Mount Tamalpais College

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Fatherhood

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Growing up in the 80s, in a culture forever changing, the challenges of fatherhood took on new meaning. Generational belief systems told my father to conform to the toxic masculinity and male role belief systems of the past. Manhood meant that expressing emotion displayed weakness. But in all truth, as fathers, this ‘weakness’ can be our greatest strength. 

My father was present, but was overcome by the pressure to keep my grandfather’s business ventures above water while still maintaining a healthy home life. Shame and repression of emotion drove my father to the only coping skill he was ever taught: denial and running from the pain by consuming alcohol until his body shut down, only to wake up in the hell of the following day. Five o’clock became the door to excuses and escape, a numb wasteland where family and fatherhood was lost in bottomless whiskey glasses. To be a loving father was my greatest desire, a goal I learned from my ever-present and amazing Mother, who taught me not only the value of female role belief systems, but also how to be a compassionate and loving father.

Today, on this 23rd of April, my son turns 13 years old. A once challenging and confusing time in my own life, I can’t imagine the things he is facing and experiencing being the child of an incarcerated parent. I was fortunate to be a part of his life every day until he was six and a half years old. I became the father I always wanted: loving, caring, connected, compassionate, present, emotionally available, and authentic. I made breakfast, lunch, and dinners, I volunteered at his school, and was there every step of his early development. This shaped him into the most empathetic, polite, and compassionate young man. My son is stronger than I could have ever been; his mother struggles with alcoholism and being a single mother. My son has been moved in and out of schools and homes more than I have in my 43 years. 

As a father, my fears coincide with my absence. These prison walls, along with the distance of five states, restrict my fatherhood. To be a father over a 15-minute phone call or through prehistoric letters in a technologically advanced culture that only communicates through social media and text messages is almost impossible. My fears became reality when I was told he was bullied–hit on the bus as another heartless youth filmed and posted the act. But I can’t be there! Despite the obstacles, I started writing letters titled “Dad’s Guide to the Galaxy” to teach him what school doesn’t: emotional intelligence, self-awareness, anger management, and what a father looks like in this culturally diseased and distant time.

Fatherhood is the most rewarding and yet emotionally taxing experience. It has taught me patience, wisdom, forgiveness, and unconditional love. A father’s love conquers all.

Mount Tamalpais College is tuition-free for students and entirely funded by private donations. Your tax-deductible gift expands access to learning, technology, and opportunity for people incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison.  If you’re moved by Jon’s words, please consider making a gift today.

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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.

Freedom could use some self-help too

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In prison, I had lots of help to come to grips with my crime of taking another person’s life. Now that I’ve lost a loved one myself, I feel lost.

When I walked out of the gate at San Quentin State Prison in California, I was not only free; I was ready to once again experience all of the joy and happiness in this world.

The isolation, the passage of time, the possibility of dying inside — these are constant tortures in prison. Freedom is the best feeling if you’ve lived through the horror of incarceration. 

Still, in spite of the brutal conditions, there is time for introspection and rehabilitation. Inside, I reflected on childhood trauma and healed. I considered my past and the murder that sent me to prison in the first place. I grew.

There is also time to process grief. My grandparents died while I was incarcerated, and I wasn’t able to hold their hands or say goodbye. I didn’t know if they left remembering me as a murderer. But I did have solitude and time to process my feelings. I cried without digital distractions. I couldn’t use drugs or alcohol to shield my sorrow. 

Programs in prison help you deal with your past and present. But there is nothing available to prepare you for future miseries.

Several self-help programs over 17 years of incarceration could not ready me for the death of my lover Erin Elizabeth Carroll. 

I fell in love with Erin on New Year’s Eve 2021. We met on a dating app like so many people do now. We began texting back and forth — an instant connection. It was rare to be with someone who had never been involved in the criminal justice system but still understood my past. 

We quickly developed a relationship and spent our free time together. She had her quirks, or “habits,” as we all do. But when you love someone, you take them for who they are and not who you want them to be. I loved all of her imperfections. 

People who commit a murder sometimes don’t fully understand what it’s like to have a loved one taken away. Even with empathy and self-help groups, you can only imagine how much pain and suffering your actions caused. 

But death from natural causes seems like a different loss to me. 

Erin died unexpectedly from natural causes in June 2022. There was no one I could blame for her death, except maybe the universe or God, since they created her with Type 1 diabetes and epilepsy. She managed her health conditions deftly. She rowed crew every Saturday.

