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Odell, 57

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Meet Odell…

Art is essential to me; it’s a part of me. Even when I was working seven days a week, I did art. Even when I was working in a garage with cars, I did pin-striping.

Odell, 57
Incarcerated: 24 years
Housed: San Quentin State Prison

When I was a child in private school, I would draw when we  would have free time after lessons. I had just seen some old horror movies, like Frankenstein and Dracula. I couldn’t explain it in words to the other students and teachers, so I started drawing the characters.  They loved what I drew! I thought, wow! It was an “Angels singing, Aha” moment.  I think they saw me in a new light and I was able to open up and express myself.  It was the first time I saw how to get positive attention for myself. I started drawing everything around me, all I wanted to do was draw! In prison, when I’m having a hard time, I volunteer my artwork or let my art be seen. It softens hardened hearts. Even if they don’t like the art, they realize I’m not just the jerk they were thinking I was. Art is essential to me; it’s a part of me. Even when I was working seven days a week, I did art. Even when I was working in a garage with cars, I did pin-striping.  It has always been positive in my life.

My artwork is tattoo or “low brow” style.  I don’t tattoo, despite my artwork. However, I do design tattoo patterns to be used by others to cover over tattoos they no longer want. It’s hard, laborious work and time consuming, designing pieces that fit their body while using design basics. I put rice paper over the old tattoo and create something new.  I also make it meaningful to them by learning who they are and what they want.  I’ve now evolved to painting and sculpture. I’m trying to bridge graphic art with “low-brow” art.  I just did a painting for my mom. I asked her what she wanted and she said the Lady of Guadalupe looking down as if she was watching over San Quentin.  I worked on it for a year.  When I sent it to her, she said it was f***ing awesome! I think it was the first time she ever liked my artwork.  It was another “angels singing” moment and brought tears to my eyes. My step-dad wants to put it on t-shirts and sell them, both a black and white and color version.  He already put one of my drawings of Marilyn Monroe as the Lady of Guadalupe in high heels on a t-shirt!  

Osbun, 73

Osbun, 73

Meet Osbun…

I was blind to the harm my actions caused, blind to the criminal foulness that I constantly enforced on others. By the time I got my first gun, I had already become a human monster.

Osbun, 73
Incarcerated: 28 years
Housed: San Quentin State Prison

My Tears are Constant

My mother Emma and my grandmother Texanna raised me to the best of their abilities. At seven, I knew nothing of their struggles of surviving on welfare and I  had struggles of my own. We lived in a run down apartment house. It was so old, it was probably the first home built in the neighborhood. Unlike most of the other houses, it had no green grass and or flowers. My mother worked cleaning white folks’ homes, which she did undercover so no one would know. She was given all kinds of household items, but a television set never blessed our dwelling, although we did get an old radio. My mother enrolled me in Longfellow Elementary School. I felt she had abandoned me there because attending school was the beginning of my childhood traumas. School for me was a maze of physical brutality. No matter which way I turned, I got beat down. Besides the bullies at school, the neighborhood bullies also made my life a living hell. It quickly got to the point that I feared going outside to play. Neighborhood bully #1 was older, taller, and weighed about three times as much as me. He was cross-eyed with an offensive odor and none of his clothes fit properly, making him look like a homeless clown. Neighborhood bully #2 was about my age and height, but weighed even less than me. He used a shoestring for a belt and looked like a human skeleton made into a puppet, which made me want to laugh. But he was no laughing matter. They threatened me constantly and were always teaming up to attack me. My family didn’t seem to understand or care what I was going through.

“Fighting is a part of life,” my grandmother said. “Sooner or later you have to stand up and fight your damnedest, win or lose. “But I’m getting beat up by two people at a time” I protested. “Well, do the best you can,” she replied.

I stayed silent, but it didn’t feel fair. “I’m the one getting beat up and robbed every day,” I thought. “ It’s my face and body that’s getting hit so much that I’m getting used to the pain.” I swore that someday I would get my revenge. One day after school, my bullies beat me up in front of their friends and some cute girls. They all seem to think my pain and shame were funny. Somehow, I managed not to cry. When I made it back to my house, my grandmother heard my sniffles and thought I was catching a cold. She made me a Hot Toddy, it consisted of tea, a little sugar, and whiskey. By the time I finished her Toddy, I felt extremely different. In fact, I felt fearless. 

