Creative Writing

When San Quentin was on lockdown in the Spring of 2022 because of the pandemic, I searched for ways to keep learning, healing, and unraveling my distorted, yet, entrenched belief system. In the absence of live self-help groups, I turned to the PREP correspondence courses that focus on various aspects of personal development including criminal thinking, insight, victim awareness, anger management, and domestic violence.

As I progressed through the lessons that arrived in the mail, a question from the domestic violence module gave me pause, causing me to dig deeper into my past motivations. The question posed was, “Do you think psychological abuse is more devastating than physical?” After much soul-searching, I answered in the affirmative with confidence and clarity. These years of incarceration have allowed me to educate and enlighten myself on the many subtleties, nuances, pathologies, and intentions behind intimate partner violence.

I recognize that physical abuse is an arrestable offense, which carries legal, as well as social consequences. Yet, this doesn’t make psychological abuse any less reprehensible, uncivilized, or devastating. It is certainly an assault on a victim’s humanity, dignity, well-being, and self-esteem. These kinds of wounds linger and fester long after the scars from a physical attack fade away. It is a shameful reality that I’ve employed these tactics of wanton mental abuse without truly owning my cruel objectives to tear my partner down so that she was easier to control and manipulate.

In the final days of our marriage, as I perceived the balance of power shifting toward J’s favor, I grew increasingly panicky, unsettled, resentful, and desperate. I was restless, as I drove around bringing on my dark, but unfounded self-pity. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way! One entitlement of male privilege says I have a right not to feel hopeless or defeated. As J. slipped away, as my containment strategies failed, as I avoided processing my true feelings, my irrational instinct was to reach into my toolbox for a solution. Unfortunately, it has historically been a shallow, unhelpful resource because it only held two tools: impulsivity and violence.

I once saw a movie titled, Gaslight, where a husband deceives his wife by causing the gaslights in the home to dim and flicker. When his wife complains, he assures her that she imagines things, he is certainly not playing games with the lights! His dishonesty was breathtaking and while his offenses were nonphysical, his dismissive attitude, denials, minimalizations, and condescension were abusive in nature. I’m as guilty as this fictional husband because I too was gaslighting J., manufacturing her reality: “crazy-making”.

I chose the tactic of the shared household income and J’s insecurities. I cut her off, restricting her access to funds and resources, which I knew carried the means of her independence and plans for a future that didn’t include me. My selfish withholding scheme was designed to cultivate her reliance on me and restore my sense of power and control. My petty methods, while lacking integrity, held a certain disgraceful logic. 

As our marriage faded, J’s priority remained where it had always been – keeping a roof over our three daughter’s heads. She wanted a (better) bigger life for her girls – much more than the chaos, dysfunction, and brokenness of her own inconsistent childhood. I exploited this intimate knowledge; thereby, advancing my cause, handing her a script of financial access, promising independence, changes, equality, and even an amicable separation. But my assurances were merely the equivalent of flickering lights. 

Instead of making decisions that would honor everyone’s dignity, I trusted that J. would mute her own personal survival instinct for a greater good: hope for her daughter’s well-being and a consistent, unbroken family. Yet, this weave of false security was thick smoke and crooked mirrors. The irony is that I was more scared, frustrated, and hurt than J. I saw another failure, defeat, and shame – a loss I couldn’t withstand with grace. Before this crisis, I wasn’t even a family man, I was just a man who happened to have a family. Now I had the nerve to want to fight\ and protect the institution of marriage, an idea  I had betrayed and shown nothing but contempt for.

There is a secret to unimaginative patriarchy. Spoiler alert: it’s a house of cards. I was the dependent one, but I disguised my man-child status behind a bluff, denial, machismo, and ultimately, acute rage. I was threatened by J’s inner strength, prudence, and level of responsibility which stood in sharp contrast to my selfishness, weakness, and possessiveness. Yet, in the spirit of a gaslighter, I denied I feared abandonment, and that I couldn’t hold my own hand and emerge from a life challenge operating in the best interest of J’s boundaries.

I think about this PREP question, “Do you think psychological abuse is more devastating than physical?”, and its dubious qualification, since all abuse is devastating and immoral. As these assignments tend to do, they bring to mind an unfair question that misses the point behind my tragic choices. It shouldn’t be, why didn’t J. just leave? No, the better question is, why didn’t I just let her go?

It has been a long time coming. I have been incarcerated since August 15, 2017, and all praise due to God, I left San Quentin State Prison on August 9, 2022.

This has not been an easy five years. I’ve lost close to 12 people during that time of incarceration and one of those 12 people, I couldn’t understand why it happened.

I’ve lost the man who raised me to heart failure three years ago, but I still can’t fathom the loss.

I have been through one institutional lockdown and five COVID lockdowns. I was here when we lost over 30 people to COVID-19 and all I could think was “I’m next.” 

