Meet Richard…

Then, I saw how badly the military messed me over, they ripped me off with a general discharge instead of a medical one.  This way, I couldn’t receive follow-up care in the veterans hospital. Instead they sent me home a lost and broken soul.

Richard, 66

Incarcerated: 16 yrs

Housed: San Quentin State Prison

I tried to commit suicide by injecting all the thorazine tablets they sent me home with. All it did was make me deathly ill. I began to self-medicate on grass and heroin, my two favorite things in the whole world. Especially heroin, its warm fuzziness wraps around you like a warm blanket and keeps all the bad memories, worries and fears out. I would drift on heroin’s cloud and luxuriate in the false sense of well being. Withdrawals are another story though and to avoid those I needed a ready supply of the $25 balloons – I begged, stole and borrowed. This inevitably led to one incarceration after another, starting in ‘76 as a civil addict commited to the California Rehabilitation Center at Norco. To my surprise, there were more balloons there than on the street! Today at San Quentin, I’m on my second life sentence for a nickel dime robbery in Corona. I began my roller coaster ride in 1968, three years after my Pa died.  At 12, my Ma had me incarcerated as a hopeless incorrigible, but really she was just mad because I wrecked her car joy-riding. I didn’t even know how to spell incorrigible, much less tell you what it meant. Juvie was rough back then. Boys as old as 20 were locked up with children my age. We went to school for half the day and the other half was recreation, cutting up and stealing the counselor’s smokes. Ma came to see me, but not much. When I came home she constantly threatened to send me back, so I ran away. At 18, I was placed in the psychiatric ward for a nervous breakdown. I flipped out. I was on 2800 mgs a day of Thorazine! One of the navy orderlies raped me in the showers. I never told or talked about it until I received my military service records. Then, I saw how badly the military messed me over, they ripped me off with a general discharge instead of a medical one.  This way, I couldn’t receive follow-up care in the veterans hospital. Instead they sent me home a lost and broken soul.

Meet Darren…

Forty plus years of sharing a tiny cage was like an anvil around my shoulders, that I was unaware of until it was gone. Other than being sick with covid twice, my quarantine was a good thing.

Incarcerated: 43 years

Cell 4-2, roll up your property, you are being quarantined. The correctional officers came up four flights of stairs to handcuff and escort me to South Block, the largest prison cell block in America, maximum capacity 2,000 men stuffed into a 5’ by 12’ concrete cage, with a stainless steel toilet, four inches from your rusty bunk. In normal times South Block is an administrative segregation section or the “Hole” prison purgatory. Where they send prisoners that exhibit extreme violent behavior. Now, those who test positive. In 43 years of incarceration I have never been sent to prison purgatory. My anxiety was high. Purgatory has a giant rusted iron gate that opens with a big brass key, the size of your hand. It’s through a rotunda that had four big iron doors and a steel staircase. On the third floor, another big rusted iron door that makes an eerie screeching noise, opened to a really dark and long menacing menagerie. One side of the long four foot wide tier had cell bars covered by expanded metal (think real thick chicken wire). These bars went to the concrete ceiling, so you couldn’t jump across the void, a gun walk where officers walk with a shotgun. Half the lights were burned out or broken. The long dim corridor appeared as if the bars from both sides merged and went on forever, a distorted infinity of cages and bars. I was so distracting the next thing I knew the officer was telling me to step into a cell. Looking around my new cage, I saw my books – my true blue friends, my only escape from life in prison, and sometimes my only reason to live. For 60 days they delivered my food through a slot cut into the cell bars, so they didn’t have to open the cage to feed us. Twice a day they delivered delightful, tasty delicacies designed to destroy the palate. The high point of my quarantine experience was finally being alone in my 5’ by 12’ concrete and iron bathroom. Normally they squeeze two men in this space built in 1870 for one man. Forty plus years of sharing a tiny cage was like an anvil around my shoulders, one I was unaware of – until it was gone. Other than being sick with covid twice, my quarantine was a good thing.

Meet Raymond…

 I never want to see a child grow up lost like me. I express remorse to help others. If I believe, I can achieve.

Incarcerated: 20 years

My biological father was a heroin addict. My stepdad would drink and beat my mom. She raised me and my baby sister while on welfare. I would ditch school and spend the day in the back of an abandoned house, playing marbles. One day I stole some clothes, never bothering to think that I was taking from someone trying to support his family. I was put in juvenile hall and sent to group homes. My mother was living in a woman’s shelter. I remember walking down the street one day and seeing her and baby sister, the center of my soul. I thought I could go home with them. She had kicked me out repeatedly. I reminded her of her abusive husband. My mother told me that boys were not allowed. My cousin and I roamed the streets, eating with whomever would feed us. I became a crack addict at 13. I permanently ruined my brain. I can’t think straight. I have memory loss. I can’t concentrate. When I was 21, I met my biological father. He had charm and sang country music and played the guitar. He packed our bags and moved us to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I told him about my passion for boxing. I looked for a gym, and when I found one, I sat all alone in it. I didn’t know what would become of me. No one seemed to believe in me. I met a beautiful Mexican girl. Her dream was to become a singer.  Mine was to join the military. I ended up in Fresno with another woman, who like me, was betrayed, abandoned, and misled. I was abusive. Oprah had shows about abusive husbands. I would sit and stare at the TV. What if one of those men did that to my sister? But you shouldn’t throw stones if you live in a glass house. I was a gang member and a violent person who didn’t respect authority. I re-entered the prison system for murder. I will never be a boxer, but one day I will find a child who doesn’t have a father or anyone to believe in him. I will walk him into a gym and out of the streets. This is what I aspire to do. I never want to see a child grow up lost like me. I express remorse to help others. If I believe, I can achieve.