I started coughing so my grandmother would make me another. She did and then told me to lie down on my bed and not go outside. But at this particular time I didn’t feel like being in bed. I felt powerful like Superman and I wanted revenge. I crawled out my bedroom windows and went in search of my neighborhood bullies. I found neighborhood bully #2 and attacked him with all of my pent up rage. He screamed and cried for someone to help him, and in that moment, I experienced a strange power over him that made me feel greater than I ever had before.

Standing over him, I asked, “How does it feel to be me, helpless and alone?” As I grew into adulthood, my mind became fixated on my childhood traumas, which held me back from moving forward. I was stuck knowing only one way to deal with people who were not my family. I became trapped in my past, deceived by my false beliefs. I was blind to the harm my actions caused, blind to the criminal foulness that I constantly enforced on others. By the time I got my first gun, I had already become a human monster. I was a victim who had turned into a victimizer. My 38 Special gave me a feeling of power greater than any alcohol. I  had the ultimate power over another person, the power of life and death. I feared nothing and no one, not even losing my own life. Sadly, having a gun in my posession eventually led me to take the life of another human being. Now, after sitting in prison for countless years, I am being given a second chance. Yet I have lost so much. 

Yes, my tears are constant…

Vincent, 58

Vincent, 58

Meet Vincent…

My street name is “Sly,” not by gang or negative slang, but because I was caught, at the age of four, trying to scoop out peach cobbler from under the crust, like I saw my uncle do, and got busted by Grandma.

Vincent, 58
Incarcerated: 15 years
Housed: San Quentin State Prison

My street name is “Sly,” not by gang or negative slang, but because I was caught, at the age of four, trying to scoop out peach cobbler from under the crust, like I saw my uncle do, and got busted by Grandma. She called me a “sly devil” and the name stuck. Now, I want to share my own grandfather moment: One day, I was sitting in my living room watching TV with three of my four grandchildren. I had made them a snack of graham crackers with peanut butter, an already peeled tangerine and a Gogurt tube. They were running in and out of the house, letting out the cool air from my air conditioner. I screamed, “Hey! Quit running in and out of the house! Stay outside!” In return, I received a high chorus from all three, “Okay, PaPa!” But then, the door opened up again and my five year old grandson jumped in my lap, and whispered, “Papa, this is my last time, okay?” and kissed me on my jaw. I can still smell the mix of tangerine and graham crackers. It was a pure smell of a loving trusting child who saw me as the alpha protector and he loved me. 

Brittany, 28

Brittany, 28

Meet Brittany…

Love is kind, patient, love is with pure intention. Love never gives up, it is our only hope for peace and it should be our mission in life.

Brittany, 28
Incarcerated: 3 years
Housed: Wyoming Women’s Center, Lusk

How do I see love? 

It took my desire to love and to be loved to reach a point of explosion. I decided to stop being that door mat, the person everyone could use and abuse however they pleased. Love was as strange to me as a foreign language. Love meant my parents fed us so we could focus on something other than survival. The circumstances of my unfortunate beginnings instilled in me a sense of low self-worth and created an ideal space for us to beg for every ounce of affection. It wasn’t long before I was an adult by law, but a struggling and scared child at heart. Having spent my entire life focused on the well being of my siblings and myself, I was convinced love was just a fairytale. What stood between me and my dream of being loved was the idea that I wasn’t worthy of such things. I have seen examples of love and have formed my own opinion on how people should be loved. I learned it doesn’t hurt, it is something we can and should give freely. Love is kind, patient, love is with pure intention. Love never gives up, it is our only hope for peace and it should be our mission in life. When judged, scorned, forgotten and abandoned, choose love. Love because you can, not because it’s beneficial or expected. This is how I see love.

Renee, 33

Renee, 33

Meet Renee…

I might not feel the healing at the moment, but I feel the trust to talk about things that I wouldn’t have the space to in any other area.

Renee, 33

Incarcerated: 3.5 years

Housed: Itagui, Colombia

Diane: Tell us about you. 

