Revolutionary - A Review of Assata: An Autobiography

I knew very little about Assata Shakur before listening to her autobiography read by Sirena Riley. Like, I knew she was a revolutionary, but I was unable to place her in my schema of revolutionaries. This is simply because I knew more about the Black Panther Party than the Black Liberation Army. I suppose I was unclear about her because of the most fascinating thing about her; she escaped prison! She would have to be pretty vague to manage that right?
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Well…
 
Assata left no detail untold about her childhood. Revolutionaries impress me because I often wonder where they pull their strength and gumption from. I admire them because I wish that I had the nerve to do the things they do/did. People say that reading, and writing about the Black experience are revolutionary acts, and maybe I’m downplaying my capabilities, but it feels nothing like standing up to white racists in the south with only a shotgun. These are the things Assata witnessed her grandparents doing throughout her childhood in the south. She came from a strong industrious family who stood their ground and raised the children in their charge to do the same. Her mother became an educator, and her aunt, like most Black aunties, was the more supportive extension of her mother.
Assata grew up with everything she needed, yet her spirit was restless and it took plenty of trial and error for her to figure out what she wanted. She spent her teen years floating and figuring. She even called herself trying to be a pickpocket for a little minute. I laughed hard and loud while listening to her time in “the streets,” cuz girl what?? During this time, she struggled to get along with her mother and leaned more on her aunt.
 
She breaks down the changing of her name and her involvement in the Black Liberation Army. See, she was named JoAnne Deborah Byron at birth (July 16, 1947), but after becoming an activist, she changed her name. Assata Olugbala Shakur is now her full name. Assata means she who struggles, Olugbala means the one who saves, and Shakur means the thankful one. Considering the turns her life has taken, all three names turn out to be quite appropriate. She first became an activist while in college. Yes, with all her teenage shenanigans, Assata still earned her GED with her aunt’s guidance. Like most, college broadened her thinking even further, and she felt the drive to do more for her people. She first joined the Black Panther Party, but after a while she found herself disagreeing with the gender expectations, and soon joined the Black Liberation Army instead.

​May 2, 1973 is when Assata’s story takes a drastic turn. A stop on the New Jersey Turnpike in New Brunswick left Assata shot and wounded as well as one of her comrades Zayd Malik Shakur, who passed away due to his injuries. Officers involved were wounded as well. In the end, Assata was charged with armed robbery, possession of a weapon, assault, and ultimately murder.
 
Assata’s story is told in flashbacks, alternating between her childhood and her arrest. Eventually the two timelines coincide, and her story stops with her escape. I say “stops,” because clearly her story isn’t over. Members of the BIBC discussed shock at how she and Kamau Sadiki managed to not only build an intimate relationship, but also have relations and conceive a child. This is when I found myself driving with my lips pinched together, eyes wide open, attentive to her words. I was deep in my feels, listening to how poorly she was treated and the birth of Kakuya felt like ultimate get-back. Her escape was the cherry on top, because not only do Black people persevere, but we find ways to thrive, and we move on like we are unscarred.
 
Sirena Riley’s narration was crisp, melodic, and relatable. A good narrator can read to you without reading to you, if you know what I mean. Her narration was conversational, yet formal, as if she were being interviewed. As aforementioned, I often listen to my audiobooks on my commute, and it’s important to me that the narration is engaging while I inch my way through traffic. There were parts where I talked back to her, laughed out loud, held my breath, and fought tears all the way to work. When it comes to fiction, these are the signs of a good story, but if we’re talking nonfiction, these are signs of superb narration.
 
I’m not giving a rating to Assata’s story, because it’s American history, and how can we score that?