"Well for one, the 13th amendment to the constitution of the US which abolished slavery - did not abolish slavery for those convicted of a crime"
About this Quote
Davis’ line is a trapdoor under the feel-good story Americans tell themselves about emancipation. The 13th Amendment is commonly treated as a moral full stop: slavery ended, the nation redeemed itself, history marched on. She forces the reader to notice the clause everyone skims past: “except as a punishment for crime.” That exception isn’t a footnote; it’s a design feature, a legal hinge that lets coerced labor survive under a new name.
The specific intent is prosecutorial. Davis is building a case that mass incarceration isn’t merely an unfortunate byproduct of crime policy but a successor regime to slavery, made possible by constitutional language. By foregrounding “those convicted of a crime,” she exposes how “criminal” can function as a racialized category, historically manufactured through Black Codes, vagrancy laws, and uneven policing. The subtext is blunt: freedom in the U.S. has often been conditional, revocable, and administratively managed.
What makes the quote work is its rhetorical economy. It doesn’t shout; it points. It uses the authority of civics-class canon against the audience’s complacency, turning a revered document into evidence. In Davis’ broader activism, this argument threads through critiques of the prison-industrial complex and convict leasing, where states and private interests monetized incarceration and extracted labor from predominantly Black prisoners.
Context matters: Davis speaks from within a Black radical tradition shaped by Reconstruction’s betrayal, Jim Crow’s legal creativity, and the late-20th-century explosion of carceral power. Her sentence is less about the past than about continuity: the constitutional loophole that helps explain why “abolition” can coexist with cages, quotas, and profit.
The specific intent is prosecutorial. Davis is building a case that mass incarceration isn’t merely an unfortunate byproduct of crime policy but a successor regime to slavery, made possible by constitutional language. By foregrounding “those convicted of a crime,” she exposes how “criminal” can function as a racialized category, historically manufactured through Black Codes, vagrancy laws, and uneven policing. The subtext is blunt: freedom in the U.S. has often been conditional, revocable, and administratively managed.
What makes the quote work is its rhetorical economy. It doesn’t shout; it points. It uses the authority of civics-class canon against the audience’s complacency, turning a revered document into evidence. In Davis’ broader activism, this argument threads through critiques of the prison-industrial complex and convict leasing, where states and private interests monetized incarceration and extracted labor from predominantly Black prisoners.
Context matters: Davis speaks from within a Black radical tradition shaped by Reconstruction’s betrayal, Jim Crow’s legal creativity, and the late-20th-century explosion of carceral power. Her sentence is less about the past than about continuity: the constitutional loophole that helps explain why “abolition” can coexist with cages, quotas, and profit.
Quote Details
| Topic | Justice |
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