Creative Writing

My Name is Gibson

July 12, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

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.

OpenLine

June 28, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

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.

COVID 911

June 2, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

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.

A Letter From and For Your Future

May 23, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

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!

Mourning Our Losses

May 4, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

Two years ago, in spring of 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic changed life as we know it and ushered in a period of acute trauma for the residents at San Quentin and their loved ones. Within the first few months of the pandemic, 75% of the population became infected, hundreds became seriously ill, and 28 died. In honor of the two year anniversary of this horrific time, we are publishing a series of writings from students reflecting on the COVD pandemic.

In December of 2019, the coronavirus began to sweep across our world, like a dark shadow slowly eclipsing our planet. With this unknown shadow came shock waves of fear that rippled through every community, one after another. We all questioned the fate of humanity, whether openly or in secret. Our questions evidence a deep seeded fear that we all felt, and still feel, whether expressed or unexpressed.

But, for those of us considered to be in a state of ill repute, enclosed within the death traps that are American prisons, our fears were heightened ten times over. As a California prisoner, I was only able to watch news reports of what was happening from my prison cell in San Quentin; and catch snippets regarding the dire situation from conversations with volunteer staff that frequent the prison from the community. None of what I observed on television, or learned from those conversations foretold, or would prepare me for the situation that was to come.

The disease marched rapidly across our planet devouring all in its path. Like nothing anyone had ever seen before. At first, even though I (by skin complexion, ethnicity, and prisoner status) am undesirable in the structure of the American system, my fear invoked this attitude of American exceptionalism. Backed up by Trump’s misguided denials and misinformation, I found myself saying “that’s happening to those other people; it (the disease) will never hit ‘US.’ Our scientists will find a cure.” This illusion lasted only a moment.

On May 30, 2020, the disease hit San Quentin like an atomic bomb. A fear like I had never known before swept over me and the entire institution. It was palpable. I could taste it. I could feel it. It was all around me, thick like Jell-0. Making my fears worse, there was complete silence from those prison officials who were supposed to be in the know—prison administrators, doctors, and staff. No one relayed information to those of us trapped within these walls. It was like being handcuffed and-blindfolded on a shooting range—Covid being the marksman and bullet. You hear people being struck all around you, and you think to yourself if someone would just tell me which way to turn, to run, to duck, something, I could save myself. However, no warnings came. The only thing left for me to do was stay still, make myself as small as possible, and pray.

On June 23, 2020, my worst fears were realized, I was struck by COVID. I was placed in the hole under the auspices of quarantine. There I sat for 60+ days alone struggling to cope with what was happening to me. No smell, no taste, struggling to breathe, every moment wondering, is this where my life ends. In that dusty, smelly cell (not legally big enough for a dog), I believed I would breathe my last breath. It may have been because of fate, a higher power, or just pure dumb luck; I survived, but not unscathed. I, like so many others, have tried to resume life as though nothing has happened, as though the events of the last two years are a common everyday occurrence. As though I was bigger than the event. But, knowing better and having learned from the explosion which led me to attempt to murder another human being, I know unprocessed trauma is a fuse leading to an explosion. I know the events I have just survived traumatized me, and if I don’t admit and acknowledge that trauma, it will explode.

In the weeks and months since improving from COVID and being released from the hole, I feel the buildup of old pressures: agitation, animosity, anger, and negative feelings toward people for no reason and from a source unknown. This I know to be signs of trauma for me. I know if left unchecked this trauma will come out in other areas of my life and most likely in self-destructive ways.

As I look around my prison yard, I see the same signs of trauma in others that I see in myself. The only difference being, very few know the origins of what they feel, why they feel it, or what to do about it. Understanding this mounting pressure of trauma, I know there is an explosion to come. Whether there will be many small explosions or one giant explosion, I cannot predict. One thing is for sure though: there will be an explosion if our trauma is left unacknowledged and unchecked.

The knowledge of my own trauma and how it has played out in my past is what motivated me to commit my all to the “Mourning Our Losses” event held in November 2021 to memorialize those we lost to COVID. I know the first, and perhaps most important step in healing from any form of trauma is admitting that hurt, fear, and uncertainty is threatening my sense of security. To pretend to be unaffected by a situation like COVID is a recipe for disaster. Without serious professional help for everyone, especially those of us trapped within these walls during COVID, suffering will be the consequences of our failure, for us and our communities.

