Mount Tamalpais College

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I Host a Popular Podcast. I’m Also in Prison.

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Prison University Project student Rahsaan “New York” Thomas writes in The Marshall Project about his experience working on the award-winning Ear Hustle Podcast from inside San Quentin.

The sun shines brightly through the gated windows so I grab a pair of Sony headphones and the Tascam (a portable audio recorder) and leave the office with my co-worker, John “Yahya” Johnson, an intellectual Muslim brother out of Oakland. Curious as to how many people behind bars have seen the romance movie “The Notebook,” we venture outside to the yard to find out. I walk up to the first guy I see, someone waiting on the sidelines to play basketball.

“Hey man, can I interview you about the classic romance movie called ‘The Notebook?’”

“I’ve never seen ‘The Notebook.’”

“So what’s the best romance movie you have seen?”

“’Baby Boy.’”

I laugh because Baby Boy, an urban tale about a childish young man who needs to grow up in order to raise his son alongside the mother, is not what I would consider a classic romance movie.

Then I remove a release form (to have the man I’d just interviewed sign) from a green binder with an Ear Hustle logo stuck on the cover.

Ear Hustle is the award-winning podcast about life inside prison—specifically my prison, San Quentin—that has around 30 million downloads in total. It’s the brainchild of Nigel Poor, a professor who taught for years at San Quentin, Earlonne Woods, a man who was serving a life sentence for attempted robbery under California’s three-strikes law, and Antwan “Banks” Williams. The original plan was to circulate the show only inside the prison, but then they got permission to enter a Radiotopia “Podquest” contest.

No one at San Quentin knew how to do a podcast, but they entered anyway—and won. In 2017, Ear Hustle launched to critical acclaim with “Cellies,” featured on the Today Show, tallying nearly 2 million downloads.

As a reporter for the San Quentin News, I covered the rapid rise of the podcast as it defied the gravity of being produced inside a prison. From right next door, I cheered at the accomplishment of something that no incarcerated people had ever been able to do so effectively: reach millions of people.

But in 2018, Gov. Jerry Brown commuted Earlonne’s sentence, and he became a free man; his job as co-producer and co-host was suddenly available. Eager to learn how to tell more effective stories, I jumped at the chance to apply. That meant getting grilled by Nigel, while Earlonne warned me that I probably should just settle for being a producer. It would be hard to follow a guy with a perfect radio voice, I knew.

But Earlonne surprised me a few weeks later, saying, “It’s you, dog. You gonna be the new co-host.” I felt proud to be chosen, of course, but even more scared about following his act. Earlonne’s charisma and rapport with Nigel are a huge part of the podcast’s success. Plus he’s a three-striker, which gets him a measure of sympathy, whereas I’m convicted of murder. Would the world accept me becoming the voice of Ear Hustle?

A few nervous month later, it was decided that Earlonne would actually continue with the show by producing and co-hosting certain stories that covered the other side of incarceration: what it’s like to be on parole. I felt relieved from the pressure to single-handedly maintain the show’s success.

On the yard, Yahya and I continued to ask people about “The Notebook” for an episode about “dating while on parole” called, “I Want the Fairy Tale.” We interviewed about eight more guys at random. A few declined to speak on the record, but most hold Ear Hustle in high regard and were eager for a chance to shine. After finding out that the majority of men at San Quentin won’t admit to being chick-flick fans, we headed back to the media center. There, Nigel sat at an iMac computer editing audio using ProTools software. Across the small space, Antwan worked with Pat Mesiti-Miller, an audio engineer, on sound-designing.

Nigel and Pat are our supervisors, but it feels like the only difference between us is that they get to leave the prison and go home at the end of the workday. Otherwise we are colleagues. I weigh in on stories and how far we can go without losing the respect of the incarcerated people who trust us. (We often have to advise the men not to give us too much information about themselves, for their own privacy and security in here, no matter how many downloads they think their most dramatic story will get.)

I’ve heard it said that there can be no communication until we sit together as equals. Working for Ear Hustle feels like that. In most prisons I’ve been to, it didn’t feel like I could work with society to accomplish anything. Like so many in lockup, I felt alienated from you. But now I feel like a productive member of both the inside and outside community.

Besides working with my colleagues, I also interact with Lieutenant Robinson, the public information officer here. He’s the type of prison official who supports positive endeavors and empowers us to carry them out. It’s his signature on a memo of permission that allows me to walk the yard conducting interviews. For the first time in my life, I enjoy talking with a correctional officer—it’s actually fun to hear him clown around when he records the approvals that we play during each episode.

Today the Lt. came to weigh in on our “Inside Music” episode. A microphone attached to what looks like a robotic arm extends to each side of a small table. ProTools is set to record.

“I went back and forth” on approving this one, the Lt. said into the mic, “because I know there’s a genre you guys missed. There is no country music in this episode. [But], begrudgingly, I am Lt. Sam Robinson at San Quentin State Prison, the public information officer who approves this episode.”

Producing a podcast from prison isn’t all green lights, though. The “Inside Music” episode went up behind schedule because it had to be further cleared by the administration before it could be released, and that happened a day late. They check for “security and safety” concerns.

It can be frustrating, but then I remember: There’s probably no other prison in the world where a man convicted of murder would be allowed to use his time so productively doing something he loves—bringing joy, understanding, and entertainment to the public about the human nature of people behind bars. Because of how much harm I caused many families, it doesn’t feel like I deserve to be co-host of anything. At the same time, I’m hungry to make meaning out of destruction.

With each episode, I wonder if some listener will object to me co-hosting.

At the end of the day, I return to a cell that I share with another incarcerated person. I grab my shower stuff and troop back down five flights of stairs to the shower that’s down there. It’s full. A line of 12 men stand under a small pipe with nozzles streaming water, each just two feet apart.

I wait on the side until a shower becomes available and wash myself there, in front of everyone. About 20 minutes later, I’m back in my cell as a correctional officer locks the door for the night. I’m in prison.

But before walking away, he hesitates, shuffles through some envelopes and says, “Thomas.”

