San Quentin News

Written By Incarcerated - Advancing Social Justice

What’s really needed are paths to good jobs

by

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

My friend died in San Quentin due to COVID-19. His death was entirely preventable. Incompetence and inaction by California’s leaders are driving illness and death inside the state’s prison system.

by


This piece is a commentary, By Adnan Khan and part of The Appeal’s collection of opinion and analysis.

I just found out my friend died. He contracted COVID-19 in San Quentin State Prison after a botched transfer of positive cases there. As I write this in my grief, I cannot imagine the devastation his family is experiencing with the loss. I knew him well. I was incarcerated with him in San Quentin where I was serving a life sentence. We spent a lot of time together on the yard, in self-help groups and educational classes. I also know San Quentin, the prison, really well. I spent my previous four years there, completing a total of sixteen.

His death was preventable and his safety should’ve been prioritized. He tested negative on June 25 and then died on July 25. He was mixed with positive cases after he tested negative. San Quentin doesn’t have anything under control. All it would’ve taken was political courage to reduce the prison population significantly. Tragically, given what he was left with–trapped in a tight box with COVID-19–survival was out of his control and death was inescapable for him. Sadly, most people won’t care about my friend’s passing. His incarceration gave the state legitimacy to deny him his humanity. As a society, we accept punishment and torture as the only exchange for breaking a law, not redemption. Inhumane treatment becomes acceptable–so as we enter incarceration, the human being gets extracted from the body. Our dignity is confiscated along with the personal, material belongings during the initial strip search.

All of this is made possible by society’s narrow focus on solely the crime. Subsequently, the narrative is shaped as a permanent boogeyman-esque identity for that person. We hardly ever factor in the next decade or two of that human being’s journey to make that assessment whole and accurate. What the public fatally lacks is something we as incarcerated people have an abundance of in prison. Proximity. In prison, we get to know each other extremely well. As the years crawl and the hours get slower, we fill each challenging second by dissecting each other’s lives. We become each other’s test studies and learn the anatomy of the proverbial heart. We spend hours upon hours crammed in tight spaces calculating the psychology behind each other’s thoughts.

Trust and safety are destinations in prison. If found, a sudden ability to go into the depths of each other’s innermost shame, pain, trauma, remorse and the thorough details of a person’s accountability for the harm they’ve caused are unlocked. Oftentimes for the incarcerated, this level of intimacy can gain a more profound understanding than one’s own family. We carry each other’s stories with us wherever we go. The heart-wrenching, often gruesome experiences shared with us do not get left behind upon our release either. It’s not that I remember, it’s that I know. I know who was molested by their father, who was beaten with closed fists by their foster parent at 8 years old, and whose friend was shot and died in his arms at the age of 14. For larger society, these stories don’t match the face tattoos or visible scars. These stories don’t match the warm smiles or laugh lines we see on the prison yard daily. It’s like a deception of senses where I’m staring at the body and face of a grown adult yet hearing the sounds of a child’s shriek.

Furthermore, I know why they committed their crimes. Not to make an excuse for the crime but to understand why. Why they committed robbery, assault or murder. But society is deprived of such a narrative. They’re deprived of the level of accountability and the depths of remorse my fellow incarcerated people have for their victims. I wish they could see how many good people exist inside. I wish they could observe how much of our lives are spent trying to make amends, somehow, some way. Instead, their identity is forever trapped in a time capsule that society and politics has forced them into. As an activist who has been impacted by incarceration, I don’t have a work life that is separate from a personal life. Detaching the two feels immoral to me. I can’t clock out of caring about someone. Getting to know people comes with a burden. Especially in prison. Especially when leaving them behind upon your release. Proximity comes with a set of responsibilities of which you become the project manager of. Survivor’s guilt places deadlines on you that you have to reach. And as in the case of my friend, “deadline” in relation to advocacy is a horrifically accurate term.

