OW Prisoner Writing Series: Excerpt from “Zero to Anarchist in 1.2 Seconds: Anthony Rayson interviews Lee Savage”

Introduction

As a long-time prisoner supporter who goes the extra step by making it my business to collaborate with the bravest most lucid prisoners, one of the goals I seek is to get the voice of womyn prisoners out there. This has proven to be a difficult endeavor for many reasons.

Womyn prisoners are usually mothers of small children when the state threatens with kidnapping custody forms, if they get “disruptive” i.e. get too close to the truth and cry out their rage at the injustice they are forced to suffer. Most womyn prisoners were victims of abuse – physical, sexual and psychological – before their incarceration, only to be further and completely victimized by the state’s abuse, known as incarceration.

So, they often have nowhere to turn for support. Their family has been a source of abuse, the state (D.O.C.) is their present abuser, and other predators, either prisoners themselves, or opportunists on the “outs” look to form abusive relationships with these highly vulnerable females.

Womyn prisoners are conditioned into docility as a prerequisite of their release. Even though their “crimes” aren’t anywhere near the viciousness of men, if the womyn challenge their fate through words or action, they too can face the awful weight of the sadistic repression of the prison system. There are solitary confinements, SHU’s, “control units,” restraints, gassings, shacklings, beatings and all manner of deprivations and humiliations forced upon these people.

So, it takes a superhuman love of liberty, courage and fundamental anarchist rage – and love of humanity – to be willing and able, to blurt out the hot, molten truth.

So, I am most thrilled and excited to have this opportunity to let the voice of the incarcerated womyn be heard in this interview by a no holds barred, fascinating and deft-minded rebel-to-the- core anarcho-lesbian dynamo.

So, heighten your senses and prepare for a bonsai run of explosive truth and insight from the guttural cry from the buried depths of the sinister psyche of locked-down Amerika. I’m really pleased to be a part of this revelatory project with “Lee,” Lisa Savage.

Lisa’s Response to the Introduction

Thank you, Brother, for taking precious time out of your absolutely “insane” mind-boggling schedule of projects with countless radicals and politically conscious prisoners throughout locked-down Amerika and away from your allotted time to press the flesh, and plug in with like-minded free world people to further the goals of ABC’s and Anarchism. Lest I forget to mention the time you spend reaching out to re-educate those whose lives have been shaped around and set upon a foundation of government based lies and oppression, fed to them daily by the government controlled money-driven media.

I feel most fortunate and grateful to have met you at a time in my life when I was seriously searching for enlightenment and skooling on real issues. You have helped me find a way to give voice to the silent and equally unseen population of incarcerated womyn living their tormented and oppressed lives caged within the concrete walls of a fortress of forced isolation. This slice of hell for me is known as “T-Dorm” – close management special control housing unit here at Lowell Corruptional Institution – Florida State Prisons’ only CM-solitary confinement control unit for womyn.

Brother Anthony, you have been a blessing in my life for sure, I also want to take a moment to thank you for placing me in the path of Abigail, who is the cornerstone of the Burning River chapter of ABC. She has been an awesome comrade that I can only aspire to emulate. It is through both of you and your acts of selflessness, generosity and genuine love that I have been able to discover my own depths of these traits. You and Abigail have helped me grow stronger through your words of encouragement, thus emboldening me to speak louder and to call into account those who are seriously affecting the well-being of my sisters in chains.

It is also through you Brother that I had the distinct honor to have played a part in the “STOPMAX” campaign conference held in Philadelphia May 30 – June 1^st 2008. My testimony and spirit was heard and felt by those fighting to end solitary confinement and torture in U.S. prisons. I was “blowed” when I received a thank you letter from Naima Black for “my story” – yet more moved by the packet she compiled of the schedule of events & workshops, post campaign goals of those on the outside, testimony of the 17 men highlighted with me and the pictures from the opening speech and moments throughout the three-day event – and, her request for me to please keep in touch to help further this movement.

Also, I must send my Anarchist love & thank you to Abigail of Burning River for also carrying my words and feelings to the public via the punk magazine, Profane Existence in their prisoner section, entitled “Dehumanized Nation.”

