Be a writer, take it to heart so that your name will fare likewise. A book is more effective than a carved tombstone or a permanent sepulchre. . . . A name on people’s lips will surely be effective in the afterlife.
—Papyrus Chester Beatty IV, translated by Toby Wilkinson
Being published is often seen as the line of demarcation between a writer and an author. I have been writing for decades. I’ve written hundreds of songs and poems and a number of essays and short stories. Sometimes I write for an audience of loved ones, close friends, or family. But it has long been a goal of mine to have my work published and shared with the world. When the opportunity to contribute to Education Behind the Wall: How and Why We Teach College in Prison materialized a few years ago, I jumped at it. I was enrolled in the Emerson Prison Initiative (EPI), working toward a bachelor’s degree in media, literature, and culture, and cultivating my passion for writing. Over the course of my studies, I gained a greater appreciation for the details and nuances of writing, an appreciation that influenced me to adhere to the responsibilities of a writer as Toni Morrison described it in her essay “The Source of Self-Regard”: namely, to change the world, or at least to make sense of it. I write about the changes in my own life, hoping they may change minds, hearts, and maybe institutions.
I was excited to write about my academic journey and how instrumental EPI was in salvaging my sense of self. Throughout my incarceration, my mother encouraged me to keep writing, and now I was on the verge of officially earning the designation of author. However, as Education Behind the Wall was set to go to press, I was informed that my full name would not be allowed to be used in the book. As EPI’s director, Mnessha Gellman, explained in her introduction to the anthology, EPI was subject to a media policy imposed by the Massachusetts Department of Correction (MADOC) that mandated all manuscripts be reviewed by the MADOC before publication. One of the changes requested by the MADOC was the exclusion of my surname. Gellman pushed back against this request, but it became clear that the MADOC was not budging on the issue. Ultimately, neither she nor I wanted to hold up the book’s publication. Gellman submitted my chapter under the name Alexander X, but left me the option to choose a different pen name.
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I stuck with Alexander X. As I sat with the ramifications of the censoring of my name, I found that the “X” resonated. State-sanctioned erasure of a Black man in the United States inevitably raises the specter of slavery. As Malcolm X explains in his autobiography, it was due to the erasure of their past that the enslaved could never know their true family names. Because literacy was outlawed for the enslaved in many parts of the country, the custom of signing with an X became prevalent among Black people. Over time the use of X to replace family names evolved from a necessity into a symbolic rejection of a racist society. Malcolm states that, for Muslims, the X “symbolized the true African name” that Black people could “never know.” For Malcolm, it replaced the white slave master’s name. For me, the X represented the complexity of my existence, signifying both status and change.
Incarceration is an evolved system of oppression, rife with dehumanizing elements. Criminalized at every turn, I realized that incarceration was a system of depersonalization. It is not uncommon for the entire population to suffer for the actions of a few. This modus operandi has led to the photocopying of all incoming mail, the removal of commissary items, the limitation of recreational activities, as well as restrictions on visitation. Punishing all for the infractions of a few actors serves to reinforce the idea that there is no individuality in prison. We are all conceptualized only as criminals, overshadowing the potential to change and become workers, pastors, artists, businessmen, or authors.
Conversely, my experience as an EPI student provided me a space for growth and intellectual engagement. It was an experience that helped me discover who I was and decide who I wanted to be. Writing about education within the carceral system elicited consideration of these colliding forces. It was a combination that was poetically captured by the X that replaced my surname. I was at the crossroads of one institution that sought to dehumanize me and another that succeeded in empowering me, and I had made it my duty to make sense of the world of the incarcerated author.
In Michel Foucault’s essay “What Is an Author?” he argues that an author’s name is more than a “finger pointed at someone,” but that it is closer to being “a description.” That is to say, my name tells more than who I am, but also what I am and what I do.
It is an insight that caused me to contemplate how the name Alexander X describes me. While it does not instantly imply incarceration, it does announce the presence of conflict. X is an unknown, a variable and, at the same time, a location. It brings to the forefront the uncertainties of my life, my freedom, and my future. Foucault goes on to provide further insight on the “author-function,” explaining that it is “tied to the legal and institutional systems that circumscribe, determine, and articulate the realm of discourses.” In my case, it would determine how I was presented in the literary world.
Bill Littlefield, retired host of NPR’s Only a Game, had been volunteering with EPI as a teaching assistant for years. When we learned of the MADOC’s opposition, he took the news harder than I did. “That’s bullshit,” he vented. “As a writer, your name is everything.” He had a point. I was only half joking when I responded that I could just adopt Alexander X as a pen name, but thinking about this prison-induced indignity made me realize the importance of having my voice heard.
Pseudonyms are nothing new to the literary world—and neither is censorship. One has only to consider the self-censorship of Harriet Jacobs for evidence. It was prudence that prompted Jacobs to publish Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl in 1861 under the pseudonym Linda Brent. In 1850 Congress had passed the Fugitive Slave Act, which was designed to return to slavery those who, like Jacobs, had stolen their freedom. Despite the threats posed by the far-reaching institution of chattel slavery, she understood that her voice and her story needed to be heard. The changing of her name did not alter the truth of her story or its purpose of shedding light on this system of oppression.
Jacobs provided a lesson I could lean on in the face of censorship. The responsibility of an author to change the world entails challenging the status quo. Status quo is the will of power; any movement for change, as a challenge to that power, should expect resistance. Ultimately, an author, if they are living up to the designation, will always be a target.
I have now been published three times as Alexander X, but none more fulfilling than the first. Holding a physical copy of Education Behind the Wall was surreal. I was beside myself when I flipped to the index and saw my name, Alexander X, directly above that of Malcolm X. It was a moment of accomplishment that I excitedly shared with my family. The sting of repression was eased by the satisfaction of contributing to a cause that I believed in: the democratization of education.
Writing is a beautiful expression of vanity. While it is dependent on making a name for yourself, it also requires a healthy dose of hubris to believe your words will matter to a complete stranger. However, having been inspired and moved by the words of strangers myself, I feel that my efforts are not in vain. And while I have strived to make a name for myself in a positive way, I realize the missteps of my past will always follow behind me. However, I continue writing, not only to reclaim my narrative, but also to change my future. I agree with Littlefield when he says a writer’s name is everything, but I’ve come to realize that how I make my name is more dependent on what I write than the moniker I write under.