Mount Tamalpais College

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Oral History at San Quentin Prison

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Last fall, Voice of Witness, an organization that advances human rights by amplifying the voices of people impacted by injustice, held three classes that introduced Prison University Project students to the oral history process. Read more about the series of workshops by clicking below, and check out students Steve Brooks and Joe Garcia’s stories published on the Voice of Witness Blog.

The Voice of Witness education team is always looking for opportunities to create deeper engagement and partnership with the communities represented in our book series, so we can ensure our educational resources are reaching the students who need them the most. That’s why with the launch of our newest book, Six By Ten: Stories from Solitary, we’ve been working with the Prison University Project (PUP) at San Quentin State Prison to share VOW’s ethics-driven oral history process with their students.

The PUP college program offers San Quentin inmates free courses in the humanities, social sciences, math, and science, as well as intensive college preparatory courses in math and English. Working with PUP Academic Program Director, Amy Jamgochian, I developed three classes that would introduce students to the oral history process and give them an opportunity to practice their interview skills, both as an interviewer and narrator, as well as their editing skills.

Following weeks of planning, logistics and pursuing security clearances, I kicked off the first class by pairing students up to a share a story with each other related to their first names. It was a great way to warm everyone up to storytelling – after sharing their stories with the group, many of them realized their stories had something in common!

We then read Hani Khan’s story from Patriot Acts, which helped students begin to think about the relationship between interviewer and narrator in the oral history process – in particular the types of questions (and listening) that inspire thoughtful, detailed stories.

I was inspired by how adept the students were at contextualizing oral history, posing powerful questions about the nature of history—namely who makes it and who writes it. They quickly made connections between oral history and traditions like West African Griots, and modern day emcees.

In order to prepare ourselves for interviews during our second class, our first meeting finished with an exploration of the question, “If you had a meaningful story to share with someone, what would you need to feel safe, to feel brave?” There were many lively responses, and the class felt very connected to issues related to respect, representation, and the importance of agency over one’s own story.

When I arrived for our second class, I discovered that we were going to be in a different classroom, and one right next store to a room where there was an open-mic performance going on. Not exactly ideal when you’ll be conducting oral history interviews! However, this seemed to bother me more than it did the students, and they came in ready to conduct their interviews. After a while, we were able to turn the performance next door into part of our interview experience, as we acknowledged the applause next door as an appreciation of our interview skills!

The interviews were not without their challenges, however. Due to prison requirements the students were not able to use recording devices for their interviews, and instead took copious notes while interviewing their partners. It was certainly an exercise in maintaining focus—both when listening to your narrator’s story, and in the ability to capture the meaningful moments of the story on paper in real time.

After the interviews were completed, partners shared their notes with each other and had a bit of time to incorporate this material into their existing story drafts. Watching this process unfold, it became clear to me that this approach to oral history – and the challenges incarcerated people face documenting their stories – should be incorporated into our curriculum for Six By Ten. Before the end of class, I reminded students that our third and final meeting was going to be devoted to editing their personal narratives.

Looking ahead, we will be using the VOW blog to provide an online platform for these students to publish their stories. In our last class, our first task was to make sure everyone was clear about the process of getting their oral histories onto the VOW website. After some editing work, the stories would be typed up, proofed by the students, and then sent to the Public Information Officer for publishing clearance.

As we began our editing session, it was interesting for students to compare the editing work they had done in their formal writing, and the choices made while editing their personal narratives. Many concepts and techniques carried over, such as clarity and quality of detail, but students were also able to use different editing techniques to highlight moments in their stories that included sensory detail, a clear storytelling arc, and an overall intuitive sense of what makes for a compelling story. At the end of our editing session, I asked if a few students would be willing to read their narratives to the class. Everyone volunteered and we finished our work together in a very supportive story sharing environment.

Before parting, I took a moment to reflect on how much we were able to touch on in just three classes: oral history techniques, editing, the concept of “people’s history,” several excerpts from the VOW book series (including Six By Ten), the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, quotes from Chimamanda Adichie and James Baldwin, and guiding principles for ethical storytelling. I was also glad to be able to leave some VOW books for the PUP library, so other students in the program will have access to the stories and can make connections with the lives and experiences of our narrators.