“95,” I answer, indicating the last two numbers of my prison identification number.

“You got some letters.”

He hands three through the side of the gate. I quickly scan the return addresses. One is from someone I don’t recognize.

I open it and commence reading. It starts with, “I heard you on Ear Hustle.”

I grin.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in The Marshall Project on September 26, 2019.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

Inveterate—The Rock of Deferred Literacy

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I grew up in south Los Angeles, in a community that was primarily African American, with a small segment of Latinx and Asian Americans. Although, at that time I didn’t realize it, we were a com­munity of low social economic status. Attending the Los Angeles Unified School District was a struggle for me because I never under­stood the fundamentals and mechanics of education. However, I noticed that other students seemed to have figured out how to navigate and embrace education. Reading the essay, “Persistence: A Literacy Nar­rative,” I began to notice the similarities that I had with its author’s learning disabilities. Being that I had a strong speech impediment, I too had an inferiority complex as a result of other students’ reading and speaking skills. So I could identify with the author’s feelings of embarrassment, being ashamed, and outright frustration at the inability to learn. As I reread the essay, memories of my learning disorders began to invade the place in my mind where I had seemed to have suppressed them into the abyss region where embarrassing experiences seemed to rest in grief, waiting for the opportunity to resurrect, to invade my peace. Although I’ve overcome my (self-diagnosed) learning disabilities, the words that had invad­ed my mind inflamed memories of my adolescent, my teenage, and young adult years of being a functional illiterate.

I recall the day that I understood that having a strong speech impediment in elementary school was frowned upon by fifth grade students. My fifth grade teacher Ms. Black picked me to read and of course I said yes with a hint of nervousness. However, my an­xiousness to participate in class like the other students egged me on. When I finally spoke, my words sounded like a submachine gun on fully automatic. My strong speech impediment wouldn’t let me get one clear audible word out. The whole classroom erupted into child­ish laughter. The embarrassment from being laughed at forced me to stop reading. I told myself I’d rather be silent than to allow someone to ever laugh at me again. I became like the author in “Persistence: A Literary Narrative,” begging in my head, “Don’t call on me, don’t call on me!” My confidence as a child had been deflated like a hot air balloon that had been harpooned in midair.

Writing and doing math for me were like trying to climb Mount Everest with no snow shoes on or walking on hot burning lava from an overflowing volcano. Writing my first essay in junior high school was a tragedy from the beginning because I didn’t understand the structure, process, or sentence formulation, and was therefore ill-equipped. The educational mechanics couldn’t take in my young, confused mind. My mind would go into involuntarily convul­sions because I couldn’t put the words together to make a complete paragraph. My math was even worse; I failed math because of my poor attention span. Each time that I studied math, I’d have an anxiety attack because I didn’t understand simple math solving processes, so I’d surrender to the confusion.

At 14 years old I had given up on education because I felt that education was too hard for me to learn. I soon found myself invol­ved with like-minded youth, who like me, had no interest in education. I became involved in gangs and crime, and at 16 years old, a novice in the street life and crime, I found myself caught up in a crime that was beyond my criminal experience. I was arrested for kidnapping and robbery, tried as an adult, and sentenced to state prison. I was transferred to the California Institution for Men, in Chino, CA where I was given an educational exam to determine my educational level. I sat in the prison classroom on a cold October morning looking down at the text booklet and pencil. I was told to shade in the answers that I thought were correct. I opened the test booklet and studied the multiple questions. I began to have that familiar feeling of high anxiety and the heavy mind of confusion again. I answered the questions to the best of my ability. My guided reading level was a 4.6. At that time I didn’t understand what this meant, nor did I care. I now know that I was a functional illiterate.

In 1981, at the age of 19, I was sitting in the Security Housing Unit (SHU) at San Quentin State Prison being accused of conspiring to attack prison officials. The accusation was not true. My only involvement in that situation was guilt by association. I was identified by prison staff as a Crips gang member. During my stay in the SHU, I was housed amongst senior gang members, who were genuinely concerned with education and literacy. So much so that they organized a cell study program to uplift and educate these that were illiterate. The senior gang members would walk the tier administering tests to see who needed help. I was tested for math, spelling, and reading. I failed, shamefully. Being in a cell by myself allowed me to study at my own pace. My tutor came to my cell door everyday to help me with my problem areas in education, which were across the board. He soon discovered that I had a problem processing information that I was reading and what he was conveying to me. I was told that I’d have to learn how to focus on the infor­mation that I was receiving and reading. He then gave me a diction­ary, then told me to study the definitions of the words from A to Z.

Feelings of embarrassment and shamefulness filled my soul, so I embarked on a diligent study of the dictionary, learning words from every letter of the alphabet. My understanding and writing improved. I was given book assignments. The first book that I was given to read was The Soledad Brothers, a book about George Jackson, who was killed in San Quentin in 1971. I recall sitting on my bunk with the diction­ary to my right, a pencil and notepad on my left, and the book in my hands, determined to read about a Black revolutionary. Every word that I came upon that I didn’t understand, I stopped reading to write it down, then I’d grab the dictionary to search for its meaning. Every morning I’d have to give my tutor an explanation on what I had read. (Years later I’d learn this was called a summary.)

With time as an asset, a tutor to help me through my learning disabilities, books to read, simple math equations to solve, and letter writing to improve my spelling and penmanship, I began to have a breakthrough. The clouds were departing and the sun began to shine through the now diminishing learning disabilities that had kept me entombed in a world of illiteracy; I began my resurrection. It was during this tenure of my educational endeavors that I began to have a hunger for knowledge, information, and education that would morph my underdeveloped cognizance into a living, breathing, and vivacious organism of literacy. My intellect became alive. I began to absorb information with every book I read, and I improved my math skills. However, I was still handicapped because my learning skills were subpar. I got up the courage to send a request to the San Quentin education department for a GED preparation textbook. To my surprise, an instructor from the education department came to my cell to give me the GED textbook. I studied this book day in and day out. I was like a sponge absorbing information. Unfortunately, due to my first obligation to my prison family who had adopted me in the SHU, my educational endeavors were curtailed.

