One of the New York Three

In 1995, when my mother became gravely ill, I was not allowed to visit her sick bed, to hold her hand, to ease her pain. And later that year when she passed away, my keepers gave me a ten-minute phone call to learn of her final words from my siblings.

Given these long years of being locked down, having to fight each day of them on one level or another, nothing caused me more pain than the passing of my momma and me being unable to look upon her face or hold her hand one final time. She and I had made big plans for when I got out, going fishing at the reservoir was at the top of our list. It was a longstanding deal between us. From childhood, I acquired her love of flowers, especially for red roses. Hers were exceptionally pretty and fragrant, and she would remark: Not bad for a country girl. She had no direct hand in shaping my politics, but her strength of character, gentle spirit, wisdom, and easy laughter had much to do with making me the person I am today; and I miss her so.

Throughout these past 24 years of imprisonment for my participation in the Black Liberation Movement of the 60's and early 70's, I have had the good fortune to know and care for so many people who have shared my experience of living a good portion of our adult lives behind these walls. Just the other day I received another one of those special letters I receive now and again from young men whom I have befriended over the years. This particular young man had not checked in for almost fifteen years. He began by thanking me for making him go to school to get his General Education Diploma (G.E.D.) and to vocational shop to earn a state certification in "plumbing." Says he now has a good job as a plumber (chuckle), that he got married, owns his own home, and is the father of two teenage sons. He even mentioned the family dog . . .

A letter like that would make anybody's day. But as we can all well imagine, a little nudge here, a word of encouragement there, would go a far piece with our troubled youth in helping them turn their lives around. We just have to take the time to care. Caring for and respecting others are qualities I also learned from my mother.

At any rate, this is some of what I do in here, and I'm sure many of my fellow political prisoners and POW comrades do the same! We care about the people.

Together, Let us build to win

HERMAN BELL

Image from: http://www.sfbayview.com/2009/on-the-sf8/