I certainly hope this is only the beginning of our work with the students of the Prison University Project. We can’t wait to share these students’ stories with you in the coming months!

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

I Ran a Marathon in Prison

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Prison University Project student Steve Brooks reflects on running a marathon in prison. 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.

It was November 17, 2017. A day without glitz and glamour. No roaring crowds. No motorcycle cops. No streets and no scenic route. But that day there was a film crew filming a documentary about the San Quentin 1000 Mile Running Club— the only marathon running club for prisoners in the nation.

The club has been around for about a decade but I joined when I arrived at San Quentin in 2016. I was attracted to the idea of running a marathon. I wondered if I could do it. Then I decided to prove to myself that I could. I started training almost immediately. I trained for a whole year. Something I’ve never done before for any reason.

When Friday November 17 finally came I felt like I was ready. I ran with 24 other club members. We ran in a not so perfect circle, in the middle of the four acre square lower yard— on a track roughly 400 meters. My goal was to go round and round without stopping for 105 laps— the equivalent of 26.2 miles.

It was a perfect day to run a marathon. It was sunny, but cool— 65 degrees. And I felt good even though I was running on dirt, gravel, asphalt, and small patches of grass. I ran between 2 green spray painted lines about 5 feet apart. They were cordoned off by orange cones meant to keep pedestrians out of the lane.

The running course had a slight hill members called “the gauntlet” because it got worse every lap. This led to an unevenly sloped bend curving left towards a health clinic, guard shack, inmate urinals and some water fountains. The track then curved left again back down a slight hill.

I ran past huge walls, gun rails and barbed wire fencing, before entering back onto the straightway where the race began.

The scenery was drab. I ran past a makeshift laundry room where inmates were exchanging their laundry. I passed a baseball field but there was no game. I ran past inmates playing horseshoes and basketball. And I saw inmates doing pull-ups, dips, and push-ups. There were many inmates also walking along the track, veering in and out of our lane, as we ran. Some of them were dressed in blue with the words “CDCR Prisoner” painted bright yellow across their backs. There were flocks of pigeons, seagulls and geese taking off and landing like planes all around me. I mostly stared at the ground however, in deep concentration. Every now and then I would look up and see the clear blue sky. I was going nowhere fast and the pain was settling in.

By mile 13 I was completely exhausted. My legs were heavy. My breath was shallow and I was drenched in sweat. I knew then that the last 13 miles was gonna be like a death march— a crucifixion. Many times I wanted to quit. People were dropping out all around me. But I kept going.

I was 200 pounds. I was wearing heavy white shorts and an oversized grey T-shirt. I was punishing myself, restructuring my anatomy. My shins were sore. My knees were starting to feel dislocated and my pelvic bone felt shattered.

I got angry at my lap counter because I thought he was missing my laps. I was frustrated because people kept handing me water when I needed electrolytes. Electrolytes when I needed water. Then the cup kept missing my mouth. I ate so much Sugary Goo (energy booster) I got nauseous.

Then, there were two emergency alarms where I had to completely stop running and sit on the ground, until the alarms cleared. Luckily they only lasted five minutes but long enough for my joints to stiffen. When I finally got up to run again bones were grinding against bone.

Eventually I began to wonder, why? Why would I take the pain of being in prison with a life sentence and couple it with the pain of running a marathon? The closer I got to the finish line the further it got away. My only energy eventually came from cheers, applause, pats on my back. But I was broken, limping, and in pain.

I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to do something few people did in my life. I wanted to discover how much pain I could actually take, I guess. I experienced a lot of pain but also freedom, comfort, and peace. I found a parallel universe— a spiritual realm. But I also think I found what I craved most in life— redemption. I finished the marathon in 4 hours and 12 seconds.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the Voice of Witness blog on January 15, 2019.

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

On Art and Voting—Thinking About Tuesday’s Elections from Inside San Quentin

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Prison University Project student and Program Clerk James King writes on voting, art, and rehabilitation.