Our organization’s slogan is “from proximity to policy.” I feel safe around the people you might fear the most. It is my proximity that gives me access to empathy. Society and political leaders are tragically uninformed about people in prison, yet, make deadly decisions based on their fears. Our obligation should be to know people in their totality, and only then can we create safe policies which address the needs of everyone. Instead, the public’s ignorance has incarcerated our loved ones’ identities and has handcuffed their humanity to their crimes. Everyone should have the privilege, like I did, to get to know a person as a whole. Society saw my friend as someone who was not deserving of dignity. They believe the person who did the crime deserved to die of COVID-19. But if they truly knew who my friend was, he would’ve been released to his family. Rather, they saw him as an enemy of the state. They chose not to acknowledge his humanity. My friend was neglected and he is one of millions of examples of other incarcerated people identical to him.

People we incarcerate are not our enemies. They are victims of societal failures and their crime does not negate their restoration. They are brothers and sisters, daughters and sons and they are someone’s really good friend. My really good friend. As much as we can argue about who the enemy is, one thing that is inarguable is that humanity’s enemy is neglect.

https://restorecal.org/author/adnan/

The stark reality of prison, COVID and the public perception

by

Illustration by Orlando Smith

The screams of “Man Down!” (the incarcerated emergency medical call) rattle around the various San Quentin housing units. The alert starts the sounds of correctional officers loud boots hitting the pavement and their keys jingling adds to the chaos and the panic when the emergency alarms go off.

Medical nurses arrive, covered from head to toe in Personal Protection Equipment (PPE) resembling a sci-fi movie, to administer aid. This scene has played out for months within the prison.

COVID-19 has truly hit San Quentin hard. Twenty-six incarcerated individuals and one correctional officer have died and thousands of others have been infected with the virus transmitted in our community.

Even in these times of crisis, it feels that we (the incarcerated) always have to prove our humanity, our rehabilitation and our willingness to make amends.

The calls for early releases, to curb the surge of COVID-19 and death, has set off an array of emotions from joy of family members and prison reform advocates to fear and indifference from some of the general public.
How did we get here? It has been almost 30 years of constant lawsuits. I do believe some government officials want prison reform and that must be balanced with the concerns of the general public.

But I must say that it has mainly been the incarcerated and our advocates, who have humanized life within California and the nation’s prison system. We (the incarcerated) had to fight for our religious rights (services, artifacts, grooming standards), or access to the courts. We even had to fight to end the indefinite use of solitary confinement and win adequate healthcare—not something special, just adequate.

In 2011, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that California is required to reform prisons to provide constitutionally sufficient physical and mental care to incarcerated people. It’s almost a decade later and “that can” seems to be continually kicked down the road. The cases went from Plata, Coleman vs. Gov. Jerry Brown to Plata, Coleman vs. Gov. Gavin Newsom.

Now we are in the mist of a deadly pandemic and approaching flu season. The criteria of who may qualify for early release are very narrow. The debate centers on non-violent offenders versus those who have committed violent crimes.

However, the facts are rarely discussed or considered, mainly because of the type of crimes attached to the individual. According to CDCR’s own recidivism study, more than 50% of prisoners paroled after completion of a determined sentence were convicted of a new crime within three years compared to only 5% of lifer parolees who were convicted of a new crime within three years.

A study by Stanford University between 1995 and 2010 found that of 860 murderers paroled in California, only five returned to prison for new felonies, but none that required a life term, such as murder.

So it pains most of us who have done the internal work—those who have worked through the childhood traumas and accepted accountability—to still be considered politically “risky” and not for safety reasons.

We also accept the victim/survivor rights; we believe in their voice. We learned this through participating in our self-help groups. It’s not for us to tell people who have been harmed how they should feel. We must respect the process. We just want to restore what we can.

As the coronavirus spreads and becomes our new reality, our fears of death are real. All we hope for is for society to remember whatever the deed was, most of us weren’t sentenced to death by the state.

What role does society play in the development of felons?

by

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.

