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.”

Interview with Julissa

Interview with Julissa

Diane: How is your daily life without your husband?

Julissa:  In the beginning there was a lot of anguish, distress and worry. It happened too quickly. I was very scared. Our family dynamics changed radically. He was the main caregiver for our daughter, Celeste, since I was in school. 

Diane: Do you have children together?

Julissa: We have two children. Celeste is nine years and Rafael is 11 months old.

Diane: How long has your husband been imprisoned?

Translator: Five years.

Diane: How often do you get to see him?

Julissa: First, he was in a prison here in Itagüí, where we live. We saw each other every week. He was there for a year, and then was transferred to a prison in Santander, in another state. I had to jump through a bunch of legal hoops to request him to come back. Right now, he’s in a prison in Puerto Triunfo, and we see him every 21 weeks.

Diane: Why so long between visits?

Julissa: Because of the pandemic, they only allot two visits per year. We are hoping eventually, we’ll be able to see him every month.

Diane: Is it difficult to be transferred?

Julissa: It is very difficult, he’s four hours away. The idea of getting there is complicated. Even though they made the visits more often, monthly, it’s not easy. I have to leave at 2:30 in the morning to arrive at 6:30. In total, it costs about 150,000 Colombian pesos which is a lot for me. Right now I’m unemployed, so it’s really hard. I’m one of the ‘lucky ones’ for having a car. The others have to take a bus, leaving the day before and arriving at three in the morning. They bathe in a small room they rent before they enter the prison.

Diane: How does he parent from afar?

Julissa: He tries to do his best. He was the primary caregiver for Celeste, so breaking off completely from her has been, and continues to be super difficult. He’s calling all the time. He tries to do homework with her. I don’t know if I can mention this, but he has a phone, which helps a little. I try to communicate everything about her to him, but sometimes she gets mad and says,  “Why did you tell that to dad? Don’t tell him everything!” I responded, “Because he’s your dad and he needs to be aware and know everything.” He is always watching out for her, wanting to know if she’s doing well or not. He’s very present and he really cares about them. 

Diane: What’s the hardest thing about him being away?

Julissa: Everything. It’s hard to maintain a long-distance relationship, especially since we were used to being together all the time. We are not verbal, but rather physical, when showing affection. When there are problems at home, sometimes I don’t tell him everything. I don’t want to stress him out. I feel helpless. I know so much happens to him in there, which he keeps to himself, not to worry me. For example, I know that this week he went to bed every night hungry, and that kills me. They’re giving them spoiled meat. The corner store isn’t selling them anything either, so he’s only getting liquids. That is really hard. It’s a pretty difficult, violent prison. They fight a lot. So it’s a lot of agony knowing I’m eating well compared to him. Also, the temperature at night is hot, I despair knowing that sometimes it is 29 or 30 degrees -is really difficult. They sometimes take the fans, their only air. They do such difficult things for them, for no reason. Evil inhumane things. Dealing with that is the toughest part for me.

Mauricio, 34

Meet Mauricio…

Mauricio, 34
Incarcerated: 2 years
Housed: La Paz Maximum Security Prison, Itagui, Medellín, Colombia

Diane: I want to hear about your tattoos because I hear you’re an artist.

Mauricio: My tattoos, well, I’m a professional tattoo artist. That’s what I do here. This is what brings me a bit of calmness and lets me feel removed from all the issues and troubles. 

Diane: What part of being an artist makes you calm?

Mauricio: One way is the sensation of the other person being happy with the tattoo when I finish and to see their reaction and happiness. Also, it doesn’t allow me to overthink things outside. I’m focused for a lot of hours on the tattoo. I tattoo myself when I’m super stressed.

Orlando, 52

Meet Orlando…

Orlando, 52
Incarcerated: 1.5 years
Housed: Itaguí, Colombia

Orlando: I’ve been back and forth between New York and Colombia. Familia is everything. They’ve been helping me since I came to jail. Everything I have here is because of them. My mother, my cousins and my sisters are very important to me.