Help bring transparency to the world of mass incarceration.

I’m still awaiting the official cause, but it appears she died from a seizure or stroke. I do know she died working at her desk in her apartment with only her cat Orion nearby. It felt like a movie when I visited her apartment to check on her and was told by strangers at her building that she had died. 

Having a good memory is a blessing and a curse. I can still recall the time of day she died. I can still recall how I cried on the sidewalk, just outside the office. I can still recall how I called all the hospitals and drove to the police station, pleading to see her. I wanted to know, somehow, she was still alive.

It’s hard not to blame yourself when a loved one dies. 

“I should’ve been there.” 

“I should’ve been on top of all her (health) issues.” 

I have been reassured constantly that her death was out of my control, but this brings me no comfort. After she died, I cried over the weekend and then went back to work. 

Incarceration allows time and isolation, but in society, you only get a brief time for bereavement. You still have responsibilities. Credit card companies don’t suspend your payments. The rent is still due. The world doesn’t stop because you need to process grief. 

I am reminded of her almost daily. I am triggered into breakdowns by random objects, scenery, and smells. The shows we watched together. The music she played. Her Instagram, which I visit often; it keeps us connected. I fear that if I’m not reminded of her, she’ll be lost forever, not just in my mind, but also to the universe.

I am now a man who has taken a cherished person’s life and has lost my own cherished person. I doubt I’ll find a support group to heal both the harm I caused and the hurt I feel. 

The only things I can control now are the amount of alcohol I consume and how much crying I do. Rewatching the first 12 minutes of the Pixar movie “Up” always makes me cry. I am envious of the main characters, Carl and Ellie, because they lived their full lives together and, most of all, because Carl got to say goodbye to Ellie before she died. 

Tragic love songs hit me harder now after Erin’s death. Kyle Hume’s “If I Would Have Known” comes to mind.

He sings: 

If I would have known

That you wouldn’t be here anymore

I would have made the moments last a little longer

‘Cause now I’m alone

And you’re just a memory in my mind

I would have given anything to say goodbye

Jonathan Chiu is a formerly incarcerated citizen who was paroled from San Quentin State Prison on May 1, 2020. He has been part of the San Quentin News since 2015 as the layout designer and crossword designer for both the newspaper and its Wall City magazine publication. His work has also been published in the Marshall Project. He is a member of the San Quentin 1000 Mile running club and a stand-up comedian in his spare time. More by Jonathan Chiu

Attributions: This article originally appeared in the Prison Journalism Project on January 11, 2023. Photo by Angel Luciano on Unsplash

San Quentin’s rolling lockdowns are not keeping anyone safe

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We’re still overcrowded and set up for disaster.

This piece is a commentary, part of The Appeal’s collection of opinion and analysis.

This story is published in partnership with the Inside/Out Journalism Project by Type Investigations.

After more than a year of ongoing COVID-19 lockdowns at San Quentin State Prison, where I am incarcerated, I longed to get back to normal. In April 2021, I took the Moderna vaccine. In May of that year, I moderated a COVID-19 vaccine information session to convince others to take the vaccine. Epidemiologist Kim Rhoads and Dr. Peter Chin-Hong came to San Quentin, sat at a table on the lawn, and answered questions about the vaccine.

“For every person who takes the vaccine, we’re one step closer to getting out of this pandemic,” Rhoads said.

Almost everyone in the prison listened. Ninety-four percent of our population got vaccinated against COVID-19, far more than the share of people who got the shot outside of prison. The virus that once triggered an outbreak that sickened more than 2,200 incarcerated people and killed 28 people in our San Quentin community is now relatively manageable in most cases. We took the vaccine because we were told it would get us back to normal. But we have not returned to normal, three years after the pandemic began.

Standing in the way of “normal” are hypervigilant protocols that kept San Quentin on rolling lockdowns for most of 2022. These protocols require lockdowns—canceling visits and greatly limiting activities, work and general movement—if a unit has three or more linked cases of COVID-19 among incarcerated people over 14 days. The unit can only resume activities once it has no new cases for 14 days.

“Normal,” before the pandemic, meant visits with our loved ones. “Normal” meant being allowed to work in the media center where Ear Hustle, San Quentin News, and films are produced. “Normal” meant access to programs that help better us and prepare us for parole.