Right now there is a lot of debate about whether incarcerated people should be given the right to vote. It reminds me of a similar dispute about the value of art in educational spaces. Many of the proponents for voting rights argue that allowing incarcerated people to vote will create better citizens, much in the same way that art advocates argue that a well-rounded education (read: one that values art) will create more well-rounded citizens.

There is a link between art and voting that is fairly obvious. Both are means of expression, and therefore deeply personal. But before exploring the similarities between the two, one fact must be established first.

Art does not rehabilitate.

Art is the result of one’s experiences or perceptions expressed creatively. As such, let’s say a person’s art springs from their unresolved trauma. Said art, like all trauma, may be expressed either harmfully or healthily, but it doesn’t become rehabilitative simply because it’s expressed. That is true, even if it feels good to express oneself. The fact that art, and the response that art generates, is affirming does not necessarily make it rehabilitative.

Sure, there is a basic intrinsic value to self-expression, but what if that expression is ignored, misunderstood, or worse, rejected by one’s peers? In situations like that, the responses to expression itself can further the trauma. Art didn’t save Mozart, Janis Joplin, Tupac, or Jimi Hendrix, any more than it saved Charles Manson.

It’s similar with voting. Imagine, for instance, I bought my potential fiancée an engagement ring, then the night before I popped the question, someone breaks into my house and steals the ring. At this point, I might believe the death penalty is too good for this criminal. Then, a potential law is placed on the ballot. This law will give all burglars life sentences. Hell, yes, I say. Early in the morning, I march down to the voting booth and vote yes. Am I now rehabilitated? What if I vote the same way on the next ten initiatives?

The truth is that what rehabilitates is the commitment by a community to invest in those among them who are traumatized. Compassion and empathy are the bricks. Kindness is the mortar. The work of rehabilitation is painstaking, tedious, with numerous setbacks. A wall goes up, then the wind knocks some of the bricks down before the mortar fully solidifies. Since the building cannot exist without the wall, we replace the bricks one by one.

If the value of art is not in rehabilitation, then what is it? Instead, art’s value springs from something far more basic. Art is expression and expression is a fundamental need of human beings. In fact, I would argue that self-expression is just as essential to life as breathing.

In a similar vein, considering whether voting is rehabilitative misses the same larger picture. Voting is expression. The denial of the right to express one’s self creates a second-class citizen in a society that promotes the concept that we are all created equal. If people are denied their voice in one way, they will surely find another. In fact, it’s important to remember that voting takes many forms. People vote with their actions far more often than they do at the voting booth. Take legalized marijuana, for example. Long before “voters” went to the polls in California and “voted” for legalization, thousands of people were voting for it to be legal. Instead of going to the polling place, they voted with the local weed man.

Voting should be allowed, not because it’s rehabilitative, but because it’s humanizing. If that’s true, then I guess it is actually rehabilitating….for our society as a whole.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in Witness LA on November 5, 2018.

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

For Each Cage from Which I Break Free

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Published in the November 2018 newsletter, which you can read in its entirety here.

My experience with the Prison University Project’s academic conference has been challenging, nerve-wracking, and exciting all rolled into one. Being that this was my first academic conference, it was a learning experience that I welcomed.

On this educational journey, I have discovered that I am more than a prisoner. I am bigger than the cages of racism, poverty, illiteracy, criminality, and prison that have held me captive, in one form or another, since the day I was born. I found that that for each cage from which I break free, my head is held a little higher, my back straightens a little more, my shoulders roll back a little further, and I become a little more dignified.

Now in the shadow of the Prison University Project’s academic conference, I am poised to break free of yet another cage. The I don’t feel like I quite measure up cage. This one I built for myself. I’ve been in it for most of my life. Now I am standing on the precipice of being free. But, at the thought of the academic achievements of those who surrounded me, I shuddered. My stomach churned. My heart raced. Again I was confronted by the am I good enough? cage. Will I fall on my face? I don’t want to do this. It is in this moment of doubt that I’m confronted with the reason I must push forward: the young African American man. His pants are hanging low. He greets me, “What’s up, my n***a, you got the time OG?” I cringe at the “N” word. I say to him, “It’s 9:30 youngsta.” I turn to walk away. Taking a look back to ensure he continues walking, heeding the old prison policy of “staying ten toes down at all times” (prison lingo and mentality for watching my back). As I catch a glimpse of him walking away with his head in the clouds oblivious to what the future holds for him, the moment becomes too real. I see myself in him.