I have had the great honor to be placed on page in between two of the prisoners’ resistance movement’s most articulate and dedicated warriors, Coyote Sheff and Sean Swain. I never thought I’d be in a publication with either of them, for their work and insight surpasses my own, but because of you Brother, I’ve humbly shared space with Khalfani Khaldun in Prisoners Speak! #4 – your publication for STOPMAX. It was Khalfani, whose zine entitled Surviving Solitary Confinement for the Targeted Prisoner, helped me to establish a firm foundation of resistance.

Abigail has given me voice with Coyote & Sean in PE #57. I am honored and humbled by all you and Abigail have made possible for allowing me the chance to be heard and to be one of the voices in the struggle and prisoner’s resistance movement.

Once again, thanks Brother for showing me Anarchist love and for the powerful introduction to this interview. I can only put my best foot forward and hope this literature will prove to be a lasting source of strength, hope, enlightenment, and used as another conduit for challenge and change for all – especially my severely marginalized “sisters” – womyn who live the struggle on a daily basis. With that being said – much love to you Brother Anthony, and allow me to take a few deep breaths and let’s begin.

Anthony: Take us back to your childhood. What are your strongest memories? How did the turning point moments affect your outlook?

Lee: Before I expose that personal roller-coaster ride through hell, I want to speak with candor—When I received the interview questions you stated you were leaning on me for direction, and it was ultimately my choice to edit, delete or modify the questions posed. I felt relieved to have such liberty. That is true collaboration – and such a state of beautiful equality! Thank you!

So, as I read the introduction and first question, I was feeling very comfortable and confident in my ability to help create an insightful piece of work for all who are in the struggle and searching for the truth. Then I read question number two– At that moment an internal struggle began – for I never revealed my childhood in its true context to anyone, with the exception of my present therapist, who has been a continuous source of compassionate understanding—I almost decided I would delete this painful question and replace it with one not so personal or revealing. As you will soon discover, I “stood my ground” and chose not to take the easy way out. After all, this interview is about the struggle I and many other womyn live & share. Since I am dedicated to this cause I must raise my voice where other womyn can’t or won’t. Again, it is my duty to all womyn and myself to speak the truth and finally bring to light those experiences so many womyn try to cover up or deny ever happened. Without facing these abusive experiences, “demons,” if you will, and exposing them for what they are, they will continue to slowly eat away at the fibers of the psyche, of one’s “being” thus further weakening our strength, self-esteem and our perceptions of self-worth. Facing these terrible and cruel acts done to us, returns the power to ourselves and ultimately takes it away from our past and present abusers. But, as long as we hide these crimes against us, the abuser and the experience will still have control over us.

Once we establish the cognizance & recognition, the basic understanding that we (womyn) did not cause our abusers to react, but rather, they acted upon us from their own sick and distorted rationales – we move forward and shift from playing the role of victims into a much healthier view of ourselves as strong survivors of abuse. Then and only then can we possibly reach out and effectively aid our sisters in their own recovery or discovery of self—

I also want to make clear that the answer to your question posed will be “raw and uncut” – all first thought and raw feelings because this part of my past – my childhood – is a wound that at times is still very raw and painful. But, I’m working on replacing those feelings for my biological mother and my other abusers with unconditional love and acceptance of them and my past. So, if anyone reading this has a problem with bold and blunt truth or how I convey it – that’s on them. Today, I am an army of one and slave to none! Today, I’m breaking these chains—

My strongest memories of childhood—

Allow me to set the overall mood—In 1969 I was born heroin addicted and three (3) months premature to a 15 year old. So, from the first moments after emerging from my “pusher’s” opiate-soaked womb, I had to fight to survive. Here I am, a new born baby girl weighing less than (3) three pounds, with underdeveloped vital organs and I’m suffering in the throes of full-blown heroin withdrawal!

