In 1989, I was a newcomer to the city; living in a certain metropolitan area of Georgia, where I was made ignoble by an abrupt and sudden happening. This police officer rudely approached me and began interrogating me on matters of a particular dereliction. When I failed to comply to his crass demands and various innuendos, he abruptly slaps the handcuffs on me and carted me off to the local city jail. For three days, I stayed at the Atlanta City Jail basking in the indignity and embarrassment of my humiliation.
The first thing that we did when we reached the detainment facility was to be booked into jail. This require immediate protocol. Still, the detainees sat in quiet isolation of what had been happening in Atlanta during a sudden upstart in the nomenclature of daily living. We were waiting to be called to the reception area to be booked into the facility. I was surrounded by people who were struggling with various depressive disorders, all hoping to defeat this ridiculous blight on justice.
Very soon, my blues began showing: I had arrived in Atlanta ready to showcase my work as one of the premier writers in the city. But I was rudely disrupted by this police officer who sought to abuse his authority as a law enforcement official. But my blues continue in accordance to this mode of how the detainees responded to their detainment:
We would all sit lackadaisical until someone would be brought into the facility in whom the group had reason to show this person a mode of respectability because of who they esteemed them to be. The group would cast their eyes downward as though they were not looking at this person. Their silent behavior was indication about how they felt about this person.
The next thing that was on the agenda at this detainment facility (Atlanta Pre-Trial Detention Facility) was assisting the detainees with administrative details while they were detained. This process followed an ubiquitous route of being confined into a local city jail: These officials and officers of the City of Atlanta Law Enforcement Division had been duly sworn to uphold the rights and responsibilities of the detainee.
The first day ended in which I was shown where I was to stay: Cellblock 4 on the 4th floor. Two detention officers took the group to Cellblock 4. We didn’t have that much time to get adjusted to being detained when our first meal during our detainment arrives moments after we were secured into the cellblock.
When everybody heard that inevitable phrase, “Trays up!”, we all stood around the cellblock floor, the upper and lower decks, staring at the jailers and the detainees who had brought up the food. The servers were distinguished from the other detainees by wearing blue and white jail uniforms before serving the trays to us in our cellblock.
I quietly sat in silent contemplation thinking about the factors that caused my detainment. The foremost factor that came to mind was the abrupt disruption by that police officer.
I stood outside the Greyhound Bus Terminal and the police walks over and asks for my ID. When I ignored him, he stood in my way, blocking my passage to the other sidewalk. “I said I needed to see your ID,” The officer reiterated his remark, judging from my noncompliant behavior. And when I didn’t produce the ID, he grabbed me my shoulder and my left arm forced me to the sidewalk which caused me to stumble.
While lying on the sidewalk, there was a bit of struggle, but the officer finally put the handcuffs on me. Then he lifted me off the sidewalk and put me into a recent summon squad car.
I watched the officer under a mode of humiliation take my suitcase and typewriter and put the items in the trunk of the squad car and carted me off to the Atlanta City Jail.
When the second day had arrived, everything seemed pretty much back to normal. But my blues began assailing the contagious atmosphere that had somehow affected my detainment. I groped off into a behavioral mood swing and remained in my cell until I was called to pack up.
The next day I left the Atlanta City Jail.
My brief detainment at the Atlanta Pre-trial Detention Center caused me to think about the differences in the blues of African Americans and those of other ethnic and nationalistic groups. African Americans have been for a long time, now, in the country responding to their own blues in words of inspiration and rhythm, giving a certain sassiness to the doldrums that often afflicts at a moment notice. Thus, there has been various musical artists who have tuned out their own blues as well as helped other African Americans find solstice and inspiration out of those doldrums of despair.
In finding inspiration out of those doldrums of despair, African Americans have relied on the black church in helping them formulate a new paradigm for social and moral living. This paradigm has given us reason to renew our relationship with God; and, how we are to function as social beings in society: We walk circumspectly; that is, we are in the world but not of it — we are agents of change, but we move in a direction as God directs us.