In 1993 I was back in prison for a parole violation. I decided to reignite my educational endeavors and take the challenge of obtaining my GED, even though I was self taught. My first day of class the instructor called me over to his desk and stated, “Blackwell, you belong in the ABE II class (elementary school), but I’m going to give you a chance.” This reference of the ABE II class was referring to my 4.6 guided reading level that was recorded by the CDCR in 1979. I didn’t take his comment personal, nor as a negative expression. It was just fuel to the flame that had ignited my hunger for education. I was determi­ned to prove that I could obtain my GED. In every class session, I completed my studies and more. I had my cellmate tutor me in my math struggle. Six months into the GED course, the instructor once again called me to his desk, and began to share with me that he was impressed with my determination to study towards getting my GED because when he first saw me he felt that I was going to be serious about my education. I passed the GED course with a score of 249 on my first try. I was proud of this achievement because I had never completed any educational pursuit.

The ingrained criminal belief system that I had adapted continued to be at the forefront of my objective, so once again I was incarcerated. However, I had been struck out, given 25 years to life under the three strikes law. In 2009, I enrolled in Coastline Community College at California Men’s Colony, East. My first course was health, and as I analyzed this course, I began to notice certain learning dis­abilities that affected mental stability. In particular, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), had knocked me to the floor because as I read its diagnosis as “behavioral syndrome of children that is marked by hyperactivity, impulsive behavior, and inattention,” I began to have that ominous feeling that had invaded the region of my mind where I had stored the long forgotten childhood, teenage, and young adult years of being the exemplar of ADHD. I can recall many instances in which I was fidgety, uneasy, and having no concentration when it came to education and studying. I couldn’t wait to get away from anything that had to do with critical or focused thinking, or problem solving. I felt trapped, and my mind would wander about aimlessly when I was in front of a book or had to study math. I’d rather be watching TV or playing games.

When I read the definition of ADHD, I was able to put a name to my self-assessed learning disability. It was during this health course that I obtained information on my processing disorder that was discovered I was in the San Quentin SHU in 1981. Studying this health course not only informed me about the many health related issues that relate to our human existence, it also informed me about vital information about my life and educational disorders.

After completing my first two college courses with Coastline Community College, I felt the need to continue to challenge myself with higher educational aspirations. I was informed about an on-site university at San Quentin, where incarcerated men could have the actual college experience while being housed in San Quentin. I couldn’t wait to apply. However, I held a valid reservation because I had been expelled from San Quentin in 1984 for being a menace. I was accepted by Patten University and was transferred there within a few months.

In 2012, I enrolled in Patten University, full of anticipation and apprehension about experiencing an actual college setting, while also dreading of confrontations with my past transgressions. However, that was not the case. I was arrested by a state of culture shock because the psychological atmosphere of Patten University’s student and administrative body was contrary to what I had been experiencing in other educational settings in prisons.

Prison can be very unhealthy for a human being’s mental health because the psychological atmosphere of prisons has been ravaged by the psychopath’s mentality that dominates that environment. Having such an idealism can arrest your mental development, which can be a threshold to your transitioning into what seems to be a breach of that ideology. The healthy and vibrant psychological atmosphere that the administrative body at Patten University has cultivated at San Quentin is based on humanitarianism and is reverberated by the administrative body’s humane and professional interactions with its student body. This healthy and welcoming psychological atmosphere made me feel uneasy because certain ideals of the prison’s psychosocial environment had conditioned me to be cautious with my interactions with correction officers and any administrative body that was connected with CDCR. However, my hunger for education and the need to reconnect with my humanity was exalted by the reciprocal interaction with Patten University’s community. There began an illumination of the dysfunctional belief system that I had adopted from the antisocial environ­ment of prisons.

Paten University’s community allowed me to see that I wasn’t there just for my higher education, but also for a reawakening and reconnection with my humanity and to hasten the development of my consciousness of how subcultures and its dysfunctional belief system can arrest one’s psychological growth and development.

My five years as a Patten University student was educationally adventurous because its curriculum challenged me to the point of throwing in the towel, like a boxer’s corner man does from witnessing his boxer being beaten to a pulp. However, my determination and hunger to succeed in my higher education motivated me to take the necessary steps to TKO (technical knock out) any difficulty to earn my AA degree. On June 9, 2017, I graduated with a GPA of 3.22. On that day I had many conflicting emotions, but mainly I was elated because I had never walked across the stage to graduate from any educational institu­tion. To be able to participate in my hard-earned graduation cere­mony really affected my emotional temperament; I experienced joy at having completed a goal that I longed to achieve and sadness because I wished I could have shared this moment with my family.

My educational aspirations continue to project me towards higher educational achievements, and my quest to educate my­self impels me to yearn for more knowledge. I now un­derstand the fundamentals and mechanics of education and how its dynamics are crucial to our understanding of knowledge and how it is vital to our intellect as human beings. Without it, we cannot effectually communicate. It was only through education that I was able to learn of and identify my learning disabilities. Overcoming my learning disabilities has opened a whole new horizon of knowledge and opportunities for me that has challenged my flawed beliefs and values that hindered my humanity. Education demanded that I chal­lenge the very moral fiber that I had built my foundation on, and as a result, I had to rethink and restructure my belief system that was built from a subculture that was flawed.

Don’t be afraid to challenge the very essence of who you think you are. It is only through education and information that you can become a better human being.

Please note that the Prison University Project (formerly an extension site of Patten University) became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

I Did 18 Years in Prison for Murder. Now I’m On a Mission to End Gun Violence.

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In 1996, I took a man’s life and nearly paid for it with my own.

I was a different person back then — a young man who carried a gun and wasn’t afraid to use it. One evening, I came home and saw my neighbor in a heated argument with his girlfriend. When I tried to intervene, he came at me. I fired once and hit him in the stomach, killing him.

I was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to 15 years to life, plus a three-year gun enhancement. At 21 years old, I faced the possibility of spending the rest of my life behind bars.

