Although called a Men’s Colony by the authorities, San Luis Obispo inmates know it as the California Penal Colony, which sums up what it is all about—a penal institution and a colonized situation. The state believes in the power of euphemism, that by putting a pleasant name on a concentration camp they can change its objective characteristics. Prisons are referred to as “correctional facilities” or “men’s colonies,” and so forth; to the name givers, prisoners become “clients,” as if the state of California were some vast advertising agency. But we who are prisoners know the truth; we call them penitentiaries and jails and refer to ourselves as convicts and inmates. This does not mean that we accept these labels as bad, only that we refuse to be deceived by the state’s duplicity.

After my meeting with the warden I was assigned to a counselor, who proposed that I go through a “rehabilitation program” to prepare me to return to society. I felt no need to be rehabilitated; my only crime was to speak in defense of the people. But the counselor went on describing the program. As the first step in my rehabilitation, he explained, I was to work in the prison dining hall at no salary. Eventually I would be able to move into a job in one of the various prison industries, where the salaries ranged from a minimum of three cents an hour to a maximum of ten cents an hour.

I absolutely refused to engage in such exploitation, working at first for no salary and then for wages so low they could not be considered as salary at all. Instead, I offered a counterproposal. I would work willingly but only for a just compensation—union-scale wages. If they paid me union wages, and paid the same wages to all inmates, I would then be willing to work in any kind of job they chose. Further, I would also pay the cost of my room and board so that I would not be an expense to the state, even though it had put me there illegitimately. The staff, predictably, refused to consider this proposal.

There is a process of self-enlightenment that operates among inmates, a process that moves far beyond the level desired by the authorities. A “rehabilitated” prisoner may see the “incorrect” nature of his past actions. He may even see that the assault or robbery, or whatever, was a “mistake.” But he comes to see that “mistake” in a particular light. Many prisoners reach this point and fly past it to a deeper and broader assessment. They begin to assess society and see that their “crimes” were in part a result of a capitalist and exploitative society. Frequently, they become socialists, recognizing that capitalism has given birth to the murderous twins: imperialism and racism. These enlightened and politically conscious prisoners arrive at convictions that the authorities find unacceptable and threatening. Even though inmates at this point may have no intention of ever committing crimes again, they are held in prison for a longer time because of their new opinions rather than because of their prior activities. When they appear before parole boards, they are questioned not about the past but about their views of contemporary social issues. If they are honest and tell the truth, they are denied parole. They were sent to prison for what they did, but they are kept in prison for what they believe. These are political prisoners. George Jackson and Booker T. Lewis are two well-known examples, among thousands less visible.

I was such a political prisoner, but this did not discourage me during my twenty-two months in the Penal Colony; I knew that a political consciousness was growing among people both in and out of prison. I could see it when I talked with other inmates at mealtimes; we got into heavy raps about the situation in this country. It was obvious in the growing movement outside the prison—among students, welfare recipients, hospital employees, and community workers, to name only a few. This confidence lay behind my ability to withstand the oppression. They could lock up my body but not my spirit; that was with the people. The spirit of revolution will continue to grow within the prisons. I look forward to the time when all inmates will offer greater resistance by refusing to work as I did. Such a simple move would bring the machinery of the penal system to a halt.

Then we got into the heavy things—the reasons for my refusal to work, et cetera. I was ready for them. But when I gave my explanation, they replied that I wanted to pick and choose the rules I would obey and that this was a very arbitrary attitude. I responded by expressing a total lack of faith in the penal system and the parole board and let them know that I did not expect parole then or any other time. I told them I was willing to obey rules I disagreed with, but I would never obey rules that denied my dignity as a human being. Furthermore, I urged them to disobey those rules that violated their integrity and dignity. One of the board members, a Negro, was so shocked that he expressed doubt about my sanity. This is a good example of the mentality controlling prisons across the land, one so narrow that it regards human dignity and strength of character as abnormal.

Many now recognize that most of the people in prisons do not belong there. When they can be motivated to believe that they have something to offer society, something desperately needed, which only they can contribute, then there will be no need for prisons. But each man must first be convinced of his own value and uniqueness, and that this uniqueness is his, and his only, to give to others. That is what true rehabilitation means.

On the first floor we made our way out to the main entrance on Lake Merritt Park. It was a bright, blue-sky day, just the kind of day I had wanted. Looking ahead, I could see thousands of beautiful people and a sea of hands, all of them waving. When I gave them the power sign, the hands shot up in reply and everyone started to cheer. God, it was good. I felt this tremendous sense of release, of liberation, like taking off your shirt on a hot day and feeling free, unbound by anything. Later, I did take my shirt off, but it was obvious now that we would not be able to get out the front door. A mass of cheering supporters stretched from the steps all the way across the street into the park. I had to fight back the tears. It was wonderful to be out, but even more exhilarating to see the concern and emotion of the people. The crush was so overwhelming that we turned back and went to the other exit. But the people quickly ran around to the other side, and as we went down the stairs and into the street they surged around us, shouting joyfully, carrying us along.

Walking through the streets was an indescribable experience, the closest I have ever felt to being truly free, with people walking by, recognizing me, and waving. I went everywhere, visiting people in the community, to the surprise of many who never expected to see me on the street, only on television or maybe in Hollywood after I was released. But I was determined to get back among them. I walked in Oakland, Berkeley, Richmond, and San Francisco. I went to Seventh Street, Sacramento Avenue, Potrero Hill, Hunter’s Point, Richmond, North Richmond, West Oakland, Peralta Street, Cypress Street, East Oakland, and Parchester Village. I visited several bars, where I had done a lot of recruiting. And everywhere I got the same reaction: people wondered why I had come back to them. I explained that neither news reporters nor television cameras had got me out of prison; the people had freed me, and I had come back to thank them and be with them.

All this time I was under immense pressure to give interviews, to fill speaking engagements, to appear on talk shows and television programs, but I accepted none of these for about six months. I even received a brochure from some Hollywood outfit. It contained newspaper clippings about me and a letter saying. “You’re star quality,” or something like that, which would have been amusing had it not been such an overt capitalist attempt to co-opt the revolution. Too many so-called leaders of the movement have been made into celebrities and their revolutionary fervor destroyed by mass media. They become Hollywood objects and lose identification with the real issues. The task is to transform society; only the people can do that—not heroes, not celebrities, not stars. A star’s place is in Hollywood; the revolutionary’s place is in the community with the people. A studio is a place where fiction is made, but the Black Panther Party is out to create nonfiction. We are making revolution.

For me, the theme of the convention in Washington was not a new Constitution but organization for survival, and from that time on, we began to refer to the Party community programs as survival programs. The whole idea of the community programs had been developed by Bobby Seale while I was in prison, and his brilliant organizing methods had helped to establish them. The Breakfast for Children program was set up first. Other programs—clothing distribution centers, liberation schools, housing, prison projects, and medical centers—soon followed. We called them “survival programs pending revolution,” since we needed long-term programs and a disciplined organization to carry them out. They were designed to help the people survive until their consciousness is raised, which is only the first step in the revolution to produce a new America. I frequently use the metaphor of the raft to describe the survival programs. A raft put into service during a disaster is not meant to change conditions but to help one get through a difficult time. During a flood the raft is a life-saving device, but it is only a means of getting to higher and safer ground. So, too, with survival programs, which are emergency services. In themselves they do not change social conditions, but they are life-saving vehicles until conditions change.