WALL CITY Edicion Espanol: Entre el cielo y la tierra

by

Por Lucía de la Fuente, Editora de español

“Nadie puede decir en qué momento comienza el despertar del hombre” (Eduardo Subirats, Utopía y Subversión, 1975, p. 148)

En lo que más me fijé la primera vez que te conocí, fue en tus manos. Grandes, con las uñas bien recortadas y con un tatuaje imperfecto. Tus manos siempre cargaban algo: una pluma, papel, tarjetas con números telefónicos, periódicos, libretas y bolsas de plástico trasparente con comida. Puños llenos de sueños… Tus manos eran por si solas un taller de trabajo, una oficina, una librería, una lucha hispana. Esas manos tuyas reflejaban de una manera muy pulcra tu trabajo: cuidadas, útiles, en eterno movimiento y fuertes.

Entre el cielo y la tierra (ese sitio donde nosotros, los ridículos y dramáticos humanos, intentamos vivir y sobrevivir) estaba tu laboratorio. En el hacías experimentos para revolucionar la existencia de los que no sabemos cómo saborear la vida de una forma sana. En el construiste comunidades y derribaste muros. En el luchaste por todos nosotros; de hecho, este espacio en el que hoy estoy escribiendo en español, nos lo conseguiste tú.

¿De quién eran esas manos mágicas que trabajaban entre el cielo y la tierra? Eran de un hombre que soñaba despierto y despertaba a sus sueños: correr programas de rehabilitación en español; “les voy a enseñar (alascorreccionales) cómosedebe

de hacer la rehabilitación adecuadamente”, me decía. Eran de un hombre que no recibía un “no” por respuesta; “eh, Lucía, va a estar bueno. Vamos a agarrar lo mejor para la raza. Tú confía”, me repitió. Eran de un hombre que tocaba puertas, que luchaba por los “compas”, que explicaba cuando nadie quería oír, que compartía con los demás hasta lo que no tenía, que respiraba profundo “cuando la cosa se pone fea”, que miraba siempre para adelante y dejaba atrás rencores y remordimientos, que creía ciegamente en la unión y el trabajo en equipo, que disfrutaba el estar vivo. Eran las manos de un hombre de palabra que, invariablemente, caminaba con la cabeza bien erguida porque estaba orgulloso de su cultura; orgulloso de nosotros.

Compañeros, ustedes que hoy están leyéndo estas palabras, déjenme decirles que le debemos mucho al dueño de esas manos: ahora es nuestro turno de trabajar entre el cielo y la tierra, para derribar muros y construir comunidades. A él no le importaba

si eras “blanco”, “moreno”, “latino”, o cualquier otro color; “no le hace. Aquí con nosotros todos son bienvenidos”, decía con una gran sonrisa. Mis compas, compitas, centroamericanos, y de cualquier otro país hispano, de Norte a Sur y de Sur a Norte, de

este a oeste, todos somos uno y uno somos todos. Juntos, vamos a mantener vivo el trabajo que él comenzó entre el cielo y la tierra; porque ese trabajo era y es para y por nosotros. Porque entre el cielo y la tierra sólo podemos caminar. ¡Ya basta de correr! Vamos a andar, un pie delante del otro. Vamos a despertar y a dejar ese racismo que nos pudre por dentro. Vamos a recorrer, cogidos de las manos, las carreteras que no entienden de fronteras; las carreteras que sólo saben de unión.

“No se descubre al sueño por haberlo des-cubierto, no son las luces del día, de la conciencia y la razón, las que lo desvelan. Más bien revelan una nueva luz. Una nueva claridad que penetra en la vida vigil con las sombras de recuerdos de deseos olvidados […] Al amanecer no se despierta del sueño; es el sueño el que despierta la vigilia” (pp. 147-148).

Despertemos de ese sueño que nos tiene adormecidos. Ese sueño que nos hace sentir cansados y desganados, esclavos del hartazgo. Despertemos al sueño de ser el mejor ejemplo de nuestras raíces. ¿De qué sirve una vida llena de sueños, si dormimos durante el día? Arnulfo T. García: esta lucha no se acaba aqui.