For the next 18 years, I worked hard to understand what had gone so tragically wrong that day. It wasn’t just about coming to terms with the pain I caused to my victim and his family, as well as my own loved ones and my community as a whole. First, I had to confront the anger and selfishness that had built up inside me, blinding me to the fact that I had so much to lose in that moment, including a young son of my own.

After that, I vowed to dedicate myself to rehabilitation, and to helping other prisoners learn how to help themselves as well.

Luckily, a shift in state policy gave lifers like me a better chance at parole. In 2013, after demonstrating the progress I’d made while incarcerated, I was released from prison. My passion for helping others has taken a variety of forms in the years since, but my latest role, as a neighborhood change agent for Advance Peace in Richmond, has truly brought my life full circle.

At Advance Peace, we work to break cycles of gun violence by offering resources and mentorship to the individuals who are most often at the center of this bloodshed. Many of the young men in the program — our “fellows” — remind me of myself back in 1996: isolated, frustrated, searching for purpose. My job is to reach out to them and show them that they’re not as alone as I felt then.

When they think their back is against the wall and they have no choice but to lash out, I’m there to talk them through it. When they’re ready to commit to a nonviolent life, I’m there to help map out a plan and hold them accountable for sticking to it.

When they’re ready, we create a plan together that roughly maps out their short-, medium- and long-term goals for personal safety, safe housing, education, employment, anger management, conflict resolution, creating positive social networks, financial literacy, behavioral/medical healthcare, substance use disorder support, parenting, recreation and spirituality. Each plan is different, because the goal is to meet each fellow where he is.

Altering the trajectory of someone’s life in this way is tireless work. Conflict never sleeps, and the neighborhood change agents of Advance Peace often don’t, either. But it’s also rewarding to be making such a positive impact.

Since 2009, the year before this mission officially began with the creation of the Peacemaker Fellowship through Richmond’s Office of Neighborhood Safety, the city’s total gun violence resulting in injury or death has fallen by more than 68%. An analysis found that in the first five years of the program’s existence, Advance Peace produced a positive economic impact to the city of roughly $500 million.

This is a good start, but there’s still more to do. For far too long, underserved communities have been made to feel that the system doesn’t want them to succeed. My fellows and I are living proof that anything is possible when we give people the right opportunities and resources. But if we want to replicate success stories like ours, we must invest accordingly. And as my experience shows, we have to do this work on the front end. People need to be able to access these tools before they end up in the criminal justice system, not only after, when the damage is already done.

This message is finally starting to resonate in California. Last week, legislators passed a budget offering $30 million for California’s Violence Intervention and Prevention Grant Program, more than tripling last year’s total. That means an additional $21 million for cities and community-based groups like ours to address serious violence, which is a big deal.

We still need Gov. Gavin Newsom to sign the budget, which is supposed to happen on or before July 1. With Newsom’s support, along with the support of state lawmakers and gun violence prevention advocates, Advance Peace will have more resources to expand our reach and empower neighborhood change agents like myself.

I’m proud of everything we’ve already accomplished at Advance Peace. With the support of the people of California, I can now say confidently that we’re just getting started.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on June 27, 2019.

The Judge and Jury Agreed I Didn’t Kill Anyone. So Why Did I Just Serve 16 Years For Murder?

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In 2003, Adnan Khan committed a robbery in which one of his accomplices unexpectedly killed their victim. The prosecutors, judge and jury all agreed Khan did not plan or commit the murder. Yet he was still sentenced as if he had — and given a life sentence.

The reason is the felony murder rule, an arcane piece of legal doctrine that allows all accomplices to be held equally responsible for deaths that happen in the committing of a felony.

Researchers estimate as many as one in five people serving long life sentences did not actually kill anyone.

In this video Op-Ed, Khan argues that it is time for the felony murder rule to be changed in every state, as it was in California last year. One of the basic principles of a fair justice system is that you are punished for the crimes you commit, not those committed by other people.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in The New York Times on June 22, 2019.
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Spring Lake

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Prison University Project student Carl Raybon’s story is one in a series of oral histories that Voice of Witness has collected through collaborative storytelling workshops with Prison University Project students.

I grew up in Spring Lake (N.C.). This is a small town outside of a major military facility, but none of my relatives were active duty members during my childhood years. Reflecting back on these years, it comes as no surprise that there were some years or moments when my life was so innocent and I felt loved and cared for by a host of men and women who were self-made people maintaining their own land, animals, and lives. This was the 1970’s and I had lived in California with my mother for a few years before returning to “the country.”

As a rambunctious and curious seven to eight-year-old I found the woods, creeks, and rivers very adventurous and teeming with wildlife that had my eyes wide and my hands and legs busy. All the same, the wrap around porches and big magnolia trees with their beautiful flowers provided shade and a calmness that eased all of the anxiety brought on by the running, jumping, fishing, and playing. Along for the many journeys would be my host of best friends—my cousins Tim, Ted, Todd, and Lenard—in our own imaginations we were every person or thing we wanted to be. Cowboys. Indians. Army men. Treasure hunters. The woods provided all the wonder that the television projected.

Beyond the imaginations of wonder, however, were the realties that would later awaken in me a conflict with my own flesh and sense of innocence. The fun of using stealth to get “our” way – when the cousins and I would experiment with the “grownup’s” ways of entertaining and mood altering – would offer us the right amount of risk and rush of adrenaline. The consequences I saw many of the adults incur wouldn’t occur in my life at the “tween” or teenage years, but there were glimpses of what was to come as adulthood happened on us teenagers. As high schoolers in North Carolina we worked part-time jobs on the Army base and drove the school buses for our public county school district, so behaving like the adults we looked up to would often times get overplayed and life would get a little confusing.

Living life as an adult would allude on occasion to my inability to maintain the mature, levelheaded patience and sense of insight it takes to grow into an adult. I often resorted to medicating my insecurities and uncertainties about life, and that led me to loss in every aspect of life. As the years have come and gone, I have come to realize for all those years I traveled, I got further and further away from that age of innocence. I collected more baggage of shame and guilt than any man should want to carry. But no matter, for a new day has dawned and visions of “Ole Spring Lake” come again, and hope, life, and love seem possible again.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the Voice of Witness blog on May 28, 2019.
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Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

Building Bridges: Reflections on the Criminal Justice Reform and Philanthropy Workshop

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Published in the April 2019 newsletter, which you can read in its entirety here.

