Image via Prison Writers
Several months ago, a mutual acquaintance introduced me to the writing of Ramelle Kamack, an inmate in Soledad State prison, who was seeking an outlet to publish his writing and inspire cultural change. At the age of 21, the Inglewood native went to jail for his role in a gang-related shooting. During his nearly two decades of incarceration, Ramelle has turned his life around and seized the opportunity to earn three college degrees and cultivate his artistry. In his own words, he’s attempting to use his education to build a platform that prioritizes giving back to underserved communities: “As a writer, I want to use my craft to make a difference. I started by telling my readers a different type of story,” Ramelle says.
Over the course of several conversations, Ramelle and I decided that the best form for these dispatches was to tell the story of his life – as inspired by the model of the Autobiography of Malcolm X, one of his chief literary inspirations. These stories will reflect on his life in prison, the circumstances that led him there, and the inextinguishable hope that sustains him while serving a life sentence. – Weiss
You can write to Ramelle at the address below:
Ramelle Kamack
#AA1281
CTF Facility C
PO Box 689
Soledad, CA 93960
I was 20 years old when late nights partying with guns and gangs led me to spend time in prison.
One afternoon, I watched from my cell as a correctional officer strolled down the narrow
tier with a handful of envelopes. With each step he took, his polished black boots echoed louder over the concrete floor. He was several cells down from mine when his heavy voice rose through the building.
“Mail call!”
On good days, I’d receive two, sometimes three envelopes that I’d rip open as if golden nuggets were sealed within them. Inside could be some good news from my attorney, some long awaited pictures from family, or even a letter from an old girlfriend that wanted to catch up.
On bad days, I wouldn’t receive anything and the officer would walk past my cell as though I was invisible. I watched carefully as he approached my cell door.
“K-mack.”
I leaped from my bunk and moved toward him. In his hand were colorful greeting cards, a cluster of white business envelopes, and a few large beige envelopes that were covered in stamps.
With his free hand, the officer plucked from the pile not an envelope, but a rectangular strip of white paper that resembled confetti. He handed it to me and moved toward another cell along the tier. My eyes traced the paper’s printed words before I sighed.
This was not mail. In my hand was an assignment ducat-the prison’s official method of telling me that I’d been summoned to work for them. From my many trips to the library I was familiar with the law and knew why I received that ducat. Every able-bodied person committed to custody is obligated to work as assigned by department staff. The ducat listed my name, booking number, five-day work schedule, and where I’d report to for the next year: the electrician’s maintenance shop.
The following morning, I reported to my job. My supervisor was a tall and burly white guy with a shaggy red beard, a flannel button-up shirt, and rugged workman’s boots–a real-life Paul Bunyan. I, a Black man with no experience in electrical maintenance, joined his crew of mostly white men, about seven total, each with hardened faces, slight wrinkles around their eyes and sun-baked forearms. Some of them had been electricians longer than I’d been alive.
I didn’t mind it though; I embraced being different. But for some odd reason, my supervisor was inquisitive and giddy when I worked alongside him.
One day my boss stood atop a ladder and pulled a trio of electrical wires toward a junction box mounted on the ceiling. From the ground, I put on a pair of gloves and steadied the wires. While the others watched from the side he called to me above their chatter, “Hey man, where’d you grow up at?”
The crew’s voices drained to a whisper. It was the first time any of them had asked that question and I supposed they all wanted to know.
‘Southern California,” I muttered while keeping my eyes on the slithering wires. “Inglewood.”
I looked upward as his face lit with excitement. Not a moment later, I was showered with a mixture of awe and child-like intrigue.
“That’s not far from Long Beach, right? Have you ever met Snoop Dogg? Do you guys, down there, be flippin’ switches in low-lows? Have you ever drove through Compton and seen Kendrick Lamar?’
With each question, his voice ascended with fanatic glee. And that was just the least of it. From that moment forward, whenever he and I worked together his favorite pastime was attempting to impress me by quoting lines from iconic films. To my surprise, he could recite every line from my favorite movies. With remarkable precision, he’d do Denzel in Training Day. The next moment he was every Eddie Murphy in Coming to America. Soon after, he’d transform into a sassy Martin Lawrence in Big Momma’s House. Each time the commotion drew the attention of his wide-eyed colleagues. The spot-on movie lines were as foreign to them as Mandarin.
Then one day, after a couple of months of working together and after he impersonated just about every Black icon in Hollywood, we tested a circuit breaker when he turned to me and said in the most matter-of-fact tone, “K-mack, you don’t act like other Black guys.”
I froze in place and my eyes locked on him. His cheeky grin instantly vanished. I took a deep breath and replayed his remark in my mind. His statement wasn’t made to insult. To him, it was merely a factual observation–something he figured I was surely aware of. Just as sure as the sky is blue, the sun is hot, and the earth is round, he was sure that he knew how Black guys acted. Never mind that I was probably one of the only Black guys he knew. Never mind that he had never stepped foot anywhere near my community or my city. But he was certain that he, of all people, was qualified to identify Black guy behavior. So I posed a question. “How do other Black guys act?”
My question lingered. He chuckled uneasily and his face reddened, but he was unmoved. I hadn’t questioned him in search of some ignorant answer. I asked because I wanted him to think of the ridiculousness of what he said. After several seconds, he turned away, embarrassed. But he didn’t need to answer my question because an issue larger than him and me had already spoken for him-his entire perception of who a Black man was and should be was based off the fictional characters he watched daily.
To him, it was simple logic: I was not loud and comical like Smokey and Craig or angry and threatening like O-dog and Kane, therefore I didn’t act like other Black guys. The problem is he and many others use a small case sample to generalize all of us. They lack a complete view of who we are–the entertainment industry presents only a small portion of who exists within our neighborhoods, then others figure just because they’ve watched a few movies or streamed the latest rap songs that they know everything. My community and its layered subcultures are far from being simplistic generalizations and stereotypes. We are made up of complex diversities and multi-faceted individuals that go far beyond what others usually see.
When they see me wearing a fitted hat and sitting behind bars they would never know that not only can I interpret E-40’s lyrics but Einstein’s theory of relativity as well, or that I laugh at Homer Simpson one night then read Homer’s Iliad the next, or that I listen to Nat King Cole and J. Cole, or that when me and my brothers were young, our mother couldn’t even afford to buy real PlayDough for us. But now, on my own accord, I really study Plato. My story is one that reveals a truth: my ignored heroes, my unlikely fears and sources of inspiration, my struggles that others would never know of and common dilemmas that are not commonly discussed. It’s a story that’s not more of the same but of a person that embraces being different. Afterall, I believe that’s the only way to make a difference. I call my collection The Black Sheep.
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