Acknowledging and mourning what we have lost to COVID as a community, is essential to a healthy processing of this unprecedented event. I believe it to be my duty to contribute my all to establishing a healthy community. My participation in the “Mourning Our Losses” event was, for me, a small step in that direction.

Perhaps this event, put on by a handful of people in blue, will spark a larger movement both on the inside and in the community to speak about the trauma that COVID has brought; and produce a resolute commitment to mourn and heal as a community. (Read more about Mourning Our Losses.)

Photo Courtesy of San Quentin News

On Resilience: Aaron Kurtis Mikkelsen

January 25, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

As 2021 — another challenging year, especially for the incarcerated community— came to a close, we invited students to reflect on the idea of resilience. The below essay was written as part of that series, which was shared as part of our end-of-year fundraising campaign.

You Can Too

by Aaron Kurtis Mikkelsen

I am asked to talk about resilience and what that means to me, but that is almost like describing a color when you haven’t seen it before. Resilience is “to withstand” by definition, but it doesn’t tell the entirety of what it means to “be” resilient. In my lifetime I have experienced many struggles. I may fit the description of the definition of resilience, but from where I stand under lock and key with my past of pain, if I did “withstand” my struggles, why did I continue this legacy of trauma? If resilience is just living scared under your bed sheets, if living is just on the whims of the monster in the closet, did I ever truly live? How does dust withstand under the mortar and pestle, crushed and ground further to be groomed fine powder?

After all I’ve suffered, resilience to me was not bowing my head to live, but now years later to speak out when specters of the past rear their ugly heads.

Now, I am resilient, to withstand those specters when they resurface.

Now, I am resilient, to look those specters in the eye and tell them no.

Now, I am resilient, because I know who I am and I can love me for me.

And you can too.

On Resilience: Ray Ray

January 25, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

Resilience Is My Family

by Ray Ray

During the year of the pandemic, resilience didn’t exist. The pandemic was the most traumatic experience I went through. My entire family was exposed to COVID, and this gave me so much anxiety, because I was already expecting the worst. Then, the worst came. My mom and dad were getting worse, the chance of living was zero percent – that’s what I was telling myself. I was afraid that my greatest fear would come true: losing my parents while in prison.

That’s when I started to doubt my beliefs in my life and religion. Why do my parents have to suffer? Why not me? Sadly, this self-reflection of myself led me to doubt my existence on this earth.

I was on the verge of committing suicide, because my family is all that I have left. However, it was like God heard my cry for the first time. On that same day, I received three letters from Mount Tamalpais College, Humans of San Quentin, and Marin Shakespeare. They don’t understand how they saved my life, saved me from myself. It showed me that my true resilience comes from the people who love and believe in me. If I didn’t have support or people who are loyal to me, I know I wouldn’t be here. I will forever be faithful and supportive towards Mount Tamalpais College, Marin Shakespeare, and Humans of San Quentin. Thanks to God, my family is doing better.

No matter what we went through during the pandemic and in life, we always find a way to come together without seeing the difference in others, but rather seeing the equality and the strength in each other. We are one race, the human race. As long as we have a support network, and family that believes in us, we can survive any crisis.

I love y’all. Thank you!

On Resilience: Carl Raybon

January 25, 2022 by Mt. Tam College

by Carl Raybon

Early in life I assumed everyone suffered the same challenges I experienced: alcoholic parent, absent parent, witnessing domestic violence in the home, feelings of hopelessness, insecurity, abandonment, low self-esteem, etc. (just to name a few!). While I managed to survive and live to the age I am now (57), I did not make the connection to how resilient I am. I was showing resilience by surviving, using the skills and techniques I employed to combat the dysfunctional conditions I was limited to. Skills that served me, no matter how damaging they would, ultimately, prove to be.

Today, I have come to see life in a different light, and in that, in the morning when I rise, my outlook on life is to be the best representation of what honesty, open-mindedness, acceptance, and willingness to treat others as I wish to be treated looks like.

Resilience is enduring and maintaining a sense of being through the challenges, shortcomings, and expectations of others that can deter me from accomplishing any goals or endeavors I wish to achieve. Even if that is just taking life one day at a time. It is the optimism generated from resilience that encourages me to never give up, because I have, indeed, experienced consequences and circumstances that I believed I would not live through, but I did and I learned from those situations. The quality of life I am now aware of allows me the presence of being to share with others what it means to be resilient during times of uncertainty and moments of crisis.