If You Can Breathe You Can Get Through Anything!

Today, I want to share a story that all too often unfolds in the United States of America—a story that many of us have unfortunately become familiar with, thanks to the power of the internet. It is the story of a wrongful conviction, a tale that leaves a profound impact on the lives of Black individuals.

Let's begin with the end of Albert Woodfox's story, which tragically ended with his passing at the age of 75 due to Covid-19. You may be wondering who Albert Woodfox was—a man who endured the unimaginable, surviving an astounding 42 years of solitary confinement. He was a human being whose fundamental rights were unjustly stripped away by those who claim to be ardent defenders of human rights. Sadly, he is not the only one; there are countless others whose stories remain buried in the shadows, some who have long since passed away, others currently serving sentences for crimes they did not commit, and those who will inevitably find themselves imprisoned in the future simply because they are Black in a world where the illusion of white superiority persists.

In 1965, Albert Woodfox found himself incarcerated at the Louisiana State Penitentiary, convicted of armed robbery, along with the late Herman Wallace, Woodfox was later convicted of the 1972 murder of Brent Miller, a corrections officer. without a shred of evidence. Throughout the years, both men vehemently maintained their innocence. Their unwavering claims of wrongful conviction formed the foundation of a story that would captivate the world. Little did Woodfox know that his journey would take an incredible turn, leading him into the heart of one of the most prolonged and harrowing tales of injustice in American history.

Their plight was exacerbated by the inhumane conditions they endured in solitary confinement. Confined within the confines of a cramped 6-by-9-foot cell for 23 hours each day. Woodfox faced unimaginable challenges—claustrophobia, gassings, beatings, and other forms of torture. He became part of a trio known as the "Angola 3," named after the infamous Louisiana State Penitentiary, commonly referred to as Angola, which sits on the grounds of a former plantation.

Amnesty International and other advocacy groups stood firmly behind the Angola 3, believing that they were victims of mistreatment fueled by their involvement with the Black Panther Party within the prison. Their activism and defiance in the face of oppression made them targets, amplifying the injustice they faced.

For an astonishing 42 years, Woodfox endured the bleak existence of solitary confinement, with minimal respite or relief. The toll of this prolonged isolation was immeasurable. They were denied even the most basic amenities—a lack of access to exercise yards, restricted communication with the outside world, and the absence of reading materials, radios, or any form of entertainment. Educational, social, vocational, and religious programs were prohibited, denying them any opportunity for personal growth or redemption.

Life in confinement was a constant battle against the elements. Rats scurried through the hallways, invading their cells, prompting futile attempts to repel them. Mice emerged under the cloak of darkness, further diminishing any semblance of peace. And when the red ants swarmed, they infiltrated every crevice, invading clothes, sheets, and even the meager possessions they possessed.

Adding to their torment were the white inmate guards who wielded authority within the prison walls. These guards, known for their brutality, perpetuated a reign of terror over the prisoners. Any form of resistance, no matter how small, was met with swift and merciless retaliation—gassings, beatings inflicted by groups of four or five guards, crushing any semblance of hope.

This was the world in which Albert Woodfox existed—a world that showcased the darkest aspects of the justice system and the inherent racism embedded within it. It was a world where resilience became his only weapon against a relentless torrent of adversity.

In an acclaimed memoir "Solitary: A Biography", he reflects on how he turned his cell from a place of confinement to a space for personal growth, and described how he kept his sanity, and dignity during those grueling years. Here are some passages of his book:

Solitary confinement is used as a punishment for the specific purpose of breaking a prisoner. Nothing relieved the pressure of being locked in a cell 23 hours a day. In 1982, after 10 years, I still had to fight an unconscious urge to get up, open the door, and walk out.

The only way you can survive in these cells is by adapting to the pain. The pressure of the cell changed most men. I’d see men who’d lived for years with high moral principles and values suddenly become destructive, chaotic.

You look for the good. This can set you up for disappointment. Once I did some legal work for a prisoner that reduced his sentence to “time served”. He was going to be released from prison because of the work I did for him. The day after he found out he came to the door of my cell and threw human waste at me. He was upset because I was watching the news and I wouldn’t let him change the TV channel to a different program. You can’t hold on to those experiences or you become bitter. Every day you start over. You look for the humanity in each individual.

I made my bed every morning. I cleaned the cell. I had my own cleanup rag I used to wipe down the walls. When they passed out a broom and mop, I swept and mopped the floor of my cell. I worked out at least an hour every morning in my cell.

By the time I was 40 I saw how I had transformed my cell, which was supposed to be a confined space of destruction and punishment, into something positive. I used that space to educate myself, I used that space to build strong moral character, I used that space to develop principles and a code of conduct, I used that space for everything other than what my captors intended it to be.

