San Quentin News

Written By Incarcerated - Advancing Social Justice

What’s really needed are paths to good jobs

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To stop the revolving door between poverty and incarceration, the more than 70 million Americans who are justice-involved need access to employment that allows self-perpetuating sustainability.

When people come home from prison or jail, they face immense challenges, not the least of which is stigma, and the burden that a criminal record places on people’s ability to find safe, secure housing and gainful employment.

While millions of philanthropic dollars pour each year into reentry and job training programs — which are necessary for people in the short-term — we need to do more to address the long-term impacts of incarceration on the perpetual cycle of poverty.

This includes investing in skill-building that begins inside of prison.
Take my friend Kenny B for example. Kenny has been home and working for six years and still cannot afford healthcare or his own apartment because he works at a low-skilled job.

Despite his efforts to care for himself and his loved ones, Kenny remains reliant on government social services and charities — some of which are funded by philanthropic dollars.

As a newcomer to philanthropy and a former entrepreneur, it hasn’t taken long for me to conclude that attention to policy reform, however necessary, has been insufficient if we are truly to dismantle the systems that create and perpetuate the twin cycles of poverty and mass incarceration.

We have, for example, witnessed how campaigns like “Ban the Box” can serve to distract us from the structural underpinnings of inequality in the workplace for Black and Hispanic men.

Instead, we should be creating paths to employment and entrepreneurship which create self-sufficiency in fulfilling their needs indefinitely while building social and economic equity.

Expanding support for programs like The Last Mile, which teaches computer coding to incarcerated people, and the Prison Entrepreneurship Program, which offers leadership training and a six-month, in-prison “mini-MBA” program, have much greater impact and outcomes than many programs administered post-incarceration.

These programs provide support and mentorship after people are released and — because they are private — they function outside of government bureaucracy.

I know how difficult it is to reenter the workforce after prison. I also know the value of learning skills while in prison that can provide near seamless reentry into society.

I spent two years learning to code while serving a 12-year sentence at San Quentin State Prison.

The skills I learned not only paved a path to near-instantaneous employment when I was released but also provided enough compensation to provide the resources I needed to thrive post-incarceration.

There are another 2.2 million people languishing in prisons and jails, most of whom will return to their communities. They will need jobs, housing, and healthcare, and most will have to navigate the daunting aspects of reentry without the professional skills required to pursue employment compensation that will raise them and their families out of poverty.

To move formerly incarcerated people out of poverty, we must reduce reliance on job readiness and training programs post-incarceration that are solely administered and funded by the government — and, we must work to improve these programs and their outcomes, and push to remove the red tape that makes the reentry process difficult to navigate. Instead, we should fund and support job training and entrepreneurship programs for people that begin while they are incarcerated.

We also need to change the narrative that incarcerated people are incapable of learning and performing in high-skilled jobs. High-skilled employment not only provides income and stability, it also enables an individual to gain equity in homeownership, to access health care, and to pay college tuition.

Having equity lifts people out of poverty and brings self-perpetuating, intergenerational sustainability.

Death Row lawyer and activist Bryan Stevenson tells us that “The opposite of poverty is justice.” Until system-impacted people attain true economic freedom, they will remain “have nots” and suffer all of the systemic injustices that come along with being poor — including incarceration.

Aly Tamboura is a manager in the Criminal Justice Reform program at the Chan Zuckerberg Initiative. He joined the organization in 2017, after working as a software engineer. Having spent over a decade of his life incarcerated, Tamboura brings both his firsthand experience with the criminal justice system and his strong technical skills to CZI to help advance critical reforms

United States resumes federal execution in midst of pandemic

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The federal government has resumed executions during the COVID-19 pandemic, prompting unsuccessful challenges before the U.S. Supreme Court.

One condemned man argued that the use of pentobarbital to carry out his execution would amount to cruel and unusual punishment. The challenges also question whether the reasonable fears of contracting COVID, held by the family of the victims and spiritual advisers were sufficient cause to impose stays.