I’s pure fucking hell on an adult’s body – the profuse sweating, the twisting and cramping of the stomach and intestines, the upset stomach and projective vomiting, the shaking and wishing for death to come (or another “fix) to alleviate the all-out assault on the body and mind. But I’m just a “newborn” and I can’t communicate all the pain. I’ve just emerged from a quiet, liquid blackness and warmth where I was supposedly protected. That’s a fucking joke! My own mother was forcing me to use, against my will, get high and to become addicted before I entered the world. Now here I am forced out of her toxic and abusive womb into a bright, yet cold world & I’m “kicking” heroin.

The addiction surely brought on my premature birth, but it was possibly the only way to save my life—Welcome to my reality—It must be that “high-octane spirit” no pun intended, that pushed me on to fight and live—

The first (4) four months of my life, I was in an incubator struggling just to take my next breath. I was told later in my childhood by my Great Grandmother—“Nan” who said that when she and my “Pop” (her husband) would visit or stayed over night at the hospital with me, they would constantly stare at me—for hours on end—because it looked as if each breath I took might be my last.

Being in such a tortuous state of addiction, pain, withdrawal and alienation from day 1 (one) caused a lack of bonding for me to my mother. Infants recognize mother by smell and sound and are comforted. I didn’t have that “luxury” or curse—however I chose to look at it. I had different nurses tediously handling me, adjust the breathing tubes, IV’s and monitors hooked into my tiny body—but I had no real human touch or loving contact. I was too fragile for such.

After 4 (four) months, I was released from the hospital to return to a habitat and lack of care of a junkie—the bitch who abused me from conception—my dope fiend mother, Sherrie. My biological dad “Daniel” had tried to cause her to miscarry in her 3-4 month of pregnancy by repeatedly hitting her in the stomach with the butt of his shotgun. He didn’t want a second child (I had a brother 9 months, 5 days older—he wasn’t born a junkie) especially one who might be defective or deformed. So after I came “home” he split for good. It’s a hard pill to swallow knowing both my parents wanted me to die before I had a chance to live—

Good old Mums. Sherrie then moves in with Rick, her Puerto Rican heroin dealer and becomes his personal live-in whore, punching bag, slave and forced partner in numerous “armed crimes.” My very first memory was of Rick beating my mother, shooting her up with dope and violently raping her. She was raped because she didn’t consent to being fucked—I can still recall only her pleas of “No, please no.” I was 2 (two) years old. I’m 39, and I still can vividly see that scene. I also remember sitting in a tiny rocking chair watching “Petticoat Junction”—my brother nowhere around. I’d be left alone for hours on end “swimming” in my own piss and shit, the only thing that soothed me was rocking in that little chair. It should have been my mom “Sherrie” rocking me in her arms but I guess that’s kinda difficult to do if you have a needle in your arm, or some dope fiending machismo maniac forcing you to swallow his dick on cue or he’s beating you while he’s fucking you against your will or while he’s kicking you in the ribs or face while you’re on your knees trying to clean up the mirror or plates he just broke in his psychotic rage—

Rick was a malevolent force straight from the depths of hell – I was so terrified of him that I would try to hide when I heard him getting loud. I’d crawl into my toy chest, slide the panel shut and look out through the finger hole used to close the panel. Sometimes I’d bury myself amongst the toys and stuffed animals so he wouldn’t beat me or abuse me in other fashions. All it took was him to see me and that would be reason enough to treat daughter like mother—I don’t recall Rick ever abusing “Daniel the III” (my brother), just us two: Sherrie and me—

There are other memories of this period but they are all quite the same—physical abuse, sexual abuse, emotional / mental abuse, alienation and neglect. In the first 1 ½ years of my little life, I lived through and witnessed more horror and experienced more than most “normal” humans in a 20-30 years maybe their entire lifetimes—

Around the age of 3, Sherrie abandoned Danny, myself and my 9 month-old half-sister Nikkie, yes, Sherrie and Rick’s baby. It blows my mind to this day to think she’d bring another child into her sick abusive world—apparently, Sherrie and Rick “dipped” & were gone for days, possibly out to a “heist gone bad” and the neighbors heard me, Danny and Nikki crying. When they came to our apartment, the door was unlocked, the neighbors came in, found my Nanna & Pop’s phone number and called to inform them that Sherrie and Rick left us there alone for days.

