San Quentin News

Written By Incarcerated - Advancing Social Justice

AN OG’S PERSPECTIVE: “Aren’t You Grateful You’re Not in Prison Anymore?”

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Watani Stiner was interviewed by his former creative writing teacher, Zoe Mullery, on July 22, 2020, regarding the outbreak of Coronavirus at San Quentin. Watani paroled from San Quentin in January 2015 after serving 26 years (5 from 1969-1974, when he escaped; 21 more from 1994-2015 after he voluntarily returned from being a fugitive in South America, in order to assist his children to be able to come to the U.S.)

Photo courtesy of Watani Stiner
Watani Stiner
Photo by Peter Merts
Zoe Mullery

ZOE: Watani, you were telling me that you were having a reaction to some things you have heard well-meaning family members and other people say about the situation in San Quentin. Can you tell me what you were feeling about the questions they were asking you?

WATANI: What’s going on inside San Quentin and the situation with COVID-19 that’s devastating that place—for someone who was inside for 21 straight years, that brings up a whole lot of feelings inside of me. Even though I’m out of San Quentin now, the relationships with people I grew to love and who I worked with for 21 years are very much alive. When people talk about what’s going on inside San Quentin now it’s always framed like: “Aren’t you grateful you’re not in prison anymore?” It’s not that simple. I have deep relationships that were formed over many years of incarceration. And now I’m out. And it’s as if I’m supposed to feel like I won the lottery and now I’m good, and those who are left behind are the losers, the unfortunate ones. It’s not meant to be insensitive, but there’s just a whole bunch of reactions inside of me when I hear that. Because I know the thoughts, the struggles, of those still inside, and it’s impossible for me to disconnect myself from that. It’s hard for me to say ME, it’s still WE.

There are a lot of young men still inside who should have been out a long time ago. Some even made it almost all the way to the finish line when COVID-19 struck and they’re still in there, still trapped. And then someone says, “Well, at least you’re out!” If I were still inside and someone before me got out, and that statement was said to them, I would hope that they wouldn’t forget me. I’d be happy they’re out, but I wouldn’t want to be forgotten.

I had family members who were there for me, who agonized over my plight and followed every twist and turn of my circumstances, and those still inside also have family members, brothers, sisters, mothers and daughters and they also want their loved ones out of that deadly situation. I can’t talk about it without thinking “By the grace of God, there I go.” That sits kind of hard for me.

ZOE: I’ve heard many people say when they get out of prison how bittersweet it is to leave people behind. It seems like prison creates this impossible situation because there’s this wall between relationships. When you’re in prison you’ve got a wall to the outside, and when you’re out you’ve got a wall to the inside. Either way you’re locked out of access to people you care about.

WATANI: I remember the first time I had this feeling; it was really strong. It was the first time I went back inside San Quentin after being out for less than a year. I met many of the people I knew, we hugged each other, we laughed and made jokes and they were glad I was out. But when I left, having to leave them there, knowing that not long before I was in the same prison uniform…I would have turned to the left to go back to my cell and the outside guests would turn to the right toward the door outside. And now I was turning right. That was a heavy, heavy feeling.

I have this nagging anxiety of wanting to know what I can do. Can I do more? Anger arises and I want to just do something radical because I know it’s wrong how much they’re suffering. I know their stories—individually and collectively. It’s one thing to know the newspaper clippings about cookie cutter crimes and form a general opinion, a conclusion. But it’s another thing when you really get to know a person and you learn about them through letters to their mothers, their wives, their sisters and brothers. And they tell you things about their lives, what they’ve been through and how they are coming out on the other end. Such a strong bond is formed.

It’s hard to turn away from that and just be glad you survived and got out. Even at the beginning, after being released, I had this turmoil inside of me when I would hear some social justice advocates dissect the prison system. They champion or cheerlead for one segment or another and support a particular group of prisoners. But the relationships and stories of people I know and have grown close to don’t fit in such neat boxes.

I’m haunted by the ricocheting sounds of “Man Down!” “Man Down!” Those shouts of compassion that take place when someone in their cell needs urgent medical attention. No regard for race, color or creed. I hear that now “Man Down!” is being shouted multiple times a day, all over the prison. How can I just be satisfied that it’s not me in there? I get calls from worried wives and mothers asking me if I know what can be done to help their loved ones who may now be facing a death sentence. I have no satisfying answers for them. This is where I am with this terrible situation.

It’s one thing to have a sense of helplessness out here, but they have a hundred times more helplessness while confined in there.

ZOE: Helplessness plus rage.

WATANI: Yeah, that’s exactly what it is—or maybe rage first then helplessness. I also think about the impact of this epidemic not just from the prisoners’ perspective, but there are also prison guards who have to work within the confines of the prison structure, the caring ones who have not surrendered their humanity. They also have families. Lt. Sam Robinson comes to mind. He had shared stories about his wife and children. His family must be as concerned for him as any prisoner’s family is for them. If we cannot see the humanity in either prisoner or guard, perhaps we are able to see our reflection in the mirror of family.

