San Quentin News

Written By Incarcerated - Advancing Social Justice

Advocates in Oakland push to end LWOP

by

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

Formerly incarcerated women take their life struggles to the stage

by

Members of Persephone Project 2

A play about formerly incarcerated women who are struggling to rebuild their lives is a popular production in Illinois.

“The show is about women coming through the prison system, starting with challenges in their life, then coming out, returning home, and looking to transform their life,” said Mars Caulton, program facilitator for the Still Point program, which sponsors the production.

“There should be a sense (that) there’s something joyous near the end of this,” Caulton said of the short play called “The Visiting Room.”

The show is designed to shed new light and provide insight into the lives of formerly incarcerated women. It was performed at Lewis University in Romoeville, Illinois, according to the July 27 National Catholic Reporter.

Still Point was established in 1993 by Lisa Wagner-Carollo. Its new chapter is the program at Grace House, which is a voluntary transitional program offered for women in Chicago. The program is sponsored by St. Leonard’s Ministries.

“Just to see that they can accomplish things, set a goal and follow through, I think is very empowering,” said Wagner-Carollo.

The goal of Grace House is to allow those who have never been inside a prison to understand that inmates are human. The fact that they’ve made a mistake in life doesn’t define them.

“People have strong emotional responses to that piece because you have someone looking into your eyes, telling you, ‘I was just like you. I cared about these things. I had a loving mother. I liked to date.’” said Hector Alvarez, former manager of Still Point.

“But then, of course, to some degree this person is also not like you because their life journey has taken them on a very, very different path… It kind of forces us to realize that some of us are born with privilege, and that means that we don’t have to make certain choices in our lives that could lead to being in prison.”

The performances allow the public to connect with formerly incarcerated women. They also allow formerly incarcerated women to re-connect to society.

Performance for Grace House allows inmates “to feel they have something helpful to contribute to society, and I think that performing for audiences who have not been in jail feels a little bit like that, like contributing to the public conversation about incarceration,” said Alvarez.

“I can connect with part of your story and now I understand a lot more about how people, everyday people, end up in the prison system, said facilitator Caulton.

A governor's commutation gives Laverne Shoemaker a second chance

by

Laverne outside CCWF women’s prison

Laverne Shoemaker overcame what some prison reform activists call “a living death sentence.”

Shoemaker was serving life without the possibility of parole (LWOP) until her sentence was commuted by then-Gov. Jerry Brown. After 26 years, Laverne (Dej) DeJohnette Shoemaker walked free in June.

“I am a ‘DROP LWOP’ advocate. I will not ever stop advocating for LWOPs and lifers. LWOP is a ‘Death

by Incarceration sentence,’” said Shoemaker. “When you are given that sentence, what they are saying is, you are irrelevant, you’re irredeemable, you’re beyond redemption. And that’s just not true.

“Look at me. I have 19 arrests, 16 convictions, three prior prison terms and the fourth was the life crime of murder. Sure it took over 10 years, but I did change. Now I’m a taxpaying citizen. We are all capable of transformation,” she added.

Shoemaker did not sit on her heels when she walked free. She began working with the California Coalition For Women’s Prisoners (CCWP), where she was named the first Charisse Shumate Fellow.

The Shumate fellowship highlights the life and legacy of Shumate, who suffered from sickle-cell anemia. She died in prison. Her supporters say her death was due to negligence on the part of the California prison system. Shumate was one of the founding members of CCWP. She was a lead plaintiff in the 1995 lawsuit that challenged California’s women’s prisons health care system. She also helped start The Fire Inside, the organization’s newsletter.

“I was blessed to live with this woman as a roommate. I was fortunate enough to see her in her high highs and her low lows,” said Shoemaker in correspondence with SQ News. “I saw her in action and witnessed her determination to make a change. She was famous for saying ‘It’s not a me thing; it’s a we thing.”