Through it all, Mount Tamalpais College (formally known as the Prison University Project) has been a saving grace.

This release from prison is bittersweet. I’m overjoyed to be leaving prison, but leaving people behind still gets to me. 

For those I’m leaving behind, I will become something and fight for prison reformation. I will change the stigma placed on incarcerated people and the narrative of how we are viewed.

Mark my words, you have not heard the last of Quincy Q. Paige, also known as Journ-E Tha Premier. I have recently been offered a job working as a  sound engineer.

I owe a lot to MTC for believing in me and showing me my value. I would love to extend my deepest gratitude to my English professor who always pushed me to dig a little deeper. I guess me being successful would be the outcome to her teachings and mentorings.

I want to shed light on my therapist for telling me to be a turtle and showing me what it means to be a turtle. A turtle slows down and takes things as they come, and a turtle also takes his home “comfort” with him everywhere he goes.

So to all: be a turtle!

Following my conviction, I did criminal law research and I could not find where my humanity was stripped away like a passport, as a condition of bail. Rahsaan Thomas wrote the article, “How I Convinced my Peers to Make Language a Priority”. Thomas wishes to change the language used to reference incarcerated people by the media. Some people, including Thomas, believe that words such as “inmate” say that you are someone who is undeserving of compassion or empathy and have no worth. Thomas has valid points, which I agree with; however, I do not believe that words such as inmate, convict, or prisoner alone are the cause of our dehumanization. 

In the article, he discusses a piece he read about an “inmate” firefighter who should be compensated for his hazardous work. But, Thomas argues, the choice of wording undermines the argument. The writer is championing him while using the label “inmate”, which says he has no value.

Thomas makes other valid points about how language can be used to dehumanize a group of people. As he points out in another example of an instance when doctors coerced incarcerated women into being sterilized. The women were “inmates” and “criminals” and that translated to worthlessness to the doctors and staff involved. What was done to those ladies was no different than spaying or neutering a pet. There are also the prison guards who use the words “inmate” or “convict” to desentize themselves from those they guard. The emotional detachment allows them to separate or feel superior to the imprisoned men and women.

Thomas makes a great case about how “inmate, convict, and prisoner” are used to dehumanize and keep all those incarcerated under one umbrella. Arguably, “criminal” may be the most unfavorable of all the labels, because it’s used outside prison walls. But, how did this language gain its power?

There are some people who do not know their value and have resigned themselves to being “criminals”. I was one of those people. I acted the part and fit the stereotype. Yet, my humanity was not taken, but lost, when I stopped being compassionate, empathetic, or showing kindness to others. When I found myself and learned to emotionally connect with others, my humanity began its return.

It does not matter what labels are used to describe men and women in prison. They are but words. It’s our actions and beliefs that determine who we are. “Inmate, convict” or “prisoner” can not dehumanize us without our help. Thomas’ argument that language can be used to be harmful and degrading to the incarcerated are all true and he makes some great points. However, we give those words their power through our beliefs and actions. 

When I have had encounters with prison guards who use the word inmate as though it’s something dirty, my reaction is always the same: I tell them my name is Gibson.

Purple, green, and blue lights can be seen shining from the Catholic Chapel in San Quentin, and there’s only standing room to enter.

The celebratory sounds of clapping, yelling, laughter and cries bellow through the night air as more people push themselves through crowded bodies blocking the double doors of the Chapel hall. 

To understand where the name OpenLine comes from, first, you need to understand two important events at San Quentin: Open Line and Open Mic. 

You may know OpenLine as a journal of student literature published by Mount Tamalpais College, including both print editions and the online version you’re reading now. The editors and students chose the name OpenLine back in 2008, in reference to “a window of time during which general population inmates at San Quentin may meet with their counselors or go to the canteen without a pass or prior permission.” 

In other words, the word Open Line means having unimpeded access to privileges simultaneously as others. The name has been around the California prison system for quite some time.   

As former student Chuck Hopple said, the content inside of these journals represents “Access to information, or conversation, which not only allows the hearing but also the ability to be heard.” 

Most of OpenLine’s content, artwork, and literature was performed on a stage during an event called Open Mic. Mount Tamalpais College hosts the annual tradition of Open Mic which is usually held after Christmas. Open Mic events are creativity meeting ambition.

Scott McKinstry and Bruce Fowlers’ artwork hangs on the Chapel walls, Smithonianworthy. David Jassy would sometimes perform his songs “Freedom” or “If These Walls Could Talk” at Open Mic events. 

Former student Curtis H. Roberts said, “OpenLine to me is like an open mic night where anybody could get up and sing or do whatever.”

The line to get up on stage would grow rapidly as the crowd eagerly awaits what is always a surprise, not knowing what to expect from the incarcerated community. 