So, when I hear people say they are glad I’m not in prison during this pandemic, I know it’s because their love and concern for me are genuine. I know how much they would have worried about me. They would have wanted others to care, to do something. And now I am on the outside. How I can convey help and hope?

ZOE: Your words matter, and I hope that some of them get to read these words and know that they are not forgotten.

WATANI: I’m considered an OG and there’s a number of young men I’ve actually raised in prison. I care about them like family, and I know their struggles and their victories. They’re so much more than the crime written in their files. When I see someone being released from prison, I’m overjoyed that one more person has an opportunity to change the world. And now this pandemic is ravaging through San Quentin, through a place that is full of people I care about. You just told me about Gary finally being released. He should have been out a long time ago. And so many others. Juan and Bonaru, Kevin and Malik… so many who should have been home years ago. It’s a tragedy. I know I can’t do much to affect this punitive web called criminal justice, yet I feel I have to do something.

I want you all to know you have not been forgotten.

https://brothersinpen.wordpress.com/

Elderly prisoners face hardships before the board

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“I feel very disappointed with the system in my country,” said inmate Joe Ibarra in an interview with San Quentin News.

Ibarra is originally from Harlingen, Texas, but his parents are Mexican. 85-year-old Ibarra is in unique position to understand the difficulties that elderly inmates experience in the system.

“I’m one of the oldest pintos [OGs] in the California system,” he said.

Fellow inmates Pineda and Antonio Macilla, who are 74 and 76 years old respectively—have cumulatively served more than a century in prison for second-degree homicide.

In an interview conducted in San Quentin, the three elderly prisoners revealed some of the most common limitations elderly inmates face in achieving eligibility for parole: a lack of insight, lack of surviving family, and chronic illnesses.

Ibarra says the parole board (BPH) has denied him 15 times for lacking a deeper understanding of his crime. “They ask me to do more programs but nothing sticks with me anymore, I forget things.”

As proof of his gradual memory loss Ibarra commented, with tears in his eyes, “After 38 years in prison, I sometimes can’t even recognize my family. My brother visited me after a long time and I could not recognize him until the visit was over. He left with a broken heart. “

There are hundreds of inmates like Ibarra, who due to their advanced age are unable to learn or retain educational information that increases their chances of getting an exit date.

A lack of the family and community support that is required by the BPH is another factor that limits this group of prisoners’ ability to obtain conditional release.

“During the first years I did everything in my power to obtain my freedom while I had the support of my family. However, that was not possible and over the years I began to become disappointed,” said Pineda.

In 2017, he says, the BPH denied him 5 years. “This last time they asked for letters of support from my family. I feel stuck in this place. It is impossible for me to get the support they ask me for. My family was already advanced in age when I entered and have now passed away. I feel frustrated because if I do not comply, I will never be able to leave this place. They ask me for something I can never give them,” Pineda, originally from Sinaloa, Mexico, who has been in prison for 38 years, commented with visible frustration.

The BPH requires lifers like Pineda to verify in writing a ‘place of residence’ (known in the US as a transition house) in their country of origin. Without a letter from one of these institutions, elderly inmates are further limited in their chances of someday obtaining conditional release. “I requested a letter of acceptance to several transition houses and I never received a response,” Pineda emphasized.

Over the years Pineda’s physical health has deteriorated. “I think it would be very difficult to pay for my own medical needs like my insulin and medicine for my rheumatism.” Pineda said regarding future release. “There are days when I start thinking and I think it would be better not to leave this place. Now I would just go out and give pity and suffer, here at least they give me medical attention. “

Mancilla, who has been in prison for 33 years, says  he’s been denied conditional release seven times. Unlike Pineda, Mancilla has family support. In his hometown of Colima, México, he worked as a cargo trucks and tractor driver. He does not, however, have documentation that verifies these skills. Now, he says, “[The parole board] asks me to take a vocational [course], but since I do not have my GED I can not enter the vocational workshops. It is difficult for me to obtain my GED at 76 years old, because of my lack of English and my state of physical health. I got sick with cancer in my stomach and stopped attending school. I’m still undergoing treatment.

“…evidence has linked loneliness…to a host of psychological and physiological ills (including) depression, cognitive decline, hearing problems and stroke.”  Scientific American “The Toxic Well of Loneliness” January 2018

Since being diagnosed with stomach cancer, Mancilla explained, “It has become very difficult and very tiring to face the board and talk about my crime. I feel very bad, emotional stress weakens me physically. That’s one of the reasons why I have waived the right to be present during my last three hearings. “

Mancilla yearns to be able to leave the prison, reunite with his family and return to work as a truck and tractor driver. However, his illness prevents him from attending classes to get his GED and be accepted in a vocational program.

“When I had living family, I was interested in going out and doing what they asked me to do,” Pineda said. “I had the dream of seeing my parents and taking care of them. Today, I’ve lost hope of being free. “

Ibarra sadly expressed, “when they found me eligible for parole, my family and friends bought me clothes and lots of food to throw me a party. I gave away all my belongings thinking that they were going to let me go. But the Governor took away my departure date, “In this instance, Ibarra said, “I felt like a promise had been broken. As if the world ended. Like a dog when you take away his bone.”