Three federal prisoners were at the center of these emergency arguments, made necessary by the government’s unexpected and hasty decision to carry out executions in the midst of the pandemic.

Daniel Lewis Lee was put to death July 13, Wesley Ira Purkey was executed July 15, and Dustin Lee Honken was put to death July 17. All three were executed at the U.S. Penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana.

Lee maintained his innocence and argued that pentobarbital induces the effect of drowning, and therefore must result in extreme pain. A District Court ruled that his argument had merit, but a 5-4 Supreme Court majority rejected his position.

The majority pointed out that more than 100 pentobarbital executions have been performed without incident. The court also ruled Lee’s request for “last-minute” intervention was improper.

Lee remained strapped to the execution gurney for four hours while the legal jousting played out in the high court. Upon the lifting of the stay, his counsel received no notice of the final ruling, and Lee was executed in the middle of the night.

The family members of Lee’s victims had also filed petitions seeking a stay due to concerns about the potential of being infected by COVID-19 while witnessing the execution, due to the presence of four confirmed cases at the U.S. Penitentiary in Terre Haute, but their request was also denied.

Purkey had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, dementia, and Alzheimer’s. In his case, the Rev. Seigen Hartkemeyer, a 68-year-old Buddhist priest and Purkey’s spiritual adviser, requested a stay because of his own age and physical health issues. He contended that he was being asked to minister to the condemned prisoner at the risk of his own life.

Honken’s spiritual adviser, Mark O’Keefe, a Roman Catholic priest, made the same argument.

The Supreme Court ruled that protective equipment was available for the advisers and that the executions would be carried out, regardless of the risk created by the pandemic.

The US Department of Justice later stated: “Despite the pandemic, the government still must carry out its important duties.”

These federal actions can be contrasted against what occurred in Tennessee, where two executions were delayed when it was decided that it was impossible for the court to provide full and complete due process under present pandemic conditions.

Federal executions are in contrast to trends in the country which are shifting away from capital punishment. In some instances, it has been the inability to attain execution drugs because pharmaceutical firms no longer wish for their products to be utilized in that fashion. But there are growing changes in the use of the death penalty.

A number of states have abolished capital punishment, and its support has waned in the past few decades.

This is happening now in an atmosphere of protests and unrest over inequalities and racial injustice in cities across the nation and the world.
Keith Dwayne Nelson was scheduled for execution on Aug. 28.

For prosecutors nationwide November’s election may heat up

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The November election can bring swift and significant changes to the current criminal justice system. This will be based on the outcome of many prosecutors’ races.

Reform activists have supported the election of district attorneys who have “promised to reduce reliance on incarceration, increase transparency and promote equity,” according to the Los Angeles Daily News.

LA County District Attorney Jackie Lacey will battle for re-election in a November run-off. She was elected in 2012, and ran unopposed in 2016. This year she faces George Gascon, former San Francisco district attorney.
“If Lacey loses to Gascon, maybe he’ll do for LA what he’s done for SF. Lacey seems to not want to change her ‘lock up everyone and throw away the key’ mentality,” said Bobby John, a San Quentin resident.

In Houston, incumbent prosecutor Kim Ogg faces a contested general election in November.

Mike Kennedy, a Texas native housed at SQ said, “I doubt Texas will ever have reform when it comes to criminal justice. It’s not as bad as Cali, but it clearly needs to work their (Texas courts) death penalty stance.”
In Chicago, Kim Foxx will face multiple challengers in the Democratic primary.

The historical nature of prosecutor elections is that they usually run unopposed and serve multiple terms. There are over 2,300 jurisdictions in America that have to vote for prosecutor positions, but only 700 jurisdictions presented the voters with a choice of candidates, according to the Daily News.

In 2015 the prison reform movement took a strong hold in state legislatures. There has been a notable shift in the national conversation about criminal justice, according to the article.

In his 2016 nomination acceptance speech, Pres. Donald Trump told the Republican National Convention that as president he would return the country to a “law and order” agenda. He now reportedly sees criminal justice reform as a way to woo African American voters, the article said.

