INTRODUCTION BY MICHELLE ALEXANDER Toni Morrison once said, "Just remember that your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else." As far as I know, Toni Morrison never met Dorsey Nunn. But I can say without hesitation that Dorsey has been living for decades according to the ethical code that she described. It's a code that values what you do more than what you say, and that insists on leaving no one behind. It's a code rooted in a very simple truth: All of us deserve freedom, dignity, and power. All of us or none. I've known Dorsey for two decades. I've watched him grow and evolve into an extraordinary thinker and leader, someone who has helped to birth and shape movements that are changing the course of history. Today, thanks to movements that Dorsey and many others have built, more than 230 million people in the U.S. now live in jurisdictions that have "banned the box" on employment applications--that dreaded box asking, "Have you ever been convicted of a felony"? In this era of mass incarceration, that box has made survival difficult and sometimes impossible for tens of millions of formerly incarcerated or convicted people, and that box has helped to lock them into a permanent second-class status. But because of the heroic work of Dorsey and all those in the organizations that he led or cofounded, and the powerful movements that he has helped to build, barriers to employment, housing, education and more have begun to fall away for millions of people--overwhelming poor people and people of color--who've been ensnared by our nation's criminal punishment system. The vital grassroots, movement-building work to which Dorsey has dedicated his life has touched and changed countless lives, shifted public consciousness, and demonstrated the brilliance, creativity, and resilience of the very people that our nation has treated as disposable. So much of what I've come to know and understand over the years about the second-class status imposed upon people labeled "criminals" or "felons" I've learned from Dorsey and the people who comprise All of Us or None, an organization he cofounded. Although I have fancy degrees and Dorsey does not, there's never been a time in our friendship in which he hasn't been schooling me--not so much in theory, but in practice. As he notes in the pages that follow, in academic circles people sometimes ask, "What's your theory of change?" Dorsey has much to say about theory, having deepened his political education both in and outside of prison, but what he values most is what people do in practice. As he sees it, theories of change are nice, but "the real question should be, what is your motherfucking practice?" As long as I've known him, Dorsey's practice has been to show up for those who are locked up and locked out with love, honesty, courage, and a fierce determination to gain power and freedom for all those left behind. He's the first to admit that he's made mistakes, big and small, during his journey from incarceration and addiction to movement leadership, but he's never claimed perfection--only commitment to his practice. In my experience, Dorsey always aims to practice what he preaches. And oh, can he preach. Dorsey and I first met back in the late 1990s, in the midst of the "get tough" era, when incarceration rates were soaring as Democrats and Republicans were competing with each other to escalate the "war on drugs" and to pass laws imposing ever harsher sentences on the crimes committed by the least advantaged. We were both living in Oakland, California at the time, and we were both working at social justice organizations that were trying to resist the assault on our communities. Dorsey was a staff member at Legal Services for Prisoners with Children--which he would later lead--and I was director of the Racial Justice Project of the ACLU of Northern California, focused mainly on litigation and organizing work challenging racial profiling and police misconduct. I was also teaching a class on race and criminal justice at Stanford Law School. I thought it would be a good idea to invite Dorsey to speak to my students. Little did I know what was to come. Dorsey blew them away. Throughout the semester, my students had heard from (in person or on paper) legal scholars, criminal justice experts, organizers, public defenders, and prosecutors--including one guest speaker, a local prosecutor, who went on to become Attorney General of California and Vice President of the United States, Kamala Harris. None of the guests or authors did more to inform, inspire, and challenge my students than Dorsey Nunn. Not even close. The first thing Dorsey said when he stepped in front of my class was, "Oh shit, I've never been invited to speak at a law school before! I'm a little nervous." He immediately caught himself, clapped his hand over his mouth, and said "Uh, sorry, can I curse up in here? You know, that's just how I talk." I laughed and said, "Sure, Dorsey, you can say whatever you want." And then he let it rip. He told us in his own words, in his authentic voice, about his childhood--all the fear, grief, intermittent joy, and struggle--and he explained exactly how and why he was imprisoned for first-degree murder. He was unflinchingly honest about everything--about the violence and harm that he had experienced throughout his life, as well as the violence and harm that he had inflicted on others. My students were riveted. Then, without pausing to take a breath, Dorsey told us exactly why he believed that our so-called justice system was "completely fucked up." His scathing critique was full of stories about himself and others that made us want to scream, cry, and revolt. Truth rained down on my class for nearly two hours. Some of his truths hit hard, like hail causing us to flinch and want to run for cover; other stories had us nearly weeping. And sometimes, miraculously, Dorsey had us laughing--not at the tragedies but at the moments of absurdity that could be found amid it all. His talk was only supposed to last for 45 minutes, but my students wouldn't let him go. They kept asking questions, hungry for the kind of unfiltered truth-telling that Dorsey was offering straight from the heart. After he left, one of my students said, "I'll never, ever forget that guy." The entire class murmured agreement. Years later, I ran into one of those students on the street. She was working as a public defender and involved in multiple grassroots organizations aiming to dismantle mass incarceration and to support those cycling in and out of prison. "Dorsey Nunn changed my life," she told me. "After he came to class that day and told his story, I knew nothing would ever be the same for me." I've been hoping that Dorsey would publish a memoir ever since. Many years ago, I told him that. He laughed and said, "Nah, I don't have time for shit like that. Besides, I don't know how to write a book." Fortunately, my words stuck with him, and all these years later, he's partnered with Lee Romney--an outstanding writer and journalist--to support the writing of this wonderful memoir, one that is even more moving and illuminating than the speech he delivered to my Stanford Law class. Why? Because this book contains the stories of another two decades of organizing, movement building, and personal--as well as political--struggle. The documenting of this history serves our movements, and Dorsey' honesty and vulnerability regarding the deeply personal dimensions of his journey allow us, as readers, to experience transformation and not merely get an education. Thank you, Dorsey, for this wonderful gift. You've long been an inspiration to me, and this remarkable book reveals exactly why. Excerpted from What Kind of Bird Can't Fly: A Memoir of Resilience and Resurrection by Dorsey Nunn All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