Diane: When you say help, what does that mean?

Orlando: Money. The system is different here. You have to pay for everything. For my soap, my towels, blankets… You have to pay for everything.

Diane: What about food?

Orlando: We pay for everything. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Diane: Is there any way to make money in here?

Orlando: No. 

Diane: What’s the hardest thing about being here?

Orlando: We are like 355 guys, and the place is built to house 100. Every time I go to sleep, it’s impossible, because I’ve got like six or seven different guys on top of my bed, my pillow, kicking me, so it’s impossible to sleep.

Diane: How big is your cell?

Orlando: It’s a hallway- I sleep in the hallway.

Diane: What do you worry most about during the day?

Orlando: The guys fight for everything in here. If you get out of line, if you do something stupid, if you talk to somebody or try to help somebody it’s a problem. I’m not a young guy anymore.

Diane: What gives you motivation everyday?

Orlando: My daughter.

Diane: Tell me about her.

Orlando: She’s living with her boyfriend right now. She’s only 18 years old. I’m worried about drugs; there’s a lot of things outside that could change a lot of things for her, and I don’t know what her boyfriend is doing or if he works.

Diane: Where does she live?

Orlando: Thirty-five minutes from here. 

Diane: Do you get to visit with her?

Orlando: No, she just got the cell ID, so I’m waiting for her.

Diane: Once you’re released, where will you go?

Orlando: My hometown about twenty minutes from here.

Diane: What do you miss the most about being outside apart from your family and your daughter?

Orlando: I miss my bike.

Diane: How is life in prison different than how you thought it was?

Orlando: Crazy. You find that in here people are crazy or trying to be crazy. Poor minded. 

Diane: What have you learned about yourself in here?

Orlando: Patience. Tolerancia.

Orlando, 52

Meet Orlando…

Orlando, 52
Incarcerated: 1.5 years
Housed: Itaguí, Colombia

Orlando: I’ve been back and forth between New York and Colombia. Familia is everything. They’ve been helping me since I came to jail. Everything I have here is because of them. My mother, my cousins and my sisters are very important to me.

Diane: When you say help, what does that mean?

Orlando: Money. The system is different here. You have to pay for everything. For my soap, my towels, blankets… You have to pay for everything.

Diane: What about food?

Orlando: We pay for everything. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Diane: Is there any way to make money in here?

Orlando: No. 

Diane: What’s the hardest thing about being here?

Orlando: We are like 355 guys, and the place is built to house 100. Every time I go to sleep, it’s impossible, because I’ve got like six or seven different guys on top of my bed, my pillow, kicking me, so it’s impossible to sleep.

Diane: How big is your cell?

Orlando: It’s a hallway- I sleep in the hallway.

Diane: What do you worry most about during the day?

Orlando: The guys fight for everything in here. If you get out of line, if you do something stupid, if you talk to somebody or try to help somebody it’s a problem. I’m not a young guy anymore.

Diane: What gives you motivation everyday?

Orlando: My daughter.

Diane: Tell me about her.

Orlando: She’s living with her boyfriend right now. She’s only 18 years old. I’m worried about drugs; there’s a lot of things outside that could change a lot of things for her, and I don’t know what her boyfriend is doing or if he works.

Diane: Where does she live?

Orlando: Thirty-five minutes from here. 

Diane: Do you get to visit with her?

Orlando: No, she just got the cell ID, so I’m waiting for her.

Diane: Once you’re released, where will you go?

Orlando: My hometown about twenty minutes from here.

Diane: What do you miss the most about being outside apart from your family and your daughter?

Orlando: I miss my bike.

Diane: How is life in prison different than how you thought it was?

Orlando: Crazy. You find that in here people are crazy or trying to be crazy. Poor minded. 

Diane: What have you learned about yourself in here?

Orlando: Patience. Tolerancia.

Humans of San Quentin logo

Receive more inspiring stories and news from incarcerated people around the world.