Jonestown, Alabama:
A Story of Annie Bell Washington

(Author’s note: Last spring, I was assigned an interdisciplinary research paper for a class at Montgomery College in Rockville, Maryland on the use of protest music to create global social and political change between the 1950s and 1990s. The paper was structured as a historical fiction narrative as seen through the eyes of an imaginary character involved in one of these movements. I ended up choosing Peoples Temple, a group presenting strong socialist, integrationist, and communally-oriented views that somehow morphed into a dangerous and ultimately deadly cult, a stark contrast from many of the successful protest movements of the era.

(After listening to nearly all of the tapes which mention music in their summaries, I chose three songs (or their Peoples Temple renditions) to build the narrative around: “Going to Shout All Over God’s Heaven,” (from tape Q1057-5), “Yes, God is Real,” (Q357), and “Abraham, Martin, and John” (Q365). Instead of building a character from scratch, I chose to follow the life of a real Peoples Temple member named Annie Bell Washington. Following the information from her memorial profile on this website, I was able to trace her life and her surroundings from government records and historical resources. With the framework already laid down, it looked as if my work was cut out for me. Seeing how, when, and where Annie grew up, and her social environment as an adult, however, it was easy to fill in the gaps with a realistic telling of how she came to join Peoples Temple and the role of music in her indoctrination. What follows is a realistic imagination of Annie’s life, as reflected upon by herself in the moments leading up to her death.)

Sixty-six years. As decades of birthdays and Christmases and springtimes flash through her mind, it doesn’t seem long enough. As the heavy memories of living in the shadow of her skin settle onto her shoulders, it seems far too long. Closing her eyes, Annie blocks out the noisy clamor, the muggy jungle air, the stickiness of her sweat, and the cloyingly sweet aroma of artificial grape. She closes her eyes, opens her mind, and remembers.

She remembers her girlhood, growing up on her dad’s small farm in rural Cedarville, Alabama with Wilson and Ellie. They were lucky enough to live within reasonable distance of the Emory School, and even with fewer resources than the white public school, it was better than a public black school would have been. She remembers the scratched and scarred desks, the worn third- or fourth-hand readers, winter migrations to the fireplaces on either end of the drafty, wooden one-classroom building, the heat trapped beneath the metal roof in wretched Southern summers. She and her siblings had to walk the long way, an extra twenty minutes, to avoid crossing paths with the Ashworth and Stringfellow boys from the white school. After they got home, it was seeding or weeding or other chores until sundown, when they finally went inside to complete their schoolwork. Meals were meager, stretched enough to keep their stomachs full but not enough to store up for later. Any extra yields went to Mr. Stringfellow, the man who owned the land.

Saturdays were devoted to the farm, too. Sundays, though, were for rest and Mass. She remembers the starch pastel dresses, the rumble of the preacher’s deep tenor, the way her legs fell asleep while dangling from the pew during extra-long sermons. She may have been trapped in the sweltering heat of that building, but it was the only place where she felt truly free. It was when and where she could remember that her daily struggles were only temporary, that she was equal now even if her neighbors didn’t see it, the she was loved by God, no matter what her skin color. The other six days of the week, it was easy to forget that.

She remembers moving to Los Angeles as a young adult, hoping to find acceptance on another coast. It may not have been as explicitly black-and-white there, but segregation was still a part of daily life. She remembers her dilapidated rental house, a one-story next to the cemetery in Harvard Heights with bars on the windows and doors. From here, she bussed to Dignity Health Hospital, where she worked as a practical nurse. The irony of the hospital’s name rarely escaped her. Every bump of the bus as it rolled over the dilapidated roads of the ghetto and every mother’s disgust when they saw her pass the white children’s ward on the way to the black wing chipped away at whatever dignity she had held on to from yesterday.

She remembers Sundays in Los Angeles, too. She couldn’t fully settle into this new physical home until she established a spiritual home as well. First African Methodist Episcopal Church was only a fifteen minute walk from home, but was somewhat perilous after dark and in the underpass beneath the highway. The worship was not dissimilar to that from her home parish – the service was highly familiar, this new preacher shared her former’s zeal, and many of the spiritual songs were practically identical – but it wasn’t the same. Although not unwelcoming, the majority of FAME parishioners had been attending their entire lives, and were tightly woven into the fabric of the community. She was still in the presence of God, but had never felt so far from her sources of love and support. This did not feel like home.