During lockdowns at the height of the pandemic, most of us were confined in roughly 4 by 10-foot cells for nearly 24 hours a day, usually sharing it with a cellie. While lockdowns now typically allow for a bit more time outside cells, we are still locked down for most of the day. Until a few months ago, visits, as well as most work and programming, were canceled. The prison changed its COVID-19 policies in September to allow limited visits and participation in programming if residents test negative and masks. But even after the guidelines changed, life has not returned to normal for most of us.

The last couple of years of restrictions has been destabilizing. Most incarcerated employees—who make 35 cents to a dollar per hour, depending on the job—have lost weeks or months of pay. For months, we were cut off from activities like creative writing, transformative mediation, and self-help groups. Even between lockdowns, visits from family and loved ones were limited to a small number of appointments for most of 2022. I only had three in-person visits last year because of lockdown cancellations and a lack of available appointments. My education was also affected. I was one history course credit away from getting my associate’s degree in January 2020, but couldn’t graduate until June of last year.

And lockdowns have become routine. The first lockdown of 2022 was in January. While restrictions were initially scheduled for 15 days, they were extended whenever another person in the unit tested positive. Ultimately this spanned two months. Another lockdown starting in May lasted on and off until August, shutting out visitors and pausing programs again and again. The longest we went in 2022 without a lockdown in any part of the prison was two months.

I could understand if the lockdowns prevented San Quentin from repeating “the worst epidemiological disaster in California correctional history,” as the state appeals court called the 2020 outbreak in a landmark ruling. But they are making the same mistakes. Buses have continued to deliver new arrivals from other prisons. Most recently, I’ve spoken with people coming to San Quentin from Susanville Correctional Center, which is set to close this year. While people are now tested before they are transferred, they are not isolated when they get here unless they show symptoms. They’re only tested again five days later.

Transfers like these were at the root of the 2020 outbreak. The inspector general of California found that prison officials were responsible for the San Quentin outbreak by disregarding safety protocols, transferring people to San Quentin from a facility experiencing a COVID-19 flare-up, without up-to-date testing. The state appeals court ordered San Quentin to reduce its population by half.

The state supreme court, however, sent the case back to the lower court for reconsideration. Marin County Superior Court Judge Geoffrey Howard then concluded that while CDCR’s handling of the COVID-19 outbreak amounted to cruel and unusual punishment, the prison did not need to make any changes, because vaccines and new procedures were sufficient to safeguard the population. While the headcount at San Quentin dropped to around 2,600 by the start of 2021, it has since risen to over 3,500 people.

Meanwhile, prison staff is coming and going into an outside world that has largely abandoned masks and vaccine checks. The CDC only recommends five days of isolation for infected people, while San Quentin requires whole units to have no new cases for 14 days in order to resume normal programming. The new guidelines have also relaxed weekly testing requirements for unvaccinated and partially vaccinated prison staffers, making it even more likely that the virus will spread from outside. San Quentin staffers don’t have to test before they come to work, but we are regularly tested inside. I know many people in San Quentin who now avoid testing, even if they feel sick, out of fear that it will trigger yet another mass lockdown and get them sent to the notorious Adjustment Center (the “hole,” as we call it inside). The people with the least power are being held the most accountable. Instead of testing staff to keep the virus out, they let staff come in untested and then test us and lock us down for getting sick.

Though case counts are relatively low, there’s always the threat that a new variant could trigger another surge. If a more severe variant emerges, the lockdowns will not protect us. And we’re still bursting at the seams. The prison is currently operating at 111 percent of its capacity. But I’ve noticed some units seem even more packed. Where I am, there are lines everywhere for everything. There are arguments over the phones because there are only a few available for hundreds of people. Where I am, we’re overcrowded and set up for disaster. Researchers have found that the risk of COVID-19 infection is heightened when you’re stuck in a confined, overcrowded space.

We need a program that reflects where we are now and the danger we will likely face in the future. So far, the vaccines continue to effectively protect most people from severe COVID-19 infections. The people who are most vulnerable are the elderly and the immunocompromised. If these vulnerable people were released, it would safeguard their health and ease the pressure on the prison.

But as long as prison officials overreact and overpack San Quentin, rolling lockdowns will continue to be our new normal.

Attributions: This article originally appeared in The Appeal on February 7, 2023.

The Radical Shift in Drug Treatment Happening Inside California Prisons

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DRUG ABUSE HAS BECOME AN URGENT CRISIS WITHIN PRISONS. THIS PROGRAM MAY OFFER A RAY OF HOPE.