Jorge Heredia and Marco Villa Contributed to this story

https://sanquentinnews.com/optionb-org-support-group-overcoming-effects-incarceration/

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Watani Bids Farewell to SQ News

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For nearly three years, since March of 2013, I have enjoyed contributing to the San Quentin News with my OG’s Perspective column, glad to let my son Larry Jr. pinch-hit occasionally. But with this column my time in the lineup comes to an end. When I paroled from San Quentin a year ago I promised editor in chief Arnulfo Garcia that I would continue for a year. That year has ended. Arnulfo likes to encourage the newspaper staff to “move forward.” That’s what I’m going to do, with a focus on my family that is so dear to me and to completion of my memoir. As you can see by the theme of my recent presentation to the men at San Quentin and my last regular column, printed below, I believe that family is an essential part of life. The restrictive terms of my release from prison will soon be eased and I will be able to connect more easily with those children and grandchildren that I cherish. I will also be able to get more involved in various social justice issues that interest me in my community. As I leave the pages of the SQ News I want to thank all those involved for the chance to have my say. If the readers and SQ News staff would allow, I would still like to be able to submit articles on an occasional basis as important issues arise and that I feel passionate to speak to.
LESS THAN A YEAR AGO, I was a California state prisoner serving a life sentence. And although I spent a total of 26 years behind these walls of San Quentin, the last time I actually walked the streets of this country as a “free” man (prior to January of this year) was 1969…. That was 47 years ago.
Now we certainly don’t have enough time for me to bore you with details of my whole life-story, so let me just give you a thumbnail sketch of my journey and make one brief observation:
For those of you who don’t know, I escaped from San Quentin in 1974 because my life was in serious danger in prison. I fled the country to South America where I remained an escaped-fugitive for 20 years. In 1994, I made a deal with the state department and voluntarily surrendered to U.S. authorities in exchange for my family being given safe passage to the U.S.  I was brought back to San Quentin to serve out the remainder of my life sentence. I realized tonight that I just might be the only person in this country to have successfully escaped from San Quentin and then volunteered to return—not only once but volunteered to come back to this prison twice! Once in 1994, and then again tonight! I just hope they don’t decide to keep me as long as they did the first time. So Lt. Sam Robinson… I’m trusting that you will let me out of here TONIGHT!
For the thousands of fathers who are currently in prison in San Quentin and this country, it is certainly no secret that our children are collateral damage. Yes, sadly but truthfully, and rarely ever acknowledged or discussed by political pundits and policy-makers, millions of children are innocent casualties of our criminal injustice system. It is one of America’s dirtiest little secrets, and a national tragedy.
After being in prison for so many years, separated from the lives of my children (who, by the way, did not get the promised safe passage from the U.S. government until 11 years and almost their entire childhoods had passed…), I had made up my mind that since they had all grown up during my incarceration, I had missed my chance to be fully present in their lives. I actually believed that my children no longer needed me as their father. After all, I had missed practically all their birthdays, their school graduations, family picnics, marriages; and so many holidays have passed without my presence. And most importantly, I had missed my God-given right as a father: the right to lower my voice and strike terror into the hearts of all my daughters’ conniving little boyfriends. Yes, why would my children, after all these years of my absence, need a father now?
Although I was separated from my own children, during my incarceration I have found myself being a surrogate father to so many young prisoners who have also become my surrogate sons. As with any family, some of my sons I scolded because they were hard-headed and difficult to reach, while others would argue with me, repeatedly ask annoying questions, and listen to what I had to say. Yes, there were those I had become disappointed with, and those that made me so very proud of them.
I recall one of my many prison sons who came to prison when he was just 16 years of age, unable to read or write and too embarrassed to admit it. He would not ask for help for fear of being exposed to the other prisoners. Instead, he chose to withdraw, losing all contact and communication with his family. Like a father, I tried to give the love, the time and the patience to this young man that I was denied the opportunity to give to my own children. If I couldn’t be their father, I would try to be somebody’s father.  In addition to helping him learn to read and write, I tried to encourage him, build up his sense of self-respect, and help him sort out his own identity as a man. He would later go on to get his G.E.D. and AA degree. When I was paroled, he was taking a correspondence course to obtain his B.A. All he needed was a father and a chance!
If anyone here is holding onto the assumption that your children do not need you anymore because you have been separated from them for so long, or because they are grown, let me assure you that your assumption is far removed from reality: Once I had been released from prison, I first began to experience overwhelming feelings of anxiety. For I now had full access to all of my children: their scars, their hurts, and all their traumas. I was suddenly confronted with the difficult day-to-day experience of being a father. I did not realize it at the time, but prison serves as a kind of buffer to our relationship with our children. It hides from us their nightmares and their dreams.
I quickly found out that my children needed love and healing… they needed both a reassuring embrace from me as well as a silent and sacred space to scream: WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME DADDY? I HATE YOU AND I LOVE YOU TOO! The human heart must ask: Where is this love and who in the hell locked up compassion and justice?
It is my hope that one day you all will find out, just as I have… that no matter how long the state decides to contain us under a broken criminal justice system, our children are the ones who suffer the most. And no matter how many years you are incarcerated, when you are released, you too will find that your sons and daughters still need their dads!
My message to every father in prison, and to all of the fathers here in this room who are not in prison, who feel they are no longer needed in their children’s lives, is to find a way to stay connected (or get connected) to your children. For me (while in prison) I poured most of my time and energy into writing. Writing became my passion, my salvation, and it created a life-line from my heart to my children’s heart. It literally kept me sane and connected to my children during my 21 years of re-incarceration. I continued to write to them each and every day, even when there was no response. Against any temptation to despair, I urge you to find a creative way to stay connected with your children.
In closing, I’d like to leave a message and a poem to all my brothers who are currently locked up behind bars. The message is crucial: Discover and explore your creative passion. If you have children, that passion, whatever it may be, can help provide that difficult and necessary bridge to them, a starting point in building a creative relationship that can sustain all the separation, hurt, anger and loss that is intrinsic to a having a parent in prison.
So, if you would just indulge me, I’d like to share this short poem with you. It is a poem I wrote 10 years ago while a prisoner here at San Quentin. I titled it: I Write For My Children.