It is 1992, I’m in Jamestown State Prison (Sierra Conservation Center). It is my first prison term. My head is in the clouds. I’m oblivious, unaware of the lives I would wreck and the 24 years that would pass in the blink of an eye as I walked yard after yard in prison after prison. I shake off the nostalgia and regret, with the intimate understanding it is for him and the future victims I hope are never created, that I wrote my conference proposal about social etiquette training as one of the tools needed to help young prisoners. I remember very vividly that the masks I wore were there to conceal my feelings of inadequacy and intimidation, while in the presence of those I had come to believe were somehow more than me. More what, I could not tell you, just more. But once I discovered those little niceties which fostered positive relationships, my confidence grew and so did my belief that I more than measure up to anyone and any challenge.

With this knowledge, I’ve come to understand and appreciate two sayings: to know better is to do better and with knowledge comes responsibility. Now that I know better, I am doing better. My intimate knowledge of the many problems within the judicial system makes me responsible for presenting a solution. Today I am part of the solution, and not the problem.

In the final analysis, when all is said and done, it matters not if any actions are taken as a result of my contribution to the conference. All that matters is that some real rehabilitative actions, or at least plans for future actions, come out of it. Whatever those actions are, however they look, it is my responsibility to contribute my time, effort, and resources to advance them! This—the real possibility for long-lasting systemic change—is what excites me most about the Prison University Project’s academic conference.

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

People, Planet, Profit: Reflections on Business 101

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Published in the November 2018 newsletter, which you can read in its entirety here.

As a future entrepreneur, taking Business 101 was a blessing. I have learned to build houses from the ground up and I plan to begin my own house flipping business upon release. This course provided me with valuable information that would increase my chances to succeed in my business, specifically the financing and marketing aspects.

Before taking this class I only knew the physical aspect of my future business, which is how to flip distressed houses. I had no idea of the importance of creating a well-thought-out business plan. I learned the different ways to finance a business and after reflecting on that, I chose the bootstrap financing strategy to get my startup expenses as low as possible. The main characteristics of the strategy are: hiring as few employees as possible, borrowing or renting equipment, using personal savings, and getting small loans from friends or relatives. I created a break-even analysis of my business, which allowed me to estimate the number of houses I need to sell at which net income is zero (have no profit or loss). This is relevant because it tells you at what point you will begin to make profit.

Developing and implementing a marketing strategy is vital. It all starts with research to make sure that a market exists for my service or product, then, choosing a pricing method. I learned what factors to take into consideration when setting a price for a house. After carefully examining the distribution channels, I decided to directly sell my house because as a startup company, I need to cut expenses whenever possible. This class explained in detail the most common way for promoting a product or service, so one can decide which method to use according to one’s business.

After taking this course, I not only feel prepared to start my own business, but I have confidence that I would be successful in flipping houses. Throughout the semester all the teachers made me think outside the box and focus on risk management. Life is full of what-ifs so it’s always wise to have a life plan and be ready when the unexpected occurs.

Finally, I want to express my sincere gratitude, appreciation, and admiration for Theresa Roeder, Jen Lyons, and Will Bondurant for their excellence, professionalism, and for making the most challenging topics easy to understand.

Tare Beltranchuc is a Prison University Project student.
 

This summer, I had the great pleasure of teaching Business 101: Introduction to Business, with Will Bondurant and Jennifer Lyons. We each have expertise in distinct areas of business—Will is in marketing, Jen is finance and economics, and I’m operations. After we’d covered the subject-specific material, we spent the second half of the semester talking more broadly about entrepreneurship, communications, professionalism, and ethics, while students worked on their business plans.

