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By Open Buffalo

Karima Amin has called the City of Buffalo home for all of her years. After walking away from a career in public school teaching, Amin turned full-time to her life’s passions of storytelling, cultural expression, and community empowerment. As Founder and Executive Director of Prisoners Are People Too, Amin is also an active partner in the Open Buffalo network, helping to spread Restorative Justice as a viable and trusted alternative to the punitive systems of criminal justice and mass incarceration.

Amin recently sat down with Open Buffalo for an extended conversation about her story, her motivations, and her involvement in the Open Buffalo movement. Excerpts from the interview appear below.

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Open Buffalo: Tommy McClam, Open Buffalo Deputy Director, had you as his English teacher, and says that yours is the only class he remembers to this day.

Karima Amin: Yes. When Tommy was my student, I was charged with teaching “African American Writers,” which is no longer offered in the schools. It should be, and it should have been. In elementary school, I didn’t have that literature taught to me. In high school, I didn’t have that literature taught to me, except one English teacher who introduced me to Langston Hughes. It was exciting to me. I didn’t know any Black writers. That was a whole new world to me. That was in the ’60s.

I started teaching in 1969. My first school was Lafayette High School. The man who was teaching Black writers at that school at that time really didn’t want to teach it. And the kids knew it. He was not really familiar with African American literature. I wasn’t either, but my desire to teach it was there. And I let kids know, “I want to teach this.” And I didn’t put the kids up to it, but the next year, students staged a sit-in, and refused to go to English class till I was given the opportunity to teach [the class]. There was a big to-do, and a big quarrel in the school, and the very next year, as a second-year teacher, still new, I was given the opportunity to teach Black writers. And I was absolutely thrilled.

A lot of students signed up for it ― not just Black students. Though some people just wanted to be with me, because I was kind of a different sort of teacher. I was kind of known as a renegade. I didn’t really do what the state said I should do. I didn’t always do what the city curriculum said I should do. But, despite being new, I knew in my heart of hearts what my students needed. I dressed differently, I walked differently, I talked differently from the other teachers.

Eventually, [African American Writers] was phased out. I started learning about the literature on my own. Teaching the literature on my own and reading a lot, talking to people. I realized early on, too, I really couldn’t teach Black writers without knowing the music, so I had to teach myself about the blues, and gospel, and the work songs, and the field hollers, and spiritual and gospel. And I actually created a really interesting course that a lot of people took. Eventually, however, it was phased out.

So, that was my beginning as a teacher. Along the way, I connected with people in the community.  To this day, a lot of my friends are retired teachers and retired librarians, or current teachers and current librarians. And we worked together, supported each other, promoted the history and the culture as much as we could in the schools and in the community.

 

OB: What was it that prompted you to become a storyteller while you were teaching?

KA: You know, I started telling stories when I was a child. I was writing stories when I was a child.

As a teacher, I wanted to do different things. And I like talking. And so, as a teacher, the classroom was my stage. Storytelling in the classroom actually started with me sharing poetry with my students in the Black writers class. I even created a group called Black Voices, and it was a group of boys and girls who recited poetry by Black writers, the way that a choir would sing a song, with light voices and dark voices and bass voices and tenor voices and soprano voices. It was beautiful.

The poetry led to my telling stories. Just using short fables that the kids mostly already knew, but hadn’t given much thought, like the race between the tortoise and the hare: everybody knows it, so what does it mean? And what does it teach us? What is it telling us? So, I started using those little fables in the classroom ― that was my hook. Sometimes, just to calm things down, I would share a fable. Everybody would get quiet because they wanted to hear the story. They wanted to be invested in the outcome. They wanted to learn the lesson.

When the opportunity to tell stories on the radio presented itself, the station wanted something really short, and I thought, “Fables!” I had a seven-minute slot for a little nugget of Black history, my fable, some chit-chat with the morning people, and an opportunity to let people know what I was doing. Or I’d send a shout-out to the school I saw the week before: “My friends at School 8,” you know, “Hey, it was great being with you at the gym last week,” in hopes that another school would hear me and say, “Oh, she was at 8? Maybe she’ll come to 37, or maybe she’ll come to 31.” And that’s exactly what happened.

So, it was from talking, and writing, and speaking, and finding power in that as a child, that kind of led me to want to be a teacher.

 

OB: Have teaching and storytelling always been your work? 

KA: Yeah. Always been my passion. Been a part of my path.