What I learned at Miami Youth Academy

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By Q. M.

Photo courtesy of Titan Tribune
Q.M.

I am 17-years-old, from Fort Myers.

I was brought to this program after charges of burglary and grand theft. I was doing crimes to make money because I didn’t have any. I didn’t want to rely on other people, and there were not many people to rely on.

I came into this program hoping to get my GED and then get home, as soon as possible. Although I have had bumps in the road throughout my stay, I have learned a lot of different things. They include how to walk away from distractions that could jeopardize my freedom or get me into trouble.

This program has helped me mature and become “the bigger person” in different situations. I want every newcomer here to understand that rebelling in this program will never help your situation. It will make it worse.

You can take two different paths in this program. One is easier than the other. You can be a follower or a leader. The follower watches kids who they believe are cool and then tries to be like them. The leader does what is best for himself in any situation, because he came in by himself and he’s going to leave by himself.

That does not mean you cannot have friends, but it’s important to surround yourself with the right friends. If you do, you’ll be fine.

As of now, I have my high school diploma and a Safe Participants Staff food-handling certificate used in commercial cooking. The only hurdle I have not yet overcome is relapse prevention. I will not know if everything is going to go well on that issue until I get back into the world, to my city, and do what I know I should be doing — instead of going back to what I did before. I believe this is going to be the hardest thing to accomplish, because it’s easier to go back to what I knew before I came here.

But what I have realized is that I can conquer anything I put my mind to. It just takes effort and hard work, so I will strive to do better, not just for my family but for myself.

Q.M. has graduated and is back at home.

Me and Only Me
Excerpts of rap lyrics by Q. M.

They wasn’t outchea for me when I was on my down fall
They wasn’t vouchin’ for me when I couldn’t stand tall
I dropped to my knees, I prayed the lord take ‘em all
See they laughed at me and thought that I was dumb. . .
Switch it up see, they thought I was dumb
I got my GED, despite where I came from
I know it’s not much but look what I have done
I got some younguns lurkin’ to put down dat gun
Survivin’ in dis jungle, it’s hard to shake sum
You don’t like to look stupid, so you play dumb
My father looked me in my eyes and said you need to change son
I been despised so many times, but dat don’t change nun
This the reason I slang iron, but I pray change come
Momma I hope you proud of your son you made some
They say change gon’ come
I bet I be the one to change some

The articles above are reprinted from the Titan Tribune, a newspaper written by students from the Miami Youth Academy, which is a commitment facility for teenage boys. The newspaper is part of a journalism class run by Exchange for Change, a Miami nonprofit that teaches writing skills at MYA and adult correctional facilities. Photos are blurred for purposes of the participants of the program.

Exchange class with University of Miami opens our eyes and creates mix of emotions

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The following articles are reprinted from the Titan Tribune, a newspaper written by students from the Miami Youth Academy, which is a commitment facility for teenage boys. The newspaper is part of a journalism class run by Exchange for Change, a Miami nonprofit that teaches writing skills at MYA and adult correctional facilities. Photos are blurred for purposes of the participants of the program.

By
X. S. and K. C.
Titan Tribune Staff Writers

Photo courtesy of Titan Tribune
UM students speaking to MYA participants

Nine students at MYA are involved in an exchange class with University of Miami criminology students.

When we arrived at the campus for the first session, it seemed a little bit awkward because we were all wearing the same uniform. This stood out to the UM students.

At the start of the class, we paired up with our partners. We started to get to know each other so we could build a relationship over the semester. The UM students were interesting because they managed to choose a different path in life to benefit themselves.

Photo courtesy of Titan Tribune
University of Michigan students on tour with MYA participants

We did have something in common with some of them. For example, some students were also involved with the juvenile justice system as kids. But they learned their lesson and changed to become better in life.
Now, they and the students who were not involved in the justice system have a lot going for themselves. For example, some of them play football or soccer. All are there to further their education.

