Mount Tamalpais College

Creative Writing

Papa Endured So I Could Live

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I could have died during childbirth, of pneumonia, by suicide, or by a police officer’s bullet. I was born a brown-skinned, brown-eyed, black-haired boy, with a white-skinned father and brown-skinned mother. Despite racism and socioeconomics, I survived for over fifty years thanks to my Papa. 

Papa was born into a well-heeled Spanish-Italian family in Peru. He was one of eight siblings–six boys and two girls. Papa attended college in Peru and again in the United States. All of his brothers – my uncles – earned doctorate degrees while Papa earned a master’s degree in engineering, the highest in his field. Papa was also an army lieutenant. It surprised me to learn that the World Book Encyclopedia, a U.S.-based source of information, identified Peru,  of all countries, as having some of the best-trained military officers in the world. Not just in South or Latin America–the world. 

All his life, Papa learned quickly, worked hard, and was not afraid of trying. However, his advanced degrees from Peru were not recognized, so he had to repeat his education in U.S. colleges. The only thing he could not overcome was his thick Spanish accent; white coworkers made fun of how he spoke English. Despite his white-ish skin, tech companies refused to promote my Papa because he was not an “American.” In the 1970s and 80s, he had to accept less pay for equal work compared to his white American coworkers. He had been warned that complaints of discrimination might be met with termination. 

With a young wife, four young children, and a mortgage, Papa could not afford to lose his job. Enduring humiliation to afford the mortgage payments and take care of his family was his way of protecting us and expressing his love – acts of service. Papa talked to me about drugs before so-called friends tried to induce me to try them. He convinced me that I was smart. He was there for me after I tried to take my own life during my adolescence. He advised me to stay away from gangs, which also kept me away from the police. During my incarceration, he worried about me.

My 2020 Christmas wish was to hug my Papa, but there were no in-person visits due to the pandemic. In a phone call, I told him that I loved him and missed him. The following week, on New Year’s Eve, he and Mom were hospitalized with COVID-19 and placed in separate rooms. Mom had always been crazy in love with Papa–they were inseparable. At the hospital, Papa kept asking for her. Mom survived but Papa passed away from COVID-19 pneumonia on January 15, 2021. I imagine he was in agony, alone, and worried about Mom. Before the pandemic, Papa’s sister and older brother had passed. COVID-19 took my other aunt and two more uncles. Papa died wanting to care and protect Mom – as he did for all of us.

Red Flag Journal #3: Two Tyrants

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Like many, I watched the accounts coming in from Ukraine, feeling horrified, outraged, anxious, and just sad. Contrary to Putin’s propaganda, the self-indulgent rhetoric looks less like a “special military operation” and more like a war of suppression on the humble, but proud. The Ukrainians are fighting with valor as they aggressively defend their right to self-determination.

On a macro level, Putin obviously has the national resources to export his character values  onto an ostensibly weaker, smaller, and accessible nation-state  In taking notes from the bully’s playbook, it is a ritual of a goon to find a host for their own pain, despair, and uncreative “power.” I watch the unfolding humanitarian crisis on the evening news and wonder what the ending will look like. Putin’s drama has been met with unyielding defiance: a predictable reaction of those who’ve had enough of people trying to make their world smaller through acts of dominance and control. The resistance has been inspiring. Who wouldn’t want to identify with this heroic, sacrificial, and resourceful brand of Hollywood-scale patriotism?

When I survey my past actions prior to my reformed attitude, I search for signs of valor, courage, and sacrifice. Can I relate to the Ukrainians’ unflinching dignity, the conviction to stand for something inherently meaningful? Would I put it all on the line in deference to the needs of others; hold life as a precious gift? I know the answer would’ve been a resounding no. 

Truthfully, I  share more characteristics with the tyrant. I recall the primal need to appear dominant, the need to maintain the image that I had it going on, the inappropriate overcompensating, the goofy swagger. I’d cross boundaries, grabbing more and more of my partner’s agency, colonizing their territory of self-esteem. I wasn’t the sovereign of a superpower, but my self-concept is relative, as I ruled my domestic environment like an autocrat. I rationalized my jerky entitlements; disregarding the sovereignty of my partners for the sake of my malevolent privilege. From the Kremlin to the living room in a home, how many aspirations, hopes, and dreams are overruled and ruined by insubordination toward fragile egos?  