Son, Here’s the Toast I Could Not Give You…

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My eldest son turns 50 today (October 25th) and I wrote this in his honor. He celebrated by having a big gathering of family and friends which I would have loved to attend. However, as I am still on parole, I was denied permission to travel to Los Angeles for this once-in-a-lifetime celebration.
Some of you may not know that once you get out of prison, you’re not as “free” as you might think. Parole can last from one year to the rest of your life, and it means you continue to be beholden to the state in many ways. For instance, I can’t travel outside of a 50-mile radius from where I am living. I have to submit to a urinalysis test every month even though I have never been convicted of any drug-related charge. I am subject to parole checks where my parole officer comes to inspect how I am living – looking at who I’m hanging out with, assessing my moral rectitude. I have restrictions on who I can or can’t associate with. And if I am found in violation of any of these restrictions, I can be immediately returned to San Quentin.
It was a great disappointment to me to not be able to celebrate Larry’s 50th birthday in person, but I am hopeful that in this coming year I will be granted passes out of the county to visit not only Larry but my other children and grandchildren. There’s no substitute for sitting in a loved one’s kitchen, sharing laughter and conversation in person.
A Toast To My Eldest Son on His 50th Birthday!
Maybe some of you don’t know but shortly after Larry Jr. was born, I gave him the special name Kalima. When he got older, he didn’t like the name because he felt self-conscious about it; he thought it was a little weird. When his mother started calling him “Lee-Lee” that was the end of it. He decided to just go back to using Larry. Kalima in Swahili means: “One with the spoken word.” What I now realize, looking back upon these 50 years, is that what I should have named him is Nzuri Moyo, which means ONE WITH THE BEAUTIFUL HEART!
LIFTING THE GLASS TO BEGIN THE TOAST!
Larry Jr., Nzuri Moyo, first son of Larry Joseph Stiner Sr. (Baba), I am trying to express to you just how proud I am that you were born MY SON, and how much I truly do love you. This cannot be captured in just a few words or expressed in such a limited amount of space and time! I would need a forum more beautiful than a toast and I certainly would need to be there in person. But since this is your 50th birthday and I am moved to say something of significance and value, let me just say this:
You were born during a turbulent period in history… October 25, 1965—born during the heat and fire of revolutionary social change in this country. It is certainly no secret to you that I spent much of my time as your young father focusing on the big picture, on the “revolution,” and not nearly enough time on being a father to you and your brother Shambulia. Imbued with revolutionary zeal and ideals, I left you and went off to save the world! No, I was not there when you and your little brother Shambulia needed a father the most.
By all odds, and verified by so many analyses and statistics, you and your younger brother were doomed to be counted among the casualties of this society. You were predicted to either become addicted to drugs, consumed by the criminal injustice system, or found dead from an unsuspecting bullet. Yes, the social deck was stacked against you. You were certainly predicted to be just another defeated young Black man, cast aside, lost or dying on the uncaring streets of Los Angeles.
However, you are one of the survivors!… But you are more than just a survivor. You are one of the too few success stories in the inner cities of America. I cannot (and won’t pretend to) take credit for the strong Black man that you have become today. You are someone who has defied and defeated all the odds. I am so very proud of you!
Let me name just a few of the ways I see that beautiful heart in action: It was you, my son, who, after many years, opened your heart and embraced a father who was not there when you needed him most. It was you who cared for, comforted, and protected your younger brother Shambulia when your father was thousands of miles away, always lifting him up and nurturing his spirit. And it was you who became a big brother to six younger siblings from South America whom you had never met. Yes, it was you, and your big beautiful heart, who have cared for them, given them loving counsel and unselfish advice. And it was you who unashamedly and uncompromisingly have supported and inspired me throughout my 21 years of re-incarceration. Perhaps rarely said by a father to his son, but I truly do consider you my hero!
Now I would LOVE to attribute some of that strength and smartness and good-looks to genetics. But I can only take credit for half of those. For the rest, I have to lift my glass up to my high school sweetheart, mother of my two sons, and give much praise to the woman who not only contributed her excellent DNA but–much more importantly–had to endure and shoulder all of the responsibility. A strong Black woman who sacrificed so much, and who had to be both rock and pillow during my absence. I want to honor your mother “Hodari,” without whom you could not have become the wonderful human being you have become. And after the wonderful example she set, you went on to choose another strong and extraordinary woman to be your partner in life, Diane. I lift my glass to both of those praiseworthy women.
So, I wish you blessings without number and all good things without end. Happy 50th birthday KALIMA, my Son!