Shoemaker was resigned to living out her life in prison. But she credits Shumate for being one of the inspirations who helped to educate her about the need to stand up for the rights of everyone inside.

Laverne eager to get her ID

“In the beginning I did what most did. I jumped right into the criminal elements inside. I got involved with the prison politics. I racked up many 115’s (disciplinary write-ups) and SHU (administrative segregation) terms,” said Shoemaker. “I had seen people change and grow. But I had two dilemmas: one, I didn’t think change was possible for someone like me, and two, I didn’t know ‘why’ I should change.”

Shoemaker’s change came when she started being honest with herself and addressing all her childhood traumas.

“I began to see a human with value and worth under all the tarnish,” said Shoemaker. “The LWOP was not a factor. In all actuality, receiving the LWOP sentence saved my life. The truth is I was a very dysfunctional, unstable substance abuser.

“I was very dangerous and an extremely violent individual. But after a few SHU terms I changed my thought process. I went from I don’t care if I live or die and I’m a piece of sh#*t anyway to…..It doesn’t really matter ‘where’ I die, in the free world or prison, I’m still going to die,” she continued.

What began to matter to Shoemaker was what type of person she was going to be and what her quality of life would be like.

“My motto became, ‘When shall I live if not now?’” she said. “I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d ever get out. So every group, program, workshop facilitating, curriculum I created was for me and my community. Not for anyone else.

“I definitely learned who I was and who I am today. I’ve grown and learned the impact that we have on our victims and communities,” said Shoemaker. “I learned that by taking a life I have committed the most serious crime of humanity.

“I’ve learned that changing my behavior is the only acceptable atonement. Living today and every day for your victims is not just words you tell the BPH (Board of Parole Hearings).

That is what you have to you live by,” she added.

Shoemaker shared her re-entry experiences and goals for her fellowship.

“What I see is that we (lifers) are impatient and want to hit the ground running. We think we have the formula that we know it all,” she said. “I get it—we have sat decades and planned what we wanna do. But the hard truth and the reality is this is a different world.

“I began to see a human with value and worth under all the tarnish,”

“We need to take it one day at a time. The adjustment period is tough. We are new to the free world. The technology alone is mind-blowing. Some days I feel like a refugee. I guess the hardest part of being out is missing being back inside.

“Most will read this and think I’m crazy. But it’s true while inside you spend all your time thinking about freedom, but when you’re out here you spend a considerable amount of time thinking about back inside,” she added.

Shoemaker knows and understands her responsibilities. She is in the process of creating a curriculum for the LWOPs.

“I will spend my last breath advocating for the LWOPs,” she said. “We are always left behind, overlooked, or at the bottom of every list—that is, if we even make the list at all.

“Yet we (LWOPs) are the pillars of the prison communities, we are the glue that holds the yards together.”

Her plans and goals for the fellowship are to honor her friend Shumate and not stop or back down.

“Charisse didn’t just com- plain or just file a grievance—no she went up against a system. And she got that system to listen. She made a difference,” she said. “She left some pretty big shoes to fill but I think collectively together we all can fill them. I promise to do her name justice!”

Female incarceration in the U. S. is causing an impact on society

by

By Elton Kelley Journalism Guild Writer

America is leading the world in incarcerating women, and this is disrupting many families across the country, the American Civil Liberties Union reports

The United States has nearly four percent of the world’s female population. But about a third of the female prisoners in the world are in the U.S., ACLU statistics show.

“When you think about the image you have of our mass incarceration crisis, it probably is not a mother who comes to mind,” the ACLU said in its May 12 web posting.

Incarcerating moms and disrupting their families is the fastest growing incarceration demographic in the country, the report says. Blacks are twice as likely to be incarcerated as Whites, the posting states.

Pretrial detainees who have not been tried or convicted of any crime make up 60 percent of women held in local jails, the story notes. Most are women who are held pending charges and cannot post bail, reported the ACLU.