I created collateral damage materially, psychologically, financially, and emotionally. I created false-flag operations demanding a standard I didn’t observe for myself, accusing them of straying while all along I was the disingenuous actor, for those I claimed as my possession. I sought to isolate them, cutting them off from more respectful, compassionate support networks that might embolden their voice. This dark logic isn’t as complicated as one may think. There are three basic dynamics of intimate partner violence. It has a repetitive cycle; the nature of this dynamic creates a connection where the abuser and the victim are bonded, not despite the violence; the violence and harassment escalate dangerously when the victim tries to leave and/or escape the relationship. I see my old self in these descriptions. But I also see tyranny and this helps me to interpret Putin’s mentality. Ukraine was getting too close to incorruptible democracy, Western values, and NATO. The jilted tyrant’s self-talk would include “you’re cheating on me…You’re about to leave me and we can’t have that.”

As the stereotypical ‘strongman’ dictator, from Central casting l, I postured not from a position of creative inner power, but brittle insecurities. Known outside influences were a challenge to my superpower of maximum governance. I differed from a caricature like  Putin in one aspect: he is short in stature, yet manipulates the optics to present himself as a BIG MAN. I’m a physically big guy, but I can acknowledge the wounded inner child who still feared the next blow. I demanded respect without giving it a fool’s errand destined to come home to roost. Now I sit isolated in this prison cell shaped by my choices. Deposed by irony. I’m on the wrong side of redemption. Sanctioned by criminal overreach. Sanctioned by life. Sanctioned by arrogance. The shelf life of a tyrant turns spoiled as reality exacts its dues.

I often imagine how my arc would’ve bent if I had made a connection to authentic power. What if I didn’t coerce loyalty, or love, but cultivated a personality worthy of love?

Red Flag Journal #2: Controlled

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I did not want to come to San Quentin. In fact, I tried to compromise the transfer. I was firmly, corruptly embedded at CMF Vacaville, making the best of an end-of-the-line kitchen job. At least at that prison, I could fade away like a trend. A poet once wrote, “one by one the sands are flowing,” which was reflective of my situation, as I watched the hourglass of hope drain into a chamber of self-loathing, shame, and guilt.

Once the counselor pronounced the finality of my involuntary transfer, I had the nerve to act indignant. I felt bullied, and I didn’t want to go…there. I was being dominated and forced to be uncomfortable. Oh, so this is what being controlled feels like. I may have taken comfort in the fiction of my victimization, but the irony that sometimes intersects with reality doesn’t forget to collect Karma’s premiums. I was a hypocrite. Prior to my life sentence and the seasons of consequences, I had made the dark discipline of controlling others an ideology that justified “power over” rather than “power with”. Feeling entitled to my male privilege, I needed to establish and sustain control over my romantic partners. I had to reign over these girlfriends who could defer to my ego and massage my brittle self-worth. In short, their malleability was essential. I co-opted their needs, values, and aspirations, and placed them in my personal tip jar of frenzied demands and self-indulgent expectations. I wasn’t noble. There was never a “we” in these partnerships, just a “me”.

The transfer to San Quentin isn’t the only example of humiliating capitulation and forfeited independence. It happens frequently in this sub-community as the days unfold: subtle indignities to significant prohibitions. Any resemblance to the agency is dubious or measured at best. We wake up every day on a rigid schedule of someone else’s choosing. I’m told when to go, where to eat when to shower, what to wear, and how to act. Come, stop, down (on the yard), halt, wait. There is no variety of choices in entities such as doctors, churches, exercise locations, eating establishments, or even friendships. You unquestionably take what is allotted and you like it. I got up this morning to eat another bland, unpredictable breakfast because the binary alternative is hunger. Positively, I defer to this institutional, no, patriarchal power. It is retributive, absolute, and undeniably authentic. It isn’t the infantile, cowardly, shallow form of power I exercised over my well-intentioned partners.

There was one warm summer evening in 1996, a day too nice to support the heated one-sided “argument” that I was having with my ex-girlfriend, K. I was drinking and angry, but these facts, or the context of my jealous rant, are flimsy rationalizations to cover-up inexcusable behavior. I was out of line and out of control. After K. claimed I never loved her, I set out to prove her truth wrong. Not in any loving way, I didn’t know much about that. But I knew about intimidation, coercion, and the insanity behind proving a negative. I gassed up my Maxima telling  K., “We’re going to Reno right now to get married,” with all of the crazy-eyed intensity I could muster. I made the dangerously impulsive decision to drive to Reno, hundreds of miles from our city, intoxicated, at midnight. I wouldn’t let her out of the car – she was livid, helpless, screaming, but mostly scared due to my reckless driving, which in itself was a form of abusive control. This wasn’t even close to a romantic gesture – more like a hostage situation, which is definitely familiar all these years in hindsight. 

