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51 pages 1 hour read

Solitary

Nonfiction | Autobiography / Memoir | Adult | Published in 2019

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Symbols & Motifs

Books

As a child, books serve as an early reminder of Woodfox’s subordinate position in society as an African American, when he encounters a sixth-grade social studies textbook that does not acknowledge his reality, as a Black child growing up in a Black neighborhood but instead focuses on white America. The realization that white Americans lived in better circumstances—and moreover, that everyone was aware of this fact—was an early introduction to racism for Woodfox. At this point in Solitary, books serve as a mirror for Woodfox’s developmental stage. When he encounters the reality of systemic injustice, he is not strengthened by this realization, but wounded by it. He writes that “the lessons of that sixth-grade class had weakened me in a way I can’t describe” (9).

The next time Woodfox returns to the motif of books, the circumstances are different. This time, it’s in the context of an encounter with the Black Panther Party, in pre-trial detention in New York. When he encounters the Panthers, they teach him about the accomplishments of Black people and the long history of injustice in the United States. Woodfox has trouble absorbing this message until he reads a book called A Different Drummer, featuring a Black main character who destroys his connections to the past, slavery, and racism, in order to move on. In this way, a book is once again exposing the reality of racism to Woodfox, but this time, he is buttressed by the principles of the Black Panther Party and commits to ending racism and the oppression of Black people, particularly in prisons.

From this point, books serve as a source of intellectual and emotional development for Woodfox; as he moves into his forties, he writes that he expanded upon the principles he’d been taught by the Black Panther Party, adding insights he’d gleaned from reading books by authors such as Malcolm X, George Jackson, and Mother Theresa. In this way, books show his continuous growth and his commitment to principles as a way of living a meaningful life. Books are also a source of escape. They offer him a chance to lose himself in a story and leave his surroundings behind and are also educational tools that allow him to transgress against the expectations of prison officials who considered Woodfox, and other inmates like him, subhuman. Books are also a source of pride, in that they offer Woodfox a route to teaching others to read, an action he calls his greatest accomplishment. Books set Woodfox free in another way, as legal books provided the foundation for his first challenge of his conviction for the murder of Brent Miller, setting off a series of actions that would lead to his release, forty years later.

Finally, the fact that Woodfox turned his story of suffering into a book—given that books had served as such an important vehicle for emancipation in his life—is a final act of resistance and liberation in the face of injustice 

Time

Time—the meaningless of it in prison, the length of time Woodfox spent in solitary, and the power that comes from knowing the time—is a motif that highlights the torture of solitary confinement and the extent to which Woodfox and other inmates were denied even the most basic of privileges. 

From his earliest days in Angola, Woodfox writes of the monotony of prison life. In prison, every action was tightly circumscribed. Inmates had to abide by a strict schedule, but time was also meaningless because each day resembled the others. However, time is meaningful at this point in his life in a way it wouldn’t be later on. Because Woodfox’s first stint in Angola was a life sentence, he only had to serve half his time, which was further shortened because of good behavior. He was released after eight months. But for Woodfox’s second offence, where he was charged as a habitual offender, he was sentenced to 50 years, a timeline so long as to make any hope of release meaningless. This sense of futility would be heightened when Woodfox was sent to solitary confinement. Officials ignored the regulations that required re-evaluating whether an inmate needed to stay in solitary after 90 days. For Woodfox, solitary confinement had no time limit.  

In solitary, Woodfox writes that the repetitiveness of every day was painful, but that the disruption to the routine was worse—in this case, the theme of time shows that the autonomy to decide how to spend one’s time—whether to keep it the same, or change it—was denied to prisoners, and that that denial, which amounted to a denial of human dignity, was part of the suffering associated with being incarcerated.

The length of time prisoners were allowed to spend outside of their cells is also an important element Woodfox develops in the book. For much of his life, this time was limited to an hour per day. In more punitive conditions, such as those in Camp J, it was further circumscribed, as prisoners were forced to spend much of their free hour locked in the showers. In this way, we can see how limitations on free time became an additional punishment.

Finally, time serves as a symbol of freedom. In the book’s final chapter, when Woodfox is given a watch by his brother on the day of his release from prison. The fact that Woodfox is given a watch after so many years of not needing one, marks his transition to post-prison life, and also serves to underscore how his long struggle to emancipate himself mentally and physically from the prison has borne fruit. 

Dehumanizing Language

The danger of dehumanizing language and treatment, which reduces human beings to the level of animals, is a motif throughout the book. Woodfox describes how disrespectful language and behavior by prison officials rendered prisoners subhuman, and how Woodfox and others resisted by using dehumanizing language to assert their own agency. In this way, the motif of animals shows how both oppressor and oppressed end up dehumanizing each other.

At various points in Solitary, Woodfox notes that the conditions in which he and other prisoners were held in conditions more suitable to animals than to humans, whether that was overcrowded cells at the Orleans Parish Prison or Angola itself, where inmates in solitary confinement were, for a time, slid their food trays under the doors, which made them feel little like zoo animals. This degrading treatment wore people down, Woodfox writes. Similarly, the fact that Woodfox managed to assert his human dignity and worth amidst conditions that sought to strip him of these qualities underscores his pride and commitment to his principles.  

Woodfox and others used dehumanizing language, too, calling corrupt officials and violent policemen, black or white, “pigs.” Such language, he notes, was sometimes their only tool to fight back, and Woodfox uses it at various points in his prison sentence, including at a court appearance after he encounters the Panthers, in which he called prison guards “racist pigs,” a testament to the awakening he’d had via the Black Panthers, and the resolve to resist that came with it. “When you have no power you often use language as a defense mechanism,” he writes (71). However, this type of language is also used against him when prison officials used a letter falsely attributed to Woodfox, in which they claimed he referred to guards as “racist pigs,” as a sign of his hatred of white people. The misrepresentation of the meaning of this term serves to mirror white America’s warping of the mission of the Black Panthers (and members like Woodfox) themselves, which interpreted their fight for justice and equality as a desire for violence and oppression.

Dehumanizing language stands in contrast to the move by Woodfox and other prisoners in the 1980s to take African names. Woodfox takes the name Shaka Cinque, after the warrior of the Zulu Kingdom, Shaka Zulu, and Joseph Cinque, who led a revolt on enslaved people. Taking this name was a way of asserting his humanity and being born again, even while he was still confined, Woodfox writes. “We called them “freedom names,” representing our liberation” (170).

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