This fall brought, for me, an entirely fresh outlook on life when I was given the opportunity to enter the Criminal Justice Reform and Philanthropy workshop. A bit before the beginning of the semester I received an invitation, as all Prison University Project students did, to apply for the workshop. The process consisted of writing a short paper on what I saw as the element needed for effective criminal justice reform. I admit to having some degree of hesitation before deciding to apply. I just didn’t look at myself as the kind of person who could impact this world in any substantial way. Then a friend posed this question to me: “Who better to contribute to the solution than those closest to the problem?” So I wrote on the need for those of us with the vision for change to be able to build bridges to those with the power to make that change happen.

And I’m so grateful I submitted that writing, because building those bridges then became possible. Once in the class, I was given a chance to study and begin to understand the great many dynamics of power and the structures through which it takes form. Many of the readings were a lot to take in, but I couldn’t imagine when or where else I’d get the opportunity to read any works such as those by John Pfaff. And I got not only to meet, but to also sit with and learn from some of today’s greatest minds in the world of change, including people such as Jack Dorsey (co-founder of Twitter).

Here I am in prison, and I had a bonafide research assistant (RA). It was amazing to be able to tell that and inspire a fun bit of jealousy to loved ones back home (who themselves with master’s degrees have never had RAs!). With the help of those RAs and my classmates, my ideas finally coalesced into an actual proposal. I then presented that proposal along with the rest of my class to a room full of people who cared enough about our ideas to come into San Quentin on a Saturday and hear them. I will never forget how it felt to watch guys with whom I’ve joked and chatted transform into inspirational leaders of change, as one by one they bravely went up before this crowd and presented their visions for change to a room full of strangers.

It was then I realized what this meant to me. I felt humbled by the gift given to me that semester. I was inspired to see that people did care about my situation, and that I could make a difference. The bridges we built are still there, and even though the workshop is over, the work continues.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

My Crossroads Moment

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Prison University Project student Troy Dunmore’s story is one in a series of oral histories that Voice of Witness has collected through collaborative storytelling workshops with Prison University Project students.

The moment of my life that I often think about is the first time I used drugs. As I sit in prison trying to obtain my release, I often reflect on my past. I asked myself the same questions over, and over. How did I get in this position? How did I turn out so different than my brothers, and sisters? We grew up in the same house, same parents, and were taught the same values. Nevertheless, I have a life sentence, they are productive members of society.

During the course of my self-discovery, I can draw a distinct link to a choice I made as a teenager. In the seventh grade I took my first hit of weed, little did I know that one hit would lead me to a life filled with crime, and drugs. If I could go back in time, I would tell my young self, “Why are you seeking acceptance from your peers?” You see, I was asked by some older dudes from the neighborhood if I wanted to smoke weed with them.

I remember the feeling of acceptance from some in the neighborhood who were the most popular. I would tell my young self that one hit will lead you down the path of destruction. All your hopes, dreams, and desires will be replaced with jails, prisons and funerals. Most importantly, you will give up your self-respect, and disgrace your family name.

That was my cross roads moment, and I chose the wrong road. However, all the pain and heartache I endured, my faith led me to the man I have become today. I took the negative and turned it into a positive. My past has inspired me to make a difference in this world. I share my story to the youngsters in my family. Today, I’m guided by my faith and walk in my recovery.

Even behind these prison walls I am able to be a positive role model to my family. I can no longer be ashamed of my past, I will use it to help better the same community I once terrorized. My ultimate goal is to give back. Over the course of these 24 years countless people have given to me.

I believe that my calling is to serve my community.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the Voice of Witness blog on March 12, 2019.
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Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

Dispatch From San Quentin—Young, Earnest and Criminalized

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Prison University Project student and Program Clerk James King examines the dilemma of a 20-year-old incarcerated man he calls Naz. 

I first met Nazhee Flowers when I was working as a teaching assistant for a college prep English class. Naz was twenty at the time and showed many of the contradictions you might expect from a young man trying to better himself but struggling to get out of his own way.

He was smart, often coming to class, listening to the discussion taking place, and making insightful comments in spite of the fact that he hadn’t read the materials we were discussing, or done any of the homework. As teachers, we struggled to find ways to engage him intellectually and resist the everyday temptations a young man in prison faces.

It isn’t hard for me to imagine him, under different circumstances, walking a college campus, perhaps going to class hung over, regretting the videos he’d posted the night before on Snapchat. In fact, to this day, the only thing that separates Naz from any other young students are the conditions he faced growing up and the consequences he faces for his choices today.

He was separated from his family as an infant, and adopted by another family when he was four years old. Over the years, he struggled to come to terms with his new family and acted out more and more at home, in school, and in the neighborhood. Then at age fifteen he was arrested and convicted for carjacking and sentenced to a fifteen year sentence.

He started off at Juvenile Hall, a place we often call “gladiator school,” because of all of the fighting that goes on there among the kids. On his eighteenth birthday, he was transferred to Santa Rita County Jail, and then, eights days later, he was transferred to a state prison. His years of incarceration in a violent Juvenile Hall made him someone to look up to among his young peers. But like most kids his age, Naz struggles to live up to their expectations.

Often, I would see him walking across the yard, just prior to class beginning, in a group of youngsters. As the semester progressed, it would take him longer and longer to peel away and come to class. Sometimes he would make appointments with me for individual tutoring, only to fail to show up. Later, I would see him on the yard with one of his partners.

The first time Naz did show up for a tutoring session, he didn’t bring his books or any of his homework with him. Instead, he shared with me something he’d recently wrote about his childhood. At age twenty, Naz was looking back over his life in much the same way I would, at a much later time in my own life. He was still striving to understand himself, minus the luxury of being able to learn from his decisions without it affecting his freedom or personal safety.