“When you think about the image you have of our mass incarceration crisis, it probably is not a mother who comes to mind,”

The posting highlights the case of Faith Bartley, who spent three months in jail for misdemeanors because she couldn’t pay the $260 bail. She lost her home and employment.

Fifty-six percent of all women serving terms are doing so for drug or property offenses, ACLU numbers revealed.

For example, Lauren Johnson got picked up for having trace amounts of drugs in Texas, where that is a felony. She was removed from her home, where she cared for her three kids and nearby grandmother.

Johnson told the ACLU the mass incarceration crisis will continue to impact women un- til they’re “able to access treatment and services” outside of the criminal justice system.

Former Pennsylvania prisoner Dana Lomax-Williams said she was strip-searched, sexually violated by male guards, and sent to solitary for being noncompliant.

The ACLU reported Pennsylvania changed its laws, now mandating that females not be searched by males.

Wall City Volume 2 Issue 2: Fighting Fire While Doing Time

by

By Elena Mateus with Doug Levy

Women battle to continue fighting fires after their releases

Many people are surprised to learn that nearly 10 percent of the incarcerated firefighters serving at California’s 44 “fire camps” are women. Just like men, the women firefighters get the same training as Cal Fire’s other seasonal firefighters- one week in the classroom, another week in the field, and additional training on an ongoing basis. And, just like the incarcerated men who become firefighters, they can’t get jobs as firefighters once they return to their communities.

“There’s a lot of hard work that goes into it. It’s exhausting, but you just keep on going because there is a job to do,” said one of the women firefighters. ‘I have a whole new appreciation for the tools and the work that Firefighters do,” she told the San Diego Union-Tribune.

For Amita Mota, the reality of regulations that prevent many formerly incarcerated individuals from getting professional firefighter jobs hit hard. After rising to the rank of engineer, the top fire service rank in her unit, Mota returned to her community several years ago. There, she found only closed doors.

The state legislature recently considered legislation that would open opportunities for rehabilitated women and men to become firefighters. Cal Fire has also started a program for formerly incarcerated firefighters to join its professional ranks, but most municipal firefighter jobs are closed to anyone with a felony record — no matter what their training and performance as inmate-firefighters demonstrates.

The obstacle is that most cities require full-time firefighters to be cross-trained as both firefighters and emergency medical technicians, and individuals with felony records are barred from getting licensed as EMTs in many California counties.

“It never matched up for me, because we were able to do this from prison but not from the street,” said Mota in an interview with Wall City. “We were a fierce crew. We responded to structure fires, vehicle accidents, performed CPR, everything.”

The same is true throughout the United States, even though many communities

struggle to recruit and retain firefighters. This is in part why communities like the Central California city Madera rely on inmate fire crews as part of mutual aid pacts. Inmate crews also provide a significant amount of Cal Fire’s seasonal staffing.

In California, there are about 4,000 inmate firefighters, forming around 220 fire crews at 44 conservation camps in 27 counties. They are operated by the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) along with the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CalFire) and the Los Angeles County Fire Department. The camps are minimum security facilities, most of them located in rural areas where woodland fires are most likely. Three of the camps—Malibu, Puerta La Cruz and Rainbow—are for women.

The inmate firefighters are trained to the same standards as many urban fire- fighters. In fact, Mota’s five-woman crew handled all kinds of emergency calls, including many in Madera.
“We would respond to calls in the community. People knew if they saw a fire truck with all women, it was prob- ably us ‘fire girls,’” said Mota. “It felt good. I was doing good and helping the community, and everyone we worked with inside and outside of the prison recognized that.”
But not when it comes to hiring these people when they are released. Criminal justice reform advocates also raise questions about whether inmate fire- fighters are compensated appropriately or whether the CDCR firefighting pro- gram is another form of forced labor. In a recent New York Times article, Angela Hanks, director of the Center for Post- secondary and Economic Success at the Center for Law and Social Policy in Washington, said that inmate firefighters should be paid “a fair wage,” especially because it is such a dangerous job. At least six inmates have died while fire- fighting since 1983.