Being more conscious to our readers in the New Year

by

Happy New Year! Yeah, another year down and a decade gone. For those who have been incarcerated since the 1980s and ’90s, we have officially moved into what we call the Buck Rogers dates (named after the late ’70s TV show). This term was coined to show how far off someone’s release date was back then, so good luck in this decade.

As times changes and new generations are born, languages, terminologies and definitions can also go through a metamorphosis. Now we are in a time of criminal justice reform, a time where self-identification for some people and organizations has also taken a shift.

It’s a time where using pronouns such as they/them for gender nonconforming (GNC) people has gained traction. In short, words have power; they can either build someone up or tear them down.

San Quentin News wants to put our readers on notice that we will start being conscious of not using the word inmate(s). We are not taking away this word as an option for our contributors or our journalists.

But, we are in the process of creating acceptable word options such as the incarcerated, incarcerated people, inside participants, etc. For those who have returned home, terms such as returning resident, formerly incarcerated person or system-impacted will be used.

We do understand the power of the media and word choices, where we are addressed as inmates, offenders or convicts. It’s about humanizing the incarcerated people; we are not monsters, our crimes or any other negative label.

None of these different word choices takes away having accountability for the harm that has been caused to victims/survivors or the community as a whole. This does not include the truly innocent of crimes, because we know these people exist as well.

Using words that generalize people and other negative epithets can create societal stigmas that can hinder rehabilitation or a successful reentry. This doesn’t help public safety.

I know and understand that some incarcerated people don’t care what they are called one way or the other. Everyone’s opinion is valid, but as a news agency we are aware of the debates going on regarding what incarcerated people should be called in the media, as well as how to address individuals.

Prison reform advocates and organizations and some government officials are adopting new guidelines to stay away from language such as felon, or ex-con, etc., to help remove barriers for returning residents. We who are incarcerated need to know that there are people fighting to show the rest of the world our humanity, especially those who have returned back to society. We applaud and support their efforts. In our role as journalists, we share in the efforts to also support and inform our readership in a healthy way for their human transformations—most of the times we get this right, and sometimes we can make mistakes.

But overall, we want the best for everyone, especially those who seek redemption in these dark places called prisons.

Changing what we call ourselves may take some time to have some psychological affect, but we must put forth our effort.

Well, when it comes to celebrating New Year’s Day, some people make resolutions. I guess I recommend focusing on choices and changes. One has the choice to change one’s life for the better or stay in the same place mentally, emotionally and even physically. The choice is yours.

So for you young people, who have just started doing your time or are involved in some questionable activities, take notice. When we were sentenced we were given what we called Buck Rogers dates. For your generation you have Terminator, the movie set in the 2040s. Understand this: that’s just 20 years from now.

If you think you can’t get or serve that type of time, just ask any OG, who has served two decades or more. It’s a reality.

Lastly, we as a news agency not using the word inmate(s) may seem trivial. But the alternative is supporting thing-ify-ing (objectifying) us as incarcerated people.

In self-help groups, we learn not to do the same thing. When you thing-ify (objectify) someone you take away their identity as a person who has feelings, emotions and families, where it’s easy to cause them harm. What about us? Don’t we have the ability to change or have remorse? Our are we not people?

Its just food for thought.

Once again, Happy New Year!

Reflecting on the Texas murder of an unarmed Black man

by

Amy Guyger, the White former Texas officer who killed unarmed Botham Jean, a Black man in his home, was found guilty of murder last month. Race normally wouldn’t or shouldn’t be an issue when it comes to a tragedy, but with the inequalities in the U.S. criminal justice system it will most likely be a part of the conversation.

As an incarcerated Black man, what surprised me were a few events that took place that shocked most people and sparked many debates from those incarcerated and those on the outside. First, a police officer was held accountable for murdering a Black person, though numerous other officers were either not prosecuted or were acquitted. Second, she was sentenced to 10 years in prison.

