San Quentin News

Written By Incarcerated - Advancing Social Justice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZOE: Helplessness plus rage.

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

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

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

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

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

https://brothersinpen.wordpress.com/

Stanford professor audited Creative Writing class

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Adam Johnson

Professor Adam Johnson of Stanford University came to San Quentin to sit in on a creative writing class for incarcerated men, facilitated by Zoe Mullery and sponsored by the William James Association. The Aug. 21 get-together between students and professor focused on: what led to Johnson’s writing career, what creates a compelling narrative, and a review of Fortune Smiles (2016), Johnson’s collection of short stories.

“He really encourages all of us, me included, to go to the difficult story – don’t turn away from it – go to the story that we don’t fully understand or have any understanding of,” said Mullery.

The Pulitzer Prize winning author, who worked as a mason in his youth, said building solitary confinement cells in Arizona changed his life.

“We’d bring the walls up, and then I’d think about who’s going to occupy this thing, and it was depressing the hell outta me,” Johnson said.

After that, Johnson took a creative writing class to boost his grade point average and “that’s that,” he said.

Johnson talked about what he learned from Ron Carlson, his first writing teacher.

“The secret to great writ- ing is learning to tolerate the not knowing of what might be and moving forward in a story in the face of uncertainty and that it might fail,” Johnson said.

The students had read Johnson’s collection of six short stories prior to his visit and were ready with comments about the stories. Dark Meadows is the only story Johnson said he did not research.

Johnson said it was about people “who could go down paths where they could do the unthinkable” and be redeemed.

“The character was in a situation of struggling every day in his life to do the right thing,” Johnson said. “He was a character that readers don’t want to like, but he had characteristics that readers find likable.”

Johnson said Dark Meadows challenges readers’ beliefs about good and bad.

He told the students that the space for fiction is getting smaller and smaller as publishers looking for longer stories are dwindling.

As an early writer, he says, he had great experiences with editors. But, as he developed, he has found his own voice, even if he has to labor to write a single paragraph.

“The act of writing is a noble endeavor,” Johnson said. “It’s meditative – I feel that I’m an average person, but to orchestrate my thoughts, I can say something above myself.”

Mullery noted later that she’s “picky” about people interacting with the class.

“The writers that I invite are people that I really re- spect, not only as writers, but also how they conduct themselves as a writer—not to just make a buck or be famous. And I think Adam Johnson is a great example of that,” said Mullery.

The restorative power of creative writing: Incarcerated people find healing through the written word

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Inmates captivated a San Quentin audience of more than 100 on Oct. 20 in the Catholic chapel. They told stories inspired by their childhood, life in prison, dreams and nightmares.

Creative Writing Group

“Writing—that’s what saved me in prison,” said Joe Camacho, a former prisoner and alumnus of the writing program called Brothers in Pen. “It became a survival skill to take the stress away and to not think about where I was at.”

More than 20 inmates read the stories they had written with the encouragement of instructor Zoe Mullery.

“Writing—that’s what saved me in prison. Four years ago, Zoe promised to make me famous,” said inmate author James R. Metters Jr. before reading Pops, a story about his absentee father. “Today, I feel famous.”

“I don’t feel like their instructor,” said Mullery. “I consider myself a real member of the group.

“I’ve learned so much from everybody’s stories about what it means to be human.”

For the first time in the event’s 12-year history, formerly incarcerated alumni returned to San Quentin to listen to their fellow writers at the event. Included were Camacho, Carl Irons, Watani Stiner and J.B. Wells.

“When I first started writing, I was angry at the government, angry at myself— just angry,” Stiner recalled. “I wanted to tell my story and set the historical record straight.

“I’ll never forget Zoe’s annoying little comments on my work. Who is this White girl telling me how to write my story? But what she was doing was helping me to pull back the layers of my story.”

“This is my third year at this event, and each year my heart is healed even deeper,” said Tammy Appling-Cabading, marketing and communications director for St. Mary’s College. “I continue to learn, continue to grow.”

“What an amazing adventure today has been,” said retired teacher Mary Prophet, who worked with Education Not Incarceration. She directed her questions about criminal justice reform toward Charles Daron and his harrowing account of violent retaliation from Corcoran corrections officers in the ’90s.

“Restorative justice has to take place in an individual,” Daron reflected, “and only when that individual is ready.”

“I try and focus on the solutions,” added inmate author Charles “Talib” Brooks, who first learned to read and write in prison and has since achieved a GED.

“It’s really fabulous—getting to interact with you guys and listen to your stories,” observed Alice Morison. She explained that her great-grandfather, Josiah Parker Ames, had been a warden at SQ in the 1880s. “Especially to see this prison evolve from a penal colony model to a rehabby model.”

The outside guests were particularly interested in understanding what drives these men to write.