Shawna Lynn Jones, 22, a Los Angeles County Jail inmate firefighter died in 2016 while on duty. Jones’ name was added to the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial on the National Fire Academy grounds in Emmitsburg, Maryland.

“Shawna had a passion for sawyer work on the fire line and wanted to pur- sue this job in the fire service,” said the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation website. “Shawna gave her life so that others may live.”

Two other California inmate firefighters lost their lives in 2017. Despite the risks and career limits, Mota and other women say the experience is rewarding.

“I came into prison knowing I would be here for years, and this was something to work towards.” She was accepted into prison firefighting in 2012 after she served enough time on her 10-year sentence to qualify for minimum security.

Inmate firefighters are paid an aver- age of $2 per day, plus an additional $1

per hour that they are working on an active fire. Most inmate firefighters earn two additional days off their sentence for each day they serve as a firefighter, according to the CDCR.

Mota says the pay amounted to about 53 cents an hour, or weekly paychecks around $60. While this may seem better than nothing to some people, Mota explained that the pay was at times not enough.

“We had to buy deodorant, tampons, shampoo, and other basic things you need to live.” In addition, CDCR withholds 50 percent of an inmate’s pay if an inmate owes court-imposed restitution. “When you become incarcerated, it puts a financial burden on you and your family with tons of fees to pay back,” Mota said.

According to Mota, everyone around her supported her, and those who “intimately knew the firehouse did not agree with the amount they were paid.”

However, she did not let the pay — or status of being incarcerated — stop her. Affirmation by prison staff and others helped motivate her and her crew.

“They knew we were hard workers, we had integrity. We gave it our all. We had the respect of the correctional officers and fire captains and chiefs.”

Building up that confidence took time and a lot of work.

“Those calls were very intense,” she said, noting that her crew’s first car crash had three people who had to be extricated — and all three died.

“We could train all day long, but you’re never really prepared for what it is like to arrive at a scene like that. What you walk away with is something you won’t find in a book or in training,” she said.

Mota is not alone with frustration over the restrictions that prevent her and other formerly incarcerated individuals from getting jobs in California cities. She sees it as a contradiction that prevents people like her serve their communities constructively.

“They used to tell me all the time that if it was their daughter or their family in trouble, that they would want me on scene,” she said.

WALL CITY, VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2: My birth plan is to deliver in a jail cell

by

A true story of women on their own in an Oklahoma lockup

By Laci Berg as told to Mary Fish Story courtesy of Victoria Law

My name is Laci. I am a locked-up pregnant lady at Oklahoma’s Mabel Bassett Correctional Center. Previously, I was in Caddo County Jail on a controlled of a dangerous substance charge with a former conviction of a felony. One of my cellmates (there were about 40 of us in this jail) was pregnant. Her name was Cheree and she was Native and Caucasian. One afternoon, she went into labor. They brought the trays and we told the male guard she was in labor. He said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and he left.

Cheree started crowning—this baby was coming and she wasn’t waiting on anybody. My other cellies were banging o on the door, hollering for the guard and saying, “We’re having a baby!” They were pushing the button to central control and telling them, “The baby is coming!”

They answered back, “Quit yelling and quit banging and quit pushing the button!” So we did and commenced to having a baby!

I grabbed my sheet to hold as a curtain so she could have some semblance of privacy, as the bottom bunk was layered with our towels to catch the fluids. We draped a towel over her knees as they were positioned for the baby to come out. The baby’s head was crowning when the EMTs came in and misdiagnosed Cheree, saying, “No, she is not crowning!” And they left.

My cellies were banging on the door, hollering for the guard and saying, “We’re having a baby!”