She remembers the autumn of 1972, when the foggy Los Angeles summer months finally gave way to clear, warm September days. The bus was late to arrive at the hospital, and she took a moment to examine the new graffiti tags and flyers around. One caught her attention: “Pastor Jim Jones, the most unique prophetic healing service you’ve ever witnessed!” This upcoming Sunday afternoon, a man from Indiana would be preaching and healing at a new church, Peoples Temple, about two blocks past the cemetery. Given that she had no plans after morning Mass, Annie figured she had nothing to lose. At the worst, it would be hilariously bad and serve as free entertainment. On the bus ride home, she amused herself by imaging this white Midwestern man trying to preach to a crowd of her people. Their faith guided them through struggles he would never be able to experience or empathize with. Yes, Sunday would be quite humorous.

She remembers the gentle clicking of her dress shoes as she climbed the steps of the red brick building on the corner of a busy intersection, passing beneath the tall semicircle of Italian Romanesque arches, and into the cool body of the church. As she slid into the red-backed wooden pews, she was shocked at the relative diversity of the congregation. It was neither a left-to-right not front-to-back gradient of skin colors, as she had expected. No, this crowd was evenly speckled with cocoa, olive, honey, and cream. Not a bad first impression.

Soon after, the spectacle begins.

Oh, she remembers this well, the first time she met Father. Not the Skygod, no, the real divine presence on Earth, Jim Jones. Annie watched in awe as the woman up front returned from the restroom after being healed, with her coughed-up cancer in a brown paper bag, as a man to her left had his freshly plastered cast removed and began running circles around the church. Father seemed to understand her just as well, dare she say even better, than any black preacher ever had. To create people with beautiful black skin and make them suffer for it, to allow them to earn half the pay and pay twice the rent, to walk down the street and be spit on, that was no type of godly love. “I did not make you,” Father cried, “but by damn I will save you.” He said he’d give them a home, he’d take them in when they were lonely, he’d make a heaven out of the hell that was this life the Skygod had condemned her people to.

She remembered listening, counting along at the ways her God had failed them. Starving children across the world, droughts and earthquakes and famines labeled as “acts of God,” people hated for their skin, even His own “chosen people” being sent to camps to work themselves to death, to wither away, to be burned in ovens and buried in pits. As much as it went against all she had been raised to believe, she didn’t want to believe in the God who claimed to be the source of eternal happiness but who had only brought her earthly suffering. She was torn from her racing mind by Father’s further exclamations. “They got our sons, the pride of Africa, princes, kings, they took the best of our people, brought ’em in chains, and they got ’em off the boat… they said if you work here in the cotton fields now, you’re gonna have shoes, and all God’s children gonna have shoes, and you’re gonna go away, gonna fly away up into heaven.” The audience murmured in agreement, familiar with His reference to the tune they knew by heart. Over a hundred years ago they’d been promised freedom, but the “freedom” they’d received was laughable, and the shoes were nowhere to be seen. Father laughed and continued, “We’re gonna build a heaven, if you don’t give me some shoes, we’re gonna take off your shoes, and gonna walk all over your ass!” The longer He went on, the closer she leaned in, and the more she believed. She was hooked.

She fondly remembered her weekly trips to Peoples Temple, soaking in the truth and the light Father preached, purging her soul of the false hope she had been fed for so long. She grew closer to the People and closer to Him with every meeting, with every word. With every hard-earned paycheck she cashed, a few more dollars went to the Temple, for their senior center (which she very much enjoyed) or the children’s program and for the new Temple overseas. About nine months later, she was given the biggest honor of her life to date. In July of 1973, Annie got to speak at a meeting and tell them about Dad’s love.

Any nervousness she felt was overpowered by the joy and adrenaline rushing through her veins. After Millie Cunningham, it was her turn to ascend the lectern. She remembers the words flowing off her tongue like water, quenching the souls of all in attendance. “Peach and love, everyone,” she began, introducing herself. “I want to thank God for new hope and new life in the church of the day. I have been in so many churches before, but didn’t find God until I came to Peoples Temple.” As the cheers and applause died down, she continued, “He surely took me out of that place. He put my feet on a rock to stay. He put a song in my soul today, and now, I can sing. Halleluja! I’m going to sing a song, ‘God is Real,’ but we’re gonna switch it up, because to me, Jim Jones is real. I’ll change the words to that.” She adjusted the microphone, opened her mouth, and began to sing. Although quiet at first, her song of praise resounded throughout the Temple.

