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Tandy, 37

Tandy, 37

Stories

Meet Tandy…

I was supposed to be a lawyer, but my family and I were prey to the crack epidemic. I was on the honor roll and student council. At 13, when the drugs finally broke up my family, I found myself homeless not knowing if I had passed the 8th grade. At 17 I was arrested. At 18 sentenced to my first prison stint in Wisconsin.

I remember feeling scared and relieved. Education while incarcerated has been my saving grace. When I got out I thought “I’ll be grown up and can put myself in school and rent my own house.” I did exactly what I said: got a job, rented an apartment and enrolled in college. Any time college costs 30k for an associate’s degree, something is wrong. But I didn’t know that then. In my second year,  an older man knocked me up. Told me he would drop the rent in the drop box after our daughter was born, never to be seen again.

Fearful that we’d be homeless I went back to the things that hurt me and saved me: selling drugs. Of course, it led me right back to prison. This time in the hard state of Texas. Here I’ve rediscovered my love of learning. I’ve gotten an associate’s degree and taken numerous classes but my love of learning goes beyond academia. This institution only offers low-level books. It is a struggle to attain books in the fields I like.

I believe everything that happens on earth happens within the human being. In agriculture the soil needs nourishment, it needs water, the weeds have to be pulled. So too do human beings. In prison, I’ve learned that I need self-care. I needed to pull out the weeds that hindered my growth from past hurts and neglect to abandonment and fear. I needed to nourish myself with love, positivity, belief, drive and compassion. I needed to build on my self-worth. A foundation not built upon.

No matter what, the seasons change. In some seasons the darkness comes quicker, lasts longer. Things wither away and die and the world seems cold. In other seasons the sun shines bright and darkness is fleeting. Those things that die will be resurrected and restored. That’s how I feel about life and humanity. 📸 Tandy’s

Johnnie, 41

Johnnie, 41

Stories

Meet Johnnie…

 

Last year she developed feelings for me. I know I’m a burden, she has six kids and has been married twice. She didn’t want to show her feelings. Instead, I was mean and pushed her away, I thought it was for her own good.

It became what it wasn’t meant to be. She wanted me to be her prince charming. We don’t talk anymore. She was all I had left. I’ve known Sara my whole life. I babysat and raised her since I was 19 and she was 15. She got locked up and then got out. She was really there for me. She gets it in here. She wrote to me, sent me money, packages and paid for lawyers. She was my best friend and loved me. She is dear to me. She was there for 13 years. We have a history.

I think that people misconstrue what prison is, and don’t know what goes on here. It’s traumatic for me. I am homesick all the time. Living here is like a nightmare, I hate it. I did wrong, but not that wrong to suffer this. All humans make mistakes. We’ve all done some things wrong.

This institution has taken so much from me. They lost all my pictures of my loved ones that passed away, including my mom. I try to transform it into a positive. I believe in the law of attraction, that there are secrets to figure out, energy to pursue. This DVD “The Secret” by Rhonda Byrnes talks about it. It was huge in 2007.

I’ve learned to avoid energy thieves, those people that ask you, “What are you smiling for?” I say, “Don’t worry about it.” I made it through years, I’ve lost family and friends. I have a good friend in here, Miguel. We have a weird bro thing. We understand what we go through, like family, even though we don’t say it. Miguel checks on me. Even Miguel’s got everything you would want, but he’s still stressed out, going through it too.

I don’t have a wife yet or other things. I do understand I would still be hurting if I did. It hurts that the person that loves you is not here. I do have support from a man who has been a pastor for 40 years. He’s like a dad. David Lucci. For 15 years he’s been here for me with everything, with unconditional love.

The secret is here …. someone leaves as another comes. 

Warren, 58

Stories

Hello and love, peace and blessings to you. My story is a story that I believe should be shared. A story of rebirth and discovering peace and purpose. Coming back to San Quentin in 2019 was surreal. My first [and only previous] time home was in 1981. I was 18 years old. In body chains coming from Susanville going straight to North Block Hole. It was like the SHU term is now. Then it was called a maximum B Term. 