…Thanks, Dad, But How Far Have We Come?

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Happy 50th Birthday: But How Far Have We Really Come?
On October 25th of this year, I joined Club 50 as my born day arrived and a large group of family members and friends launched into a soulful rendition of the happy birthday song. It would be the 50th time in my life that this song would be sung in my honor. My father would miss 46 of those times not by choice but rather due to circumstances. You see, prison and exile had kept him away from those he loved as he paid a heavy price for confronting a racist, discriminatory and unjust part of society. So even as I sipped champagne, posed for photos and danced the night away in celebration of my special day, I thought of my father while questioning how far we had really come in terms of racial equality over the five decades of my life.
Born shortly after the Watts revolt in 1965, I came into the world just as the smoke from the burning Los Angeles area buildings cleared and a new type of fire was sparked in the spirit of young men and women who were ready to fight for change. The Black Power movement swept my father up and eventually led to my mother raising my younger brother and I alone as Dad focused almost exclusively on the necessary task of fighting to make things right for our people. That revolutionary struggle landed him in San Quentin State Prison in 1969 with a life sentence and left me growing up wondering if I’d ever see him again. In the years that followed, he would escape from prison, flee the country and start a new family while living for 20 years in exile. In 1994, he would voluntarily surrender and return to prison in an attempt to save that new family from a life of extreme hardship as times grew drastic in the third world country he had made his home. He would serve another 21 years of incarceration in the same prison he had escaped from. That brings me to the milestone year of 2015. During this year, I celebrated my 20th wedding anniversary, my 30th year of employment with the City of Los Angeles and my 50th year on this Earth. And just after turning 50 years old, I found myself being most thankful for my father being released from prison nine months before I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. Yes, it had been a wonderful year full of incredible high points. Still, I couldn’t help but feel like more progress should have been made over the 600 months of my life. How far have we really come in the last 50 years?
The Watts rebellion had been sparked by police officers’ mistreatment of a Black motorist and others at the scene of a traffic stop on August 11, 1965. More than 26 years later, on the night of March 3, 1991, the brutal beating of Black motorist Rodney King by several White police officers was caught on tape. With every television news station airing the recording, I watched in utter disbelief and anger as the police batons repeatedly slammed against all parts of this man’s defenseless body. As Rodney rolled about in slow motion on the street taking this harsh beating, I noticed there were also many cops standing by and simply watching this battering take place. As if it were just a normal occurrence on the job, no attempt was made to by any of these badge-wearing onlookers to stop this atrocious act. Despite this all being captured by the camera lens of a filming citizen, a jury acquitted the officers who faced charges of assault with a deadly weapon. This verdict set off the L. A. Rebellion on April 29, 1992. Eventually, the National Guard was called in to deal with the uprising just as it had been called in to do the same during the Watts rebellion. And today, more than 20 years after Los Angeles was set ablaze for a second time in protest; we are still seeing police brutality and the use of excessive force time and time again in Black communities. Once more, I ask, how far have we really come in the last 50 years?
As disappointed as I am with the slow process of change, I must still salute those who have sacrificed so much and sought to make a difference. So as others sing happy 50th birthday to me, I deem it necessary to say happy belated 50th birthday to the Watts revolt and to the revolutionary spirit that was born out of that uprising. Fifty years from now, whether I’m blessed enough to blow the candles out on another cake or not, I pray that things will be vastly different for the generations to come.

After the Conversation, What's Next?

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Though it seems a lot longer, it’s only been nine months since I was released from San Quentin State Prison. Just a few months since I gathered my belongings, said my good-byes and walked eagerly but patiently to be processed from one world into another. I took my final breath of imprisoned air and allowed my ears to surrender the sounds of jangling keys and clanging doors. Twenty-six years of captivity and another 20 spent as an escaped fugitive in exile. I pondered my new reality on the other side of these concrete walls.

I am moving cautiously through a process of re-learning. Unquestionably, after 46 years, this country has changed a lot: people, places and a wide variety of “things.” I’m dazzled by magical cell phone apps and thrilled by the readily available flow of information that can be retrieved from my laptop.

