The known biography of the early african american writer and lecturer Maria W. Stewart (1803–79) is as brief as it is fascinating. After the childhood loss of her parents, she married James W. Stewart, a Boston shipping agent, in 1826. The Stewarts had close ties with the black radical David Walker, whose fiery 1829 Appeal kindled fears of slave rebellion and was in its third edition when Walker died under suspicious circumstances in August 1830. After James Stewart's own untimely death, in December 1829, his executors swindled Maria Stewart out of her inheritance, and she turned to the church and to writing and lecturing. Revising Walker's combination of jeremiad and Enlightenment-influenced political argument to reflect her own sense of faith, racism and racial uplift, and gender politics, Stewart became one of the first American women to address “promiscuous” audiences. She published a series of probing meditations as well as a set of her lectures—texts still startling for their power and bluntness—in pamphlets and, later, as Productions of Mrs, Maria Stewart (1835).

Reading receives considerable cultural and institutional support in the contemporary united states, from face-to-face, televised, and online book clubs to community-wide reading initiatives such as Michigan Reads!; One Book, One Philadelphia; and On the Same Page Cincinnati. In United States prisons, however, opportunities for reading and education have steadily declined since the prisoners' rights movement of the 1960s and 1970s gave way to the retributive-justice framework of the 1980s and beyond.

During my ten years teaching college classes and directing eight plays at framingham women's prison in massachusetts, I was always at odds with institutionally funded education programs behind bars. While I chose plays and ran discussions to expand thinking (The Merchant of Venice, Lysistrata, The Taming of the Shrew, Simply Maria, and Waiting for Lefty, to name a few) the unspoken aim of the education department was to reform the women—that is, to enlighten them on what society says is the “best” way to be, to teach socially accepted behavior as an antidote to crime.

Archipelagoes, cosmopolitanism, creolization: From antiquity to the present, from early Greek colonial settlements to twentieth-century postcolonial sites, these terms capture an idea of diversity linked to fluidity and mobility, exchange and transformation. Early modern European colonial expansions intensified processes that have continued to affect populations and landscapes, languages and worldviews. Today, postmodern global cities are the setting for new forms of creolized identities that are altering understandings of ethnic and national belonging across the world, even if established political and educational institutions do not always follow suit and adjust to this changing human landscape.

The narrative turn, the study of the nature and power of story and storytelling, continues to be one of the most significant movements in contemporary thought, influencing work in an ever-growing number of disciplines. Psychologists such as Jerome Bruner explore the “narrative identity thesis,” the idea that the very conception of selfhood depends on having a narrative of one's life. Scholars of the law such as Peter Brooks advance our understanding of the legal system by analyzing the myriad kinds of narrative—from confessions to closings—integral to it. Medical researchers such as Rita Charon find that treatment improves when doctors listen to patients' illness narratives rather than simply seek to identify patients' symptoms.

“Race,” Writing, and Difference first appeared in 1986. That Fall, I entered graduate school at Yale University; I still associate the book with those intellectually heady times. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., left the university before my arrival, but his influence was still felt, and we graduate students followed his every move. We also read and debated the essays of his volume with great excitement. The collection legitimated our intellectual concerns and delineated a set of questions that we would pursue throughout our graduate school careers. The volume set the bar high and helped prepare us for the task ahead. These were the days when we anticipated and greeted the appearance of works by Gates, Houston Baker, Jr., Hortense Spillers, Sylvia Wynter, and Cornel West with almost as much excitement that years earlier accompanied the release of recordings by Stevie Wonder and Earth, Wind, and Fire. Many of us came to Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, Jacques Lacan, and Paul de Man through these brilliant theorists of African American literature and culture. Those were intellectually exciting times: the period also produced Black Literature and Literary Theory; the painful exchange between Gates, Baker, and Joyce Ann Joyce on the pages of New Literary History; Hazel Carby's Reconstructing Womanhood, and Spillers's “Mama's Baby, Papa's Maybe: An American Grammar Book.” Furthermore, through his books Black Literature and Literary Theory, Figures in Black, and The Signifying Monkey, Gates not only provided a theoretical framework for the study of African American literature, he also set forth an intellectual agenda that he would institutionalize in a number of projects, especially The Norton Anthology of African American Literature and the Department of African and African American Studies at Harvard. In fact, Gates's PBS series African American Lives might be seen as part of this larger project as well in that it demonstrates the fiction of race through scientific evidence without denying its power to determine the lived experience of those identified as black in the United States. Despite the appearance of texts such as Richard J. Herrnstein and Charles Murray's The Bell Curve (and other arguments for the biological basis of race that rear their heads every so often), few people would disagree with the fundamental premise of “Race,” Writing, and Difference: that race was not fixed or naturalized but instead socially and historically constructed and institutionalized.

There is something ugly about incarceration. Over 2.2 million people are locked in jails and prisons in the united states; $60 billion a year is spent to support this effort. But there is also the old comparison of the prison with the monk's cell, a place of contemplation and self-reflection, and Jean Genet's sense of “a close relationship between flowers and convicts” (9). As a probation officer I know likes to remind me, “If you want to find Jesus, just go into the prisons. He is always there.” In any discussion of prisons, there are always opposing terms to consider: incarceration and freedom, body and consciousness, the hard core and the vulnerable, mind-forged manacles and visionary imagination.

Orhan Pamuk, born in Istanbul, is the author of My Name is Red, Snow, Istanbul: Memories and the City, and numerous other works. Over his career, Pamuk has investigated questions of identity, cultural representation, and political agency, achieving fame in Turkey for his complex, ambitious prose, which contrasts with the predominantly realist tradition of the Turkish novel. In 2005 he faced charges in Turkey related to statements he made regarding the killings of Kurds and Armenians in Anatolia. The charges were eventually dropped.

Since 1978, the population of women prisoners in the united states has increased by four hundred percent. The number of women now living and dying in cells exceeds 200,000 (United States Dept. of Justice). They are without access to proper health care, without the children that many of them will lose permanently: they are without. These are stark details, obscene in their materiality. They are facts, but they are not the picture. The picture is impossible. Indeed, the picture is the problem.