Renee: I’m from Itagüí and have been here all my life. I don’t like to talk much about the crimes I committed because I’ve had a lot of issues in the past. I’m a musician and a composer. I play the guitar and that’s what I love the most. I’d love to be in touch with people around the world, perhaps through letters with people in jails in other parts of the world. I love that this interview will be seen by a lot of people. I’m also a poet, and that’s one of the things I love the most. I traveled through Brazil just selling poems. I’ve spent a lot of time in Cartagena selling poems and going to events with poets. When I was young, I used to sell poems to my friends that were having fights with their girlfriends. They’d pay a penny for a poem to give to their girlfriend who was really mad. 

Diane: Do you have a poem memorized that you want to share?

Renee: Yes, it’s a poem I wrote for my girlfriend. I have a lot of poems, and this one is one of the biggest ones. 

I don’t know why you’re in my path. 

I don’t know why I met you. 

I don’t know why God put you in my path, 

but when I hold your hand, 

I know God brought you into my life 

because you are my destiny.

Diane: It makes me cry, I feel that.

Renee: That’s the first poem I wrote to my girlfriend. She’s 59 years old and I’m 33. I was 13 when I started dating her, and she was the wife of a very rich man. With poems and ice creams I won her heart. We’ve been together for 20 years. I had a foundation for animals, so I know a little about ethology.

Diane: What kind of animals did you take care of?

Renee: Cats and dogs because people in the neighborhood knew I took care of animals. Some people left an almost dying, skinny horse at my door. Some people left some dying chickens with their babies. One time someone left a pregnant dog. It’s because people knew that I had a big heart about animals. They’d always leave them at my door. I mostly had cats and dogs, but I always had my house open for any animal that needed a hand. 

I want to tell you the most important part of my life.

Diane: I want to hear it.

Renee: The most important part of my life was my childhood. My mother was pregnant by this guy from Africa who refused to recognize me. In the old days with my grandparents, if one of the girls got pregnant, she had to marry. Because the guy was from Africa, he denied the child and didn’t show any interest, so she couldn’t get married. Her grandfather threw her in the street pregnant, and she lived on the streets. She went into labor and some paramedics helped her give birth in the street. I lived all my childhood in the streets. We used to live under bridges, eating from trash, waiting for the restaurants to close so we could dig in the rubbish. Then I went into foster care, and lived from house to house. I never had my own house, watched TV or did anything like a regular kid. Throughout my childhood, I worked informal jobs selling candy or asking for money in the street. I spent my teenage years in foster homes. Then, when I got to prison, my mom told me I have double nationality: African and Colombian. I have the possibility to go to Africa, but I have to talk to my father to do that. I don’t want to. My father was never there, so I don’t feel comfortable reaching him right now and telling him to sign the papers for me to go to Africa. 

Diane: Have you had any contact with your dad whatsoever?

Renee: No, never. I’ve never told anyone this before, just you: Sundays are one of most difficult days because it’s a busy day, and everyone gets to see their dads. Every time I hear the word “dad” it feels like a stab in the heart. Last Sunday, there was this guy who was super excited for his dad’s visit. He said in a full sentence the word “dad” four times, like, “Hey, how’s it going, dad …dad…dad…” It was so hard for me to feel the absence of my own dad that I had to go to the bathroom to cry. When I was in the streets I never actually thought about my dad, but being in prison has made me think a lot about him and the roots I have of him that I don’t know about.

Diane: Talking about it, and talking about it with us today really helps healing.

Renee: I might not feel the healing at the moment, but I feel the trust to talk about things that I wouldn’t have the space to in any other area. To come here and to see both of you and feel like I can let it out. Also, I dream about going to North America to sing with the highest of the highest like Snoop Dogg, Dr. Dre… because I think I’m on the level of rap and music that they do. Because I’m here in this situation, I’m unseen, but I think I have what it takes to be in the highest of the highest. I dream about being in North America and being seen as a musician.

Diane: Humans of San Quentin, we can be your platform. We can put up your poetry, we can put up your rap… anything you want to send us or put on tape we will put out there on the internet for people to see.

Renee: I’d really really really like to receive letters and the dynamic of sending and receiving letters. Like “I don’t know you, I don’t know your crimes… but I love you.”