While on the one hand, with the assistance of GPS navigation, it’s relatively impossible to get lost out here anymore, it’s also creepy how easily the government can not only track and find you but can know everything about you. And people don’t even seem to mind. Yet, in spite of all these technological advancements and wonderments, there remains a social reality that seems to have become more pernicious and prevalent—a cruel reality of police brutality, poverty, mass incarceration and gross inequality, yoked with a powerful apathy working as a buffer from the human suffering caused by these conditions.

I was immediately shocked by the saturation of homelessness on the streets of this country. Both young and old roam the streets looking for safety, shelter and a willing handout. I witness constant streams of women, young and old, pushing stuffed carts while hungry and dispirited-looking children try to keep up. I see their hungry faces revealing their thoughts: this is my reality…this is how life is… this is normal.

Now I’m quite aware that this is not the total reality of life on this side of the wall. But it is the one I choose to talk about, one I cannot ignore. The last time I walked the streets of this country as a free man was January 1969. Similar to today, it was a time of great social unrest in this country. In 1969, the year I was sentenced, the prison population in the state of California was less than 25,000. The prison population today has skyrocketed to well over 100,000. And the number of young prisoners is astonishing!

Even though there are now Black faces in high places, including in the White House, and there are more women in the workforce than ever before, poverty, racism and sexism are still very much alive and well. This is the United States of America, the richest and most powerful country in the world. Yet for many of its marginalized citizens, opportunities parallel those in far less developed countries, and those limited opportunities often line the path to incarceration.

Something is not only outrageously wrong with this picture, it has become the acceptable norm among so many of its people: Police abuse, abject poverty and mass incarceration. This country spends six times as much money on incarceration than it does on education. How is it tolerated by so many people that such extreme disparity, not marginalized or hidden but in plain and distasteful sight, can exist?

 

|“It is this knowledge and depth that are required

in order to move the conversation beyond shallowness”|

 

I see and long for a genuine racial reconciliation and a genuine accounting for the shockingly glaring disparity in quality of life—which I don’t believe is really comprehended either by the privileged or by the disenfranchised. I long for this reconciliation not just in words, or from some moralistic impulse propelled by a vague notion of  “nonviolence,” which is preached mainly to the rage of victims of oppression. I long for a reconciliation forged out of a deeper understanding of the historical threads, a real reckoning with the intentional, violent and state-sanctioned oppression that created the economic and social conditions that we all are confronted with today.

Racism—as an ideology and institutional arrangement, and the desire, the rage, the concerns and the guilt engendered by those on both sides of the issue—is nothing new. And always, there is someone, somewhere who stands up and calls out passionately for racial reconciliation and racial justice. There is often someone pleading with America to engage in “a conversation about race.” This conversation is necessary. It is crucial. All too frequently, however, the conversation doesn’t go very far. I believe this is because in order to really have that conversation, there needs to be a far broader and deeper acknowledgement of the historical devastation that has been thrust upon the once enslaved Africans of this nation.

I’m not only referring to slavery—that human beings were actually kidnapped and brought here against their will—but also a more cohesive understanding about what has been done to these human beings over the last 400 years since we got here. I don’t mean assenting to some disconnected facts about a lynching or a drinking fountain, but grasping that there has been an organized, powerful, pervasive, relentless attack on a certain group of people, perpetrated by their own government and its laws and carried out by its citizens in countless insidious ways.

This is critical to understanding why there is such a wide gap in every area of this society. It speaks to why Africans in America are relegated to certain quarters/sections, into areas of inferior housing and education. Why Katrina was not just a hurricane (if you’re Black), and why so many of us are consumed by the criminal justice system. It also speaks to the reason why a majority of White children are taught and learn in secure environments free of poverty, stray bullets and police brutality.

Learning and deeply understanding the history, learning the depths and the nuance of the pain, and suffering, and difference…. It is this knowledge and depth that are required in order to move the conversation beyond shallowness, because it is necessary for us to move below the surface in order to dismantle the structures weighing upon, shaping, and forming the core of our lives and our interactions.

As long as we stay at the surface level, it is easy to miss or dismiss the enormous magnitude of what has happened around racism in this country, and trying to have a conversation without understanding the magnitude goes nowhere. A conversation to what end? What good is there in our having a conversation if all we are seeking to achieve is a little more pleasant and polite feeling between the races? Is it just about how to live congenially and tolerantly in our inequality? Does the conversation not include action toward structural changes? Does it not hint of redistribution or relinquishing of any resources and privileges? If it’s business as usual, what’s the purpose? After intense exchange of racial experiences, after listening to each other’s racial stories… after we smile and laugh and become friendlier toward each other, what’s next? The same racist institutions are still intact. And we resume our separate lives and wait for the next news flash that proves Black lives do not matter.