Like most people under the age of twenty-five, Naz has issues with impulse control and overcoming peer pressure. If he were free, and walking a college campus, his infractions would be understood as the indiscretions of a young man learning to make the connections necessary between our actions and consequences. On campus it may be bar fights or poorly thought out social media moments. In here, it’s melees or using a cell phone. One institution is built upon the premise that its inhabitants are there to learn. The other institution has been trained to see every independent action as a threat.

When the semester ended, I didn’t see Naz as much, but I did notice that he continued to make positive changes in his life. I saw that he joined a self-help group called Kid C.A.T., which is for people who were incarcerated at a young age, and helps them process their childhood trauma. Soon after, he started hanging around his old friends less, and spending time with guys in his self-help group more.

He also started participating in the San Quentin tours. At these tours, people from various outside communities would come in to learn more about incarceration and the criminal justice system. Naz would tell his story and answer their questions.

About a week ago, Naz came to me to tell me he was being transferred to a higher security prison. He’d been deemed a “program failure” by prison officials here because he’d received five disciplinary write-ups since coming to prison.

Most of Naz’s actions can be traced back to his age. For his part, Naz is not sad to be transferring and has come to terms with moving to a higher security prison. After all, it isn’t the first time he’s been on one of the more violent yards, and perhaps a small part of him believes the more structured environment will help him with his decision making.

His choices are really only problematic because of where he’s making them. One of his most recent write-ups was for possession of a cell phone. Phones are now common in prison, and the pathway to the outside world that they represent proves too much for most people in here to resist. Naz found his younger brother with that cell phone, someone he’d never met before. In fact, he’d also located his birth mother while in Juvenile Hall when he noticed a kid there who had the same last name as his mother. For Naz, those moments are the highlights of his young life. As he strives to discover what type of man he will be, it’s showing the initiative to find his family, being a big brother to his younger siblings, and being respected by his peers because of his experience that shows him his own potential.

My hope for Naz is that he finds a strong support network waiting for him at the next prison. I hope he doesn’t internalize a belief that he is somehow flawed, or different from other kids his age.

Still, Naz is exceptional. While here, he’s seen glimpses of his potential, and knows that he doesn’t necessarily have to conform to his circumstances, but can instead rise above them. The same kid who can find his mom, even from gladiator school, can also find the pathway to being his best self. As time goes by, he’ll gain greater control of his impulse control, and grow better at resisting peer pressure. I’m betting that, in his case, it’ll be sooner rather than later.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in WitnessLA on February 20, 2019.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

Symposium on Criminal Justice Reform and Philanthropy—Students Reimagine Reform

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On January 26, the Prison University Project hosted a Symposium on Criminal Justice Reform and Philanthropy in partnership with the Chan Zuckerberg Initiative. This event showcased proposals developed by students of the College Program at San Quentin State Prison through an intensive workshop during the fall semester. Guided by two facilitators and four research assistants, students first learned about theories of power and the foundations of philanthropy before crafting their own solutions to mass incarceration. The symposium allowed those most impacted by the criminal justice system to claim their rightful seat at the table of reform and contribute to the conversations surrounding their lives and futures. Summaries of some of the students’ proposals are featured below.

Randy Akins
Akins proposes the creation of a speakers bureau of formerly incarcerated people and their allies to inform the public about the impacts of mass incarceration and to help instigate conversation about alternatives to the current system that has caused such harm, especially in African-American communities. His proposal highlights the potential of facilitating ways for formerly incarcerated people to contribute to their communities and to the conversation around criminal justice reform. Due to their intimate familiarity with the system, the voices and efforts of formerly incarcerated people in working to improve the system and strengthen their communities are significant.

Wayne Boatwright and Clark Gerhartsreiter
Gerhartsreiter and Boatwright propose the creation of a startup research institute – The Institute for Decarceration Studies – that finds, structures, and scales solutions for criminal justice reform with the particular goal of reversing mass-incarceration. The Institute aims to do this through the discipline of academic inquiry, combined with strategic synthesis and analysis of the best research and data. Operating from within a state prison and staffed by incarcerated persons, the Institute would publish a quarterly academic research journal. It will also conduct off-site parallel operations through a scholar-in-residence program in collaboration with a major research university.

Steven Brooks
Brooks proposes that CDCR implement an incentivized, rehabilitative program intended to reduce or eliminate the possession, use and sale of addictive substances within its institutions. Brooks believes that this would also help facilitate incarcerated people’s focus on rehabilitation. Today, California’s prison system is full of drugs, drug users and drug dealers, and often incarcerated people are forced through default to “hustle” for survival. Even those who are serious about their rehabilitation process often lose their willpower to abstain from illegal trading after too many nights of going to bed hungry. To encourage prisoners who have little or no family support to choose participation in rehabilitation programs, CDCR could offer incentives for participation in substance use disorder treatment and drug counseling programs. They would not only benefit the participants by helping them recover from addictions, but make CDCR institutions less punitive and more rehabilitative in nature.

Conrad Cherry
Cherry proposes the funding of re-entry “advocates” who will use technology to help incarcerated people get housing and employment. Currently, people preparing for release, and especially those preparing for parole hearings, have a hard time connecting to available programs and services because of technological and logistical barriers. It is difficult for many people, especially those without family support, to prove to the parole board that they will be able to support themselves in the community because they cannot communicate with potential employers or transitional housing providers easily. Funding advocates to assist people in locating, communicating with, and applying for employment and housing would greatly improve people’s chances for success when they re-enter the community and improve their ability to demonstrate their ability to function successfully in the community to the parole board.

Roberto DeTrinidad
For the average U.S. citizen, our current judicial system is a vast web of protocols, technicalities and jargon. There is, effectively, a language barrier preventing clear understanding. DeTrinidad proposes a pilot project that seeks to alleviate the gaps in understanding that exist within today’s court rooms. DeTrinidad proposes creating a panel of psychologists, linguists, educators, justice system stakeholders (i.e., District Attorneys, Public Defenders, etc.) and average U.S. citizens of varying reading levels to review and simplify the language used in court and court documents. In addition, beginning with a single courtroom, this pilot project would test a system where judges and other courtroom actors would have to confirm a defendant’s understanding of each discussed item before proceeding, as well as create a space for open dialogue in the courtroom.

