You wrote your book based on your nine-year prison sentence. Tell us how you wound up in the “belly of
the beast,” as you put it, and why you decided to write the book.

I was convicted of assault with intent to rob. It was my second offense as an adult, and was ignited from
the gang culture I was involved in (Zone 8). Some of my homeboys went to a local school and jumped some
guys. The police didn’t know the perpetrators, but they knew it was a gang.

The local gang squad investigated the case, and when they looked at the list of gang members, my name was
on top of the list. I had a long history with one of the detectives, and one of the people assaulted was his
nephew, so all the cards were against me.

I was convicted based upon who I was as a young black male – like I describe in the book, as an urban terrorist
with no opportunity, no room for hope, no room to change.

Instead of saying “here’s this young man, let’s get him some kind of help,” the only help offered was “let’s
lock him up, let’s get him off the street, let’s send a message back to his neighborhood that this will not be
tolerated under any circumstance.”

Upon going to prison, I was still influenced by the Zone 8 thinking, but eventually began to write my father for
the first time (who was also in prison). When he wrote back, he said something very powerful, which was “we
all make mistakes. But it’s not about making mistakes, it’s about learning from our mistakes.”

God being the best planner, he had us together at the same prison about a year later. The relationship I developed
with my father had a great impact on me, it began to transform my life and gave me the building blocks to
build a better me during my nine years.

During that time I knew I wanted to write a book, but I couldn’t find the time because I was in the thick
of the fight in prison. I needed to live through it and come back to tell it.

That’s what made the story more potent, coming back and living for four years at home and
living through what I’ve lived through out here, and making it more relevant to the people here as
well as to my incarcerated brothers and sisters.

What do you think the biggest misconception is about the prison system?

That it fixes the problem. That it’s a place to cast men and women away, and then the problem will
be dealt with. That is far from reality. It’s a quick fix to lock somebody up, but not a permanent fix.
It’s crazy.

Right now the whole f*cking community is in the prison system; everybody knows somebody
who’s been locked up. Someone has been involved in the prison system in some form. If we
think that’s the solution, we’re twisted. People don’t want justice, they want revenge,
particularly in an urban environment. When my son gets murdered by another young man, all I
see is locking him up. I don’t want to look at the circumstances that may have caused it. I have
no empathy or sympathy for this man. All I can think about is myself and my son.

But other communities look at the whole picture, they embrace everything – the person who got
killed, as well as the person who did it. “He needs help, let’s find him some help.”

We don’t do that – we lock him/her up, throw away the key, and go on about our lives. Then we wonder why
years later the same crimes are happening. Because we didn’t deal with the problems that caused the first
crime. It comes from feeling we are powerless people, more so mentally, to address that problem.

But we do have the power. Whether in the Black community or the Latino community, it has not always been
like this – violence and crime have not always been at the center of how we deal with each other. But it has
become the center, because those who control our communities have made it the primary way, because it’s the
profitable way. Through the music, the videos, and ultimately through locking us up.

If you were given the opportunity to create a new prison system, what would you do differently than what
we have now?

I think we need to evaluate each human being, so we understand the impact of these young men and women
committing crimes. Why are they committing crimes? The system now just writes us off as criminals, as if
we were born to commit crimes, and not looking at the circumstances.

Look at the 13th Amendment, which legalizes slavery. “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as
a punishment for a crime, shall exist...” That prompts many people to be convicted, the prison system being
the new form of slavery, which is based on monetary gain. Private companies invest in prisons, where prisoners
are working at factories, making furniture, license plates…they’re working these jobs for ten, twenty
years, and when they get home, they can’t even get the same damned job.

Let’s break this system down, piece by piece, and really analyze how it is affecting human society. Most prisons
are built in rural areas, and become the economic base of that community. Families who couldn’t find
jobs now have jobs, and they are passed down through generations.

Urban environments, where most of these young men and women in prison are from, are a surplus of wealth
to these rural communities. That’s something that needs to be reevaluated.

A lot of people don’t realize when they commit crimes, you’re creating jobs for police, prosecutors, judges, etc.
If we can reevaluate this, we can take all this money and put it into intervention and prevention. That would
be my solution.

You write about following by example. Your father was in prison, you wound up in prison, and you didn’t
want your sons to go to prison. What is your relationship now with your sons?