I saw Cheree’s face getting red and I thought she needed air, so I let the sheet down and everybody in the pod started scream- ing as the baby’s head was coming. I don’t know if it was from shock or what, but I put the sheet back up. Cheree was too tired to push anymore. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck twice. We tried to urge her to push, but she said she couldn’t. So Kathryn, who was studying to be a nurse, came over, wrapped a towel around the baby’s head and unwrapped the umbilical cord around her neck. Within five minutes, we, the locked-up women delivered Patience Rose, a 21-inch, beautiful baby girl out into the world at Caddo County Jail. She had long legs, and lots of hair.

The EMTs came back about 10 minutes later and took her to the hospital.

WALL CITY, VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2: More women are giving birth in prison than ever before

by

By, Kate McQueen

Legislation can improve medical care for pregnant inmates and their infants

ONE PREGNANT WOMAN assists another as she gives birth in a county jail, after receiving slow response to their urgent requests for medical care.

If this strikes you as extraordinary, the stuff of TV dramas, then con- sider this: Dozens of incarcerated women give birth in Oklahoma every year. Most of these occur at the overcrowded Mabel Bassett Correctional Center (MBCC), where Laci Berg was sent after the arrival of little Patience Rose.

Rewire News, a nonprofit online daily that covers reproductive and sexual health, reported the number of births that take place at MBCC at 30 in 2015 and 40 in 2016.

The chances of becoming a mother while incarcerated are rising, and not just in Oklahoma, where women are imprisoned at double the national average (149 out of every 100,000 women, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics). A 2011 Journal of the American Medical Association article estimates that 5 to 10 percent of women in the US enter prison or jail pregnant, and that nationwide every year around 2,000 children are born within the prison system.

Laci’s story highlights a few of the many dangers facing pregnant women behind bars. Like Cheree, mothers-to-be may face risky delivery in their cells, without medical assistance. Those who are transferred to hospitals may do so under restraint and face giving birth shackled to a bed. Access to necessary nutrition, adequate substance abuse treatment, proper prenatal screenings and educational programming during pregnancy also vary greatly. Postnatal care is equally uncertain. Few correctional centers in the US give women easy access breast pumps, for example, or to counseling services to deal with the pain of separation from their newborns.

This is a national problem. The “Mothers Behind Bars” report, compiled in 2010 by the Rebecca Project for Human Rights and the National Women’s Law Center, gave 21 states failing grades across three categories: prenatal care, shackling, and family-based treatment as an alternative to incarceration. Only Pennsylvania scored above a “B” on this report card.

What is being done to improve the situation? Lawmakers at the state and federal level have slowly started to address the issue. In May 2018, Oklahoma passed a bill that banned the use of shackles on women in labor, joining a handful of states that already for-bid the practice, including California, Illinois, New Mexico, New York, Texas, and Vermont.

Similar legislation was introduced at the federal level. The House of Representative’s “The Pregnant Women in Custody Act” seeks to “address the health needs of incarcerated women related to pregnancy and childbirth” by “prohibiting the use of restraints on prisoners during … pregnancy, labor and postpartum recovery” and by requiring the Bureau of Justice Statistics to collect data on incarcerated pregnant women and the results of their pregnancies. Both requirements were also part of the Senate’s “First Step Act,” which passed both houses in December 2018.
Thanks to the determination of advocacy groups like the Minnesota Prison Doula Project and the Alabama Prison Birth Project, incarcerated women in some states now have access to birth coaches. And a few state prisons—in California, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Nebraska, New York, South Dakota, Washington, and West Virginia— have opened prison nursery programs, which allow mothers to stay with their infants from 30 days to 30 months. Much more needs to be done. The Rebecca Project recommends that states clearly delineate standards of care and introduce policies that encourage compliance across correctional facilities. The bottom line is that the penal system is simply not built to accommodate the health needs of expecting and new mothers. States would best serve mothers sentenced on nonviolent and drug- related offenses by prioritizing family-based treatment programs over prison time.

