dead weight

One of the first events we hosted was the launch of Randall Horton’s newest memoir, Dead Weight: A Memoir in Essays. We were honored to be asked to host; we were also giddy to have a front row seat to Randall’s reading, and nervous that somehow we’d not do Randall–or his work–justice.
Turns out, when you put Randall in a room (virtual or otherwise), his voice will fill it and everyone will be glad they were there to hear it. The only regret we have is that time moves too quickly when Randall is reading and discussing his work. We wished for a few more hours together so our moderator, Ashley M. Johnson, could ask every question she’d prepared for Randall. 

We don’t always get what we wish for, but in this case we have the next best thing: a conversation between Ashley and Randall, via email. This is only lightly edited in some places for organization or clarity, and, we hope, will be a welcome extension of the book launch event you can watch here. We hope you’ll buy his book, share his work, and help us extend a warm thank you to both Randall and Ashley for continuing the conversation. 

Ashley M. Johnson (AJ): What were you after in this book? Can you share a question or idea that you were probing in the essays?

Randall Horton (RH): I’m trying to figure out what it all meant in terms of race, growing up in Birmingham, and then being consumed with the idea of selling drugs to the point that I actually believed that was a viable occupation. 

AJ: What does dead weight signify and how did you choose the title?

RH: At its core, Dead Weight is about the memories that I carry that will never go away. They will forever be part of my memory process, of how I remember the past. Of course, there is a connection to after incarceration and being labeled an ex-felon and ex-convict, but it really is about those personal experiences that kinda haunt me. I tell people all the time, I didn’t go to prison for selling Girl Scout cookies.

AJ: You pose this rhetorical question: “How does a person negotiate the dead weight that attaches itself to the body after being discharged from prison?” Here’s what I want to ask you: How do you navigate or negotiate situations that require explanation of your past?

RH: I tend to be straight forward these days. I have learned over the years it’s best to get that stuff right out in the open, and then we go from there. I mean, it can be hard, of course. And, one always wonders which story to tell, which narrative to give when an adequate explanation of why you were locked up would really be complicated. 

AJ: Randall, you talk about HBCUs, notably, Howard and Central State. This is the epiphany you share: “I am left with the terrible realization that the institutions I love so much are helping to perpetuate a troubling brand of blackness.”

I’m curious if you have you experienced or witnessed institutional hypocrisy at an HBCU? If so, does this create a moral dilemma, and what does it indicate (if anything) about redemption with the Black community? What’s the real HU?

RH: Well, of course, when I was rejected from both Howard and CSU, the hypocrisy was on full display, Here you have an institution that was founded on the premise of helping black people, and you are living in a time when young black men are being incarcerated at a higher clip than any other  social group, and you have one that is trying to do better, and yet you shut him out the educational process. What other way can I look at it? 

When I say the real HU, I mean the other Howard University. The one that loves below the surface of Between the World and Me. 

One always wonders which story to tell, which narrative to give when an adequate explanation of why you were locked up would really be complicated. 

Randall Horton

AJ: Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man inspired Elizabeth Cattlet’s statue by the same name. In Dead Weight, you have a conversation with Cattlet’s statue and name the figure Cutout Man (which is perfect because Cutout Man’s presence is defined by absence).  

There’s a transition from operating underground with the “common element” within the narrative and adopting a more noticeable way of living. When people move in unorthodox ways, they usually do all they can to stay invisible.

Reading the book made me consider what it takes for the invisible (wo)man (a Cutout Man) to become visible. It makes me wonder: Have you ever felt in control of your visibility and then discovered that you were not? How do you go about (re)establishing your visibility? When did you realize that reappearing is not as easy as you thought it would be?

RH: Yes, when I was selling drugs for a while. I felt in control of my life, as weird as that may sound. I felt I was going against the grain of society. I was that so-called common element. 

When I began my journey after prison, I realized I would have to fight for my visibility, that in order to be seen, I would have to work at it, and understand life will only give me the history I have made to learn from. 

AJ: Erasure and reinvention are consistent themes in the memoir. Is there a difference between “erasure” and “reinvention” as the terms relate to self and place or idea?

RH: I think, at the core, they are theoretical twins, concepts driven by the ability to be seen and unseen on the scene. They both have to do with a reconfiguration of the body, and yet they both cancel each other out, feel me?

AJ: How do you shed the dead weight; can it ever truly be excised? What part of shedding the weight is tied directly to changing language and labels? Is jumping in front of the narrative helpful?

RH: I don’t know. I write and try to work it on the page. I think that is my therapy when it comes to this kind of weight. I do a lot of talks, and so when I am in front of an audience, I am always trying to educate others about my experiences and why these labels are dangerous. 

When I got out of prison, I jumped in front of the narrative. I did not want to be known solely as the prison writer, so I did not write about my experience until I felt I wanted to go down that road. I was not going to travel that road until I was ready, not what the public demanded. 

AJ: After this conversation, what term or language would you like us all to think about moving forward?

RH: I would love for us all to reimagine how we think and talk about those entangled in this constructed system of justice and punishment and understand language does matter. Period.