The next vivid memory I have is of my Nan and Pop and Nan’s sister—Aunt Marge and Aunt Mabel—searching to find my other shoe that was lost in the ransacked apartment. They took us from the apartment and Danny went to Dad’s mother, I remained with Nan and Pop, and Nikki was put up for adoption. There were family members who wanted to raise Nikki, but the fear of Rick’s retaliation forced them to give Nikki to the state. That would be the last time I ever saw Nikki. It would be 4 years before I would meet Danny again.

Nan and Pop had an enormous amount of land—which had been in his family for a couple of generations. There was a 2-story main house, also a 1 story building for his father, my Pop’s Pop—I called “Pappy”—he was moved into that little house before I got there. Pappy died shortly after his 94^th birthday. I loved Pappy too and when he’d ask where his horse was, I’d go look for her. I never found her though—not knowing of senility back then.

Pop had a huge piece of farmland where he & Nan grew every type of vegetable. I remember sitting down in a row of pea pods & eating them fresh & picking strawberries—There were 4 hothouses (greenhouses) where they grew all types of flowers, small seedling plants, vegetable plants and other plants for sale to the country folk. Plus, there was an old barn. I instantly fell in love with the outdoors and nature—probably experienced and fell in love with real life for the first time.

Nan and Pop had taken on the arduous task of trying to “fix” the emotional and physical abuse I had suffered. I would wake up screaming, thinking Rick was coming to hurt me or I dreamt he was sexually abusing me. Pop put his whole heart and soul into healing me—I love him to this very day for it. Pop soon discovered I was “smart” intelligent considering the past traumas, and he ran with it—It seemed like every other day he was bringing home educational “toys” and books. On Sunday after church, he’d surprise me with a bigger present than he’d given me during the week. Soon little me was whizzing through the workbooks and mastering every skill he presented me with. I’d read to him advanced books and could spell adult words. Soon, Pop would give me a workbook with grade levels and I’d read all the instructions and follow them. I went through the 1^st to 4^th grade books before I even entered kindergarten—

I was a sponge and soaked up all the love and nurturing and continued to excel in learning. I remember being removed from kindergarten class because I was trying to teach the other children. Pop fostered this notion by allowing me total freedom, to think, do and say as I pleased. I have free reign of the household—nothing was denied me—

Shortly after entering kindergarten, Nan and Pop drove me to the old courthouse and I had to speak to the county judge about my life—The judge asked me all types of questions and I replied. Finally he asked: “Where do you want to live—with your mommy or with your great-grandparents?” I reached up to my Pop and he picked me up. Then I said, “I love my Pop-Pop and Nan. I want to live with them forever—“ That day I became the only child Luther William Savage, my Pop, ever had. Now, he had his “little girl” and she was going to become whole, have everything she ever wanted or needed. On that day in March, I became Lisa Renee Savage. Finally, I had a home and two loving parents—

Within a year the bottom was to fall out of my world again. Popo would die of terminal cancer and leave his 65-year old wife, my Nan, to raise me alone—this was the 3^rd trauma in my young life. After Pop died my “ex” mother, Sherrie, came to “visit.” She stole my adoption papers and tried to get me to leave with her. Nan had to call Pop’s nephews to stop her and her man. They made a circle around me and dared that doper to try these good ol’ country boys. He’d have buckshot in his ass, if he was lucky—

Months after Pop’s death, Nan & I moved back to Baltimore and such began a new set of abusers—This time the abuse was from my uncle’s, two sons, Steven and Todd. I was 6 years old when Steve started sexually abusing me. He was 15 (maybe) at the time. Over the course of time, Nan & I lived at her sons. The abuse was quite frequent—But I think what was even worse than the physical abuse was the psychological abuse from my so-called family; Aunts, Uncles, and Nan’s daughter (my grandmother) Rae. Everybody hated Sherrie and now they have to deal with “Sherrie’s daughter.” They all said I’d grow up to be just like her—a junkie whore. I was ostracized for being Pop’s adopted daughter. They were all jealous that I inherited (in a trust fund) 75% of his estate for later use. I also received his pension.