The level of enthusiasm for the class was high, and it opened students’ eyes to all that goes into starting a business. In class, we talked about the Triple Bottom Line (the three Ps) of sustainability: people, planet, profit. The students came up with business ideas that would allow them to simultaneously earn a living and better the lives of their community. We had projects from training and placing formerly incarcerated people in tech jobs to opening a neighborhood convenience store with affordable, healthy foods. I had several conversations with students about how their attitude has changed. Now, they are actively trying to help others lift themselves up. It made me reflect on the effect education can have on people.

The writing in their business plans was better than some of what is turned in to me at my “day job.” While I can speculate about a number of factors that might be contributing to this, the two big ones are that students really want to learn, and that the Prison University Project encourages them to spend as much time in introductory writing and math classes as they need. This, sadly, is not what happens on the outside, to the detriment of our students. Despite teaching in a business school, I think liberal arts education is critically important, especially for incarcerated students. Nonetheless, there’s also great value in providing them with additional skills that will assist them when they seek work on the outside.

Theresa Roeder is a Prison University Project instructor and board member.

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

One Prison Taught Me Racism. Another Taught Me Acceptance

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My first lesson in racial discrimination happened at the maximum-security prison at Calipatria, Calif. An older Mexican dude with the signature handlebar mustache told me in a Hollywood whisper, “Hey, homie, we don’t associate with llantas (tires) around here. The animales (animals) have their own rules. We follow ours. Don’t talk to them too much because someone might feel disrespected, and you’re going to get dealt with.”

Until then, I had thought “homie” meant “homey,” as in cozy and welcoming. Here, though, the word was used to separate me from anyone who was not Mexican. The older “homie” mumbled a list of Mexican rule violations I’d get beat up or stabbed for, most involving interactions with the black guys: The phone on their side of the day room and their concrete tables on the yard were off limits. No eating, lingering or trading with them. And definitely no arguing: If a black guy so much as raised his voice, I was supposed to punch him in the mouth even if it started a riot.

I was 18 years old and scared. With multiple life sentences to serve, I knew I would have to adjust to my life behind bars. I kept to the designated areas. I spoke Spanish most of the time, and I interacted only with people who looked like me.

I did not think of myself as a racist. I had grown up playing with black, Asian and white kids in Southern California. I had attended Asian celebrations, like the Tet Festival in Garden Grove. I had eaten my black friend’s mama’s famous Cajun-fried chicken and stuffed baked potato. I thought I could teeter on the edge of the lines of self-segregation without the racist prison culture poisoning me. But I had to conform to survive.

On the yard, I stood guard at concrete benches next to toilets that reeked of urine, out of “an obligation” to hold what we had designated as our ground. I would sit around a light pole in our area that cast the only shade on the yard because it was prime real estate, at least by prison standards. The racist language of the older Mexicans who had fought in the prison’s gang and race wars became my own. I repeated the stories they told me. After a while, I grew angry and resentful myself. I lost a part of myself because I started believing the rhetoric.

I thought every California prison was segregated. But when I transferred to San Quentin State Prison in November 2016, after 15 years inside, I was appalled to see groups of black, white and Mexican inmates mingling together. The interracial baseball, basketball and soccer league horrified me. Either I was narrow-minded or these dudes were tripping.

At first, I avoided crowds. I walked alone around the yard because I did not know who to trust. I felt out of place whenever I saw people of different races just standing around together joking and laughing. I was uncomfortable with everyone else’s comfort. My old world had been simpler to navigate. Its boundaries had been clear, and I knew how to behave and communicate within them.

Then I began trying to conform to this new norm, at least outwardly. I ran in the San Quentin marathon alongside men of other races. Training was the perfect activity: It let me go along with a group while still telling myself, and others, I was participating alone. When I was running, I could not be accused of depending on anyone else.

Internally, I still struggled. My prejudices were tangled up in my sense of personal comfort, safety, complacency and custom. One evening when I got back from the yard, a black neighbor in my cellblock offered me a burrito. I was hungry, but I automatically declined. He noticed I had hesitated, looking both ways on our tier to see whether there were any other Mexicans around. He said: “Hey, brother, those days are over. This place is different. The people change you.”

