waist. He could flex his chest and set two waterglasses on it, and he liked to throw his weight around. So he went over to George Jackson, who was doing curls. George was a loner: I’d seen him everyday in the butcher shop, but had never spoken to him outside of business. He weighed only about one seventy, and his rosy cheeks made him look weak. Joey growled, “I want that bar, you pretty little punk.”“If you want it,” George said softly, “you’ll have to take it.”Joey huffed and shouted, “I’ll take it, an’ I’ll kick your ass too!”George, acting real calm even though he was obviously no match for Joey, told him that he’d fight but not underneath the gun tower. We were all staring at George, unable to believe that he would talk this way to Joey.As the two of them started to walk into the wing to fight, a big crowd gathered. More and more people came from all over the yard, and before you knew it there was a caravan of dudes streaming in, eager to see someone get fucked up. George and Joey walked into the shower—but George still didn’t look scared!After waiting for the spectators to arrive, Joey charged at George like a lumbering bull, swinging his fists madly. George tattooed him with a couple of quick jabs and danced out of his way untouched. This set the pattern for the fight: Each time Joey went after him, George got a few little hits in, savage but fast. Not one of them did too much damage to the big man, but gradually they wore him down.Now it was George’s turn to charge. With a tremendous yell he jumped on Joey, knocked him to the ground, and began biting his jugular vein. Since Joey was barely conscious and couldn’t offer much resistance, Jim Howard and some other guy ran in and pulled George off. Joey was really a mess by this time: both his eyes were swollen shut and his lips were bleeding. Nobody could believe it. Joey believed it; he knew he’d been beaten fair, and told George he was willing to forget it. George agreed to leave him alone. They both walked away and went on about their business.
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The Soledad Brothers were George Jackson, John Clutchette and Fleeta Drumgo, three inmates in Soledad Prison who were charged with the murder of a prison guard in early 1970.  Below is James Carr talking about one of his first encounters with George Jackson when they were both in Tracy prison. It’s taken from Carr’s autobiography, Bad, which is a great read.

Our clique lifted weights together every day out on the yard. We had a fad going to see who could get the biggest arms. One day four friends and I went out to the weight pile right under the gun tower. After a couple of sets, Joey Aaron said that we didn’t have enough weight. Now, Joey was a beast; he was five ten, two hundred pounds, with a fifty-inch chest and a twenty-eight-inch waist. He could flex his chest and set two waterglasses on it, and he liked to throw his weight around. So he went over to George Jackson, who was doing curls. George was a loner: I’d seen him everyday in the butcher shop, but had never spoken to him outside of business. He weighed only about one seventy, and his rosy cheeks made him look weak.

Joey growled, “I want that bar, you pretty little punk.”

“If you want it,” George said softly, “you’ll have to take it.”

Joey huffed and shouted, “I’ll take it, an’ I’ll kick your ass too!”

George, acting real calm even though he was obviously no match for Joey, told him that he’d fight but not underneath the gun tower. We were all staring at George, unable to believe that he would talk this way to Joey.

As the two of them started to walk into the wing to fight, a big crowd gathered. More and more people came from all over the yard, and before you knew it there was a caravan of dudes streaming in, eager to see someone get fucked up. George and Joey walked into the shower—but George still didn’t look scared!

After waiting for the spectators to arrive, Joey charged at George like a lumbering bull, swinging his fists madly. George tattooed him with a couple of quick jabs and danced out of his way untouched. This set the pattern for the fight: Each time Joey went after him, George got a few little hits in, savage but fast. Not one of them did too much damage to the big man, but gradually they wore him down.

Now it was George’s turn to charge. With a tremendous yell he jumped on Joey, knocked him to the ground, and began biting his jugular vein. Since Joey was barely conscious and couldn’t offer much resistance, Jim Howard and some other guy ran in and pulled George off. Joey was really a mess by this time: both his eyes were swollen shut and his lips were bleeding. Nobody could believe it. Joey believed it; he knew he’d been beaten fair, and told George he was willing to forget it. George agreed to leave him alone. They both walked away and went on about their business.