So, now Nan’s grown sons & daughter (my uncles and grandmother) were jealous of me for having “it all” when they grew up close to poverty—

I can honestly say I never felt loved by any of my relatives (only Pops & he died) and after our hearing such statements as “Myrtle, why do you want to keep her now that Luther is gone? Why don’t you just give her back to Sherrie? – just reinforced the wall of alienation and distrust encircling me.

Nan bought a house 4 blocks from her son – my “Great” Uncle Bob and his family (Steve & Todd.) So Bob would visit frequently – but he is drunk most of the time and would slur such threats as, “If you ever do anything to hurt my momma, I’ll kill you, you tramp.” Mind you, I was only a little girl of 6 or 7 – how or why would I “hurt” my only parent?…What’s a “tramp?”—

When Nan would make me go with her to visit at my uncle’s house, I would get sent off to “play” with his sons. The underlying message to me was, “Lisa, go “service” my sons – get fucked and fondled as punishment for being born Sherrie’s daughter (or being born at all) and for straining and “ruining my momma’s life—“

Throughout my entire childhood I was abused in some form or fashion, be it psychological, sexual, emotional / mental or physical. I know I am not alone in this. Many, underlying themes are reoccurring and consistent – abandonment, alienation, betrayal, neglect, belittlement, berating – all these and others unnamed, spawned the lack of trust I still have today – which is now fuelled by a monstrous, sick and out of control, flagrantly abusive system of incarceration—Kinda feels like home (feel the sarcasm?)

These abuses in their many forms affected my deeply—for I had not developed any coping skills for such tirades. Then Todd introduced me to drugs, which in the beginning was his way of rendering me “helpless” getting me so high I couldn’t stave off any sexual advances & conquering. By the time I was 8, I was drinking alcohol. At 9, I’m smoking pot. Age 10 -12 doing “speed” along with the prior mentioned drugs. At 13, I’m dropping acid like candy, drinking “shroom tea,” doing Quaaludes, valiums and on a daily basis drinking a 750 ml (fifth) bottle of Calvert Extra (which I called “calling the Calvery”) a Southern Comfort, which was very comforting indeed—Even if I wasn’t being sexually abused, the drugs were now an integral part of my daily survival – used as a way to forget the “using of my body by people I didn’t love.” I had cut myself off from interaction with people as much as I could. In this way, I lived in my own little world – “The Wonderful World of Savage” – where it was peaceful – only me, my drugs & my music. I couldn’t be betrayed or rejected if I didn’t let you in. Imagine, remaining high 24/7 just to deal with reality—but I’m only a child sill, not an adult with adult pressures and responsibilities, right?!

I should have been playing with baby dolls & going to slumber parites, but instead I was an adult in my little girl body, having forced sex, doing drugs and thinking I’ll never live to see 18. And I had pressures because my life was about the chase and maintaining my drug habit & to keep reinforcing the walls of isolation—Just like my mother I’d be—

Yet, there were some differences between Sherrie and myself and I clung tightly to these differences simply because I couldn’t bear to think I could be exactly like the woman I hated more than all my other relatives & abusers combined. These simple yet meaningful differences were—I had a 6 digit bank account (trust fund) I had access to, so I wasn’t selling my ass as a dope whore. At 15, I was “only” shooting cocaine. Heroin didn’t enter my life until I was 25. At 16, I shot painkillers occasionally, not street “H” and I didn’t have 2 kids. I still lived at home and my son wouldn’t be born until 2 years after I was married. I was 21 when I gave birth to Adrian Alexander. I was sober when he was born—clean 3 years. Also, I considered myself far more intelligent by all means.

Yes I was the “too intelligent” rebel – who was always the exception to “The Rules.” I made sure I crossed every boundary and stood apart from others—after all, early in life I was kept away from normal children, so it became my life – to destroy, smash all existing rules and show everyone that I was strong-willed and no one will control me.