My prejudice had been exposed. I felt bare. I felt ashamed I had been unable to see past this man’s skin color, unable to see his kindness and generosity because I had slid too far down the slippery slope of compromise. I wanted people to see me for more than the crime I had committed, and yet I was unable to see beyond skin tone.

I started venturing out of my comfort zone because I wanted to change. I would stop people on the yard to talk about their day. I started befriending guys of different races who were fellow members of a self-help group — men who were also working to heal their family relationships and make amends for their crimes. Our pasts were similar, full of pain, regret and remorse.

As part of these efforts, I joined the San Quentin News, our prison newspaper. The teacher of the weekly journalism class said reporting makes a difference because it informs people about the world and the options out there. For a long time, I did not know there was any reality other than the one I knew. I wanted to help share how the world is much bigger and brighter than what we sometimes see.

When I first started working in the newsroom, the editor in chief, a lanky black man named Bonaru, told me, “See where you fit in, and we’ll help you along the way.” One day, I almost lost it when he scolded me for sneaking a peek at my story on the managing editor’s computer. I was not used to black people telling me what to do. But I checked myself, and he explained the chain of accountability.

Beyond that lesson in interracial work relations, though, he believed in me. After so much time in prison, with few challenging opportunities, I had a serious confidence problem. Bonaru pushed me to learn the computer program I was nervous to use, saying, “Unless you try it, you won’t learn. And if you make mistakes, I’m right here to fix them.” I eventually learned how to lay out a newspaper and Photoshop images. Bonaru taught me that the undo command, ‘Control-Z,’ works in my favor, and he helped me realize there are other things in my life I can fix, too. We still work together today, on neighboring computers. He is one of my best friends and mentors.

Although there are people in San Quentin stuck in a mentality of “us against them,” I have a wide circle of friends of other races, men I confide in and consider my brothers. These friendships have awakened dormant feelings of compassion, sadness and longing. I have come to understand why it was hard for me to see I could live like this and there was an alternative way to think. I see pop culture and even news on television — the few windows I have into the outside world — constantly reinforce racial stereotypes. I see the inequity that fuels racial tensions elsewhere in America. I see how people on the outside are also shaped by their environments. Their behaviors become their beliefs, and vice versa. Despite my fears for my self-preservation, I confronted my biases and worked to change my perspective. Maybe society can do the same.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in The Washington Post on October 1, 2018.

Change from Inside

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When they send you to prison, they don’t think or seem to care about the reason why you acted in the way that you have. They sentence you according to the crime you committed, and you’re shipped off like cattle to slaughter. Most of us aren’t physically slaughtered, but mentally is another story.

Prison should change a man; it has me. Yes, I’ve been in prison before, but the other times it didn’t seem to hit me, and it never made me look at myself and wonder why I’ve done the things I’ve done in the past. Fifteen and a half years later, I have a fuller understanding of my actions and decisions.

Feeling that I was not loved and that something was wrong with me created a false sense of self-worth in me. Not dealing with feelings by asking questions and looking for answers, even the ones that could hurt, is one of my biggest regrets. I’ve come to know myself in a personal way without baggage or fluff. Lying in this bed at night with no one to talk to will make a man look at himself in a real way if he has a heart and mind to.

Prison makes or breaks you. The system wants you to act in a certain way, and the people in blue want you to hold a false sense of loyalty that brought you to prison in the first place. I have come to understand that education is the key; but before education you have to have the want to change and the desire to follow it through no matter what someone may think about you. The biggest question is what are we hiding from? Who are we trying to be or impress? What do I want out of this life and do I love myself? Answering these questions has helped me to move forward and not look back. I am very apologetic for the crimes and the pain that I caused people and the drug use that I was involved in, which pushed me into this lifestyle of criminal activity. That hurts me in a way that runs deep and that I have to ask God to forgive me for every day.