When I started Prisoners Are People Too, I really didn’t know anything that much about prisons or prisoners. I learned a lot along the way. Every time I went into a prison, I learned something new. I was constantly reading about prisons, mass incarceration, how the prison industrial complex works, how the prison industrial complex puts profits before people ― how that happens, what that means, what it does to individuals, their families, and their communities. It all just kind of flowed together. [When] I started Prisoners Are People Too, some people laughed because they figured it was going to be a flash in the pan ― “She doesn’t know anything.” And it was true, I didn’t know much. But I knew what I believed. All people should be treated in ways that are humane and professional.

I didn’t have any money. And being a part of Open Buffalo is really the only time that I’ve had any kind of major money coming my way for any of the prison work that I’m doing.

 

OB: What changes have you observed doing this work over the years, and also, what are the remaining barriers?

KA: Well, one of the big remaining barriers is our reluctance to talk about racism. Because at the root of all of this funkiness, there’s racism. Too many people want to pretend that it doesn’t exist. Or they know it exists, but they’d rather not talk about it. Or they know it exists, but it’s the problem of the other. ‘It’s their problem, not mine.’ That’s been an issue from the very beginning.

When I first started Prisoners Are People Too, I tried to get people to see that what happens in my community is going to affect you in your community. Didn’t make sense to a lot of people. They didn’t understand that what locked up some folks could easily lock up me or you. And a lot of white people really didn’t even want to talk to me about it until their own children or spouses got locked up ― sometimes for minor things, and sometimes for very serious things. Then they’d realize how this could affect anybody and everybody.

It is still a problem, despite the fact that you’ve got more people now who get it, who see it, who know it. It’s still an issue for some people, and I still say racism is at the root of it. We sometimes just don’t want to talk honestly about the fact that it exists, and that it’s hurting people, and has for eons.

 

OB: It sounds like even though we’re more willing to talk about mass incarceration, we’re not willing to talk about the legacy of racism that informs it yet.

KA: We’re not. Even churches. Some churches say they have prison ministries. They don’t. If all you do is go into a prison at Christmastime, and you throw a guy a bag of peppermints and say, “Merry Christmas!”, then you leave, and you don’t see him again until the next December the following year, that’s not a prison ministry. I didn’t know that at the beginning because I heard so many people, so many ministers, talk about their prison ministry. When I needed some kind of guidance, especially in the beginning when I knew basically nothing, I couldn’t get anybody to really work with me, help me, understand what I was trying to do. And a couple ministers who did look my way after a time, looked the other way when they saw I wasn’t getting any money. They just kind of left me in the lurch, which was okay, because I know how to make my way.

Rev. Eugene Pierce came on board, to be a member of my board, in 2007. He had worked in the system as a deputy superintendent at the Erie County Correctional Facility in Alden. Recently, he has not been well but I call him all the time because he’s so knowledgeable. He’s been a great support. So, he’s one of the ministers who hasn’t let me down. And he understands so much about the system because he’s been on the inside as a staff person. He gets it from the heart.

 

OB: It sounds like when you started Prisoners Are People Too, a lot of the organizations that presumed to help prisoners in some way or another were as much a part of this prison industrial complex as prisons themselves.

KA: That’s right. Absolutely. And it was a shock. I’ve learned along the way that this was a reality, and I chose not to be a part of it. I could have easily become part of it, and I would have money and a few other things, I guess. But I didn’t ― I had to be true to myself.

OB: What does it take to do this work for as long as you have? What are the challenges in terms of resources, in terms of just getting attention, of organizing on [the East] side of Main Street?

KA: I operated out of my basement of my teeny-tiny apartment for many, many years. I got some small donations from speaking engagements, and small donations from churches who heard about what we were doing.

It’s been hard. At one point, I tried to have a bus service, because there’s a real need to get families out to the facilities. Neither the NFTA nor Albany have been helpful. For some reason, people who tried to do it on their own have had all kinds of difficulty getting insurance. We’re going to try and see if we can burst through this insurance issue. We would like to have a bus service.

If we could start a bus service to go to some of the closer facilities, maybe just on two or three days a week, to Attica, which is close; to Wyoming, which is right around the corner; Gowanda, Livingston, Groveland, which are all kind of together.