I looked upon society as The Fucked Up Liars Committee. Everybody in my family lied to me (except my Nan). I saw politicians lying on T. V. – Televangelists lying & getting busted for stealing money from the “sheeple” (passive, trusting people), promising a spot in HEAVEN if only these lonely helpless women would send in their widow’s pensions. Teachers lied daily, hourly about history, stating we live in a “free nation” – (but it was built on lies and bloodshed) and I saw women & people of color suffering heinous acts of repression in public, and I had suffered “greatly” (or I thought so at the time) at the hands of people who were family, supposed to protect me—

Let me not forget the T.V. news which always lied, sensationalized and exploited the tragedy it reported. Nobody in “above ground media” – government driven media – ever told the truth. How could they? These people were paid to lie—The only way government keeps control is to lie, deceive us as a nation. The only truth I knew to be fact is that I was utterly alone in this world filled with abusers and liars. Also, “The Wonderful World of Savage” – with my drug-induced days and acts of flat-out aggression and rebellion was the only world worth living in, the only world I could trust.

As I stated prior, I was never “censored” & felt I had no boundaries. In my teens, my every interaction with humanity became a war of words (in my eyes – “A war of the worlds”). I developed a razor-sharp tongue – quicker than a switchblade if I ever felt attacked – but I would speak the truth – it didn’t matter if it hurt, at least it was truth. I was called a liar – when I finally told the truth of my sexual abuse, my family twisted it to fall back on me – that I caused “them” – made them (those boys, young men, who were my cousins) have sex with me when I was 5, 6 and older. “You’re just like your mother Sherrie – the junkie whore.”

When I was 17, I confronted my worst abuser, my biological mother, Sherrie. You see, I had “known” of her all my life. She tried to absolve herself of her crimes against me by visiting me once or twice a year for a week or two. Sherrie would try to step into a role she wasn’t qualified to play in my world – part-time mother.

It physically sickened me to think after she abandoned or discarded her first 3 children (like her used syringes) that 9 years later (when I was 12) she would bring 2 more children into her sick depravity. Over the years, the drugs changed from her from “H” to snorting coke & drinking heavily. Yes, the junkie grew wings and became a “lit up” (coked up) barfly – now that’s evolution at its finest—

Wow. She had changed just enough to be a “pseudo mom.” Imagine how I felt with this ex-junkie, barfly trying to “morph” (don’t confuse w/morphine) into my “Mother” for a week or two – toting 2 children and doting on them – singing praises of how wonderful they are—(Note: my ½ sister has physical traits of F.A.S. – fetal alcohol syndrome – & is more or less mentally retarded – not completely, but it seems today like she got the shorter end of the stick than I)—

Then I snapped!…”So you got 5 kids Sherrie. One, you have no idea if she’s dead or alive, your first born Danny is with our Dad. I’m with Nan & now your life is perfect with those 2 children which were products of your lack of intelligence to use birth control and of a society that doesn’t believe in forced sterilization. That’s how you trapped this new man by having his kids—“ She yelled and raised her fist, but I screamed “Fuck you! You are not my mother – take your brats & get the fuck out of my house.”

(I had so much rage, hurt, disappointment bottled up inside me for all those years, I couldn’t respect her because she never loved or respected me. I see things in a different light today – but I’ll get to that later.) I left and went to the basement – my room, and proceeded to crank up, “Am I Evil?” by Metallica and as the lyrics played, I filled my syringe with a mixture of very “clean” powder cocaine and water. As I heard James Hetfield sing “Such a thankless little bitch for all the tears I cried – Take her away now, don’t want to see her face—I can’t hide my disgrace – Am I evil? That I am. Am I evil? I am ma’am. Yes I am! – As I watched my mother die” I injected over ½ gram of cocaine and O.D.’d. It was my Mother’s Day present to her for her presence now & lack of presence prior. At 17, May 1986, I had coke-induced heart failure.

As I disclose my life to all, I have to wonder what you (the reader) perceive me to be—You may think I am unfeeling or I never loved Sherrie, but that’s not true.