Prison isolation is damaging; no family can come visit and no physical contact in an affectionate way with the opposite sex. This does something to the humanness of a person. Watching and praying that you don’t get that phone call from the counselor, where you have to call home because you have lost a loved one, is heartening. One has to be very strong not to give into the destruction that is always lurking around the corner—personal self-destruction.

Today with the way the prison system is with rehabilitation at the forefront, anyone that doesn’t take advantage of its personal benefits is not trying to benefit themselves nor are they trying to find a way home sooner. In my case, I started rehabbing in 2008 because I wanted to change, and I felt the need to be able to help my child and my grandchildren. I also thought about what I still owe to society as a whole. I cannot live the way of my past, I have to be a productive member of society and to my family. So change has come from the inside—heart, mind, and soul. Being real with one’s core moral values is the only true way to walk behind these bars and these walls and expect to make a change in himself.

There has been tremendous support from the outside volunteers that come into San Quentin State Prison, be it self-help groups or the Prison University Project. These people come in and show their humanness and give all the knowledge and compassion they have so that we can become more educated and self-respecting individuals. This is the true rehabilitation that all prisons need, human kindness on the inside.

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

My Past, Present, and Future Experiences in Education

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I began my primary education in 1965, in the public school system of Tuscon, AZ. I was taught the Three Rs: arithmetic, reading, and writing. In junior high school, I showed promise in my athleticism, so my teachers did not push me academically. When I entered high school, I used my muscles from the neck down, because that is what seemed to be required of me. I was a mediocre student when it came to studying any part of the curriculum in high school. In fact, all I had to do was show up for class.

At the tender age of 16, I had two devastating tragedies. The first event: my mother passed away from open heart surgery and I did not handle her death well. I had one foot in school and the other foot in the school of hard knocks (sidewalk high school). The second event: I totaled a car and messed up my right foot and left knee. I was in a lot of pain (mentally, physically, and spiritually). I began self-medicating with alcohol and licit or illicit drugs to dull my senses. I spiraled out of control and eventually ended up in prison. There were some vocational trades being offered, but most of them were obsolete. It was like being put on a shelf until the release date. I became a repeat offender for the lack of confidence and self-worth.

In 1993, I acquired a GED in prison, and yet I lounged in the CA Dept of Corrections (Rehabilitation was added in 2007). The CDC system had nothing to rehabilitate a person other than religious services and the library. I decided to take advantage of those subjects to rehabilitate myself by learning to speak Spanish, some Arabic, and man’s fallible laws.

I came to San Quentin at the end of 2011 and enrolled in the Prison University Project’s College Program. It took a little over two years to get called for an assessment for placement. I fared better in English than in math. I was placed in 99A to acclimate myself in the structure of writing. I found everyone in this program wanting to see us learn and succeed in the curriculum as well as in life. I have a fever/spark that has been ignited and there is no rest for the weary — I have learned quite a lot of things about world views and most importantly myself.

I am grateful for this opportunity because it has changed me from a cocky individual to a self-assured individual. My extended family can hear and see a different person today. I have a deep appreciation and gratitude for everyone who sees the need to educate and reform what seem to be society’s “throwaways.”

Biology with Lab

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One of the most observable transformative moments for me is my first experience giving an oral presentation on “HIV Latency,” an independent research project of my choosing, because of my nerves, courage, and the intellect it took to give an oral presentation, which I didn’t think I possessed.

I enrolled in “Biology with Lab” in the summer of 2014. Going into it I didn’t know what to expect. Listening to the instructors outline expectations for the semester, I was somewhat relieved at the prospect of having to focus my attention on a mere single topic of my choosing. Using research material provided by the instructors, I was required to write a thesis and ultimately give an oral presentation at the end of the course on my findings. Taking for granted that my final work and oral presentation was due at the end of the course, I didn’t think much about what it would be like to give an oral presentation in front of an audience. Consequently, when choosing my research topic, I chose HIV latency — a complex issue at the heart of cutting-edge AIDS research because of the absence of data around the world about the persistence of HIV in the human body. According to the material provided by the instructors, current work suggests that small numbers of AIDS-causing viruses go into “latent” periods in infected individuals. Since latent viruses are not easily detected using traditional diagnostic procedures, an individual may be considered virus-free. Unfortunately, these latent viruses can start infecting the immune system again later in life with grave consequences. This process is called “virus activation” and is poorly understood.