A sharp gasp turns heads, and an echo of laughter erupts through the crowd, but eventually, the quiet crack of a voice brings a somber silence and tears trickling.

Emound Johnson said “It’s been a long time since I’ve cried! I have kept all the pain inside” in his poem Stubborn Eyes of Mine. 

Some men express emotions through performances as they scream, kick, yell, and punch at the air. Others crack jokes on stage to hide their something behind laughter.

Simon Woodard, an on-site program coordinator for Mount Tamalpais College (then called the Prison University Project) between 2013-2016, wrote the introduction in 2016 OpenLine: “Open Mic is a celebration of rich eclecticism and mutual support that strengthens the vibrant learning community at San Quentin.” 

One of eighteen individuals who performed at the Open Mic on December 26th, 2014, Richard Lathan wrote, “I chose to perform this at open mic because I can feel the pain of losing someone that I love so dearly.” 

Richard was referring to the children of Sandy Hook Elementary School in this poem called, “Ascending to Heaven.”

When traumatic events occur like Sandy Hook and Robb Elementary School, how should one grieve in isolation where there is no emotional support even from our own society?

Richard, like others, is physically and not emotionally disconnected from what is considered the free world.

OpenLine and Open Mic provide a space to connect and grieve with a community of open-minded people with infinite possibilities who refuse to be confined.

In March 2020, the world seemed like it shut down. Shelter in place orders around the world confined citizens to their houses except for essential work or to get groceries. As prisoners, we did not think that our living conditions could get any worse and we were unsure how the shelter in place orders were going to affect us. All of our information about the outside world was coming from network television.

As people in the outside world began to get sick, so did people inside San Quentin. Prisoners began to get transferred from their cells to different parts of the prison in an attempt to spread us out. People deemed at “high risk” from COVID complications due to their advanced age were transferred to cells instead of dormitories, collectively known as H-unit, some prisoners were transferred to live in the prison gymnasium. The administration’s objective was to bring the population down in each housing unit without actually releasing people. This caused a whole avalanche of subsequent problems.

Our daily lives in H-unit changed drastically. None of us really knew what was going to happen from day to day, so we all just went along with what prison officials told us to do. We had to wear our masks twenty four hours a day. The only time we were allowed to not have our masks on were when we were sleeping, eating, or at our bunks. First we were given orange cloth masks, which were made by state prisoners, then we had patterned cloth masks which were donated to the prison, then we had n95 masks, then we had surgical masks. Policies and protocols were constantly changing. Our communication with other prisoners was limited. Everything we did was contained within our own housing unit. All movement by prisoners was restricted throughout the prison, even though correctional officers would regularly travel between housing units, acting as potential vectors for COVID.

As they started shifting the prisoners to different cells and different dorms, we started paying more and more attention to the news. We started seeing how more and more people were contracting this deadly disease outside of the prison walls. Hospitals were being overwhelmed and people were dying everywhere. 

Prison officials were overwhelmed due to an outbreak at a prison in Southern California, and instead of releasing prisoners from that overcrowded prison, they transferred a busload of prisoners to our already overcrowded prison. With that bus, came COVID. Prisoners started catching the disease everywhere. It became so bad that it began to scare prisoners who hadn’t caught it yet, and it terrified the prisoners who already had it. Just hearing someone cough or sneeze caused anxiety for those in the vicinity. It’s not that we didn’t want to follow social distancing guidelines, but that we couldn’t. We were locked in an overcrowded, confined space. COVID 19 had finally landed front and center, the number one problem in the world had finally breached the walls of San Quentin.

Inmates here were being checked for healthy temperatures and oxygen levels several times a day. We were checked so often that it became tedious, yet we still had to succumb to the tests. We didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Like I said before, things were new to us. Even the way we ate. We did not even travel to the chow hall to eat. Instead, our food was brought to our building, but at one point, COVID was so widespread that the prison could not staff the kitchen which prepares our food. The administration compensated by giving us boxed lunches with crackers and bologna. It was so bad that after several days, we decided to protest. We refused to eat and threw our lunches in the middle of the common room. Once we started, all of the housing units were doing it and the conditions here made it on the local news. Before you knew it, we were getting catered food from the streets and it tasted pretty damn good. That lasted for a few weeks.

You want to hear something ironic? Here in San Quentin’s H-unit, a separate dormitory unit in San Quentin, COVID somehow never reached us, no prisoners living in the dormitories got sick even though virtually every prisoner living in cell housing contracted COVID. Matter of fact, it seemed like for over a year no one even sneezed or coughed here in H-unit. We were wondering when it was coming to H-unit. We weren’t wondering if we were going to get sick, but when we were going to get sick.

How could so many people get sick around the prison, but it never hit H-unit? It was almost like a miracle.