In my forties, I saw how I’d developed a moral compass that was unbreakable, a strong sense of what was right or wrong, even when other people didn’t feel it. I saw it. I felt it. I tasted it. If something didn’t feel right, then no threat, no amount of pressure could make me do it. I knew that my life was the result of a conscious choice I made every minute of the day. A choice to make myself better. A choice to make things better for others. I made a choice not to break. I made a choice to change my environment. I knew I had not only survived 15 years of solitary confinement, but I’d also honored my commitment to the Black Panther party. I helped other prisoners understand they had value as human beings, that they were worth something.

Malcolm X wrote, “Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time.” Malcolm gave me directions. He gave me a vision. The civil rights leader Whitney Young said of being black: “Look at me, I’m here. I have dignity. I have pride. I have roots. I insist, I demand, that I participate in those decisions that affect my life and the lives of my children. It means that I am somebody.” There wasn’t one saying that carried me for all my years in solitary confinement, there were one thousand, ten thousand. I pored over the books that spoke to me. They comforted me.

The closest I ever came to breaking in prison was after my mom died, on 27 December 1994. I used to tell myself, “If you can breathe you can get through anything.” When my mom died my breath was snatched from me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t catch my breath. I always thought if I lived long enough, I’d win. But now she was gone, and I could never have her in my life again, no matter how long I lived. I wondered if, without my mom, I would ever be able to breathe again.

A year after my mom passed away, I was sitting on my bunk trying to figure something out when I heard my mom’s voice in my head. It was like her voice echoed through the years to speak to me.

On my release, on 19 February 2016, my brother Michael took me home and I lived with him and his wife and son in their house for almost a year. I got the medical care that I needed. In my mind, heart, soul, and spirit I always felt free, so my attitudes and thoughts didn’t change much after I was released. But to be in my physical body in the physical world again was like being newly born. I had to learn to use my hands in new ways – for seat belts, for cellphones, to close doors behind me, to push buttons in an elevator, to drive. I had to relearn how to walk downstairs, how to walk without leg irons, how to sit without being shackled.

It took about a year for my body to relax from the positions I had gotten used to holding while being restrained. I allowed myself to eat when I was hungry. Gradually, over two years, I let go of the grip I held against feeling pleasure, and of the unconscious fear that I would lose everything I loved.

Michael told me I needed to make new memories, and I did. I’d always dreamed of going to Yosemite national park after seeing a National Geographic special about it years before in CCR. At the invitation of old friends and former Panthers Gail Shaw and BJ, I flew to Sacramento. Scott Fleming came up from Oakland to meet us and we drove to Yosemite together. We hiked to the falls I wanted to see, and we stayed in the park overnight.

A great joy has been getting to know my daughter and her children. My great-grandchildren are my hope. The innocence, intelligence, and happiness in their eyes give me strength. I want to keep going for them, keep speaking out, keep fighting. I hope to leave them a better world than the one I had. I hope they can find the spirit of my mom, their great-great-grandmother, when they need her, as I did.

I bought a house. I’m still a news junkie and usually have news on the TV. I can still only sleep a few hours at a time. I am often wide awake around 3am, when I used to get some “quiet time” in prison. Many people ask me if I ever wake up and think I’m still in prison. I always know where I am when I wake up. But sometimes I walk into a room in my house and I don’t know why, and then I walk into all the rooms for I don’t know what reason. I still get claustrophobic attacks. Now I have more space to walk them off. For peace of mind, I mop the floors in my home.

Albert Woodfox continued to be a dedicated activist after his release, carrying the torch of his fight for justice far and wide. His powerful voice resonated with audiences across the globe, as he fearlessly shared his story and shed light on the flaws of the justice system. Woodfox's unwavering determination led him to speak at esteemed institutions such as the Innocence Project, Harvard, Yale, and other universities. His powerful message also reached international platforms, including events hosted by Amnesty International in London, Paris, Denmark, Sweden, and Belgium.

His book served as a testament to his indomitable spirit and the injustices he endured. The profound memoir became a finalist for prestigious accolades, including the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award for Nonfiction. Recognizing its significance, the book earned Woodfox well-deserved recognition, winning both the Stowe Prize and the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities Book of the Year.

Albert Woodfox is no longer with us but his legacy lives on, inspiring others to challenge systemic injustice and champion the rights of the oppressed. The resilience he displayed throughout his life serves as a beacon of hope, reminding us of the strength of the human spirit even in the face of unimaginable adversity.

Truly Yours,

The Queen Of Africa