In January of 2020, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) began implementing the largest prison drug treatment program in the country. The effort was done to curb an alarming rise in overdoses in California prisons: In 2019, 64 people incarcerated by CDCR died from an overdose, making it the second leading cause of death.

This May, however, the Union of American Physicians and Dentists, the largest union representing licensed doctors in the United States, with headquarters in Sacramento, called into question the continued rollout of the drug treatment program, which makes available the three most effective opioid medications to people incarcerated. 138 doctors, who represent a third of the doctors who work in California state prisons, drafted a petition explaining that while they support medication-assisted treatment, they were concerned over the brand-name drug Suboxone and its potential for abuse throughout prison facilities.

Suboxone is controversial as it has “street value” both inside and outside of prison. But it’s a safer drug than methadone, according to the DEA, with less risk of overdose and illegal use.

CDCR’s program provides medical treatment alongside intensive counseling and peer support — care that’s literally unheard of across most U.S. prisons. At San Quentin State Prison, the program is having a marked impact on people who have long struggled with drug addiction and previously had no support or treatment. It has also become a pathway for currently and formerly incarcerated people who successfully overcame their addiction to counseling others trying to do the same.

“This is a harm reduction strategy,” Alex Tata, a counselor with San Quentin’s program, says of the support. “Addiction is a symptom of something greater — until you fix the root of the problem, the addiction is not going away,” she continues. “That’s why I like this work so much because it gets to the why of the why.”

Drug abuse has become an urgent crisis inside America’s prisons. From 2001 to 2018, the number of people who died of drug or alcohol intoxication in state prisons increased by more than 600%, according to data from the Bureau of Justice Statistics. In county jails, overdose deaths increased by over 200%.

But treatment is rare, even when people’s crimes are caused by recurrent drug abuse. A 2019 report by the National Academy of Sciences showed only 5% of people with opioid use disorder in jail and prison settings received treatment.

Kevin Flanagan, who has been serving time at San Quentin since 2017, says his experience with heroin turned him to criminal activity. “By the time I was 32, I thought I’d be an addict all my life, I’d come to terms with it.”

He hadn’t received holistic treatment until he became an early enrollee in CDCR’s program in February 2020. He began Medicated Assisted Treatment (MAT) and an in-class program called Integrated Substance Use Disorder Treatment (ISUDT).

Flanagan says his Suboxone prescription helps keep his desire to use drugs at bay. “That’s with the meds alone, but with the classes, it’s really changed my perspective on things.” The importance of the in-class treatment, he notes, is “learning how to accept myself and my issues, and objectively take a step back and look at my problems in a way I can deal with them.”

CDCR’s program takes about one year to complete. Doctors place participants in the program, then counselors use “motivational interviewing” to encourage them to stay. These are one-on-one conversations where counselors ask clients open-ended questions about their hesitancy of participating. The counselors give clients affirmations and “roll with the resistance,” says Shadeeda Yasin, a counselor with the program.

They often summarize what the client tells them, to “open the door for a dialogue about the client’s program hesitancy,” she adds.

When participants join, they attend two-hour sessions of ISUDT on Monday, Wednesday and Friday in groups of no more than 12. Each session begins with a check-in where current feelings are expressed.

“We need to be aware of what that person is going through at that time,” says Raul Higgins, a certified and incarcerated counselor. “Sometimes a client would shut down, if they’d undergone something traumatic, like a death in the family.”

After the check-in, the group goes through a grounding meditation that takes 3-5 minutes of centering and deep breathing. Then the group begins the curriculum in the workbook Helping Men Recover.

The workbook — grounded in research, theory and clinical practice — is the first gender-responsive and trauma-informed addiction treatment designed for men. “The program explores core issues from social construction of masculinity, the role of anger in men’s lives, impact of abuse and violence on men’s relationships and perceived male privilege,” Higgins says. Part of an effective treatment plan, he adds, “recognizes the physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual aspects of the addiction.”

Tata, who was trained by CDCR to teach two ISUDT classes at San Quentin, says the classes also help participants develop relapse prevention life skills. “It helps them stay on track and meet the goals that they want.”

CDCR is currently measuring the impact of the first year of the program. While the department’s official mortality information for 2020 is still pending, preliminary data shows a decrease in overdose deaths, according to Ike Dodson, a communications manager for the program. This June, 13 students became the first graduates under the new treatment program model. As of September 30th, 15,822 patients are receiving treatment for substance use disorder and 12,657 program participants are receiving medication-assisted treatment across all 34 state prisons.