We learned that if you want something, you have to work hard to get it. One of our partners said she strived to do well in school, which wasn’t easy. But she kept going. Now she is in college, driving a nice car and playing soccer. Other UM partners said they have to keep working hard to play football.
During our second class, we talked about juvenile delinquency. We explained how a lot of teenagers can end up making the wrong choices, which then lead them into the justice system.

We had a good conversation about how peer pressure can lead to trouble because students don’t want to look bad in front of friends or gang members.

Photo courtesy of Titan Tribune
UM students sitting down with MYA participants

Overall, we found the UM students caring and open to hearing our stories. They were very polite.

Also, we had a good time getting out of our facility and doing something productive.

By J. B.
Titan Tribune Staff Writer

On the way to our first University of Miami exchange class, I felt excited but nervous.

How are the UM students going to look at me? What are they going to think?
As I walked through the doors at the university, I saw some students stop and stare curiously, wondering where we came from.

As we went inside the classroom, the students stared as we sat down. After we got our groups sorted out, the first question was, “What did you do to enter the (MYA) program”?

I felt subconscious when they asked that question. But as we progressed, the conversation got better. They spoke about how college is and how much fun it can be.

They also spoke about how the dorm was set up, with a television and their own bathroom. That is way different than our dorm at MYA. We have a small room with no bathroom or television in it.

The three college students in our group came from different places: Orlando, New Jersey, and Tennessee. Two of the girls explained how Miami is so much better than where they’re from because of the beaches, people and summer parties.

After we left the session, we had to do a written assignment about the reasons for us ending up in the juvenile justice system. I talked about peer pressure. When we discussed the issue in the next class, the UM students gave me some good advice about staying away from negative peers. I started to feel really comfortable with them.

We talked a lot about how peer pressure can contribute to juvenile delinquency. I told them that some kids in the neighborhood can commit a crime and not get caught. So that leads other kids to think those behaviors are OK. MYA student A. D. discusses college life with the UM students in his class.

One UM student said this could lead to crime becoming more normalized in a neighborhood

Eddie Mixon’s Struggle To Survive His Risks

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As Coronavirus deaths escalate in California’s prisons, advocates say medical parole could help stem the pandemic.

With a third of the population at San Quentin State Prison infected, the chronically ill and the elderly are scared that without intervention they could be next. [Note: This article was written in June. By mid-July, half the population of SQ was infected, by mid-August, more than 20 had died.]

Two more San Quentin State Prison inmates died of what appears to be complications related to COVID-19 over the weekend, according to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR), heightening fears that the prison’s outbreak is spinning out of control. Scott Thomas Erskine, 57, and Manuel Machado Alvarez, 59, are the 23rd and 24th COVID-19-related deaths of incarcerated people in California’s prison system. San Quentin alone currently has 1,379 people who have tested positive for COVID-19— over a third of the prison’s population.

“I’m scared as hell because of coronavirus,” said Willie Mixon, who is a 70-year-old African-American incarcerated at San Quentin. “Who do you think would be the first person knocked off? Not a moment goes by that I don’t think about that.”

Mixon uses a wheelchair and is currently on dialysis for his kidney failure. For treatment, he has a stent placed in his left arm. Three days a week he must go through two to three hours of blood transfusions to stay alive.

“When I first started the dialysis, it wasn’t so bad. After it, I could get up and talk,” Mixon said. “Now it feels like someone’s pushing on my chest, like I’m taking off in a jet. I lose my voice and I’m tired. I can’t explain the tiredness—it’s draining. I get fuzzy.”

A variety of factors make incarcerated people like Mixon high-risk during a deadly pandemic. Prisons are notoriously overcrowded (in some cases with beds placed just three feet apart) which can make maintaining the recommended six feet of distancing next to impossible. An estimated 40 percent of incarcerated Americans report having a chronic condition, many of which (including chronic kidney disease) make them high-risk for developing severe complications from COVID-19. The availability of face masks and other protective gear has been extremely limited, resulting in the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California to file a statewide lawsuit in May.