Sometimes I wish it were easier, but I’ve learned so much from it being hard, so I’m not complaining about any of it. I’ve learned so much. And it helps me to relate, too, to people who have to make these long trips. A lot of people don’t understand ― it’s not just about getting on the bus and going. It’s the planning that you have to do, the preparation that you have to do, and making sure you know the rules and regulations of the facility you’re going to, because it’s not all uniform. Each one’s different.

[I had to go through] a lot of things. I get it when people call me and say, “You know, I went to so-and-so. I’m Muslim, and they won’t let me wear my hijab.” Well, they changed that rule about women covering up a long time ago. They can’t make you take it off. But she went to some prison where they wouldn’t accept that. It’s the way the system works. Many systems and people disregard what’s on the books. Even the parole board doesn’t follow its own rules and regulations.

OB: I guess when you make the rules, you feel like you don’t have to follow them.

KA: Parole does that. They say they have discretion. There’s some people on parole who could have great jobs. But parole has made it difficult for them to take a job because they’re insisting that you do substance abuse intervention, anger management.

“When I was in prison, I took anger management five times! I’m good!”

“Yeah, we want you to take it again.”

“No need; it’s going to interfere with my job.”

“We don’t care.”

So, you’re almost forcing somebody to do the wrong thing. They want to do the right thing, but you’re forcing them to do the wrong thing. Because they need money. Where’s the money coming from?

 

OB: Right. If you find a job as a parolee, you want to hold onto it.

KA: BaBa Eng (Restorative Justice Developer at Back to Basics Outreach Ministries) has been blessed beyond measure. He was doing some volunteer work. Someone saw him and liked what they saw. He got a good recommendation, and then he got the job at Back to Basics in reentry. And that led to something better, that led to something better, that led to something better. But he’s, like, one in a million. He is also the Program Director for Prisoners Are People Too.

He came out with an education. He also came out with a mindset. He knew exactly what he wanted to do ― it had been his passion for twenty years before he came home. He’d been studying restorative justice and writing a curriculum for a long time. He knew eventually he would come home. He never said, “If I come home.” He always said, “When I come home, I’m going to   Be an asset." BaBa had a plan.

OB: You’ve lived in Buffalo your whole life. What’s changed in the last several years? What’s remained the same? How does the work you’ve done over the last several years respond to what you’ve observed?

KA: I’ve been in Buffalo all my life. I was never really politically savvy. And then, when I created Prisoners Are People Too, in my naiveté, I really didn’t realize I was going to need help from the government to move things. City government, county government ― it never occurred to me.

I didn’t realize how important it was to have connections. I know a few good people, but I never sought connections. And perhaps that’s the reason why I haven’t accomplished as much as maybe I could have. People always say, “Oh, Karima, you could do this, that, and the other thing, because everybody knows you.” Well, not everybody. “Everybody loves you.” Well, not everybody.

I remember my insurance man, way back when I was teaching at Martin Luther King Jr. School, he’d come to see me on my lunch break. And he said something to me about, I could be a principal if I dressed better.

“Why do you always wear those African clothes?”

I wear what I like. I’m comfortable. I’ve worn African clothing since the ’60s because I like it, OK? People either accept it or reject it. It’s no big deal to me. I’m going to wear what I like, in whatever setting, whether it’s formal or informal. His statement came from his belief that if you dressed a certain way, folks with money and influence would then regard you differently. I never pursued that.

Prisoners Are People Too, I thought, would be successful because we just want to do the right thing. And I thought folks who understand the importance of doing the right thing would work with us. Nobody in city government has worked with us. Betty Jean Grant is the only stronghold in county government who has worked with us. From the very beginning, as soon as she saw us doing what we were doing, having our monthly meetings and standing on the corner of Delaware and Church, trying to advocate for people at the holding center, she was there. She’s been a part of that push from the very beginning. She even made sure I got a commendation from the county for what I was doing, and so did Prisoners Are People Too.

When it became necessary for us to take our pleas to county government, she’s the one who kicked the door open.

 

OB: Where do you see Buffalo headed in the next five to 10 years? And what do you think people who care about social justice in its various forms need to do to push it in the right direction?

KA: Well, I think we need to scream and yell and holler about gentrification. Because we’re going to lose the Black community. If you’ve seen videos online, you would think there were no Black people in Buffalo. West Side, the one percent, is coopting the East Side, bit by bit by little bit. I went to a meeting about gentrification in the Fruit Belt, and they were referring to the Fruit Belt as Medical Park. No; you’ve changed our name once or twice, maybe even three times. It’s Fruit Belt; it’s not Medical Park.