But what really drove some people crazy was when the brother of the victim hugged and forgave Guyger. Then another shocker, Judge Tammy Kemp, a Black woman, also gave Guyger a hug and a Bible, which sparked its own debate about the separation of church and state.

If that wasn’t enough, the prosecution’s star witness was murdered not too long after the trial was over.

Man, we got a lesson into the multifaceted nature of our criminal justice system: restorative justice, disproportionate sentencing and possible witness intimidation. But what amazed me the most was the debate, especially among those incarcerated, about the victim’s brother hugging and forgiving the offender (Guyger), which is an example of Restorative Justice.

I’m around people every day, be they men in blue or volunteers, who believe in Restorative Justice. Many people believe in and fight for prison reform. Should my views change because she was a police officer who “tripped the hell out,” as we say in the neighborhood, for breaking into someone else’s house and killing them?

I know many people who have done senseless things, including myself. Do I want forgiveness from the people I have harmed? Do you want forgiveness for your past or present indiscretions? I have had the chance to witness the healing power of victim/offender dialogue first- hand: check out prior issues of SQ News. We also have a Re:Store/Survivor column. But Guyger was a police officer, some argue. She should have known better. True.

If she were Black—not to mention if the roles were re- versed and it were a Black man who shot a White woman—do I think there would be the same treatment? History says most likely not. There are people serving life sentences for stealing a slice of pizza or drug possession. So Black people and people of color are disproportionally sentenced throughout the nation.

There is so much pain in the community when justice is not balanced. But when it comes to forgiveness, this doesn’t mean one forgets. Forgiveness is not just for the one who has offended, it can start the healing process for the victim/survivor or their families.

Constantly reliving that trauma can affect one’s quality of life. There are still people being denied 20 to 30 years later at the parole board because family members are still attending the hearings and seeking some form of justice.

So I have to commend the brother and the judge for breaking the status quo when it comes to the criminal justice system. Everyone has his or her own time to heal. It is not for me to judge someone else’s pain. But I am of the same opinion as Danielle Sered, author of Until We Reckon: Violence, Mass Incarceration and a Road to Repair.

“We need these stories of extraordinary forgiveness and the complication they introduce. They are critical testaments to the human capacity for compassion. They, like the pained stories of hungry revenge, deserve their place in our public consciousness,” Sered wrote.

“But like those other stories, they are not fully representative of most survivors. Most of us lie in the vast space between complete hatred and full forgiveness,” Sered continued.

Racism and violence are, sadly, a part of the fabric of our society. I’m inside looking out and seeing that our nation is in desperate need of empathy and emotional intelligence— the main qualities that are required for someone to be found suitable at the parole board to go home.

Violence is violence and police violence is violence. As I finish up this editorial, another Texas officer shot and killed a Black woman who was inside her own home. I sit sad and confused. So what will be the new debate?

Wall City Volume 2 Issue 2: The Women’s Issue

by

These pages are written by women, about women. Here’s why.

How powerful is a voice when no one will hear the cries? “Everyone has a voice, but not

everybody has a platform,” said Tracy Brumfield. Brumfield is the founder of RISE Up News. She is one of the formerly incarcerated women featured in our “Over the Wall” section.

Her statement made me imagine someone alone in the woods surrounded by mountain-high trees. The person starts to scream at the top of their lungs, look- ing for a way out, but no one hears them. Not a soul understands the desperation of being separated from the rest of the world and not knowing if they will live or die in this dangerous environment.

All people know is that you strayed off the path. Only a few people wonder how you got lost. You start to wonder your- self how you got lost.

The woods are an unforgiving place. Some have come out the other side battered and abused but primed to help the world. Others stumble out more damaged and disconnected than be- fore. Some never make it out at all.