I have fought up until recently to establish honest, open communication but she shunned me as she’s done all my life, each hurt & disappointment fed my addiction. The other side of the coin is that when I was young, I would get drunk and listen to John Lennon’s song, “Mother” repeatedly—“Mother, you had me, but I never had you—“ My efforts throughout the years to connect with her and heal have been thwarted by her addiction & denial, shifting the blame back to me saying I rejected her—Again, sick rationales—

So, I guess my anger and hurt feelings fueled my rebellion – somewhere I want the scales of justice to weigh and deliver, but it is through all the experiences of abuse I have survived that have made me who I am today. If I wouldn’t have had so many adversities to overcome, I would be weak in heart, mind and spirit.

All these struggles of my childhood have molded me into the womyn you know today – an anarchist who loves freedom, who wants peace and has love for all people – a prisoner resistance movement warrioress – for without the addiction, I may not have ever experienced prison. I am willing to fight to better conditions for all womyn incarcerated – a survivor instead of a self-absorbed victim.

There are many other facets to my personality, but these are the ones I project most – I’m not a hard ass in matters of love, relationships and matters of the heart. I do have my soft, warm and fuzzy side. It’s taken me 39 years to start learning what “balance and stability” is, but I’m getting a better grasp on the concept and appreciation. Each day I stay clean and sober and reach out to others who need help. I have stepped outside the “Wonderful World of Savage” and found instead of being helpless and unable to “fix” situations, I now have the power to affect and promote change – change for the better.

I have recently learned that it takes “2 sticks to light a fire” and today I’m willing to lean on another for guidance and be “a part of” instead of “apart from.”

It’s beautiful to know that there are other anarchists or radicals out there who actually aren’t afraid to speak up & out, to reach inside this menticide chamber to combat the slow killing of those incarcerated. Today, I am “blessed” to have the connections made by those outside the walls. You have taken me and gently guided me on the path of camaraderie. Today, I can truly say I have found real family in you Brother & in Abigail. May this family continue to grow and flourish into blissful anarchy throughout the world.

FYI – in hindsight, I knew I was an anarchist in 1980 – how? In social studies class we (children) were forced to watch the Carter / Regan debate and I disliked Regan so much I spit on the television screen – mind you, I’m in 6^th grade—My teacher wigged out and later said I would have kicked ass at this year’s “RNC” as a member of the “Welcoming Committee” but I couldn’t attend due to being held hostage in CMSHU—There’s always 2012 to look forward to!!

Also, 1980 was the year of John Lennon’s death and I stayed home holed-up in my room for a week crying over his “assassination.” Yes, odd for an 11-year old, but I was never normal. I had 3 of his albums and 9 Beatle albums & 8-tracks. I loved what Lennon stood for – the messages in his lyrics. Here was a man targeted by the CIA as subversive for his political views & his type of protesting against the war & establishment. The songs, “Mind Games,” “Give Peace a Chance / War is Over,” “Whatever gets you Through the Night,” “Imagine,” “Revolution,” “Eleanor Rigby,” “Let it Be,” “Watching the Wheels” – they all had a major influence on my outlook, my perspective of life & freedom. I felt deeply connected to him because of his own mother’s abandonment, his artistic side (dropping out of art school) & poetic prophesy. I’d say Lennon was a driving force in my own self-discovery and rebellion.

In the following years I would delve into my artistic / poetic muse and reconfirm my chosen role in society – as different and non-conforming. One of my favorite memories of this time was carrying my mini-drafting board, pencils, charcoals, paper and my 8-track player with Lennon’s “Imagine” playing – into the woods and sitting on a log, drawing the plants & trees—I’d spend hours there in communion with nature, feeling at times Lennon’s idea as expressed in “Imagine” could be possible & how beautiful that would be.

Later that same year, I was labeled “gifted & talented” in the arts & received a special invitation to study art in a “G & T” setting – at the community college. The class was on Saturday morning & it was “killer” – to be this 12-year old rebel walking among college students on the campus. I’d show my college I.D. and gain access to their library, college bookstore & the student lounge. While in the lounge, I’d pull out my charcoal renderings of the (live) nude female (sometimes male) subject. College kids would check out “my work” and we’d talk while I smoked their cigarettes & drank coffee or Pepsis. But as with everything good in my life – it came to an end abruptly due to the jealousy of “my family” – Uncles. So, they stopped driving me to the college & I didn’t get to finish my studies.

