Meet Mark…

I’ll never forget, I wrote my mom a letter from prison, people were getting stabbed left and right, it said, in case I don’t make it – mom, I love you.

My mother ran away at the age of 14, her stepdad was molesting her sister. She had a 7th grade education and turned to the streets to survive. She joined a gang, sold dope and robbed people. She started using more than selling, all while giving birth to me and my older brother.

My mom was a badass. She would break into empty hotel rooms by putting me through the window to unlock the door. She would turn tricks to keep us fed. My mom was a fucking beast in the streets. She taught us that we came first and it stuck. I love and respected her for it.

My father was killed when I was five, his death certificate said it was a heart attack, he was 27. He was poisoned for being a goon, a pimp but more gangsta than pimp. Like me, it’s said he never lost a fight. To be clear, I never was a pimp. I respect women too much. I’ve never raised my hand to a woman and never will.

I longed for a connection with my dad, while hating him for putting his hands on my mother. Had he not been killed, my brother and I would have tried to kill him. I was all fucked up. Seeing her beat by different men, my brother and I learned to fight like cage fighters, I’ve stabbed, shot and ran over her dudes. My mom exposed us to shit people only see in movies.

My brother and I were taught to load, shoot, even make hollow tips. Most mornings I’d wake up on the floor from drive by shootings. Her second husband was a Crip, one night, my aunt was watching us. She got a call from the hospital, seven southsiders jumped them for being a mixed race couple. My mom kept an ice pick in her hair and her husband had 20 inch arms. One southsider died, one brain damaged, another stabbed with his own knife.

She called me a sorry-ass punk-ass bitch and I better stop talking like a fucking punk, I had no choice but to make it out or she was going to kick my ass. That’s who my mom was; she reminded me who I was and where I came from. I have a family to stay strong for and lead in the right direction. My wife is my real life superhero.

Meet Darryl…

Prison can be the death of our connection to humanity. Every year that goes by, our memories of a life before fade away. And our only connection to a ‘life’ is a plain white envelope. Thank you for keeping the connection. -Darren Lee, 60

It was my younger brother JJ’s 6th birthday, being a year apart, we spent every second together. He followed me around like a baby duckling behind his mother, I would share everything I learned and answer all his questions.

We woke up early that morning talking about all the fun we would have that day. I remembered seeing a gun under my mother’s bed and while she was still asleep JJ & I crawled under her bed, I grabbed the gun and quietly we crawled back into our room.

I immediately knew the gun was real, the weight was so heavy in my little hand. I heard someone tell me to pull the trigger, so I did. The bullet landed directly in my brother’s stomach.

So much commotion ensued after the shot. My mother and older siblings came running into the bedroom, the smell of smoke was in the air, my ears were ringing and every sound became muffled. The paramedics and police filled the house and took JJ away. They asked me what happened. I lied, I told them my brother crawled under the bed, grabbed the gun and spun the gun around his finger and it went off.

For many years I wasn’t the same. I felt like I died. I was depressed, felt ashamed and kept myself isolated. No one in my family ever spoke of it. 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.

It was there that my mother and I first talked about that day. She said before JJ died, he told her that I was the one who got the gun and that he wasn’t mad at me. When I heard this, I was overwhelmed with grief. I began crying from the guilt and hurt. It took me over 50 years to make sense of that day.

That talk opened the door for an immense amount of desperately needed family healing and the road to loving myself was able to begin. I was able to talk truthfully to my siblings of his death and to my own children. I also expressed to them how important it is to talk to someone about traumatic events.

Every year on my brother’s birthday, I take the time to reflect and pay tribute to his life. It is comforting to know that some of the last words JJ said were that he forgave me.

Meet Terry…

Now, I can say with pride who I am.

Who would’ve known that at 14 years old, I would be viewed as an adult in the adult courts?

Who would’ve known that I would be misled into taking a 40-to-life plea deal?