Raising Our Children in the Struggle 

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I was somewhat surprised that my children born in South America don’t seem to share my passion for fighting for racial justice in the United States, that they don’t even see its injustice the way I do. Because of this, it throws into question my assumptions about how they thought about me when we were apart. I wonder what my children were thinking about me when they were in foster care…so young and knowing so little of my story and what had happened to me. Why was I in prison? What was their narrative about me?
After all, they didn’t grow up in this country; that wasn’t the context they were immersed in. They had no conception of the rising intensity of racial antagonism within this country that continues today. Nor had they ever heard of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. or Malcolm X. All that my children knew was that they had a loving daddy and then he left, and when he left, things turned into a nightmare.
As a young activist fighting for social justice during the tumultuous 1960s, I was focused on wanting to make a difference for the very reason of wanting children – my children, everyone’s children – to be able to grow up in a just and safe world. I had a big picture view, a revolutionary vision that was a kind of love for them.
Would I do it all again the same way, knowing the huge emotional toll it has taken on my children? I was not there when they needed me most. But my choice was not just about making a difficult decision to join the struggle for social change. It was also about a racist system and the actions of COINTELPRO that limited my choices. I can’t honestly say that there are no regrets. But if I had to do it all over again, I would. However, this time I would be mindful of the collateral damage done to my children. I would never forsake or take for granted the small picture for the big picture.
In a strange way, the ironic outcome of me not being there for them is that my children don’t see or understand the issues like they might have if I had been teaching and dialoguing with them all those years. Sadly but truthfully, being in prison for so many years, separating them from their children, is the plight of so many Black fathers. Because my life was sacrificed for the struggle, the big picture, I didn’t get to raise my own children to see critical social issues as I would want them to. And in fact, a few of my children have some beliefs that are really shocking to me. That is a hard outcome to have, given my life for the struggle.
A thing that feels so poignant to me is that my pregnant daughter Latanya, with her unborn son, proclaims passionately how she will never abandon her child. She will care for him above and beyond any and everything else. She will always be there for him, to comfort, protect and support him in all his dreams and aspirations. For Latanya, there is no issue more compelling and important to her than raising her child. She says, “I can name a million and one incidents where I would rather have had you there than you being where you were because of what you were doing for ‘your people’! So like I said, Dad, the price you paid was not worth it! It’s not that I don’t care. I just care more about my child!”
I realize that Latanya is just as passionate about her unborn child as I was in my passion for revolutionary social change in this country. But I also understand that if the society in which she lives is not just, and sees her son as less-than, then all the love she pours into him and all the protection she offers will not be enough. She will long for changes in society so that he can thrive and grow in the ways every mother wants to see.
It feels tenderly naive to me that she thinks that she on her own can make his world. She can do a lot, but he will have to live in this society. She can “choose him above everything else,” but he and all of us still need activists fighting for justice. My grandson also needs the social justice work I care about. If I have come to any conclusion at all about family and social struggle, it is this: It is not a question of either/or but must be a balance of both/and. My hope for my unborn grandson is that he cries out into a world where justice prevails and Black lives truly matter.

Sunday’s Best and a Special Vest

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Do you recall the last time you ventured into a house of worship? Remember how that strong feeling of comfort embraced you as you walked through those church doors, briefly leaving the chaos and danger of everyday life behind you? At ease, you exhaled and allowed your spirit to be swept up by the angelic voices of the robe-wearing choir members as you sought out the perfect seat.
Upon the pew, you sat and glanced around to take in the sight of smiling men, women and children all dressed up in their Sunday’s best and waiting patiently to hear the pastor preach the word of God. Always powerful, the weekly message incorporated words of peace, love and acceptance.
Now imagine closing your eyes and bowing your head to pray. And just before you can say “Amen,” evil strikes: BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Sadly, a scene like this actually played out during a recent Bible study session taking place in a historic black church located in Charleston, South Carolina. On a Wednesday evening, June 17, 2015, a young white male opened fire on a group of black church members who had welcomed him into their perceived sanctuary to join them in studying the Scriptures. Mercilessly, he pumped bullets into innocent bodies, reloaded and pumped more bullets into the same bodies as if he wanted everyone to die twice.
Finally, the gunman stood over one of three surviving witnesses and made a racially inflammatory remark before exiting the church.
With nine people dead, including the pastor, and a killer on the loose, news of the massacre quickly spread. Soon, the shooter was in custody and details surrounding this unbelievable tragedy began to emerge.
I was both sad and mad at once and nothing has changed as I gauge my feelings today.
Once again, I find myself in the midst of battling emotions. I am saddened by the unnecessary loss of such beautiful and productive lives. I feel deep sorrow for the families and friends of the deceased.
Moreover, my heart hurts for the black community as we have had to deal with so much pain in recent weeks, months and years. At the same time, the level of my fury remains high.
I am angry that a coward would commit such a horrendous crime out of pure hatred for a group of a different color. I am angry that certain media members and politicians initially did all they could to avoid calling this a hate crime and an act of domestic terrorism.
I am angry that I live in a world where racism keeps spearheading the murder of a people who have been in the crosshairs of America’s rifle for more than four centuries.
And then there is that confederate flag. I am angry that even in the wake of such a tragic event, that symbol of slavery and hate was still flying.
Yes I am angry but I also understand that action is needed to change things. Perhaps I should visit a church in honor of those nine victims. Perhaps I should bow my head in a house of worship and pray even stronger for peace, love and acceptance.
And if I do choose to go that route, you can bet I’ll have a bulletproof vest on under my Sunday suit and I’ll be praying with one eye open…just in case I need to stand my ground.