This denying of the privilege to excel & earn college credits (which I thought was so important to me then) fueled my belief that I’d be better off without any contact with my relatives & helped me develop the idea that the world & my so-called family was filled with oppressors! Screw them all & I’ll do what I want when I want and do what I feel is right for me.

In high school I was known as the “brilliant burn-out.” With cash & drugs and the student parking lot, I’d climb atop Freddy’s van – stand on the roof with a joint & yell, “Fly the Friendly Skies – Savage Baby Airlines! Free rides for those who ‘skip & dip!’ So, what are you waiting for? Cut class & let’s get high!” Sometimes when we were really tore up and totally ripped, Freddy would put me on his shoulders (he was a big senior) & he’d carry me down the hallway all the while we’re laughing & disrupting the whole student body!!

Mind you, I hated school, but I loved art class, the sciences (biology) and math—I loved to learn what I wanted to learn—not what I was told or forced to learn. So, the classes I disliked, I turned into a “circus” and spotlighted the teachers as the clowns, the kids became my audience & me the “Ringmaster” (or sometimes I’d be called a “Ringleader.”) Administration wasn’t happy with me, or my behavior to say the least—Hey, Anthony, that sounds mighty familiar in a recent sort of way!! Don’t it déjà vu? I think you get the picture so I’m going to fast forward & finally condense the next 20 years—

I dropped out of high school in 11^th grade. The following year I was accepted into college without a G.E.D. because my entrance exam score was remarkably high. I studied architectural drafting & loved it but still I loathed conformity.

I dropped out & married the guy I’d been with for years—he was an abuser of drugs & violent. I married him because I thought if I created a family of my own, it wouldn’t be like the one I was born into—Hey, a girl can dream can’t she? I was also repressing lesbian thoughts and tendencies—

I married Robert in 1988. In ’89 we moved to Ft. Lauderdale & on July 7^th, 1990, Adrian Alexander (Alex for short) was born. My beautiful son, but six weeks after his birth, Robert skipped out because he didn’t want to raise a child or be a father. Alex & I made the front page of the Sun Sentinel – Dec. 8^th 1990 – “Woman Finds Bomb in Her Home.” Yes, “Bob” left Alex & I a going away present. Haven’t seen him since.

With Robert gone a whole new world opened up—

As you have just read in length my life was full of disappointments, abuse, oppression & me struggling at times to make sense of the hand dealt to me and at others trying to wish it all away. One thing is certain having lived this way has brought me today to the point where I will not stand by and allow anyone to abuse me or those whom I feel for—did I mention I feel for all of humanity – especially womyn and children? …

Again it has taken me my entire lifetime to learn what books & government-based education didn’t teach – the fundamentals of human compassion and how to survive suffering and to use these skills & traits to help others & re-educate them on the basic truths of life—I am now dedicated to the struggle & my Sisters & Brothers in all prisons.

I would have elaborated on the abuse more but I’m sure that those reading this interview are already connected to the what & hows. I need to reiterate that the “why’s” of abuse do not stem from our actions—it is not our fault, so guilt & shame need to be dispelled – disposed of. We as womyn no longer need to carry that excess weight. The blame & the fault for the acts of abuse are solely owned by the ones who violated our innocence, the ones who abused us without provocation—

It is time for all of us as survivors of abuse to learn, heal & grow & reach out to those still suffering. Change will occur if we make it happen.

Editor’s note: We’ll have more excerpts from this zine up next week.

To Write to Lee Savage:
Lisa Renee Savage #959277
T Dorm – Quad 2 Cell #2111
Annex CM Level 1
Lowell Correctional Institution
11120 Northwest Gainsville Road
Ocala, Florida 34482-1479

To order a copy of this zine, pleas send a couple of dollars to:
South Chicago ABC Zine Distro
Box 721
Homewood IL 60430

For a free catalog of prisoner zines, e-mail Anthony Rayson (anthonyrayson@hotmail.com)

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to our RSS feed!