Ronell Draper
Community reform and prison reform should go hand in hand; there needs to be a conversation between the two. Instead of only focusing on self-help programs inside prisons, people working on prison reform should also work on community building in order to address past traumas and prevent future traumas. Draper’s proposal addresses the need for criminal justice reform to co-exist with community reform efforts – to humanize returning citizens while the community can have real interaction with the incarcerated by attending self-help groups alongside one another, becoming allies and champions for one another.

Teddy Fields
Fields seeks funding to support a ballot initiative to reform California’s Three Strikes Law. The People’s Fair Sentencing and Public Safety Act, originally proposed for the 2018 ballot, would change the language of the Three Strikes Law to ensure that individuals whose triggering offense is nonviolent no longer be exposed to a lengthy life sentence. It would also change the way that the law classifies certain crimes that are currently considered “serious” crimes or violent felonies despite not involving any actual violence. It would ensure that these individuals are able to secure release into society without racking up extra time for repeated non-violent convictions, and it would save the taxpayers millions of dollars. This Act seeks to rectify this illogical practice by amending the Penal Code to make a distinction between violence and nonviolence. Under Federal guidelines, this very distinction exists; 18 USC 3559 (3)(H)(i), (ii). The amendments will serve to protect nonviolent offenders from suffering miscarriages of justice.

Chung Kao
Kao proposes broad funding for the expansion of higher education programs across prisons in the United States, which would allow those who are incarcerated to obtain post secondary degrees. Based on the overwhelming success of the Prison University Project, Kao would like to see this model funded and replicated across the United States. If funded, Kao believes that this initiative will lead to a significant decrease in the overall rates of recidivism. It would also provide a space for incarcerated folks to gain the knowledge and skills they need to gain employment upon release. Finally, similar programs have been proven to have positive effects on self-identity, mental health, relationships as well as race relations.

James King
King proposes investment in a new media company that will provide an online platform for people who are directly impacted by the criminal justice system. In particular, this media platform would provide a system for educating and sharing information with people who are currently incarcerated and an outlet for incarcerated people to directly share their stories, thoughts, and observations about life on the inside. If funded, King would expand the Re:Vision blog (a current project of Re:store Justice) to provide an avenue for incarcerated people to learn about, shape, and independently lead the criminal justice reform conversation.

Chan Lam
Lam proposes the creation of a job-seeking platform designed specifically to help recently paroled people find employment. This platform seeks to explicitly outline the federal financial incentives for hiring people with felony convictions and features a streamlined filing application so employers can receive their refunds. There are no upfront costs for companies or people on parole to use the site and it features a rating system similar to GlassDoor. Lam’s mission is to connect more parolees with meaningful, long-term employment and financial independence. Funding for this platform would help him achieve this fundamental purpose and improve employment opportunities for people coming home from prison.

Isaiah Love
Love argues that prisons should be transformed into academies for higher education and for building new, pro-social habits. This culture would help incarcerated people change their lives and adopt new habits during their time in prison, which, in turn, would allow them to succeed in the community upon release. Orienting correctional institutions around cultural and behavioral transformation would mean providing opportunities for all incarcerated people to access high quality higher education, to develop and maintain new habits, and to create new identities.

Michael Mackey
Mackey’s proposal involves reforming how the justice system interacts with and treats people with mental illness. He believes that the current system does not address the needs of people with mental illness sufficiently. Access to assessment, treatment, and (when necessary) referral for mental illness (including substance use disorder) should be a part of the general health services available to all incarcerated people. People with mental illness in prison, he says, should have access to the same types of psychotropic medication and psychosocial support as people in the community outside of prison.

William Merlen
Merlen proposes a program to help address and heal feelings of social inadequacy that are common among incarcerated people and that cause real harm to their ability to heal, develop supportive social networks, and re-enter the community successfully.

Lonnie Morris
Far too often, the criminal justice reform agenda is created without sufficiently utilizing the specialized knowledge and lived experiences of currently incarcerated men and women. In order to remedy this problem, Morris proposes to conduct a series of workshops on criminal justice reform strategies and priorities (entitled “Resetting the Criminal Justice Reform Table”) for philanthropists, businesses, community based organizations (CBOs), judges, lawmakers, district and defense attorneys, law enforcement and other drivers and influencers in the criminal justice reform movement. These workshops would bring the perspective of currently incarcerated people “back to the table” and allow them to help shape more inclusive, meaningful, and sustainable criminal justice reform policies, strategies, and priorities.

Rahsaan Thomas
Thomas seeks to fund a new project of Prison Renaissance, which is an organization that Thomas co-founded that uses art to support the healing of incarcerated people and to connect them to the wider community. This project, called We Rehabilitate Us Program (WRUP), would create opportunities for incarcerated artists to collaborate with outside artists. Although rehabilitative programs like art therapy are proven to reduce recidivism, CDCR inconsistently maintains art programs. Unlike CDCR programs, which rely on state funding, outside funding and collaboration with volunteers would enable WRUP to pursue its goals free from bureaucratic constraints. Through WRUP, Thomas envisions a future of reduced disciplinary infractions in prison environments. He hopes WRUP will serve as the catalyst to create mentorships and collaborative relationships between incarcerated people and communities outside, financially empower artists by producing three journals a year that pay artists for their work, and reduce recidivism rates to zero for program participants.

Jesse Vasquez
Vasquez writes, “Relatively few people adversely impacted by public policy are involved in the decision-making process. The vast majority of inner city Americans, especially black and brown people, are at a disadvantage in the public arena because they lack knowledge of the governmental framework that regulates how bills and ballot measures become law. Few of them know whom to address their concerns to and the rest of them assume that no one will care enough to listen.” He proposes the funding of a “Civic Empowerment Program” designed to strengthen socio-political bonds by providing everyone with a platform of political expression. Through a program serving middle school, high school and college students, as well as others eager to learn, Vasquez envisions an education infrastructure bolstering the US democracy and engagement within it. This infrastructure will increase civic engagement and, therefore, hold the capacity to transform the current criminal justice system.