The audience, made of newcomers and familiar faces alike, clapped in time and joined her rendition. This community, this family, this feeling was just like her childhood, her home. If she hadn’t realized it before, she knew it now. This was home.

In what seemed like no time at all, their numbers swelled and hundreds more had joined Peoples Temple in favor of racial and socioeconomic equality and to live in accordance with Dad’s loving teachings. She remembers as the closest to Him among them packed up their luggage and supplies in wooden crates in the Temple parking lot. They were beginning to set up a new Temple in Guyana, where they could live as they pleased without harassment from the capitalist government that seemed threatened by their progressive and reasonable way of life. Dad would accompany them, and the rest would follow once the compound was prepared to accommodate them.

She remembers May of ‘78, when she carefully packed and labeled three suitcases’ worth of her earthly belongings to shove in the underbelly of the bus to New York, then the plane across the Gulf down to Guyana. Jonestown was everything she’d dreamed it would be and more, an entire community of all colors, ages, and abilities brought together by Father’s love. She settled into her assigned space, room A5 in Dorm 5, and began getting acquainted with these new surroundings.

Just as night began to fall, an alarm played over the PA system. The more experienced residents began drifting towards the main pavilion. Like an ant or a lemming, she followed.

She remembers Dad talking long into the night. Her comrades’ exhaustion grew, but any sign of inattentiveness or unenthusiasm prolonged the sermon further. He was right, though, His truth was far more important than rest. They were incredibly fortunate to be in His presence and could not bear to lose a minute of guidance for the way to salvation and liberation. Even still, her eyes began to sag and her eyes to droop, weary from a long day of travel. Father’s words only faintly registered in her ear until He conversationally mentioned, “we’re going to drink poison and kill ourselves.” Her mind was quickly cleared of fog with the shock of such a calmly made statement. None of her neighbors seemed to share her fear. It was almost as if this was routine. Someone procured a large batch of fruit punch, and the others queued to fill their cups. Within moments, a few from the front of the line collapsed rather theatrically. Laughs from those still waiting in line broke the scene, and Dad revealed the punch was harmless. This “White Night,” as it was called, was only a loyalty test. That was the end of Annie’s first day in Jonestown.

Thankfully, White Nights were only an occasional part of the Jonestown way of life, but they confused her every time they happened.

As a senior, Annie was not given a work assignment like the younger residents. She spent the long, balmy days leisurely planting in the community garden, playing with the nursery school children, or preparing meals in the kitchen. All the while, she was serenaded by either music or Father’s voice over the loudspeakers. She remembers the sound of the scratchy cassette tapes, radio recordings of Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, the Jackson 5, Aretha Franklin,  all the popular artists back in the States. Even better was the music of their own band, the Jonestown Express, which performed covers and renditions of popular music as well as its own pieces.

She remembers her favorite song, which often played over the speakers while she was at work. Marthea Hicks, one of the main vocalists of the group, performed the Peoples Temple variation of “Abraham, Martin, and John.” Even in her current state, Annie can hum the melody as the lyrics roll through her mind: “Anybody here seen my friend Martin?/ Can you tell me where the man is gone?/ Yes, he freed a lot of people but the good, they die young/ I looked around and he was gone.” Just as fluidly as the lyrics came the names within them. Have you seen Cuffy? Che Guevara? Steven Biko? Malcolm? No, the good died too young. Except for Father, He was still with them, and He was the best of them all.

She remembers the day the Congressman came. He invited himself down on the first of November, and showed up with a camera crew two weeks later, despite their protests. He asked the stupidest questions: Were we happy were? We’d never been happier, so yes. What did we eat? Our poultry, livestock, fresh milk, home-grown produce, the like. The questions were just like the ones Father had prepared us with, and our answers worked perfectly… for the most part. Did we want to leave? It should have been a vehement “no,” but somebody decided to answer otherwise. Two people slipped a note to a reporter, saying they wanted to go back, and the man leaked the information to Dad. He was furious, but did His best to be kind. Annie couldn’t blame Him. After all He’d done for His children, they dared to forsake Him.

