(Jabari addressing the left side as though he is speaking to the inmate named Screw-up.)
Now days you can look a white person in the eyes without fear of death, yet you kill your brother for glancing at you? “What choo lookin’ at?” Bang. You’re dead. Ya dumb ass. You have children you don't take care of. You are less than 8% of America’s population yet populate over 50% of the prisons. You are high in credit card debt. AIDS is killing you at an alarming rate, too many of you are out of work, on drugs, and do not take regular visits to the doctor. And your women, ha haaa! Your women don’t hate you. They hate what you have done to yourselves, which has turned their lives into a nightmare. Where are you brotha? Oh, how your ancestors weep. No. Better yet, we are pisssed the hell off!
And what are you in here for? Robbing a convenience store at gunpoint and running out with $16.37. $16.00 and thrity-seven frickin’ cents. How dumb can you be? How frickin’ dumb can you be? Huh? Are you in a competition for dumbness?
(Jabari is now addressing the right side of the audience.)
Booshi. Look at cha. You're pathetic: The so-called elite among black people. How in thee royal hell did you end up in prison? I’ll tell you: Greed and “you think you the shit.” You look down your noses at those who do not have what you have. You flaunt your education like it is proof that you are better than those not as educated. You are doctors, lawyers, bankers, computer geniuses, and politicians--positions of power, yet you use your positions to control the have-nots. And “God forbid” you spend your money with a black owned business. You deny your history as though nobody built bridges for you to cross. You act like slavery and Jim Crow never existed. You have cars, houses, and jewelry, which you value more than humanity. You go to the finest of restaurants, have a beautiful wife, wonderful children, a few mistresses, and a child you sired out of wedlock that your wife does not know about. But you don’t care because you believe money will get you out of any situation. So the minute things don’t go your way, you start plotting on, “How can I get over.” Stuck up, on your high and mighty horse... And look at you today, in jail, sitting next to your brother whom you despise. Look at him. Damn it, I said look at him! And what are you in here for, my dear child? Insider trading. Tisk, tisk, frickin’ tisk! Trying' to get over. Trying’ to get over.