Open Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Courtesy of San Quentin News

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

You Can Too

by Aaron Kurtis Mikkelsen

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

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

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

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

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

And you can too.

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

Resilience Is My Family

by Ray Ray

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

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

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

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

I love y’all. Thank you! 

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

Resilience

by Carl Raybon

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

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

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

I’m an incarcerated man who has changed my life and will always hold myself accountable for the decisions I’ve made in my past. As an ex-firefighter incarcerated for several violent felonies, with a release date of 2050, the opportunity to give back to my state, as well as my community, is a goal worth achieving. I propose that we put a couple of twenty-man crews together to clean our forests by doing small, controlled burns next to homes and properties with the primary goal of saving lives: human, as well as animal. There are long-term violent offenders, like myself, who have lived a dishonorable life in our communities and are willing to do the work and be held accountable. 

My Uncle Bill reached out to me, a troubled, at-risk young person, as soon as I turned eighteen years old. Uncle Bill was a well-known firefighter for the US Forest Service. Through them, he gave me a few tests, and I became a seasonal firefighter from 1985 – 1986. However, my violent choices as a youngster eventually put me in prison, and I was never afforded the opportunity to be a firefighter in prison, due to being a violent offender.

While fighting fires with my Uncle Bill, I noticed how he was always alert and well aware of his crew and their surroundings. He always told us to “do your SAs” — Situational Awareness. That meant keeping an eye on each other, as well as the fuel and the moisture around you. This means to pay attention to which way the wind is blowing and how much wind the fire is creating. Sometimes a combination of wind, fuel, and terrain conspires to produce a blow up, which the fire explodes out of control. We call this “super heating”. Normally, radiant heat drives volatile gases called terpenes out of the pinyon and juniper just minutes before they are consumed. The gasses lie heavily along the contours of the slopes, and when the right combination of wind and flame reaches them, they explode. (Junger) 

Throughout my incarceration, I have always felt the need to fight fires. I never lost the feeling of a firefighter bond. I’ve watched the news and I’ve noticed  how violent the fires have become over the past 30 years. The loss of property, as well as life, is astounding. I saw a childhood friend named Brian on the news. Having lost everything to fire he said, “It all burned up.” My nephew John also lost his home in Paradise, CA. Thank God they survived and we still have them both. 

Since I have been an inmate in San Quentin, the fires have been some of the most intense in California. I have felt helpless growing old and dying in a prison cell as the person I am today. What a waste. I have walked down prison tiers over half my life as a long-term inmate, waiting for the day my legs will fail, as I open my cell door and take that deep scorching breath, and find my way to my cold metal bunk to wonder if I will awaken for another day. Or will the CDCR send my body to my wife to cremate, and spread my carbon ashes, only to be remembered by most people as a violent offender who died in prison for voluntary manslaughter? 

Dying in a prison parallels the experience of dying in a forest fire, as Sebastian Junger details in his book Fire, where he writes, “dying in a forest fire is actually like experiencing three deaths. First, the failure of your legs as you run, then the scorching of your lungs, finally the burning of your body. In the end, nothing is left but carbon.” (Junger) 

In 2020, California Governor Gavin Newsom signed the bill, AB2147P85, allowing inmate firefighters to have their records expunged. Long-term violent offenders would love the opportunity to step in place of all the inmates released early due to COVID-19. There are those who have made violent choices 10 – 20 years ao. Yet, today they have the determination to live nonviolent lives. We must get serious about providing pathways for those who show dedication to turning their lives around. 

I believe that incarcerated people with 10 years of disciplinary free behavior should be allowed to apply for these long-term violent forest management crews. Our numbers will be remembered as honorable men in California. Violent choices made decades ago does not mean we’re bad people. Lifer inmates who are released are assets to our state and communities, many of them working with gangs, drug addicts, and at-risk youth. The opportunity to give back is priceless. 

It took 30 years for our forests to become violent, killing, property-destroying machines. With a lot of hard work we can change this. The same goes for humans. Hurt people hurt people. And as we say in Guiding Rage into Power (GRIP), “healed people, heal people.” It all comes from some sort of abuse, neglect, and more: just like our forests. From 30 years of abuse of the forest, you get blow up fires. With abused people you get long term violent inmates. With the right kind of help, love, and care, rehabilitation for our forest, just like for long term inmates, is possible. Peace will follow. 

We know how to stop megafires. We need California land managers as well as the CDCR to use available resources. Working for our state and our community, saving lives and property, is a small price to pay to be remembered as a man who turned their life around, instead of as a long term violent inmate. 

Give us the opportunity to clean the litter out of our beautiful California Forest and to be remembered as honorable men, just like Uncle Bill. 

Reference:

Junger, Sebastian. Fire, Harper Collins, 2002.

“Once you aren’t considered human your life isn’t valued.”

This is a quote from Rahsaan Thomas in his article, “How I Convinced My Incarcerated Peers to Make Language a Priority,” where he writes about how the media uses words that dehumanize those who are incarcerated. I agree that once you are deemed a monster, it’s easier for society to disengage and lack empathy for you. But as my dad would say, “It’s not what they call you, it’s what you answer to.”

I am not an inmate, nor a convict. I identify as an incarcerated person. 

Translation: 

I am flesh

I am bones

I am organs

I am a beating heart

I am someone who has made a mistake…

… a human.

I am not what this world calls me: I am not ignorant, so don’t call me Nigger.

It seems to me that the name “inmate” was created in the same way that the name “Nigger” was: to assert dominance over individuals and to make them feel less than. As James Baldwin wrote in his essay, “A Talk to Teachers,”

“In order to justify the fact that men were treated as though they were animals, the white republic had to brainwash itself into believing that they were indeed, animals…” 

In this essay, Baldwin discusses educating young people on the realities of what happened in history. His words still ring true today.

During the coronavirus outbreak at San Quentin Prison (a.k.a “The Q”), 29 lives were lost. Yet, the news announced and focused on their crimes: rape, murder, serial killer, and used dehumanizing words like “heinous” to further rip the lives we’ve lost from society. These labels, as Thomas notes in his article, “invite people telling our stories to obscure the complexity of crime… [yet] it’s a journalist’s duty to use unbiased language.” Not once did the news speak of the good these people did, nor mention their rehabilitation. Nothing was spoken of the families who lost a father, son, brother, uncle, or grandfather.

So very few came to our rescue.

Something that leaves me befuddled is how when you go to the parole board, or when you speak with a psychologist, you’re asked what your gender pronouns are. Yet, I don’t get a say on whether someone calls me inmate, convict, or prisoner. I stand for equality, always. Just because I’m in prison, paying off a debt, for which I’m almost done, for a mistake I made, don’t treat me like the scum of the earth. I will always have respect for you, society. So, show me a little respect too. Stop using dehumanizing words, names, and phrases to define me, to ignore me, to other me, to unsee me. I am not these things. I am…

… a loving, but strange son. I am a strict, but trusting father. I am a protective, but open brother. I am a timid, but direct writer. I am a forgiving, but cautious Christian. I am a confusing, but confident artist. I was born Quincy Quinn Paige in Denver, Colorado. 

References:

Baldwin, James. “A Talk to Teachers.” Zinn Education Project, 16 Oct. 1963, 

Thomas, Rahsaan. “How I Convinced My Incarcerated Peers to Make Language a Priority.” The 

Marshall Project, 13 Apr. 2021,