When the “we” that was “me” arrived in Reno, I was starting to sober up while simultaneously rethinking my fool’s errand and over-the-top pride. I then became apologetic, remorseful, sheepish even. How weird is the lifestyle of an abuser? I ran the spectrum from a forced wedding to the awkward hollowness of the honeymoon stage, accompanied by its  “I’m sorry” and tears, all while corrupting the meaningfulness of these traditionally gentle,  collaborative institutions. After I drove K home, she rightfully reported me to the police, as I had unlawfully transported her where she didn’t want to go.

K. did right, not just for herself but for me, in calling the authorities since, without major catastrophic social or legal consequences, abusers usually won’t check their distorted belief systems under their own willpower. I was out of control, and undisciplined, normalizing our unhealthy dynamic. Unless something catastrophic interrupts the process I’d learn nothing from my mistakes, unwilling to search my soul or develop a conscience. 

This process is called the cycle of violence. It consists of these stages: tension building, acute explosion, and honeymoon. During the tension-building phase, the battery could nitpick, yell, threaten, criticize, become passive-aggressive, or increasingly jealous. The victim may respond with an attempt to calm their partner, silence, talkative, agreeable, a mutual provocation to incite the explosion, or a general feeling of walking on eggshells. While this isn’t a comprehensive list, my jealous rant characterizes this stage. 

Next is the acute explosion, the blow-up, which could mean hitting, choking, rape, use of weapons, humiliation, destroying property, or beating designed to punish or teach a lesson. My false imprisonment of K would fit in this category. The victim protects themselves as best they can, trying to reason with or calm the abuser; or the police are called by the victim, children, or a neighbor. 

Finally, there is the honeymoon stage, where the abuser is on their best behavior (just like at the beginning of the courtship). They are full of “I’m sorry’s”, “forgive me’s”, and love bombing with declarations of love, gifts, tears, and promises to get help, attend Church, or AA. They say they’ll never do it again, and may believe that until the next time. The victim may agree to stay in this trap, setting up counseling appointments, attempting to stop legal proceedings, or taking the abuser back. The abuser makes grand gestures, the victim feels happy or hopeful, but something will pop off (again) and the abuser will take the victim places they don’t want to go. 

There are those that would expect me to feel bad just because I’m in prison. I can’t deny this is justice: the seeds of oppression I planted in the world demanded reaping and harvesting. I made cruel choices, so the state has placed me in this warehouse of purgatory until I can figure out uncruelty; ‘til I can respect the social contract until I can align myself with society’s wishes until the ‘ME’ becomes ‘WE’.

I didn’t want to come to San Quentin, but I’m subordinate to the authority of the state. Such is the ethos of legitimate, authentic control. Last night I was told by the staff to get off the phone. I felt checked, harassed, disenfranchised, bossed, and helpless. I desperately want forgiveness from K., from society. But I know this grace would be a gift and not under my control. 

Red Flag Journal #1: Gaslighting: The Effects of Economic Abuse

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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?

Social Distancing: Then and Now

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In March of 2020, San Quentin State Prison had an outbreak of Covid-19. Social distancing was the first line of defense against the virus. Social distancing seems to work for the public, who stayed in their homes; they worked from their home and at the same time safeguarded their community. A spacious environment is ideal for combating the coronavirus. There is a big debate over the Government telling people what to do and when to do it, but people had no problem following social distancing protocol. 

There was a mandate for all residents at San Quentin State prison to social distance. The question is how you can social distance in an overcrowded prison. To manage the health care of incarcerated people against COVID-19, it requires more than what was done. The prison has had problems with viruses, and other outbreaks. After three months had gone by, prison officials started to move its residents to different parts of the prison. Prison Industry Authority workshops were cleared out and turned into makeshift dormitories. Tents were set up on the main exercise yard so that people could be housed there. The thing about dorms and tents there was still no social distancing because there were too many people in the dorms. If you have a prison facility built for a limited capacity, and then you succeed in that capacity, that is too many bodies in one area. Social distance was good for the public, but not an overcrowded prison. San Quentin is a very old prison dating back to the 1800’s, its original design was for less than half the people housed in it today. 