WALL CITY, VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2: ‘Little weight or meaning’

by

California Senate Bills do little to help victims of sexual violence requesting parole

By Lilliana Paratore and Sara Kruzan

In this post-#MeToo era, it is common knowledge that women experience sexual harassment and abuse at staggering rates, and that these experiences are all too often left unvoiced or unaddressed. For women in prison, the problem is even greater. One study shows that between 40% and 93% of incarcerated women experienced intimate partner violence prior to incarceration. Moreover, 68-86% of women who are incarcerated report surviving sexual violence in their lifetime. Unfortunately, these experiences of gender-based violence as children and adults can be tied to an increased risk of future victimization, and of future perpetration of violence. As many women who commit crimes of violence do so either to protect themselves from abuse or as a part of abusive relationships.

For women going through the parole consideration process, these experiences are inadequately addressed, despite the fact that some statutes apply. In 2000, California enacted Senate Bill 499, codified as Penal Code section 4801, which required that the parole board “consider” evidence indicating that “at the time of the commission of the crime, the prisoner had suffered from battered woman syndrome…” In 2005, California passed Assembly Bill (AB) 220, which amended Penal Code section 4801 to reference “intimate partner battering” instead of “battered woman syndrome,” in order to keep pace with changed understandings of what intimate partner battering encompasses. “Intimate partner batter- ing and its effects” includes “evidence of the nature and effects of physical, emotional, or mental abuse upon the beliefs, perceptions, or behavior of victims of domestic violence if it appears the criminal behavior was the result of that victimization.” In 2012, California passed AB 1593, mandating that the parole board “give great weight” to intimate partner battering and its effects, rather than merely “consider” it as required by the original 2000 statute. Additionally, section 4801 was amended to explicitly provide that the fact that a prisoner presents evidence of abuse may not be used by the parole authority to support a finding that the prisoner lacks insight into the crime. While this special parole consideration has been an available avenue for relief for almost two decades, no California case law addresses the manner in which the Board must consider this evidence, nor have the courts defined the meaning of “great weight” in this context.

Unfortunately, in my experience as a parole attorney representing incarcerated women before the Board, these laws have little weight or meaning. The Board only understands these laws as applying to women who have killed their abusive partners, rather than as applying to women who have experienced a range of intimate partner violence that impacted their pathways to crime more broadly. This is born out in the numbers as well, as between 2011 and 2017, only 32 cases were investigated by the Board, and of those, only six were fully substantiated. This leaves countless women without relief in the parole context, despite the fact that so many women attribute many of their “causative factors” and “character defects” to experiences of gender-based trauma and abuse. -L.P.

…to Live The Experience

It is concerning for incarcerated per- sons, especially women aware of our “causative factors” and “character defects” being related to or are rooted in experiences of gender-based trauma and abuse. I am one of those women. My trauma and abuse experienced prior to my act of violence against George, who sexually trafficked me, was very present when I committed the act of violence that took his life.

The trauma and abuse inflicted upon me by others was a very personal experience of being silenced. A very personal experience of being sexually assaulted repeatedly. A very personal experience of being raped. A very personal experience of being trafficked, victimized, and degraded by numerous forms of violence. All of this was my personal experience and was as ever present the day I was arrested for murder. However, no matter how personal the experiences, far too many women have shared in the experiences.

Unfortunately, my “causative factors” and “character defects” were not taken into account for a rehabilitative plan as I prepared for a life sentence as a youth tried as an adult. I was lost in an invisibility of the criminal justice system. What if someone saw me? What if there was an act of compassion and rehabilitation within our criminal justice system from the very beginning one comes into contact with it? A warm hand off between institutions as opposed to a cold negligent and reckless hand off. Negligent handoffs fit under the umbrella of harmful behavior for me.