Here at San Quentin everybody was so scared when the nurses came around almost demanding that we be vaccinated against COVID-19. For several days, I wondered if I should take the shot. By this time there were so many people around San Quentin who had been sick that I felt I had to. The shot that I took was Moderna shot and for some reason I thought that was the only dose I was going to have to take. Two weeks later I had to take another one, which made me sore for almost a week. All in all I think it helped because I haven’t been sick since.

Two years later, the emergency in prisons is supposedly over. The big scare has died down, as society, both inside and outside of the prison, is faced with coexisting with this diseaseNow I sit here in San Quentin, and the administration is trying to put everything back together. Remember how they tried to disperse us? Well now they’re trying to bring the population back. Prison officials are trying to stuff more inmates into our already overcrowded prison just like it was before the pandemic.

Not only has COVID changed the prison system, but the whole world around it has changed too. Now people are asking how we survived COVID in prison. From an inmate’s perspective, how did COVID survive us?

I’m writing this to tell you that I am one of those inmates that never caught COVID, and I’ve never felt better in my life. It’s kind of ironic that I’ve been wearing a mask for over two years, but I must say that I haven’t been sick in over two years. So, I am a strong believer that the more you’re masked up, the more chances you have of avoiding this deadly disease.

To My Dearest,

I’m writing to you with some mind-boggling realizations and some helpful information on the COVID-19 epidemic: worldwide and heading your way. Francesca Melandri, an Italian novelist, wrote “A Letter to the U.K.” about what she knew of our future while living amidst the onslaught of COVID-19. Between Melandri and myself we will relate to you “our” struggles in hopes of preparing you for the precautions you’ll need to deal with COVID-19 and as Melandri puts it that “will completely take charge of your life as you know it”.

Melandri notes, “she is but a few steps ahead of me in the path of time” COVID-19 time. The Italians are being told to lock themselves inside their houses. You’ll have many questions: Will you be able to keep your job and work from home or will you lose it? Schools will be closing. Children will have on-line schooling from home. Yes, children will be home 24-7 and if they’re teenagers, good luck! And she makes sure to emphasize that with this lockdown, there will be plenty of time to eat.

You will be told that “society is united in a communal effort, that you are all in the same boat!” But you will be sailing your own boat and arguing with those who say it’s only a cold or it’s the flu. Your social life will be put on hold. Although with cell phone in hand it will be non-stop “on-line” apps, Zoom, Skype! After you do all that, you’ll most likely eat again. 

Melandri paints me such a beautiful picture: “We turn our gaze to the distant future unknown to you and to us too. When all of this is over the world will not be the same.” You cannot travel to see your adult children and grandkids, you’re scared to go shopping alone, rules to venture outside will be made. And since she is in Italy informing me of what she knows of my future with COVID-19, she warns that “she is just small-scale fortune-telling.” Off to the kitchen to eat again.

So, here I am in California State Prison San Quentin with COVID-19 knockin’ at the gates. One day we’re goin’ about daily routines exercising in the yard, education classes, library when I turned around and masks were being handed out to everyone with instructions to wear them over the nose and mouth. With them came lockdown. To the cells we went. No more yard, no school, no more, period! COVID-19 has arrived and taken over. I believe this is the realization Melandri was warning about. So, while I mull this over I’ll eat again.

With COVID-19 raising its deadly head and taking over the prison, the sports field has turned into a MASH unit, a tent city for quarantine. Medical performing COVID tests on all inmates and staff. I contracted COVID, which lasted about a week (I’m so grateful that I’ve been tobacco free for seven years) and didn’t attack my lungs. Most correctional officers also had COVID and in the cities around us, hospitals are full with COVID patients. We can still order from the canteen once a month; my order just got filled, time to eat once again.

We learned quickly to live with this nightmare. Rules became daily rituals: never forget your mask, hand washing, sanitizing your cell, and social distancing. A few school and college courses went to correspondence, some privileges returned such as phone usage, outdoor time, showers. It’s now a year’s time and gradually we began to overcome and get back some sort of normalcy. Medical and dental began making appointments and testing swabs are still up your nose. We’re gaining an upper hand on COVID. More and more of the population here are vaccinated. I believe we are on our way; always with a mask. Shall we eat again? 

I do hope my letter is in your hand before COVID-19 is. Melandri’s letter was a heads-up awakening for me. Hopefully between the two of us, you should have a head start with taking on COVID-19 with an understanding. It’s not a weekend cold, but a serious respiratory infection wreaking havoc on the populations, both sexes, all nationalities, hitting the old with deadly force, but for now sparing the young children. Start preparing, so I may see your heart-warming smile again!

Love,

Dad

p.s. In the basement cabinets with my vinyl L.P. records and VHS tapes is Jane Fonda’s complete set of work-out tapes. You’ll need them for all the “eating” you’ll do when you’re locked up in the house for a year!