A Familiar Face and a Complex Relationship

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The face on that man looks very familiar. And so does his uniform: perfectly matching navy-blue shirt and pants accessorized with a black duty belt upon which a nine millimeter handgun is holstered. The shiny oval-shaped badge on his chest identifies him as an officer working for the Los Angeles Police Department.
I’ve seen that face before but can’t quite recall when or where. Had he stopped me in traffic? Had he once confronted a group of friends I happened to be with? Did I see him questioning or arresting someone in my neighborhood? I don’t think so. My gut tells me I had a more positive experience in my dealings with this African-American law enforcer.
Finally, I remember him. He and I had grown up on the same block and had gone to school together many years ago. We had been childhood friends.
Frozen by the surprise of discovering he had gone to work for the Police Department, I simply stare in silence. It is extremely rare for anyone from around my way to walk down that law enforcement path. With a deep-seeded mistrust of the police often handed down from parent to child, negative experiences between the L.A.P.D. and minorities in South Los Angeles only widened the divide.
Now that I know who this man is, my stare intensifies as I try to see down into his soul. He looks away, but I can’t. With so many black bodies dropping from the impact of police bullets around the country, I have a burning desire to know which side of the line he falls on. Do Black lives matter to him? Does he truly believe that two hands up means don’t shoot? Having been raised on the same street as I, he is uniquely positioned to see things from both sides. Surely, he hasn’t forgotten the constant police harassment we experienced as innocent teenagers. He could not have forgotten how many of our peers had been targeted, framed and jailed by the bad seeds walking among the men in blue.
On the flip side, I am certain he also remembers the deadly gang warfare and heavy drug trafficking that made our environment seem like the “wild, wild West” and which, in turn, had many in the community feeling the police needed to do more to stop the violence.
Part of me believes his roots had to have instilled in him a longing to change the historically poor relationship between people of color and the police. I reason he must have become an officer because he wants to do his part to make things fair. Another side of me, however, remains skeptical as my mind plays back the recent images of African-American cops idly standing by or participating in the incidents that led to the deaths of Eric Garner in New York and Freddie Gray in Baltimore.
I can’t help but wonder about the true feelings of the police officers in riot gear standing face to face with angry protesters who are overcome with pain, fear and frustration, as they cry for help and demand change. Do any of those officers feel the same pain and frustration? Do any of them really care? The fact that I am even asking myself these things reminds me of how much work we still have to do as a society.
In the end, I walk away without ever saying a word to the officer with the familiar face. He and I both know why.

Right to Police Transparency

A Daughter Looks Back…and Forward

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As the month of June approached, Father’s Day sat at the forefront of my mind as I thought of how different it would be this time around. You see, I had gone twenty years without being able to celebrate this day or any other day with my father, Watani Stiner, the way other daughters did. Because of his incarceration, there had been no dinner outings, movie nights or picnics in the park. There were no home-cooked meals, jazz concerts or any of the traditional gift giving that usually took place. There was, however, an abundance of improvisation, communication and love. In other words, I refused to let the many small defeats define the relationship I had with my father.
Yes, as Father’s Day drew near, I thought of the rocky road I had traveled over the past two decades. I remembered flying into this country desperate to be reunited with my dad who had already been imprisoned for eleven years before the airplane carrying my siblings and I had finally touched the ground. I recalled the powerful feeling of anticipation during the long ride in a crowded passenger van on the way from Los Angeles to visit my father in San Quentin State Prison for the first time. And I remembered the sadness of leaving him behind when visiting time was over. Undoubtedly, life while my father was behind the walls had been more difficult than one could ever imagine. Still, I never lost hope and I never stopped believing that one day we would be able to do all of the things that fathers and daughters do together on the outside. My focus remained on not letting the small defeats I suffered get the best of me. I was determined to maintain a solid relationship with my dad.
Of course, this had to be a two-way street. It was just as important for my father to improvise, communicate and show the love necessary to help preserve our bond. Despite the obstacles that prison presented, he was as involved in my life as he could possibly be considering the circumstances. He continually wrote, called and showed the type of concern a daughter would expect from her father. And whenever I stumbled upon hardship, I could always read one the many letters he had written to me over the years and use it as a source of inspiration and strength to move on and pursue all of my dreams. It would be impossible to minimize the struggle my father and I faced in attempting to keep that loving connection alive, but I will tell anyone willing to listen that it was very much worth it. And now that he is home, we both are extremely excited about the opportunity to more freely cultivate our relationship as father and daughter. Having encountered what I thought were defeats along the way, I can nevertheless still proudly proclaim that we were definitely not defeated. In fact, as my father would say, “There are no defeats, only delayed victories!” Happy Father’s Day, Dad. And to the men still on the inside who continue fighting to overcome the odds, happy Father’s Day to you, too.

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