“Staff are working hard to expand access to these services, and [the department] will continue to hire, provide enhanced training, provide technical support, and expansion of its provider network,” Dodson says.

At San Quentin, counselors are providing a model of offering personalized treatment despite the prison setting, where mental health care is lacking. Cristina Islas-Banthi, the Associate Program Director for San Quentin’s MAT/ISUDT program, stresses the importance of “a willingness from drug counselors to be open to learning about what’s needed to improve lives,” and clients “to receive guidance and help.” She adds, “I don’t want the participants to feel like they’re a number — we have to get people away from feeling as if they’re a number, they are people.”

Outside counselors don’t do the work alone, however; a core component of the program is the peer support from formerly and currently incarcerated people who have beat their addiction. In 2012, Higgins graduated as a Certified Alcohol and Drug Counselor I, an Internationally Certified Alcohol and Drug Counselor, and a Certified Relapse Prevention & Certified Denial Management Specialist for CDCR’s Division of Rehabilitative Programs.

Once he finished the training, he immediately transferred to San Quentin to work side-by-side with Yasin as a counselor. All counselors, incarcerated and non-incarcerated, meet twice a week to go over the curriculum or issues that may come up in the classes. “For clients to see incarcerated mentors working with someone like me gives the incarcerated population empowerment and builds up self-esteem,” Yasin says. “It’s important to have a good working relationship with incarcerated co-workers.”

“Today, I am a man driven with vision and purpose,” Higgins says. “In my nine years of service, helping and encouraging men with addictions is one of the most difficult tasks of all and MAT is very helpful.”

The currently incarcerated mentors also played an important role during San Quentin’s Covid-19 shutdown. In August 2020, the outside counselors began coming back to San Quentin to deliver correspondence packets of therapeutic lessons taken out of the workbook. Each Monday, the packets were delivered to the incarcerated counselors to give to clients in their respective housing units. The following Monday, completed lessons would be picked up.

About 85 percent of the clients participated in the correspondence programming, according to Higgins. “They wanted something to do,” he said.

This February, ISUDT began in-class sessions in cohorts based on housing units.

“Consistency and stability have been worrying,” Flanagan says about stopping and starting the program during the pandemic. Shortly after the program restarted, the housing unit where Flanagan lives underwent two short quarantines for norovirus. He also learned about the suicide of his cousin. “Having the program available is important to me,” he says.

The continuation of both medical treatment and personalized care will be important to Flanagan’s success upon leaving prison. And the early years of the program have laid the groundwork for real addiction treatment inside U.S. prisons. “My vision is to turn this program into the change where people can come to and have a safe place to be treated like a human being,” says Michael Davila, who was once incarcerated and now is the Program Director for San Quentin’s MAT/ISUDT program.

Davila recalls an interview with a potential client where the client got very emotional: “I asked him why he was so emotional — he told me that it was because he felt like he was being treated as a person,” he says. “To me, I was just acting normally. I saw that he wanted help and I knew this program could provide it. That’s why I want this program to be a beacon for change for anyone who wants it. I want this to be a ray of hope.”

Juan Moreno Haines is a journalist incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison; senior editor at the award-winning San Quentin News; and member of the Society of Professional Journalists, where he was awarded its Silver Heart Award in 2017 for being “a voice for the voiceless.”

Attributions: This article originally appeared in Next City, October 15, 2021.

At San Quentin Prison, Law Students See Restorative Justice In Action

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A Santa Clara University law professor says her students should experience the criminal justice system beyond just “reading legal theories and judges’ decisions.”

After serving 36 years and seven months, Tommy “Shakur” Ross counted down the last four days of serving a life sentence with the possibility of parole at San Quentin State Prison. Months earlier, the parole board had already approved his release.

Nevertheless, last April, he volunteered to play a part in a restorative justice class. As eight law students and eight other incarcerated restorative justice facilitators listened, he sat in a circle with them to discuss the 1985 murder conviction that had led him to prison.

“Talk to somebody,” Ross told the students. “Tell somebody the truth. You can’t keep it all inside.” Because it was participating in restorative justice programs at San Quentin, he says, that helped him find a sense of redemption.

And on this day, through their impact statements and a number of exercises, Ross and his co-facilitators were helping the law students reconsider what accountability and the criminal justice system could look like.