She remembers today. Another White Night, but something was different. Dad said the defectors were all dead, but the American government would be coming to hunt them down soon. They had no choice, really. They could either die at the hands of their former government, allowing their children to be tortured and their heads to be blown off, or they could all go peacefully together and in revolutionary suicide. Dad said it would make them martyrs for the cause, and that he’d find them again in their next lives. She remembers pairs of men carting out coolers of Flavor-Aid, mixing in unmarked pills and stirring until the murky purple liquid sloshed over the side.

She remembers the children. They were sent first, them and their parents. Dad said they’d suffer the most if the government laid its hands on them. Those who were old enough drank, and the youngest ones were mouth-fed with droppers. She remembers their cries. “It’s only a little bitter,” Maria said, “they’re not crying out of any pain.” Young families lay on the ground together, waiting to slip away into peace. It really was true, the good would die young.

She remembers waiting her turn in line. She remembers the screams. A peaceful death shouldn’t be this loud, she thought. He said it was just because it was stressful moving to the other side. He said there would be no pain. Maybe He was right, but those who had drunk were vomiting, flailing, coughing up blood. She remembers standing obediently, inching forward as the youngest voices began to go quiet.

She remembers drinking. Maria was right, bitter grape, but not painful to swallow. After a final hug and parting words with Dad, Annie went to lay in the grass. As the potion begins to take effect, she closes her eyes and opens her eyes. She remembers the sixty-six years she spent on this Earth, full of injustice and suffering until she met Father. Yes, sixty-six years was long enough. Dad said any pain they felt while moving to the other side was less than they’d feel in two weeks, ten days, five more days in this world.

The world around her has gone quiet. The seniors are towards the last to go, scattered about the pavilion wherever the other bodies have left space. All who remain are the armed guards, waiting to defend those still living if the troops descend early. Annie is done remembering. She is done hurting. Wherever they are going, it will be good there, safe and fair and happy. Her mind closes, and her eyes remain shut.

* * * * *

A few days later, body #46-G is zipped into a bag by members of the FBI cleanup team. Over nine hundred bags are gently, respectfully loaded into helicopters and flown to Dover Air Force Base. In early December of 1978, #46-G is identified as Annie Bell Washington. She and her comrades were buried in the Jonestown Memorial at Evergreen Cemetery in Oakland, California. Perhaps in death, she is free at last.

Notes

“Annie blocks out the noisy clamor…” Annie Washington.

“She remembers her girlhood, growing up on her dad’s small farm in rural Cedarville, Alabama with Wilson and Ellie…” Annie Bell Washington of Hale County, AL is listed as the daughter of Sam and Lizzie Washington, along with older brother Wilson and younger sister Ellie. Sam is recorded as a farmer, and the rest of the family as farm laborers. Annie was described as black, 18 years old, and literate but not college-educated (United States Census, 1930).

“They were lucky enough to live within reasonable distance of the Emory School…” The Emory School in Cedarville, AL was established by the Julius Rosenwald School Building Fund in 1915 to provide adequate educational provisions for African American children, compared to the subpar education provided by segregated public schools (Mansell, et al.).

“…the heat trapped beneath the metal roof in wretched Southern summers.” Based on the building structure and usage description in the Emory School’s application to the National Registry for Historic Places (Mansell, et al.).

“She and her siblings had to walk the long way, an extra twenty minutes, to avoid crossing paths with the Ashworth and Stringfellow boys from the white school.” The Ashworths and Stringfellows were two white families with boys Annie’s age who lived in the same census district (United States Census, 1930).

“Any extra yields went to Mr. Stringfellow, the man who owned the land.” The head of the Stringfellow family is listed as a merchant and landowner, whereas no other families in the district own their property. It is assumed that they rented their land from the Stringfellows (United States Census, 1930).

“She remembers moving to Los Angeles as a young adult, hoping to find acceptance on another coast.” According to records collected by the California Historical Society, Annie Bell Washington was born in Alabama but later resided in Los Angeles, California. It is unknown when she moved to L.A. (“Washington, Annie Bell.”)

“She remembers her dilapidated rental house, a one-story next to the cemetery in Harvard Heights with bars on the windows and doors.” Washington resided in the 90006 ZIP code of L.A., known as Harvard Heights. It is a historically high-crime area at the intersection of the urban Korean, Salvadorean, and black ghettos (“Washington, Annie Bell”).