In response, a mix of prosecutors, doctors, and prisoner rights advocates have called for immediate or expedited release of people like Mixon who have serious chronic health conditions. This move, they argue, could save lives by reducing overcrowding and getting the most vulnerable into safer conditions. It’s a prospect that makes Mixon perk up.  

“What can I do, except stay home, babysit my grandkids and get them to teach me how to use the computer?” Mixon said of the prospect of an early release. “My daughter would be able to take my social security and take care of me.”

In California, CDCR announced in June that those convicted of nonviolent offenses who had less than 180 days on their sentence were eligible for supervised release and at the end of March, 3,500 people were let out on parole a few days or weeks early. 

Mixon is serving a life sentence for drug possession under California’s Three Strikes Law. Violent offenses, dating back to 1978, disqualify him from early release from previously passed Three Strikes reform measures.

“Seeing Mixon struggle is hard. But he always bounces back and never complains,” said Ron Ehde, who works for the Inmate Disability Assistant Program (IDAP) and has been incarcerated 23 years. He’s doing a 50-year-to-life sentence under California’s Three Strike Law for second-degree robbery. “Since I’ve been assisting him, he’s become like ‘family.'”

In 2014, California expanded medical parole in an attempt to reduce prison crowding. This allows medical staff to assess medically incapacitated prisoners for how much help they require with things like mobility in bed, using the bathroom, and eating. If they’re not deemed to pose an “unreasonable risk to public safety,” this could potentially make them eligible for medical parole.

While prison medical officials should assess everyone who may be eligible, a prison’s family or other advocate can request that they’re evaluated for medical parole. If a parolee’s condition improves or if they’re deemed a threat to public safety, their parole can be revoked.

No prison official has discussed the possibility of medical parole with Mixon.

Despite what many advocates say is a common-sense response to a growing crisis, the use of medical parole during the pandemic has been limited.

“Expanded Medical Parole might not be as productive an avenue for releases as it should be,” said Keith Wattley, the Founding Executive Director of Uncommon Law which provides health and legal counseling to incarcerated people. “It requires medical staff at a prison to issue a report finding a person to be totally medically incapacitated, after which a referral is made to the parole board, which might schedule a hearing months later to consider whether the incapacitated person could safely be transferred to a skilled nursing facility in the community. This process is slow and depends on prison medical staff, parole board staff, and community facilities.”

Some local jails have been proactive, including Alabama’s Mobile Metro Jail, which in April released almost a third of those incarcerated, some because they had underlying medical issues.  About 100 people were released from Boulder County Jail in Colorado, including some of those who had pre-existing medical conditions.

In comparison to local jails, prisons like San Quentin “are releasing almost no one,” according to the Prison Policy Initiative, a nonprofit that researches mass incarceration, for medical issues or otherwise. 

In Louisiana, which has the highest incarceration rate in the country, a review panel was created to review up to 1,100 people for temporary release but that panel was suspended in June after less than 600 cases were reviewed. Just 63 people were released.

Like many incarcerated people, Mixon’s medical issues have plagued him for years and have gotten worse during his time at San Quentin. People often age prematurely when in detention, experiencing health problems associated with much older individuals.

Mixon noticed serious swelling below his knees around 2018. He sought medical attention but didn’t get any answers about what was wrong.

“Then one day everything from my knees down blew up, like elephant feet. A couple weeks later, while using the toilet, I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t wipe or anything. I fell on the floor and couldn’t get up.”

Mixon said he was so weak that he couldn’t yell loud enough to call for help. He tapped on the cell wall to get the attention of his neighbor, who called, “Man down!”

A correctional officer arrived and asked him to step out of the cell, but Mixon couldn’t get to his feet. The CO radioed for assistance before coming inside the cell to turn on the light. Mixon told the COs that he didn’t feel bad, but couldn’t stand. Three COs tried to pick him up, but couldn’t get a good grip—his body was too bloated. They pulled him out by his arms and legs.

“I couldn’t even raise my head to see what was going on,” Mixon said. “They put me in a wheelchair and took me to TTA [San Quentin triage].”