There were constant screams of rage. All the windows were busted out, it was freezing cold and rain was a constant adversary. Water was rushing down like Niagra Falls from every tier because a few inmates were pretending and must have done it for bitterness’ sake. There were huge sewer rats [I discovered] in combat with feral cats throughout the block with birds flying overhead. But the hate and rage hit me like a force unseen. I was quickly spit on by an Aryan brother and I made him a few promises I truly meant. My hate was no less than his having been the reason I was being placed in the hole. Prison war and violence was mostly ministered by constant racial hatred. Over half of San Quentin was the hole. By the time I was 18 I was a full-fledged card-carrying anti-social maniac. But I could fool you with a gentle smile. Since that time my life in and out the system landed me back in Pelican Bay with a 42 years to life sentence. Life was over. At 2:00am Jan. 5th 2006 I was in a prison cell with my young-un and road puppy Baba Louie. I went to sleep and woke up in a young lady’s [who?] apartment. I was just maxing out watching her paint a picture when her 3 gorgeous cats took off after one another across my feet to the bathroom. She smiled in my eyes and asked me to “check it out, Focus” I walked in the bathroom and the brightest light and most powerful unearthly peace and sustenance [sp?] engulfed me. I was inside of it and I was undone. I wasn’t capable of standing inside this much power and love. The tears came because I was being healed. I quickly knew without ever experiencing this presence before who this was. My DNA knew. I followed that light and it showed me all the journey the last 20 years had taken on. That journey and vision ended with me paroling from San Quentin and doing very specific [Great] things out there.  

But that’s a better continuation to maybe be shared later. 

Baba-Louie’s feet was dangling from the top bunk [at 3:00am] and he kept saying in earnest “Brah, what’s happening in this cell man?” the Lord is up in this cell Focus” we were two ungodly heathens. He kept saying “Focus I ain’t doing that shit tomorrow Focus.” We were both going to do an act that next day that would throw away the rest of our lives. The creator knew it and instilled hope and healing. That and the second part of this vision has sustained me all this time. In 2019 for the second time in my life I came back to San Quentin. In every way possible this place has made a 180 degree about face. When I came back here in 2019 before the Pandemic all the programs were in full force. Unbelievable! Inconceivable! Young ladies walking around feeling secure and at peace. Some of them have told me [Mt Tamalpais tutors] they love coming here because they can be themselves, and interact with men on a deeper level. Wow! I was running my story by a young lady [math tutor] named Trynn. She said two things that blew me away. She said “Warren!” Don’t you see, San Quentin has been healed on an emotional and spiritual level just like you have.” And just imagine how out of tune we can be. I mean the cats ran to the source of their existence for all the milk and fish they dream of. While we miss out. 

Wow…enough said. 

Peace.

Guillermo, 31

Guillermo, 31

Stories

Guillermo, 31

On February 20, 1965, I accidentally shot my brother JJ. I say accidentally now, but for many years I would say, “I killed my brother.” 

From the first day of my incarceration, I believed I was undeserving of love, family, and community. I was filled with anger, hurt, and shame, frightened that other inmates would know what I had done. It took me over 50 years to make sense of the day I killed my brother.

It was JJ’s birthday. He was turning six and I was a year older. We woke up that morning talking about all the fun we knew we were going to have. JJ was my best friend. He followed me around and I loved that, like a baby duckling following his mother. I’d answer all of his questions and share with him everything I learned.

That morning, I remembered seeing a small handgun under my mother’s bed. While she was asleep, I crawled under her bed, JJ right behind me. I grabbed the gun and we crawled back to our room. I knew the gun was real. It was heavy and I saw bullets inside. 

“Pull the trigger,” I heard.   

I shot. A bullet went into my brother’s stomach. So much commotion ensued. My mother and older siblings came running into the bedroom; the smell of smoke was in the air; my ears were ringing; every sound muffled. 