Santa Clara University School of Law professor Margaret Russell says her aim is to ensure her students experience the criminal justice system beyond just “reading legal theories and judges’ decisions.”

The experience made a clear impression on her students. “Restorative justice programs help to address the roots of trauma that are often ignored by society,” one student told Next City, adding that such practices can be an effective crime prevention strategy, too.

Organized by Billie Mizell, director of ALIGHT Justice, the class aims to bring restorative justice to incarcerated communities, especially incarcerated LGBTQ individuals. The organization creates spaces for people to convene and find “healing solutions” to the trauma individuals and communities face, through programs that “ignite new ways of thinking for our communities on both sides of the prison walls,” as the group’s mission statement reads.

“We’re wearing blue,” facilitator Chris Marshall said, referring to the color of his and the other incarcerated facilitators’ clothes, “because we’ve made a negative impact, but our work with ALIGHT makes a positive impact.”

As Ross and the other eight facilitators – who together had spent a combined 179 years incarcerated – introduced themselves, they acknowledged the harm they had committed against their communities.

Ross reflected on his experiences with child abuse — “I don’t recall getting any empathy as a child…if you aren’t seen, you can’t believe you’ll be heard,” he said — and his mindset as a former gang member. He talked about his sadness and remorse after the rival gang retaliated against him, murdering his mother and brother.

Ross wasn’t always able to speak about his experiences and actions so openly. It was a “long journey in becoming candid” about his role in the tragedy as well as the impact that his actions had on the victims and survivors, he told students.

About a quarter-century into his sentence, he had his first chance to sit in a restorative justice circle at San Quentin. He can’t say exactly what happened to him in that circle, but before he left it, he had shared the truth about his crimes for the first time. Once he broke his silence, he was able to begin moving forward.

“I’ve facilitated a lot of groups,” Ross told those listening. “They’ve all brought me a level of healing, including sitting here with you students.”

Facilitator Anthony Tofoya took the group through training based on one of ALIGHT’s programs, Acting with Compassion and Truth – the nation’s first in-prison LGBTQ and gender studies program.

In an exercise designed to build empathy, Tafoya drew five columns on a whiteboard: misogynistic, anti-LGBTQ, racially charged terms, terms that disrespect your manhood, and marginalized incarcerated people. The group filled the chart in with corresponding words – including, many of the students were surprised to hear, the term “inmate.”

“Each of us see ourselves represented by at least one of these columns,” Mizell told the group. “When we see these words in our own column…the words hurt. It’s a stark illustration that we’re all connected.”

Mizell told the class that people have the power to change the world by simply paying attention to language used.

“If we never used these words to dismiss or disparage others, then they wouldn’t have the power to hurt us when we end up on the receiving end.”

After participating in the sessions, which included several restorative justice exercises, one of the law students suggested that visits to San Quentin’s restorative justice programs should be mandatory for all first-year law students at Santa Clara University.

“Most students probably have no idea that the restorative justice model is holistic in its consideration of victims and communities,” she says.

Juan Moreno Haines is a journalist incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison; senior editor at the award-winning San Quentin News; and member of the Society of Professional Journalists, where he was awarded its Silver Heart Award in 2017 for being “a voice for the voiceless.”

Attributions: This article originally appeared in Next City January 23, 2023.

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?

First-ever International Prison Radio Conference shows potential of ‘story power’ to effect change

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Prison may seem like an unlikely place to start a podcast, but more and more incarcerated people are doing just that. In recognition of this growing movement, the first-ever International Prison Radio Conference brought together practitioners from around the world to Oslo, Norway, in June.

“It was cool to see there is a community in other countries working on radio programs,” said Ninna Gaensler-Debs, a reporter at KALW in San Francisco who directs the team behind Uncuffed, a podcast produced at California’s San Quentin State Prison.

Held June 15–18, the conference included presentations, discussions, and tours of Norway prisons and drew representatives from prison radio programs in Israel, Austria, England, India, Trinidad, and Norway. Prison Radio International, a U.K.-based organization, staged the event, which was hosted by the Norwegian Prison Services. It aimed to foster discussion about how prison radio programs can work together to increase their impact.

“Knowing that there are other countries that have ideas about storytelling, that work through the various issues and red tape of a prison to use story power to create good change, feels like you are not alone,” Gaensler-Debs said. “There are tons of different things that you can now do when you know that you have strength in a collective. This is the beginning of so many opportunities and ideas and ways for people to come together and become stronger individually as storytellers and change-makers, but also together to get more people’s stories out there and effect change.” 