Mixon desperately wanted to see himself and kept asking for a mirror. When he got one, seeing his swollen body brought him to tears.

He was taken to Marin General Hospital (outside of San Quentin) and treated for kidney failure before he was returned to San Quentin’s hospital for continued treatment.

“At first, I was still big and couldn’t move on my own. The nurses had to come every few hours to turn me over,” Mixon said. 

The initial recovery took about two months during which he experienced mental and physical fatigue and weight loss as a result of the dialysis.

“When I got back to North Block, I was very small. The biggest thing on me was my head,” Mixon said. 

“It’s crazy that this is what it has come to: We’re keeping people in prison until they are so medically disabled that they can’t even take care of themselves. And even then we’re using a months-long, resource heavy process just to transfer their care to a facility in the community,” said Wattley. “This is a miserable substitute for the Governor and prison leadership releasing the thousands necessary to keep people safe.”

Mixon is scheduled to appear before the parole board next year but has struggled to do the preparation his parole commissioners have asked of him. 

“Everything went downhill because of the high-potent psych meds. I haven’t adjusted to them.  They mess me up. Plus, I’m in and out of the hospital,” said Mixon.

Mixon’s memories of his family and the hope of spending time with them again is part of what keeps him going. He smiles when he recalls the day his daughter was born.

“When I complained to my mother that I wanted a boy, she told me ‘Jesus blessed you with what you need.'”

Wrongful Conviction Heading for Settlement

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Kansas Attorney General Derek Schmidt cleared the path for settlement negotiations in a wrongful conviction lawsuit brought by Lamont McIntyre—a man who served 23 years for a crime he did not commit.

“Because we knew there was evidence that was never placed in front of a court—before we just signed off on a claim—-we had an obligation to the new court to collect and review all of the evidence. We’ve now done that,” Schmidt said.

In an Associated Press interview, Schmidt said, ”My office made the decision after reviewing 900 pages of documents from Lamont McIntyer’s attorney that had not been provided previously.”

McIntyre was convicted for killing two men in broad daylight when he was 17 years old. He was sentenced to two life terms in prison, in a trial that provided no motive nor any physical evidence.

“Today’s decision by the Kansas Attorney General goes one step further, by recognizing that Lamonte qualifies for compensation under the Kansas statute,” Cheryl Pilate, McIntyre’s attorney said. She added, “Lamonte is still dealing with the effects of 23 years of wrongful imprisonment, but the funding and other support by the statute will now make his load a little easier to bear.”

Former Kansas Gov. Jeff Colyer, who signed the Wrongful-Conviction Compensation Law, apologized to Kansas’s exonerated men and added, “We will make it right.”

Based on the 2018 law, McIntyre may receive $65,000 for each year of imprisonment, attorney fees, health insurance benefits, financial assistance for higher education, fees for counseling and various other social services, the AP article noted.

McIntyre’s settlement claim, which is essentially a lawsuit involving the state, will still have to have its language reviewed by Democratic Gov. Laura Kelly and the top eight leaders of the Republican-controlled Legislature before compensation can be allocated. 

Advocates in Oakland push to end LWOP

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Participants gather after the event for a photo

California has an estimated 5,000 people serving life without parole (LWOP), and their plight is almost never discussed—especially the way the sentence affects female prisoners.

A campaign to drop California’s use of LWOP received a public airing late last year. Kelly Savage, Tammy Cooper-Garvin, Brandi Taliano and Susan Bustamante shared their pain and the trauma of serving a LWOP sentence with a packed audience.

The Oakland event marked the first time the women were able to participate in a town hall meeting similar to one that first created public awareness of their situation. Then-Governor Jerry Brown commuted the women sentences.

Their stories and those of others still imprisoned are described in an audio storytelling project titled “A Living Chance,” released through the California Coalition for Women Prisoners (CCWP).

“The event was eye-opening; people really don’t know what LWOP is,” said Laverne Shoemaker, another panelist, whose sentence was commuted. “Once I was in a group of 23 San Francisco police officers, I had to explain and I mean really break it down to them what an LWOP sentence is and what a life sentence is.”