“…she bussed to Dignity Health Hospital, where she worked as a practical nurse.” Washington’s occupation while in the States is listed as “practical nurse.” It is unknown where she worked, but this is the closest hospital to her ZIP code (“Washington, Annie Bell”).

“First African Methodist Episcopal Church was only a fifteen minute walk from home…” According to Google Maps, First African Methodist Episcopalian was about a fifteen minute walk south from Washington’s ZIP code.

“One caught her attention: “Pastor Jim Jones, the most unique prophetic healing service you’ve ever witnessed!” From a copy of a Peoples Temple flyer advertising Jim Jones’ open-house preaching services and his “divine message of apostolic equality & restoration” in Los Angeles (“Flyer Advertising Peoples Temple Services”).

“…a new church, Peoples Temple, about two blocks past the cemetery.” The Los Angeles branch of Peoples Temple opened the weekend of September 3, 1972 on the corner of Alvarado and Hoover Streets, about a fifteen or twenty minute walk east from Washington’s ZIP code and twenty minutes northwest from the hospital (McGehee and Beck, “100 Events in History of Peoples Temple”).

“…she climbed the steps of the red brick building on the corner of a busy intersection, passing beneath the tall semicircle of Italian Romanesque arches, and into the cool body of the church.” Based on pictures and description in the building’s application to become a Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Monument (“Peoples Temple Christian Church”).

“Oh, she remembers this well, the first time she met Father. Not the Skygod, no, the real divine presence on Earth, Jim Jones.” In most sermons, Jones refers to the Christian God as the “Skygod,” in comparison with his own divine and benevolent presence on Earth (“Q1057-5 Transcript”).

“…a man to her left had his freshly plastered cast removed and began running circles around the church.” Jones orchestrated these miraculous healings through devious methods such as covertly sedating someone, binding their unbroken appendage in a cast, and “healing” them from a recent fall that “knocked them unconscious.” He was also known to dig through future attendees’ recycling to gather personal information from discarded documents, which would be psychically divined at a future sermon (Stuckart).

“…he’d make a heaven out of the hell that was this life the Skygod had condemned her people to.” Paraphrases and quotes from the sermon Annie first attended are from a transcript of an audiotape of a summer 1972 sermon in Los Angeles (“Q1057-5 Transcript”).

“…’ all God’s children gonna have shoes, and you’re gonna go away, gonna fly away up into heaven.’” Quote from transcript of “Q1057-5 Transcript”; lyrics are from “Going to Shout All Over God’s Heaven,” a traditional African American spiritual song inspiring hope of equality in heaven despite inequality on Earth.

“…a few more dollars went to the Temple, for their senior center (which she very much enjoyed) or the children’s program and for the new Temple overseas.” Temple members were pressured to donate increasing sums of money and time to the cult. Some ended up signing “Free Will Donation Cards,” which further tied them to the church by preventing them from ever receiving their donations back, even if they leave the group.

“In July of 1973, Annie got to speak at a meeting and tell them about Dad’s love.” A Peoples Temple member identified as Caroline Washington spoke and sang at this meeting, but no further records of her membership in the cult exist. Two other black, older women with the last name Washington were members in the cult, and of the two, Annie Bell sounds more reasonable as an incorrect transcription of the name (“Q357 Transcript”).

“’ I’m going to sing a song, ‘God is Real,’ but we’re gonna switch it up, because to me, Jim Jones is real. I’ll change the words to that.’” “Yes, God is Real” was a popular African American spiritual song by Kenneth Morris. Washington’s alternation of lyrics certainly speaks to her divine regard for Jones, who to her is like God, or even is God (“Q357 Transcript,” Djedje).

“…hundreds more had joined Peoples Temple in favor of racial and socioeconomic equality and to live in accordance with Dad’s loving teachings.” By the mid 70s, Peoples Temple membership had grown from an original 150 to about 3,000. Once it took root in urban areas around California, its racial makeup shifted from predominantly white to black, both due to local demographics and the appeal of its ideologies (Reiterman, 156).

“…packed up their luggage and supplies in wooden crates in the Temple parking lot.” The first members of Peoples Temple began moving to set up the commune in Guyana in 1974. Photographs document these pioneers packing up their belongings and shipping crates in the San Francisco location’s parking lot (McGehee and Beck).