My experiences of integrated and concentrated violence while incarcerated left me many times with an uncertainty within an undefined bravery to continue on an undefined road. There weren’t any programs within Central California Women’s Facility, which covered the healing for child sex trafficking, compounded sexual trauma, and abuse. There was Domestic Violence Support Group, but for me, it only addressed a percentage of my “causative factors” and “character defects”.

I wish California’s parole board procedures were rooted in a therapeutic model with values rooted in healing, restoration, dignity and safety for all. I was so intimidated by the appearance alone within the parole board, having to share and discuss some of my most dehumanizing experiences with strange men, triggered memories of other moments I was with strange men and being dehumanized.

As I presented in front of the parole board, its very design shrunk my being. However, in a space structured to exude enveloping power, the simple act of kindness by Commissioner Zinnernam created a sense of dignity for me. A dignity and act of human kindness, an experience that will forever be etched within my core. I was asked to state my name and spell it. I leaned into the table, stretching my neck to the microphone and barely reaching the microphone. Zinnernam came down from his authoritarian bench and pulled the microphone closer to me. In that moment, the system acknowledged what I had to say was worthy of being heard and I felt a sense of dignity by a system, whose only drive was to oppress and punish me. Despite the structures of a criminal justice system etched in violence, there are endless opportunities to create moments for humanization; for sharing pockets of safety, connection, healing and hope. People will forget what one does. People will forget what one says. One does not ever forget how they are left to feel. Experiencing a ripple effect, which impacted my drive to continue to give in the smallest way holds a valuable life lesson. A lesson bringing awareness to the power of an act of kindness I experienced while in my parole hearing. An underscoring of personal choice to walk along others to contribute to a healing change for overall wellness.

The parole process for me, as a survivor of violent crimes, as an offender who committed an act of violence, as a woman of color sentenced to life without parole, held a belief through re-humanizing what one may be afraid of, healing happens on many levels and we can redesign our institutions to reflect dignity, safety and compassion as we aim for community wellness. -S.K.

WALL CITY, VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2: A LETTER TO MY SISTER ACTIVISTS, INSIDE AND OUT

by

By, Tina Curiel-Allen

I aM SEnDInG yoU LoVE and light sister, and I hope that wherever you may be reading this from, you are at peace. By peace, I mean I hope you are okay with you, no matter who you are. I write these words as someone who has at one time or another hurt most everyone I was close to, as someone who was labeled a criminal and dealt with the physical (incarceration) and emotional (PTSD, anxiety, etc.) repercussions of that classification. As someone who knows what state surveillance in one’s life feels like generationally, some- one who had to figure out how to be at peace with myself for public and personal reasons.

I knew when I was in county jail one of the first times that the rights I had taken for granted on the outside did not apply the same inside. People were dying around me with no public answer as to how or why. I realized early on that to fight for myself and those left forgotten behind bars when I got out, I would have to appear more credible and impressive than those around me. I also knew early on that I would end up fighting to change conditions for those like me and my loved ones, on both sides of the bars. I just didn’t know how, or what that fight would look like. When I was ready, I had a lot of work to do; both hard and heart work.

That was almost 20 years ago. Fast forward to 13 plus years out and I can officially call myself a formerly incarcerated activist—and get paid for it. I am fortunate enough to work for an organization made up of, founded, and led by formerly incarcerated and system- impacted people of color called MILPA

(Motivating Individual Leadership for Public Advancement). We work on cultivating Change-Makers for the Next Seven Generations by improving the health and well-being of the communities we come from. We advocate for change at both the policy and root levels. I am also currently a transfer student at UC Davis working on a bachelors degree in Chicana/o Studies with a focus on Social Policy. While at UC Davis, I have also co-founded Beyond the Stats: a student- led organization of formerly incarcerated and system- impacted students, faculty, and administration. We have printed zines of our own stories, facilitated a student- led seminar with a syllabus we ourselves wrote, and have advocated for ourselves and others like us. I am part of a growing movement of folks getting out and wanting to get involved to change conditions for the better.