I was nervous when I hear my name called. For the first time in my life, I was expected to get up in front of an audience of about 30 people that includes fellow inmates, outside spectators and biology professors, to give an oral presentation on an issue that 12-weeks earlier I knew very little about. Spending the entire semester conversing with fellow students, tutors, and biology instructor on the issue of HIV latency, I was feeling fairly confident that I knew much more about HIV latency than I did at the beginning of the course.

I’m transformed by the whole experience — the stress from the commitment to speak publicly; the ability to retain pertinent information learned throughout the course and to apply it to the issue of HIV latency and articulate in front of an audience; the shortness of breath doing my presentation; feeling like an idiot, sounding stupid; and the yearning for all of it to be over and done with.

At the end of my presentation, in spite of applause by fellow students, outside guests and course faculty, I felt mediocre about my presentation. In fact, it wasn’t until I receive my final grade for the semester — “A+” — that I begin to believe that with the support of the many wonderful people involved in the college program, I can do this! I can give an articulate oral presentation in front of an audience.

Redemption is Not Just for Me

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Gov. Jerry Brown commuted my sentence in December from 67 years to life to 20 years to life — a rare act of mercy. I had imagined the effects of a commutation on my life; the commutation’s effect on incarcerated people at San Quentin State Prison, though, surprised me. The night of my commutation, men cheered in their cells like the 49ers had just won the Super Bowl. It felt fantastic to hear men call out to me with joy, but I also recognized that they weren’t cheering for me. They were applauding something much more important than me.

That “something” is difficult to convey, as it showed up in emotions more than in concrete events. In their questions, I heard a thousand times: Emile, why do you take so many self-help classes? Why are you always reading? Who are you trying to impress? These questions didn’t come from everyone; but when they came, they felt loaded with judgment.

I felt like people wanted to tear me down.

I was wrong, people hadn’t wanted to tear me down. Their concerns were analogous to those of Denzel Washington’s character in the film “Fences.” He degraded his son’s sports dreams in a misguided attempt to protect his son from disappointment. Listening to them cheering for my commutation, I realized that what I’d taken as judgment was fear for me. My questioners had anticipated my “inevitable disappointment” and wanted to protect me, in their imperfect way.

Now they cheered, because they’d been wrong. And they’d never been happier to be wrong.

“They don’t give that kind of stuff to people like us, you know?” one man told me. “That kind of stuff is only for other people.” He had a thunderstruck look that reminded me of my own arrival at San Quentin. I met dozens of free people (volunteers in the prison) who wanted me to succeed — which wasn’t consistent with my internal narrative about a society that wanted me to fail. I’d found a community that wanted me, and I had never admitted to myself how desperately I wanted that. It proved an epiphany in my rehabilitation.

Six years later, I witnessed a similar moment of realization by the man who thought commutations were only for white people or rich people. His narrative, common in prison, about an “entire system” arrayed against him, was cracking.

A father spoke to a room of incarcerated journalists who work on the prison newspaper and radio news program about the effects of my commutation on him. “Before Emile, I wasn’t doing anything,” he said. “I didn’t care … I was never going home. Now, I’m going to do something.”

His sentiment isn’t isolated; I’ve watched it spread from man to man all month. I’m at the middle of how Gov. Brown’s act of mercy fuels exponential change. People who said they “didn’t care” are admitting to themselves that they both want to care and can be restorative members of their communities. They’re energized to transform their lives; and their transformations can change the lives around them, just as my transformation ripples through the world around me.

Media coverage billed me as “a more obvious choice” for clemency and a model of rehabilitation. I’m humbled. And I respectfully offer that in 20 years I learned to be this man from a lot of worthy men who don’t have my writing skills and so don’t have my visibility. Hundreds of them will file for a commutation this year. Imagine the power to spread transformation in a hundred acts of mercy.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on February 1, 2018.