Who would’ve known that at 16, I would step foot onto a maximum security prison? A boy thrown into a pit of monsters, fighting for my life and for my innocence. At 16, my innocence and my will to live was taken. I fought hard not to be like the men that surrounded me day and night.

All that changed when I came to SQ and with the love of my family. SQ was once known as one of the most dangerous prisons in the states. This has not been the case for well over 15-years.

Today it’s a prison where incarcerated men that truly desire change want to be. Since being here, I have become a journalist by joining the Society of Professional Journalism, trained by incarcerated men who have written 100’s of articles on every topic.

I have been a video editor. I have become a roofer. I attend yoga, creative writing glasses and I go to college and church.

I was on the softball and soccer team and attended self-help classes. I play my saxophone on the yard.

I have met superstars like Kim Kardashinan and Common. I have met Black Lives Matter activists, police chiefs, mayors, musicians, athletes, professional coaches and many others who encourage me to stay educated and focus on building myself up to be a man of integrity and faith.

Before I entered San Quentin, if you asked me, who is Terry? I would have looked at you as if you were blind.

But now I can say with pride who I am.

I am a black man.

I am a son, a brother, a friend.

I am an athlete, a musician, and a journalist.

I am a man that has many workable skills.

I am a God fearing man.

I am honest, and I have compassion for others.

I am in touch with my emotions.

I can say with my head held high, that I am a feminist. I love my mother, my sisters and all women, to ever threaten them would be to threaten God’s greatest gift bestowed upon this earth. I know who I am now. Though I am still incarcerated, the battle that started at 14,  is still present. Today it’s not looked at as a battle, but a journey. Please read Terry’s poem below:

“The Chance”

As I sit in my dog kennel of a cell

I reflect on my life

Shaking my head in disgust

As I cover my face

To know that

I’ve been down since the age of 14

A crime that I committed

For a misunderstanding

Uneducated, ignorant, simple minded,

And plain immature

A whole lot of understanding

Of nurturing

Was the cause of my dealings

Living in a land

Where they still hate each other

For the color of my skin,

For my sex,

For my beliefs,

And for my political standings.

For I am a man

I say

Do I have a chance?

I want a chance

But to keep it real,

I have no chance.

For if the land that I live in 

Is imprisoned with it’s hate

Then I don’t even stand a chance

Because we won’t even 

Give each other 

A chance.

Meet Anthony “Ant”…

Going to the board of prison terms is a paradox of feeling and emotions. My mentors tell me to be truthful and you will be fine, but when you do tell the truth it gets questioned.

Five of us put our lives on the line to clean up areas after men who test positive for COVID. We are part of a special COVID strike team, on-call, 24-hours a day.

I love working and it’s a way for me to give back to my community, the staff and the men in blue, yet it comes at a big cost. Working in the hospital is nice at times, I personally believe that the nurses are doing the best they can under the circumstances.

Recently, I was informed that every move that we make is made by some outside people that have never worked in a prison, which is ridiculous in my opinion. Things are constantly changing which creates a headache for the staff, which makes it worse for us. It has been taking up all of my time which I should be devoting to my upcoming parole board hearing.

Stress, depression, anxiety, gratefulness, hopeful, gratitude, and humbleness. These are just some of the feelings I’m having while preparing for the board to see if I am found suitable to go home.

I can’t have any write-ups on my record and I’m walking into the hearing with one. I got it for getting on the payphone to call my mom. I could not sign up for the phone that day because I had worked a 14 hour day, plus I had cleaned ten cells for people who had tested positive for COVID. So I wanted to hear my mother’s voice, that voice that’s comforting, that voice that will tell me it’s going to be ok.

Now I’m consumed with worry that the board won’t see how I’ve changed since I was 16 years old and how I am accountable and responsible. I do understand that they are the gatekeepers and need to be sure that the person they are letting out will not harm anyone ever again. Still, I personally find it stressful going through the process and I’m scared. It’s a roller coaster of a journey. Still, I feel good about my chances of being found suitable to go home.