At the same time, I am also a partner, sister, auntie, daughter, comadre (co-mother), j3writer, cat lover, and a bunch of other things. One of them—as I’m sure you can imagine, as I know you have your own list of things you do and are—is busy. Busy and often tired. I drive a lot and stay up many late nights. I commute to school and, at 37, am practically twice as old as most other students. Responsibilities only grow. Our timeline and trajectory is much different than others—traditional—students and activists, but that only makes us more valuable. We know the meaning of struggle on a survival level; beyond the pages and into our lives. That kind of knowledge cannot be taught. While it is tiring work, it is absolutely necessary: We are who will help create new futures for the next generations. That is why we fight; why we must persevere.

Not a day goes by that I am not thankful for the life and community I have been able to build.

I have worked hard to use my pen as my weapon in speaking truth to power and to bring others along with me as I do it. I have chosen as a writer to use my pen and my voice as a tool to effectively communicate to diverse groups of people. The experiential knowledge that addiction and struggle has taught me is beyond measure. Because of my life’s teachers, self-love, education, decolonization, self-determination, and liberation are anchors in my daily life. These anchors came from the colleagues and mentors who paved the way for me and continue to walk the long march for justice with me.

I needed to make peace with myself before any of this was possible. I had to dig deep to discover who the authentic self I wanted to bring to spaces was, and then be willing to grow toward that. I also had to look squarely at the pain that had kept me running for years if I wanted to start putting down roots. A lot of people helped me in this process. Until I did this, new growth was not sustainable or possible. For me, this path started to unfold through a program I was in while incarcerated. From there it has twisted and turned into a life involving ceremony and daily practice. How you begin or continue that process is, of course, up to you. But until you do that, until you learn how to be okay being still and alone with yourself, you won’t be able to manage hustling and being busy. How we deal with quiet is related with how we deal with chaos; that’s just how things go.

And so I write this letter to you, sister, wherever you may be, in hopes that you are on that path toward self-love and care while fighting for and taking care of others around you. I am on that same path and hope to meet you in person someday soon. We are all made better in the struggle toward liberation, love, and self-determination. May we never forget that.

WALL CITY, VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2: Out, and about something

by

In their own words, four formerly incarcerated women describe their paths after they were released

Topeka Sam co-founded Hope House NYC, which opened in 2017. Hope House, an initiative of The Ladies of Hope Ministries, is transitional housing for single women who have been incarcerated and are returning to New York City.

“When I got home, I started going around, organizing with other women around women’s issues and incarceration, and just seeing that it was the same issues happening: Women need housing, women need resources, women need all these things.”

Tracy Brumfield is the creator of RISE Up News, a newspaper with a mission to remove post-incarceration barriers, to empower those behind bars with resources and information. She is now working on audience expansion and additional reentry programs for the nonprofit.

“The greatest gift I can give you… is what I like to call ‘the real real,’ ” said Brumfield. “I go into the Hamilton County N32 G pod every Thursday, and we talk about the things in life that can really change us, and how in those moments, if we listen to our gut, we can make good decisions.”

Susan Burton is the founder of A New Way of Life Reentry Project, with a mission to promote healing, power and opportunity for formerly incarcerated people by taking a multifaceted approach to mitigating the effects of, and ultimately eliminating, mass incarceration.

“I think we all want to make an impact; [it’s never] too late. My job now was to value each and every woman, to cast aside my doubt and believe in them—and to teach them to cast aside their own doubt an to hold themselves and others to a standard of accountability, integrity and respect.”

Keri Blakinger spent nearly two years incarcerated before becoming a criminal justice reporter for the Houston Chronicle. She covers breaking news for the Houston Chronicle and previously worked for the New York Daily News and the Ithaca Times. She has written about drugs and criminal justice issues.

“I’ve been so privileged in so many ways to end up with hope and second chances and a happy ending…A lot of people don’t have that, and I wish that more did.”

Translate »