Women’s voices are growing loud around the world with the #NeverthelessshePersisted, RESIST and #MeToo movements. There is a segment of women who have suffered the same hardships as the women who start- ed these movements, but their voices are rarely heard. The men of San Quentin News are honored to give the pages of the third issue of Wall City to these incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women so we can hear their stories.

Charisse Shumate is one of the women whose stories can be found in these pages. Shumate helped change California’s prison healthcare system. She was the lead plaintiff in Shumate v. Wilson, the first ever class action lawsuit filed by women prisoners in California. Formerly incarcerated firefighter Amika Mota is also in these pages. She details some of the pain, struggles and joys she navigated in prison while she fought fires. We also hear the voices of the young women housed in Ventura Youth Correction Facility. They give us insight into the trials of reckoning with their

actions and growing up in an institution. In our legal section, Sara Kruzan shares her story of surviving violence only to be re-traumatized as she went in front of the parole board. Kruzan has become a parole success story—she now works as an advocate, preparing others for a positive parole hearing.
Some of these stories would not have come to fruition without the help of the California Institution for Women and the Department of Juvenile Justice Administrations. We thank them for getting the word out to the women within their institutions and facilitating getting us the stories. We could always be critical of the administration, but in fairness, they are juggling safety and security concerns with rehabilitation efforts. Once we understand that we are all an integral part of this system of incarceration, we can build the bridges that truly heal our society. This system tests everybody’s humanity—whether you are a prisoner or an administrator.

We also thank the California Coalition of Women Prisoners for their contribution to this project. It’s their continued work both inside and outside of prison that brings awareness to women’s issues. I thank all the contributors and advisers for making this issue possible. All your words and stories have challenged the flawed male belief system I grew up with of being self-centered, domineering and uncaring. Thank you for giving me insight into your trials and strengths. Let me say, I hear you.

Grammy-nominated Nipsey Hussle remembered

by

Nipsey Hussle
Nipsey Hussle

Happy Birthday and rest in peace, Nipsey Hussle, born Ermias Asghedom. On March 31, the late rapper was gunned down in front of The Marathon Clothing store, his place of business in the Crenshaw District of South Los Angeles. Nipsey Hussle would have been 34 years old on August 15.

I didn’t know you as person- ally, but I bought your 2019 Grammy-nominated debut al- bum “Victory Lap” and a couple of your mix tapes “Slauson Boy Volume 1” and “Bullets Got No Names Volume 1-3.”

Your tragic murder made me reflect on my own act of senseless violence. My role in the ongoing Black on Black violence. The hurt and pain of crying mothers, wives and children. Growing up in South Central myself, I know and understand the gang culture.

Wherever a simple dispute ends with gun violence, retaliation and decades of more murders, the Black community suffers. As the saying goes: one Black man died, the other in jail. The cycle continues.

We lost a young king who transformed his life. He went from a gang member to a business man who reinvested in his community. Nipsey was different from most other young rappers.

He promoted investing in real-estate rather than cars and jewelry. He started his own music label “All Money In.” This allowed him to own the rights to his music.

Nipsey bought the strip mall in his neighborhood on Crenshaw and Slauson, where his store sits. He had plans to renovate some of the space for affordable housing units that would include healthy food options, reported the Los Angeles Sentinel.

He launched the “Too Big to Fail” initiative to bring the tech industry to the ‘hood. The initiative focused on science, technology, engineering and math (STEM) programs for the inner-cities.

Nipsey was scheduled to meet with the Los Angeles Police Department’s top brass to discuss ways to reduce gang violence and start youth pro- grams. He was killed the day before the meeting. Nipsey Hussle made money and gained fame but he never left his community.

Something we seem to love the most could become the thing that does us in. Nipsey Hussle has become one of a growing list of rappers, the voices of our community, who died from gun violence. We lost 2Pac, Biggie, Mac Dre and XXXtentacion.

This list does not exclude the countless men and women whose names only their families know. The pain and grief is real even for someone like me, who caused harm. The ripple effect is real –just a few seconds of violence can cause a lifetime of pain.