Looking at the Michigan Avenue or medical corridor, the medical corridor is a lot of property. Few Black people working on it, the construction of it, and bit by bit by little bit, Black businesses are disappearing along that Michigan Avenue corridor. It is the Michigan Avenue Historic Corridor.

Our storytellers (Tradition Keepers: Black Storytellers of WNY) created something called Griot Stroll. You know, “griot” is the French word for storyteller. And the Griot Stroll is something we did during summer, outside, where we, in costume, shared Buffalo’s Black history along that Michigan Avenue corridor. We did it at the Merriweather Library, with slides and music. I would like to see more of that happen, and with some support.

I would like for Buffalo to be a place that, when you think “Buffalo,” you think of fairness, and you think of equality. That would be justice. And everybody could have a piece of the action. Everybody could have a piece of the pie. The good part; not just the crust, but, you know, all of it. Any part I want. If I want crust, fine. But if I want the apple or the blueberry, whatever, I should be able to get what I want and what I need.

But it seems that that is changing. There’s too much vacant property along Genesee Street. But every time I look up, I see either the building is gone, demolished ― and that might be a good thing, but what’s coming next, and who’s going to own it? I have some concerns about that.

My neighborhood is changing. I grew up on Howard Street, and then we moved to Butler, which is Hamlin Park. That’s a preservation area. But you don’t hear a lot about it, and Hamlin Park is not getting any money to pump up that community the way that it could be pumped up. Cold Springs is not getting any real money to pump up that area, and to highlight the history of that area the way that it could be and should be. That’s not happening.

My hope is that there’s going to be more fairness, more equality, more justice for everybody, not just a select few.

 

OB: What do you hope to contribute to Open Buffalo’s larger vision? What do you hope Open Buffalo accomplishes?

KA: Every time I have an opportunity to highlight Open Buffalo, mention Open Buffalo, talk about Open Buffalo, that’s what I do. Having had [Franchelle Hart, Open Buffalo Executive Director] come and speak at our meeting was so good. She was so good, and she was interesting, and she was clear and kind of funny, and she was able to answer a lot of questions that people had about what it is and how it works. So that was a plus. But more of that needs to happen.

I’m hoping that as Prisoners Are People Too grows, so too will Open Buffalo, as will all the other organizations that are partnered in this effort. I’m hoping, too, that we are working toward a time when eventually, there won’t be any Open Society Foundations money. This isn’t going to last forever. But during the time that it does exist, my hope is that Prisoners Are People Too can grow to a point where it really sustains itself, and is able to do more in community.

There’s a lot we couldn’t do, because we didn’t have any money to do it with. Transportation is one of those things that is a real crucial kind of thing, and whether Prisoners Are People Too does it, or someone else, you know, privately comes along and does it, I’m hoping that we can somehow be involved in that effort, because I know how important it is for incarcerated people to have family and friends visit ― that can keep them uplifted. Sometimes a visit can change that person’s whole outlook ― not just their day, but their whole outlook about what could come next. What they might do when they finally do come out.

I’m really interested in the arts. I like acting and drama and music and those kinds of endeavors. I want to design a program called “Life Stories in Restorative Justice,” similar to what the worker equity folks did. Where there were three or four speakers on stage, and they talked about what they had gone through, the kind of support they found from this organization in Buffalo. I want it to be a stage production where four or five speakers have an opportunity to tell their restorative justice stories.

For example, I know a woman, a minister, whose son was murdered by a so-called friend. And that was her only child. But she’s friends with the gentleman who murdered her son. They were very young when this happened ― 15, 16. This boy has now gone to prison for life, and she’s become a friend to him. She’s become a mentor, she’s a pastor, she might even do a little counseling with him. But she understands how important it is sometimes to separate the deed from the doer. He was a kid when he did it, you know. Kids’ brains aren’t even developed yet at 15 or 16. She has a great story to tell, that I think would be an inspiration to other people.

My cousin lost two sons to gun violence in the same year. My cousin and his wife have a mentoring group. They still live on the block where they’ve always lived, and they’ve embraced some of the young men who they might see standing on the corner, up to no good. They’ve become mentors to some of these young guys who really don’t have families that are invested in their value, and in what they could become one day. I would like for them to tell their story about what it’s been like losing two children in the same year, and yet becoming mentors to the gang of young men who you know were responsible for your sons’ murders.

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