Then came the ambulance and police. They asked me what had happened. I told them my brother crawled under the bed and grabbed the gun. I said he began spinning the gun around his finger like a cowboy in the movies and the gun went off. I totally lied about what happened and for many years I kept isolated from family and everyone. I was depressed and ashamed. No one in the family would talk about JJ’s death.

I loved my brother. It wasn’t until I came to prison did I have the courage to allow myself to be vulnerable and speak about JJ’s death. While I was in county jail my mother and I talked about JJ’s death for the first time. She told me she knew.  She said after JJ was shot, before he died, he told her I was the one who got the gun and shot him.  He told her before he died he wasn’t mad at me. I was overwhelmed with grief. I cried from the guilt and hurt I carried.

Talking with my mother opened the door for a lot of family healing.

I was able to truthfully tell my siblings and my children what happened that morning so many years ago. I told my children how important it is to talk and not keep feelings of shame and guilt inside. I had lived with a horrific lie, long after the truth of JJ’s death had already been revealed.

Every year on my brother’s birthday I take the time to reflect and pay tribute to his life. I’m continually comforted by his last words. He wasn’t mad at me. JJ forgave me.  

Milton “Tone”, 29

Milton “Tone”, 29

Stories

I often wonder if there really is such a thing as a “perfect” or “model” family. I’m guessing that is all relative. Though I know my family is a precious blessing despite their imperfections. It isn’t the verbal, mental, or physical abuse that plague my memories that I measure my family with. My family has put me through so much, yet they have supported and helped me through so much more.

We may have not always seen eye to eye and caused each other a lot of pain and grief. But when shit hits the fan, when I hit rock bottom and my whole world is crumbling and crashing down around me. I can bet my own heartbeat that I will have my family gathered around me, ready to help me stand back up and rebuild. Just like I would be there for them. My family can be crazy, dysfunctional, and even irritating at times. But I know that I can trust them with my life when it matters most. T

o me, family is what matters most in life. Sadly it took for me to be in prison to realize how important family truly is. To finally see how precious the time you have with your loved ones really is.

📸 From Tone and his sister.

Dennis, 39

Dennis, 39

Stories

dennis

Dennis B

Dennis B

“I learned a different way to communicate and worked on becoming the person others could come to for help. The person I always wished I had in my life when I was a boy. I strive to be better.”

Meet Dennis, 

“The baby isn’t breathing.” The baby was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around its little neck and appears to have drowned in amniotic fluid during a very difficult birthing process. He never reaches his mothers arms, instead he is swept away by frantic doctors in an effort to revive him.

The doctor returns to deliver the news “The baby is alive and breathing.”  A moment of relief. “But he was gone too long and his brain was deprived of oxygen for far too long, I’m afraid he will be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.” Turns out he was wrong. Shortly after, the baby sparked back to life with light in his eyes and developed normally.

He was happy and loved for several years until suddenly the love stopped and he never knew what he did wrong. His father, his superman, began hitting him, administering beatings more and more often. The baby, now a boy, began hating himself as much as he felt everyone else hated him. A cycle of abuse and mischief led him to homelessness in his early teens.

Violence became his language, the way he navigated through life. It became an obsession, then a compulsion, until it progressed to murder at the age of 16 and a life in prison. The boy became a man amidst the prison violence he consumed. Again, violence helped him navigate and even thrive where grown men struggled to survive. He was never lost, because that would imply that he belonged to someone that wanted him back.

The man was sentenced to end his life in solitary confinement. He accepted it for a long time. Eventually, he and many other men in confinement starved themselves in an effort to be released from solitary or die in the process.

With the help of many, he returned to the prison general population, where he sought out every opportunity for education that he was previously denied. Fearful that it would all be taken away again, he learned a different way to communicate and worked on becoming a person others could come to for help: the person he always wished he had in his life when he was a boy.

He strives to be better. I am the baby, the boy and the man and this is my story. 📸Dennis’

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