When I called home to check that my uncle was outside watching Nipsey Hussle’s funeral procession going down the street, he spoke about the large crowds and the peace of the city pay- ing homage to one of the city’s own.

Ermias“Nipsey Hussle”Asghedom leaves behind a wife, two kids and family members who love him.

We recognize you in your final lap, Nipsey. The marathon continues. Much love and respect.

Editorial: Marcus Henderson

by

Marcus Henderson

I am proud to have worked and walked the journey of prison journalism with a remarkable group of men for the past five years. These dedicated men have produced the award winning San Quentin News while also balancing college and rehabilitative programs.

That hard work has paid off for some of those in the newsroom: Six of our fellow staff members received commutations from former Gov. Jerry Brown, while other staff members have been “found suitable” by the parole board and are home now.

I am honored to have my name recently added to the distinguished list of editors- in-chief of San Quentin News. Coming off a Level Four yard with a life sentence, I never thought I would find more to my life than just doing time.

I thought I was OK because I was functioning. I wasn’t self-medicating with drugs or prison wine. I still had my hard exterior, but I was dead inside.

I locked up a lot of the real me. I didn’t know what “making amends” was until I came to San Quentin. The first day I arrived, my old cell-mate from Calpatria State Prison, Rahsaan (“New York”) Thomas, asked me to help cover a baseball game in which the prisoners were playing a team from outside, an event that would be unheard of in my former prison world.

Thomas told me to inter- view those people. My mouth dried up, and I realized I haven’t talked with anybody besides prisoners and guards for more than 15 years. That was my introduction as a reporter. I had to learn the power of capturing history and fairness, no matter if you like a topic or not.

I have been working for the paper for five years now, after beginning as a member of the Journalism Guild and working my way up to become the Journalism Guild Chairman. I learned the importance of telling our stories.

When we produce this paper, we do have all of you in mind, your families and ours and those who have paroled and are trying to reintegrate back into society.

We read all your letters, your complaints, support and grievances. We want you to know and understand that we are a news agency; it’s our responsibility to report on different aspects of our prison life. Our mission statement is to report on rehabilitative efforts to increase public safety; that is our task.

Some question us on why we are reporting on sports and entertainment? I would like to say San Quentin has a long history of entertainers performing within the prison –from Eartha Kitt, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Johnny Cash, B.B. King, Common and many others.

By coming in to entertain us, these visitors give us a sense of normalcy. It is a moment in time to allow us to imagine being free. These same people are using their celebrity status on behalf of criminal justice reform, including Kim Kardashian, Common, J. Coles and many others we have covered in the San Quentin News.

Bob Meyers, Golden State Warriors general manager, and Eric Reid, former 49ers safety, who took a knee with Colin Kaepernick, sat on a Sports and Social Justice Roundtable at San Quentin that was moderated by Van Jones, a CNN political commentator and founder of #Cut50, an organization to reduce U.S. prison population by 2050.

These people make contributions beyond sport and play by adding their voices to our cause. Meyers gave a former San Quentin resident a shot at the D-League. Golden State Warriors star Kevin Durant produced a documentary, called “Q-ball,” about the basketball program here and its rehabilitative nature.

We recently hosted a team of CDCR recreational coaches from around the state prisons system to discuss how they could bring some of these sports programs to their institutions. We continue to work to show that change is possible for those who want it.

Some readers want more legal advice, but not one of us is a lawyer, and we wouldn’t want to misdirect anyone.

But we will always report on CDCR policy changes and any new laws that are passed. Believe me, we hear you— and we are doing time just as you are.

Even if you don’t like something or someone, it is not for us to take away their voice. Our stories are intended to give voice to all of our audience, including volunteers, staff and administration.

San Quentin News has been working for our incarcerated population since its revival in 2008 and that’s more than a decade. Our staff will continue to get a newspaper out and into your hands, despite lock-downs, quarantines and searches.

Translate »