After Tommy “Shakur” Ross was paroled from San Quentin in April, ending 36 years in prison, he scrambled to get a passport and permission from his parole officer to fly to Oslo. Ross has been part of San Quentin’s radio program since its inception in 2012. He became a co-host and co-producer of Uncuffed when it launched from San Quentin after starting in Solano State Prison in 2018.

Ross spoke at the conference about how the radio program started at San Quentin, which began with KALW being invited to train incarcerated people to tell their own stories. 

“It was surreal,” Ross said. “I wasn’t out on parole 60 days before visiting a prison overseas.”

KALW raised funds through its website to take six formerly incarcerated men to Norway and pay them for their time. “Fundraising was not easy, but we pulled it off,” Gaensler-Debs said. 

“There was no way we would go and not bring everyone we could,” Gaensler-Debs said. “If anyone needed to speak, it was [system-impacted people].”

Thanh Tran was paroled from San Quentin in May after serving more than 10 years. He shot videos for Forward This, a film production crew run by incarcerated people, and hosted and produced for Uncuffed.

“Uncuffed taught me how to start a podcast from scratch,” Tran said. “These are employable skills that empowered me to go to Norway.”

At the conference, Tran spoke about why journalists should use “people-first” language. Calling someone an “inmate” dehumanizes them. Journalists should use the person’s name or the term “incarcerated person,” Tran told the international audience.

“A lot of people at the conference were saying ‘inmate,’” said Angela Johnston, an editor, and instructor with Uncuffed. “Words matter. Changing one word can change a lot of things.” 

‘Prisons are prisons all over the world’

The Uncuffed crew split into two groups to tour prisons in Norway. The country is known for its progressive system. Facilities have cells with showers and private bathrooms. Each unit has a kitchen, and prisons have grocery stores. Correction officers socialize with their wards, sharing meals, discussing problems, and playing games. 

Norway’s award-winning Rover Radion, which translates to “Bandit Radio,” rivals its American counterparts. Created by incarcerated people, it can be heard outside the prison walls as a podcast and as a weekly half-hour show on a Norwegian government radio station. Yet while conditions in Norway prisons sound like those of a luxury hotel compared to San Quentin, budget cuts have led to 22-hour lockdowns, Tran reported.

“Prisons are prisons all over the world,” said Adamu Chan, a photographer, and filmmaker who was paroled from San Quentin in 2020. While incarcerated, he co-produced and co-hosted First Watch, a video show. KALW hired him to conduct interviews for Uncuffed in Oslo and take photos at the conference.

“Conditions are different, but the emotional experience and purpose of prisons is the same everywhere,” Tran said. “A prison may look like a hotel, but we need to understand what’s going on inside the walls and inside of the people.” 

Tran and Chan said they see the potential for audio journalism to make a difference. “Its heartening prison radio is being used all over the world as a tool … to advocate for people,” Tran said. 

“It’s interesting to think about what the insider perspective is,” Chan added. “The administration usually sets the narrative, but when we can hear the perspectives from people inside, the emotional experience is powerful and can create a public consciousness beyond some entertainment value.”

Representatives with Uncuffed said they left the conference with plans to continue networking and to start cross-promoting with other prison productions. Gaensler-Debs said she has started following up with connections she made. In July, just a few weeks after the conference, she visited England for a friend’s wedding and toured a prison where she checked out the country’s National Prison Radio program.

“They have a much nicer studio than we do, but they only broadcast inside,” Gaensler-Debs said. 

Members of the Uncuffed team said they see the conference as a gateway to new opportunities. 

“I’m excited about the next conference to go further because we didn’t get to talk about: How do you run your prison radio program?” Gaensler-Debs said. “I felt like this conference was the 101 where you just learn the basics, but now that we have the connections, we can level up on an international level and have more specific conversations. I would love for us all to focus on one topic and do a bunch of shows and programs from prison talking about that one topic.” 

Both Uncuffed and Ear Hustle are producing episodes about their teams’ Norway adventures that will share more details about their experiences. In the meantime, Tran mentioned an added value he got from traveling to Norway.

“When you’re traveling, you’re your true self,” Tran said. “There’s no stigma because nobody knows you have been to prison. I was just Thanh Tran, exploring the world.”

Attribution: This article originally appeared in Current on Oct. 17, 2022.  Photo/Adamu Chan