By Assata Shakur
On may perhaps 2, 1973, Black Panther Assata Shakur (aka JoAnne Chesimard) lay in a health facility, on the subject of dying, handcuffed to her mattress, whereas neighborhood, country, and federal police tried to query her in regards to the shootout at the New Jersey Turnpike that had claimed the lifetime of a white nation trooper. lengthy a aim of J. Edgar Hoover's crusade to defame, infiltrate, and criminalize Black nationalist agencies and their leaders, Shakur used to be incarcerated for 4 years sooner than her conviction on flimsy proof in 1977 as an companion to murder.
This intensely own and political autobiography belies the fearsome photo of JoAnne Chesimard lengthy projected by way of the media and the kingdom. With wit and candor, Assata Shakur recounts the studies that led her to a lifetime of activism and portrays the strengths, weaknesses, and eventual death of Black and White progressive teams on the hand of government officers. the result's a sign contribution to the literature approximately becoming up Black in the USA that has already taken its position along The Autobiography of Malcolm X and the works of Maya Angelou.
Two years after her conviction, Assata Shakur escaped from felony. She was once given political asylum via Cuba, the place she now resides.
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Extra resources for Assata: An Autobiography
One day one of them came in and gave me a speech about how he fought in World War II on the wrong side. He went on and on and there was no question that he believed everything he said. He talked about how messed up the world is. How decent people couldn’t walk the streets. He said that if Hitler had won, the world wouldn’t be in the mess it is in today, that niggers like me, no-good niggers, wouldn’t be going around shooting new jersey state troopers. He went on to say that the white race had invented everything because they were smart and worked hard, that other races wanted to riot and use terrorism to take everything the white race had worked so hard to get.
There’s something lying next to me. I can see an outline. Something in plastic. Something—my mind slowly realizes that it is a man in a plastic bag. And that the man is Zayd. My body stiffens. My mind spins. ” I say nothing, but inside i’m raging. “Dogs! Swine! Filthy pigs! Dirty slimy scum! Bastards! ” I rage on and on. “I wouldn’t tell you the right time of day,” i remember thinking. ” The night crawls along. Nurses, doctors, and troopers. I am still scared, but i am just as angry and evil as i am scared.
Immediately they are all in my face, throwing question after question at me. I say nothing. After a while, i close my eyes again. “Oh, she doesn’t feel good,” one of them says in a sweet, mocking voice. “Where does it hurt? Here? Here? ” With each here comes a crash. I look around wildly, but no one is there. More thumps and punches, but none of them hurts as bad as my chest is hurting. I try to scream but i know immediately that that’s a mistake. My chest erupts and i think i am gonna die. They go on and on.