In criminal cases involving “special circumstances” a person may be sentenced to life without the possibility of parole instead of condemned to death in the penalty phase of a trial. The sentence is not restricted only to the person who pulls the trigger, but also to anyone else who was a participant in the crime as well, under California’s “felony murder rule.”

The advocates are fighting to have LWOP eliminated from the state’s penal code. They argue that it is worse than the death penalty, because it is really a living death sentence.

“I was praying that I wasn’t going to get the death penalty,” shared Taliano. “I was praying for LWOP, ironically—it seemed like the lesser of the two. Then I go to [prison]… and my counselor says, ‘do you understand that you’re going to die in prison?’ And it hit me. It literally hit me.”

Shoemaker said she was distressed to discover that many law enforcement officers have no idea what LWOP means, “I was frustrated and couldn’t understand it, because they really did not know. I had to ask them are you guys freaking kidding me? Am I being punked? They were really, like, shocked and flabbergasted.

Drop LWOP group addressing the audience about the struggles and problems they are facing

“I could see the confusion—they were perplexed and had mixed emotions that they could potentially be a part of giving someone ‘the other death penalty,’” added Shoemaker.

“We also needed to bring awareness to intimate partner battering,” Tammy Cooper-Garvin, told SQ News. “When I tell my story it makes me feel better and I pray that I am helping someone.

“There are many layers to my story and I get emotional when I tell my story, because I can still feel that little girl who wanted to be loved.

“I don’t regret coming to prison,” added Cooper-Garvin. “I needed to be incarcerated for that period of time to work on myself, and to show society that I was a changed woman who valued, and respected others, and also valued myself. Taliano and Cooper-Garvin both joined the Long Termer’s Organization, while incarcerated, a group of like-minded people serving LWOP supporting each other. They credit the program for helping turned their lives around.

“Prison taught me how to be a better person, it showed me how to deal with life,” said Cooper-Garvin. “I went to many self-help groups. I wanted to know what was different from me and my siblings. I knew I wanted to change, so I surrounded myself around positive lifers.

“I also knew I was a LWOP and that I had to make a life for myself. I didn’t have a good life in the world but with change I could have a life in prison, so I took full advantage of what CDCR had to offer,” added Cooper-Garvin.

With a second chance at life, the women are taking their stories and plight to Sacramento, lobbying for policy changes legislator by legislator. With support of other reform organizations such as CCWP, All of Us or None, Legal Services for Children and many others, the women are giving their time, energy and resources to change the narrative for all incarcerated and those finishing their sentences and returning home.

“We’re working on things like getting fair wages for all the incarcerated,” said Shoemaker. “We’re also trying to get the gate money raised to $1,000 (currently the funds upon release are limited to $200, unchanged for decades). We’re fighting for things that will make your conditions better in there and make your transition easier in the free world,” added Shoemaker.

CCWP hosted the “Drop the LWOP” event. Adrienne Skye Roberts moderated the affair and has work tirelessly to bring the “A Living Chance” campaign to Californians and legislators through the audio stories, portraits and postcards of the women who are still serving the LWOP sentence.

The newly released women thought they were supposed to die in prison. They felt they were held in bondage and captive to their shame and guilt, but have made that transition for success.

“If I could achieve my freedom anyone can,” said Cooper-Garvin. “It was hard work for me and it will be hard work for you also, but the pay-off is truly worth it.

“We may think people are closed minded about giving us a chance and it is just the opposite— they welcome us with our past because many see the good in us,” she concluded.

Adrienne Roberts examines portraits of female LWOPS

What role does society play in the development of felons?

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Entrance to Pasrchman State Penitentiary in Mississippi

Be it California or Mississippi, when news of suicides, murders or riots reaches any prison population the feeling is always the same: “damn”—if it’s spoken or not. Especially if you’ve been through it or witnessed these things.

Society might think “there goes those violent monsters acting up again.” What is rarely discussed is that we are a product of the society. Most of us incarcerated and are Americans, and America is filled with double standards (we’ll get to that later) and most of the time breeds intolerance.