The prison remained in social distance protocol for about a year. The virus had become minimal so the social distancing was working. The housing unit was 80% single cell occupancy. The prison even transferred a number of the incarcerated to other facilities within California. Therefore, when there were less people in area design occupancy, social distancing worked. However, after all the social distancing, COVID-19 infections seemed to be minimal. In mid-2021, the prison went back to regular programming. The residents at the prison filed Writs of Habeas Corpus in Marin County Superior Court, based on deliberate indifference. The residents watched the court proceedings via zoom. The prison authorities began to double-occupy all cells once again. In January of 2022, the virus was back; all the programs were suspended at San Quentin, in April of 2022, a little over two years after the original outbreak. The cells in West Block and North Block were at full double bunk capacity, and then there was another outbreak. Once again, the prison failed to adequately fight the virus because of its eagerness to hold on to overcrowding. 

Today the virus is still present. Busses are still coming into San Quentin, increasing the population. Prior to the pandemic, a Federal Three Judge Panel said, overcrowding causes inadequate healthcare, and assigned Federal receivership to oversee CDCR medical responsibilities. Some of our friends did not make it through the first or the second outbreak, how many more lives can we lose? Is there any concern within California’s Justice System for the incarcerated healthcare, or is there a systematic disregard for the life of prisoners?

Graduation Day

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Today was a day that I can only describe as a magical day of celebration. I have conferred an Associate of Arts degree from the recently accredited institution named Mount Tamalpais College. The campus is within the walls of California’s San Quentin State Prison, and I am an incarcerated person. 

I believe that there is a direct correlation between my being expelled during the first week of high school and being incarcerated. At 14 I was expelled for smoking pot before class began. Because of an abusive stepfather, I did not return home that day. Instead, I ran away from home and never did return. I was in prison for five years for bank robbery.

While in federal prison I earned a GED with little effort and witnessed others in the class who were sleeping or writing letters earn theirs as well. My social and problem-solving skills were shaped more by simply surviving day-to-day, than by any concept of the future. My behaviors were based on what I could do in the moment to quell or quiet the fear and foreboding I always felt. My world was small and I was the center of it. This needed to change.

I decided to return to school while serving my third term of incarceration. By this time I was 54 years old and had been in 11 different prisons in five different states. My coping skills amounted to an easy way and a hard way. I was careless, apathetic, and dangerous. But I wanted to be a good person and hoped going to college would show me what that looked like.

My hopes were realized in spades by enrolling in the Prison University Project here at San Quentin. My social and problem-solving skills were expanded and constructed altruistically.  The community became the center of my world to which I became a contributor. My world expanded into teachers, tutors, cohorts, and conversations of understanding. I learned to ask for help and to help when asked. I made honest and open connections with family and new friends. I was taught to teach and love enough to love others. 

I learned that stepping out of my comfort zone broadened my comfort zone. I learned the joy of understanding others is greater than being understood. I learned to succeed and to enjoy the success of others. 

On graduation day I found friends in everyone present. My niece and her family traveled 1,000 miles to spend less than three hours watching me walk across the stage in a cap and gown. The magic of that day was that after running away from home at 14, I felt as if I had finally come home after 48 years!

There were so many people who were responsible for putting the event together that it is impossible to thank them all. But, if anyone is wondering if they are making a difference, I want them to know that they already have. Thanks to Mount Tamalpais College, Warden Broomfield, and my family, I am no longer a careless, apathetic and dangerous person. I am remorseful, empathetic, and a contributing member of my community. I am a good person. 

I wrote this with an immense sense of joy and thankfulness. I hope you accept your part in my transformation due to education. Going through life not being able to name things kept me confused. Education allowed me to recognize, organize, measure, hypothesize, experiment, and adjust.

Education gave me tools and explained how to use them to find my balance and voice. It is a great relief to not be the center of my world. It’s also with great relief that I know more than just an easy or hard way to find a solution to life’s challenges. Getting an education in prison is going to keep me from returning.

Being a third striker proves that I did not have the capability before. I’ll not be coming back to prison because I have already moved so far forward. Thank you for keeping the opportunity alive to earn a college degree in prison. 

Time to Go

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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!

My Name is Gibson

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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

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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

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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.