“When I write, I fly; I’m out of here,” Richie Morris explained. “I’m in a place where I know I’m finding healing.”

“I remember a letter my grandson wrote to me,” shared Alex Briggs, who held the child as an infant 24 years ago before starting his incarceration. “He said he only knows me through my stories.”

“Coming in here has always been difficult for me in many ways,” Stiner said. “I spent 26 years total in prison, and I see men I’ve walked the yard with.

“For me to be out and knowing that these men are in here is hard. I know that they would serve society better out there.”

“I’ve been inspired by a lot of the men I’ve met in prison,” said prisoner Kevin D. Sawyer. “When I write, I try and have an underlying political message, because I want people to think.”

“People in here are every bit as smart as any random cross-section of the outside population,” said Carol Newburg, project manager for SQ’s Prison Arts Projects. “The experience of coming in and talking to people here— there’s nothing else quite like it.”

“How many times do you have the opportunity to visit with inmates at a prison like this, known worldwide?” asked Mike Mullery, Zoe’s father, who came with her whole family. “When she asked us to come, we were all totally ready.”

Complete anthologies of current and past events are available at brothersinpen.wordpress.com.

 

  • Zoe Mullery
  • Creative Writing Group
  • Cover of PENS UP – DON’T SHOOT!

Only By Flashlight by Ed "Foots" Lipman

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The famed incarcerated poet, Ed “Foots” Lipman was born New Year’s Day 1941. After he spent nearly half his of 34 years behind bars, he died of natural causes on Sept. 8, 1975.

“I have never been so affected by poetry…I looked up his name on the internet, found little to nothing, and felt overwhelmingly compelled to change that,” said researcher. S.J. Lawrie.

By publishing Only By Flashlight, Lawrie brought to life Lipman’s collection of 55 raw and blunt poems.

Only By Flashlight by Ed "Foots" Lipman

Only By Flashlight by Ed “Foots” Lipman

I had the opportunity to experience Lipman’s work while attending Zoe Mullery’s creative writing class. Our group of about a dozen incarcerated men sat around and read some of his 1970s-style poems. We smiled, shook our heads to affirm a familiar feeling reading his work gave us. We understood Lipman’s perspective. It wasn’t surprising for us that the outside world missed literature relevant to how society operates. We constantly discuss and write about the ease of overlooking the locked away population — out of sight, out of mind. As a consequence, outsiders aren’t well-versed in how incarceration can evoke penitence in so many different ways.

When I opened Only By Flashlight, I did what I always do when reviewing an anthology of poetry. I scanned through the titles and read the ones that stood out to me.

“Because Truth is Seldom Silent” is about poetry’s ability to speak truth to power. “Losing & Lasting” is about guarding one’s dignity in spite the inhumane nature of prisons. “Harry Houdini was Right After All,” a poem ahead of its time as Lipman spoke about the failure of mass incarceration.

Going through Only By Flashlight, poem by poem, is an adventure worth taking.

Lipman thrusts readers into the sense of an incarcerated perspective. Outsider readers discover the damaging effects of accepting the powerlessness created through mass incarceration.

Only By Flashlight delves into topics relevant to San Quentin, such as how correctional officers and prisoners treat each other, medical care (or lack thereof), or doing time while missing the tender touch of a loved one, and of course, the food.

Many of Lipman’s poems are short and to the point:

Untitled for brjw

Sitting at this grill-gate

Early in the morning

Waiting for something beautiful

Reminds me to write

this poem slowly

because Beauty passes quickly

and doesn’t carry keys

untitled number 30 for susan

this prison tells its own tales

i listen & am unable to decipher

any particular moral; you have hidden

in your rustic gaze

any hope of my salvation, any

chance of my survival

What I appreciate are Lawrie’s effort to bring quality literature to light by investing time, energy, and money into giving a respected place in history to someone, despite reservations: “I am aware that to speak about a man having never met him is a dangerous endeavor.”

He relied on scant history about the man – history that was obscure in every facet except his criminal history.

Lipman now has a way to speak in a very silent way to the moral costs mass incarceration inflicts on our communities.

Juan’s Book Review
http://sanquentinnews.com/optionb-org-support-group-overcoming-effects-incarceration/