“…she carefully packed and labeled three suitcases’ worth of her earthly belongings to shove in the underbelly of the bus to New York, then the plane across the Gulf down to Guyana.” Washington arrived in Jonestown on May 12, 1978 (“Washington, Annie Bell”). Emigrating members were limited to three pieces of luggage, and provided with recommended/required packing lists (“Guyana Packing Lists”).

“She settled into her assigned space, room A5 in Dorm 5…” Listed in official Peoples Temple records as Washington’s place of residence while in Jonestown (“Washington, Annie Bell”).

“…but any sign of inattentiveness or unenthusiasm prolonged the sermon further.” From multiple accounts of various White Nights (Reiterman, Alternative Considerations of Jonestown & Peoples Temple).

“…’ “we’re going to drink poison and kill ourselves.’” Direct quote from an account by Jonestown survivor Sharon Amos regarding the White Night on May 13, 1978 (Reiterman, 291).

“As a senior, Annie was not given a work assignment like the younger residents.” From Washington’s official membership records kept by Peoples Temple (“Washington, Annie Bell”).

“…radio recordings of Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, the Jackson 5, Aretha Franklin,  all the popular artists back in the States.” Some of many artists whose songs were recorded on tapes seized by the FBI after the Jonestown massacre.

“Even better was the music of their own band, the Jonestown Express, which performed covers and renditions of popular music as well as its own pieces.” Mentioned in the FBI tape index and all cited/consulted books on Jonestown, in various degrees of depth.

“Marthea Hicks, one of the main vocalists of the group, performed the Peoples Temple variation of ‘Abraham, Martin, and John.’” As sung by Marthea Hicks on tape Q365. “Abraham, Martin, and John,” originally a song by Dion, mourned the loss of prominent American civil rights leaders such as Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, and John F. Kennedy (“Q365 Transcript”).

“Have you seen Cuffy? Che Guevara? Steven Biko? Malcolm?” Cuffy: a Guyanese socialist revolutionary; Biko: a black South African journalism student killed by white law enforcement officers; Che Guevara and Malcolm (X) are more widely recognized.

“He invited himself down on the first of November, and showed up with a camera crew two weeks later, despite their protests.” Congressman Ryan and his delegation arrived in Jonestown on November 15, despite a written petition signed by over 600 residents against their visit (McGehee and Beck).

“The questions were just like the ones Father had prepared us with, and our answers worked perfectly… for the most part.” Jones held meetings to rehearse scripted answers with the community before most visits by prominent political and media figures. Documented on various tapes, including Q279, Q191, and Q049-1.

“Two people slipped a note to a reporter, saying they wanted to go back…” The two members, Vernon Gosney and Monica Bagby, identified themselves in the note (Reiterman, 511).

“…they could all go peacefully together and in revolutionary suicide.” From the infamous “Death Tape,” the tape recorded during the preparation and committal of the mass murder/suicide (“Q042 Transcript”).

“…coolers of Flavor-Aid, mixing in unmarked pills and stirring until the murky purple liquid sloshed over the side.” Contrary to the phrase “don’t drink the Kool-Aid” in reference to the Jonestown massacre, the community did not have name-brand Kool-Aid and instead used off-brand Flavor-Aid. It was mixed with potassium cyanide, which had been stockpiled for years in preparation, and various prescription drugs (“Q042”).

“’’It’s only a little bitter,’ Maria said, ‘they’re not crying out of any pain.’” Quote from the Death Tape, spoken by Jonestown loyalist Maria Katsaris and reiterated by Jones (“Q042”).

“…those who had drunk were vomiting, flailing, coughing up blood.” From medical accounts of FBI cleanup crew, survivors, and the Death Tape (“Q042”).

“Dad said any pain they felt while moving to the other side was less than they’d feel in two weeks, ten days, five more days in this world.” Paraphrased from Jones quote in the Death Tape (“Q042”).

“All who remain are the armed guards, waiting to defend those still living if the troops descend early.” These troops were not facing outwards to defend the Temple, but inwards– as ordered by Jones, to prevent escape and to shoot anyone who attempted to do so (“Q042”).

“In early December of 1978, #46-G is identified as Annie Bell Washington.” Per the FBI identifications of Jonestown victims (“Jonestown Part 46 of 287”).

Works Cited and Consulted