Black people and others are still suffering under racism, and we don’t have to go back to slavery to see this. Black people can’t BBQ, sell water or lose cigarettes without the police being called. A Black man was even arrested for eating a sandwich at a San Francisco BART transit station platform. We can’t even sit in our own homes without being shot and killed.

Have we ever talked about collective trauma? It’s not just individuals who suffer. It’s whole communities. Our immigrant community is being detained, and kids are/have been separated from their parents—OK, more trauma. Our President even ordered the assassination of a Iranian general using violence in the name of stopping violence.

Have we been raised to be intolerant against any and everyone who is not like us (on both sides)? Has violence been shown as a way to solve our problems? Is this learned behavior?

We witnessed our President say that he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue in broad daylight and not get charged. Damn! That’s a criminal threat, or what we incarcerated call a “terrorist threat,” and people in here are doing three to five years, if not a life sentence, for a statement such as that.

During President Trump’s House impeachment trial started by the Democrats—more separation—Trump was alleged to have attempted to strong arm, bribe or leverage—or whatever a good word choice would be (quid pro quo)—to get the Ukrainian president to investigate his rival, excuse me, his possible political opponent, for his own advantage.

Once again, there are hundreds of thousands of people serving long sentences for attempting to do a crime. But what really was most interesting to those incarcerated was how the Republicans, Trump’s “homies” (supporters), kept touting that all the evidence against him was just hearsay. Wait, wait, wait—how many people are sitting in U.S. prisons and jails convicted on hearsay evidence? And I haven’t yet mentioned the venomous call to reveal the name of the whistleblower. Trump’s supporters came just short of calling the confidential informant a “snitch.”

When the smoke cleared Trump was impeached in the House (by his rivals) on “Abuse of Power” and “Obstruction of Justice.”

But, he was acquitted by the majority Republican Senate. Imagine that! a jury of one’s peers. I think most people incarcerated would have loved to have their friends, supporters or homies on their juries. It wouldn’t be hard to guess the outcome.

Now let’s talk about prison violence and reform. When people are sentenced to 800 plus years, what is expected? They have officially written their lives off and wonder what they have to live for or if they will ever see the streets again. Add to that, they are incarcerated in harsh and questionable conditions.

Biden reverses his past position on criminal justice

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Presidential candidate Joe Biden says his history of tough-on-crime legislation that led to mass incarcerations needs changes, The Intercept reports.

With upward of one in every two? families suffering the harms of mass incarceration, “Too many people are incarcerated,” Biden is quoted as saying in the Sept. 17 article.

During his time as leading Democrat in the U.S. Senate, he led a number of legislative actions to increase anti-crime laws.

He supported increased funding to states to build prisons and criticized then-President Jimmy Carter, a fellow Democrat, for not being tough enough on the war on drugs, the story says.

Under Carter the federal prison population actually fell by a quarter, though rising at the state level. A federal program Law Enforcement Assistance Administration (LEAA) provided resources to states for policing and prisons was being dismantled in the last days of the Carter administration, the article states.

“The American people believe we have waged war on crime and failed. Therefore, they concluded that nothing can be done about it,” Biden said at the time.

Biden worked to shed his party’s image of being soft on crime, reported The Intercept.

“As most old-line Democrats view it, the only ways we can deal with violence will have a negative impact on civil rights and liberties… I think that’s malarkey,” Biden told the New York Times.

A Biden-Thurmond bill would have increased penalties for drugs, expanded civil asset forfeiture, eliminated parole at the federal level, and would have created a drug czar position. Reagan vetoed the bill.

Biden supported the Anti-Drug Abuse Act of 1986 that lengthened sentences for many offenses such as 100:1 crack cocaine sentencing disparities.

These new laws led to an explosion of federal prisoners from 24,000 in 1980 to 216,000 in 2013, the article said.

In 1994, Biden pushed through a massive crime bill that authorized more than $30 billion in funding to expand state prisons and local police forces, the story noted.

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