Charles Williams
Williams proposes funding for a holistic rehabilitation program for people ages 35 and older who have been incarcerated for 15 years or more. The main components of this program would include: mental health professionals guiding participants through confrontational therapy and coping skills, developing a mechanism of community responsibility that clusters participants into accountability groups, and an investment in each participant to support their successful transition into society. Williams further proposes that the Mental Health Department play an integral role in both developing the curriculum and providing adequate psychological evaluation of incarcerated persons prior to their release. If funded, Williams believes that this initiative will serve as a holistic approach for incarcerated people who are preparing for their release to successfully reintegrate into society with minimal barriers.

Van Wilson
Wilson proposes an alteration to CDCR policy in order to allow incarcerated people to own and use cell phones. He believes that providing access to cell phones would promote the independence, self-reliance, self-esteem, and community ties of incarcerated people. Opponents of this idea claim that incarcerated people would use cellphones behind walls to invite criminal activity. Wilson envisions a cellphones-behind-walls policy that works for everyone and improves public safety; calls would be monitored via authorized ID codes and the provider would be equipped with technology that prevents incarcerated people from accessing sensitive information. A working policy has the potential to eliminate unauthorized cell phone contraband and protect public safety, while improving self-esteem, self-actualization, and family and social ties for incarcerated people. The value of providing an outlet for self-expression and connection would be seen in the increased safety of CDCR institutions and smoother re-entry when people leave prison.

Phoeun You
You proposes the creation of a 13-week seminar on the causes and impacts of, coping mechanisms for, and strategies for healing from trauma led by incarcerated facilitators for prison staff and volunteers. This “Trauma Academy” would aim to build empathy, cultivate a deeper understanding of personal traumas, guide healing and uncover coping skills. Funding for the seminar would help pay for facilitation fees as well as marketing materials, a website and workshop training. You believes that once the pilot program achieves success at San Quentin, it can expand to prisons across the nation and include workshops for society at large. Processing, understanding, and healing from trauma is an important way to make communities safer. This seminar aims to both transform individuals’ lives and make prisons safer and healthier for staff and incarcerated people alike.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

Dad Deserved Better

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Prison University Project student Joe Garcia reflects on his parents. His story is one in a series of oral histories that Voice of Witness has collected through collaborative storytelling workshops with Prison University Project students.

The sheriff’s voice crackled over the intercom on the wall of my cinder block cell.

“Garcia, get dressed. You have an attorney visit.”

Did my ears deceive me? This was an unexpected turn of events. I had been to court only a couple of weeks prior to this, before I’d been placed here in “the hole”– a dungeon like series of cells, with the only window being a small 10×10 view of an unlit hallway connecting them.

Either swathed in bright fluorescent light or complete darkness by the sheriff’s discretion, there was hardly any routine other than the twice a day feeding schedule. Reality quickly became distorted, so the surprise announcement was a shock to the surreal environment. Why would my lawyer come to see me now? Most every court date, he would spend an hour or so conferring with me in a holding cell outside the courtroom. We were on the verge of starting my second trial after getting the first one overturned for juror misconduct, so we had a firm grasp on every aspect of my case.

My attorney was just as surprised that he had to visit me in a whole separate unit of the facility. Having had some experience with jailhouse visiting and LA County Jail’s hole, he could see through the plexiglass before I even sat down that it was a welcome break from my isolation.

I smiled at him as I picked up the phone on my side of the glass. We spent a moment or two going over the details of how I became housed here. Quickly, however we turned to the subject of his visit: my father had had a severe stroke, and my family needed to speak with me. I usually checked in with them at least once a week, but being in the hole meant no phone privileges.

I had already been locked up for six years fighting my murder case at this point, and both my parents’ health had started to decline shortly after my arrest. I don’t believe that to be simply due to coincidence. I can only imagine the extreme emotional and physical toll that my incarceration caused them, their only child facing a life sentence with little chance of being acquitted.

I had spoken with my dad recently, and he had assured me that he was doing okay. After that, when my family hadn’t heard from me in weeks, they knew something must have happened. My Uncle Pete, my father’s brother, contacted my attorney.

I already felt helpless about my legal situation and my uselessness to my parents. It had always been an unspoken promise that I would be there to take care of them in the same nurturing manner that they had always taken care of me. Now I couldn’t even communicate with the outside world at a significant moment like this.

My lawyer was able to explain my situation to a sergeant and convince him to allow me access to a payphone to call my Uncle Pete. I learned that my dad was being kept on life support, unconscious and unresponsive after his stroke. My family was unsure as to my dad’s wishes under these circumstances. My father and I were wonderfully close, and although he had never expressed clear cut instructions, I knew for certain that he did not want his life prolonged meaninglessly like that. He believed that whenever a man’s time came, he should be permitted to go in peace.

In an isolated confinement area, I told my Uncle to do the right thing and let my father pass. Uncle Pete figured that would be my dad’s choice, but he wanted to make sure by hearing it from me also.

I had known that if I did not win my trial outright, I would never see either of my parents alive again, so this event only solidified that unmitigated truth. No matter how deep my frustration at being incarcerated, I shudder at the thought of all the pain and desolation I brought them in what should have been their golden years. Of all the people on earth, I felt my parents deserved that less than anyone else.

In the wake of this, I did find some comfort in reconnecting with my Uncle Pete, who himself passed away several years later. Only one year younger than my dad, Uncle Pete had damn near the same voice over the phone. Speaking with him often felt like I was talking to my dad. All three of us had the Garcia nose, too. Whenever I would share my deep regret at leaving my parents hanging, he would always calm me down. “It’s not your fault, son,” he would say. “We were here for them in your place. They were surrounded by family.” Nevertheless, I should have been the one who was there for them.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the Voice of Witness Blog on January 31, 2019.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.