With my oldest, our relationship is up and down, since I wasn’t able to be there early in his life. That void in his
life was filled in the same way mine was, with negative influences.

Unfortunately, my son has grown up in the same neighborhood I did, and his mother did. He lost his mother
at the age of 2, and not having his mother or his father, only aunts, uncles, and grandparents, and being co-parented
by the same neighborhood that co-parented me, it has forced my son, consciously and subconsciously,
to want to be Jo-Jo.

I’ve been home nine years; my son is 17 this year. There’s been some conflict. The reputation of who I
used to be is the man he wants to be, not the man I am now.

I tell him, I am a living example and testimony of how to get to prison. Now, I’m a living example and testimony
of how not to go to prison. So which one do you want to follow?

My son was raised by his grandparents. I honor and love them to death, but it had a negative impact on our
relationship. My mother undermined me as a man. I enrolled him in Malcolm X Middle School, figuring it
was African centered. But I also gave him the book, going to the school doesn’t mean nothing if you don’t
know who the man is.

My mother was like “he don’t need to read this book, it’s too big, it’s too thick.” And I’m like, what? He’s in
school. But she never had an education, so how can she really see the value of what I’m trying to do for him?
I had to fight a lot of these dynamics in our community. The greatest one was the question of if I would remain
changed, or if I would go back to how people knew me, as Jo-Jo.

My oldest son, unfortunately, got caught up in that fight. It’s only now that people really beginning to see,
“Dude is serious. Ain’t no going back to Jo-Jo, ain’t no going back to what he used to, he’s doing what he’s
supposed to.”

So people, in particular my mother, are slowly but surely being won over. What I want is more reflection in
our community, reflection on what other fathers do. I’m not afraid to speak about it and put it out there so the
healing process can begin for us as a community.

What are the lessons you hope young men, women, and newly paroled people get from your journey?

Never give up on yourself, because change is possible. If you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will. When
you run into an obstacle, you can overcome it. Might not happen that day or that night, but perseverance and
endurance is what is necessary to overcome that obstacle. My father shared with me some wisdom from the Honorable
Elijah Muhammad; the race isn’t to the fastest, but the one who can do it to the end. That’s my motto
this past nine years.

I think it’s important in the community for people to see that I’m not trying to get my book published – my
book is published. I’m not trying to open a bookstore – I have a bookstore. And they’ll see, “wow, dude ain’t got
no grant, dude’s books ain’t really selling – he’s piecing this together without no major income. He’s doing great things in
the community, things that people with money in the community are supposed to be doing.” That’s important,
because it shows people they can do it too.

What are you doing now?

I’m working at the Shop (Urban Network Bookstore). We hold community meetings, just trying to get people
more involved. We’re going to start doing movie nights and book discussions too.

I always try to make comparisons between different communities, because they’re so important. Like Malcom
X taught, the white man could teach us a lot if we look at it the right way.

So regarding certain movies, instead of chastising people for watching a movie, sit down and watch it with
them. Then talk about it – why did you like the murder? What was so important about him having this big gun?
Why did that excite you? It’s no different than Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry with the big ‘ole .357. But
most people in the white community didn’t want to run out and get a .357 and be Dirty Harry, because that isn’t
what is promoted as the value of being a man in that community.

But in our community, whether through Scarface, etc., those elements of manhood are promoted as the only
avenues to provide for our families, and men embrace that subculture and we get locked into it. So I want to
start dialogues in order to start breaking that down.

My relationship with the people keeps me humble. When a parent calls and asks for advice about their
child and what they’re going through, I can relate because that’s what I’m going through.

I don’t really sit around and vibe on the fact that I’m an author now, or a community activist. One title I really
detest is “motivational speaker” because they don’t do what they’re supposed to do. I understand the game and
politics of it, but you lose touch with the people when you attach yourself to these titles.

I’ve got the commitment, and I’m not gonna lose. I rely on my prison experience. If I can make it through that
hell, I can make it through anything. But there’s a lot of people looking for help who don’t have that Teflon
skin, and when you bullshit them when they reach out to you, it perpetuates that hopelessness.

You don’t realize you might be the last chance of hope for that person. The best thing I can offer anybody is to
show that I’m walking the walk, making my way out of nowhere, and making a dollar out of 15 cents.

Is there one question you wish people would ask, that they never do?

Why don’t I smile much? (laughs)