The powerful voice of Jennifer Richter

Guests Hear 19 Gifted Writers At Ninth Annual ‘Brothers in Pen’ Eventl

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On a warm, sunny Saturday in November, more than 60 guests from outside the prison traversed the lower yard – past a football game, a basketball game and men doing pushups and stretches – to the ARC building to attend the ninth annual “Brothers in Pen” public reading.
This event, introduced by creative writing instructor Zoe Mullery and with JulianGlenn “Luke” Padgett serving ably as master of ceremonies, featured short readings of fiction or memoir (or some combination of the two) from 19 gifted writers.
Intelligent, insightful and intimate, some of the stories were nostalgic, some autobiographical, some pure fantasy. Writing styles ran the gamut from humorous to gritty, raw and edgy, tender and sensitive, light and dark, creative and entertaining … each touching on personal truth in a wide variety of ways.
The readings began with Arnulfo T. Garcia’s “The Counselor,” an excerpt from the first chapter of his memoir – written for his daughter so that she could understand who her father is – and concluded with Michael Zell’s “Wisdom Exhortation,” a story about the mystery of finding wisdom in a place where it is difficult to know how to share it.
Each piece segued seamlessly, one to another. Listening to this collective of talented writers, the audience was reminded that they are far more than incarcerated “men in blue.” They are also fathers, sons, husbands, lovers, friends, brothers, former businessmen and students. The writer Ella Turenne wrote in a Huffington Post article about a previous Brothers in Pen reading: “In each of these stories lay the foundation of humanity. In word, inflection and intention was the truth: everyone has a story. One story is no better than the other, but collectively, they make up life as we know it.” (huffingtonpost.com/ella-turenne/brothers-in-pen_b_1002433.html)
Ron Koehler’s “Letter’s End, Heart’s Beginning” is a sweet and tender memory of his toddler son’s embodiment of innocence. “There were birds he attracted, too, his spirit pulling them right out of the sky, a baby-blue boy heaven above the Penn State Campus, blue birds with proud chests and courageously continuous songs of flying delight. Sky droplets of God’s joy.” The love permeating the story aches from the first sentence: “My son’s letters stopped coming, but my heart remembered.”
Wayne Boatwright’s “500 Lbs of Happiness” is a tale of how a child’s small gesture produced a quarter ton of happiness for two incarcerated men. The story brought a smile to everyone’s face.
Emile DeWeaver’s “Crumbling Brick Dreams” was reminiscent of O’Henry’s style of short story writing, using wit, wordplay, warm characterization and a clever ending.
Rahsaan Thomas’s “Institutionalized” pulled the listener in from the get-go, with a driving pace and musical rhythm to his phrasing to give form to the meaning of his tale.
Eric Curtis’ “Not So Ugly Anymore” is a story where the “bullied” comes to the rescue of the “bullier.”
Kenneth Brydon, who read a story entitled “Mad World,” was recently published in an anthology titled “Prison Noir,” edited by Joyce Carol Oates.
The readings were followed by a brief Q&A period revealing deeper insights. When asked: “Writing is hard work. What helps?” some responses were:
“I love writing. Writing is its own reward.”
“Writing is like breathing.”
“It’s freedom. It’s how I share my inner world, through imagery.”
“It helps me to untangle my thoughts to gain deeper self perception.”
“Writing serves as therapy.”
And a facetious single word: “Lockdowns.”
When asked by a woman who was struggling with confidence in her own work: “What makes you think that you have the right to share your stories?” the men responded in persuasive fashion:
“Every human being has a right to tell their own story.”
“It’s a fundamental human trait to share through storytelling. To NOT do so is to deny your humanity and identity.”
“To create is an essential gift of freedom!”
One of the guests was asked what she liked best about the event. She replied, “Hearing the men read their own story lends a vastly different experience for me than reading their stories myself. It reveals a whole other dimension since their emotions and unique individual personalities came through.”
The Brothers in Pen class is a place where the men find their voices to work through their struggles to cope while serving their terms and find an essential sense of dignity, acknowledgment and empowerment through personal creative expression.
A blog at brothersinpen.wordpress.com has information about the anthologies and occasional updates about the class.
The class is sponsored by the William James Association’s Prison Arts Project (williamjamesassociation.org ). Heartfelt thanks were communicated to Community Partnership Manager Steve Emrick, San Quentin’s Public Information Officer Lt. Samuel Robinson, Executive Director of the William James Association Laurie Brooks, as well as Carol Newborg, Cory Georgeson, Peter Merts (photographer who has been documenting Prison Arts Projects events for years) and Walkenhorst (represented by Natalie Tovar) for providing snacks for all. The late Jeffrey Little, a former member of the class who died shortly after paroling last year, was honored and remembered.
Zoe Mullery began the day by quoting celebrated short story writer Tobias Wolff, who visited the “Brothers in Pen” creative writing class several years ago, from his foreword to one of the anthologies: “We are story-telling animals … It’s how we organize the past, and try to make sense of it – to see the patterns our actions and inactions create, to see how those patterns break or repeat themselves. Stories are the embodiment of those patterns, and in them – even in the stories of others – we can begin to recognize ourselves.”

RISK LITERACY: WOODBLOCK FORTUNA & SAPIENTIA

Brothers in Pen Publish Fourth Anthology


http://sanquentinnews.com/zoe-mullery-encourages-sharing-creative-stories/

Brothers in Pen anthology – “Pens Up, Don’t Shoot”


 

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