Dramatization of Clarence Fletcher and Jeff Graubart in Champaign County Jail
Reggie and I sat in the back of a Champaign patrol car as we were transported to the county jail in Urbana. "This brings back old memories," I said. "Just six months ago, Winston and I were being taken to the Urbana police station, in a patrol car, on this very road. Of course, this time it's a much more pleasant experience."
"More pleasant?" replied Reggie. "Why? Last time they let you go. This time we're going to jail."
"No—last time was a nightmare. Things had gone very wrong from the way things are supposed to work. The whole universe turned upside down. But now, things are proceeding like they are supposed to. We sit-in, we go to jail. We did our job, the police did theirs. Everything is as it should be."
"You are one crazy motherfucker,” chortled Reggie. “'The police did their job.' Crazy."
"Don't tell Winston or especially Seth that I said the cops were doing their job,” I added quickly. “Seth would go ballistic and Winston might take it the wrong way."
At the county jail, Reggie and I were each issued a mattress and blanket, and taken, by one of the guards, to a cellblock.
There was one central area with tables down the middle for eating and playing cards. The walls on each side were lined with cells. With bedding under my arm, I inspected the place as if it was a hotel room presented for my satisfaction. Both Reggie and I were led to the same cell by the guard. I nodded approvingly, as though the jailer were the valet. "We even got a cell together," I said. "This is great."
"You sound like you're on vacation," said Reggie who eyed some of the black inmates across the way. "They're wondering what I'm doing with this crazy white guy."
"It is a vacation," I replied, oblivious to how my statement might be perceived by the other inmates. "No schoolwork, no demonstrations to plan, nobody's expecting me at this meeting or that, no leaflets to hand out, no worrying about what to do next. All we have to do is sit here and we accomplish something. We can sleep and still move the revolution forward. It's total freedom."
"We probably shouldn't talk about why we're here," cautioned Reggie.
"These people are not anti-gay thugs,” I said, echoing the sentiments of Winston. “They're here because they're poor. If you have to steal to survive, you steal. They want the overthrow of capitalism as much as we do.” Such was my naïve view at the time. Eventually it would lead to enlightenment. “The real anti-gay thugs,” I continued, “are middle class athletes on the football team or church-going members of the petty-bourgeoisie who want to see us dead."
Reggie became more agitated. "They might not see things the same as you."
"We need to explain it to them,” I said smugly. “That's our job as revolutionaries." Reggie just shook his head.
I watched a game of Spades being played. It was not too different than the Hearts I played with Paola and her partner Loti, and I quickly got the gist of it. When one of the players left, I joined in the game.
"What are you in for," I asked the guy sitting next to me.
"Car theft."
"We're here for taking over the mayor's office in Champaign demanding the city council pass a gay civil right's bill."
"You a fag?" asked the card player across the table.
I glared at him. "That's right."
"Hey, it's cool, whatever makes you happy."
My glare changed to a smile. I took a trick with a spade trump and told stories of the upcoming socialist revolution, how workers would seize control of the factories and put an end to poverty.
"I don't know about that, but more power to you," laughed one of the players. They were amused, more than anything else, by my rehashing of Winston's anecdotes. "Well you're different; I'll give you that much," said the guy in for car theft.
A very large black inmate called Reggie over. "What are you guys in for," he said gruffly.
"You know," said Reggie, "the whole revolution thing."
"The white man's revolution or the black man's revolution?"
"Protesting against the man. It's all the same."
"Yeah, you think so. Elijah Muhammad doesn't think so."
"We're socialists," said Reggie, nervous as all hell, but I didn’t think that getting involved would help matters any.
The man gave Reggie a defiant stare. "Fag socialists, from what I heard your white friend say."
Reggie gulped. "Our phil…philosophy is similar to that of Malcolm X."
"Malcolm was a traitor to the black man. Elijah had him put to death."
Reggie stood there silently. He was unsure what to say and I wondered if there was anything I could do to help. But then the large black man softened. "Tell you what brother, you're a fag; you can do my hair. That's what fags are good for, doing hair. I need to get my hair braided before court. Can you do that?"
Reggie nodded. He was directed to a bucket of hair supplies and started to work. One thing for certain, he was not enjoying this. Did I have even a hint of guilt over outing Reggie to the other inmates? I can’t say—it was too long ago. Probably not.
Later that night, with the lights out, cell doors locked, with me in the lower bunk and Reggie on top, I lay back peacefully.
"This is pretty cool," I said.
"You owe me big time for this, you crazy motherfucker."
"We get to meet society's outcasts. The first ones who will rise up and say 'enough is enough'."
"Go to bed. I don't want to hear this shit."
I was too excited to sleep. I lay there and thought about the revolution. "Arise ye prisoners of starvation, arise ye wretched of the earth," went the music through my mind. Everything crystallized. Perhaps it was Reggie playing mayor earlier in the afternoon or seeing what I believed at the time to be the jailed faces of capitalism's worst victims. But I knew what I had to do: How to expose the cover-up of the Urbana patrolman’s activities, how to reach thousands with the ideas of socialism, how to move gay rights directly to the political forefront. I, Dave Rosen, was going to run for mayor of Urbana on the Socialist Workers Party ticket.
