God Is A Woman

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God Is A Woman

by Donald “C-Note” Hooker (Artwork by C-Note)

God Is A Woman is a short work of fiction. This psycho-drama, love story, begs to answer the question, “What happens to the memories of prisoners who have been locked away for decades?” It takes its name from an Ariana Grande song of the same title, and is based on one of the author’s earlier works that predates the lyrics to God Is A Woman, but is of a similar theme. Never published, because the author feared his writing would be perceived as blasphemy.

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God Is A Woman California State Prison, Los Angeles County, “Man down!” “Man down!” Came the loud screams from the correctional officer who had just checked the occupant in cell B5 – 136.

The loud sound of the security alarm blaring throughout the building was deafening.

Inmates and guards alike covered their ears. While others, like the occupant in the cell just across the way, just put some headphones on and continued to watch the football game.

Prison staff and nurses raced inside the cellblock carrying a gurney.

“What happened?” One nurse asked.

“We have a suicide,” pronounced the guard who stumbled upon a limped body surrounded by a pool of blood.

“Open the damn door!” Shouted the sergeant. Once inside, the guards and nurses were astonished at who it was lying in a pool of blood. It was C-Note. C-Note was an O.G.

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Crip who had made a name for himself behind the wall in the arts. He was a big star on the other side of the wall.

“Get him up,” pleaded one nurse. As the guards and nurses got his limped body onto the gurney, many began to wonder what could have led him to do something like this?

A FEW DAYS LATER, Jr., one of the lieutenants in C-Note’s gang, asked a guard what had happened to him? What’s his status? The prison rumor mill was rife with speculation that he was dead. Some of the prisoner porters tasked with cleaning out his bloody cell attested, there was no way he had survived. There was just too much blood lost. But he did make it.

C-NOTE SLOWLY BEGAN TO come back into a conscious state. It was a very, very, slow process. He was not fully aware of his state, as he had not yet opened his eyes. He could only somewhat sense he was being restrained in some way. Not in the usual sense, like

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handcuffs, or leg restraints, but his entire body. He tried to move his arms, his legs, and he couldn’t. Panic had set in. What supernatural force was holding him down like this? It must be a dream. The fear was palpable. He wondered, who or what had him in their grip? He drew deep into all his internal reserves to shake and overcome these restraints.

He used all his power to break the demonic spell that held him captive. With all his power, he broke the spell, only to be awoken into a reality worse than the previous nightmare.

White noise, from white lights, in an empty room, was a reality he had not planned for.

Nor was the white outfit he was in. The white outfit of a straight jacket. Panic once again had set in, but this time, it wasn’t from an unknown spiritual struggle. This was deliberate, and by human hands. Who in the Hell authorized this set up? He thought to himself. In a monitor, just outside the room, a nurse and psychiatrist were watching him. “The patient just woke up Dr. Barnes, and he’s struggling to get out of his restraints,” the nurse said with some concern.

“Uhmm,” the doctor observed. “He’s really struggling. That’s good. I’ll go and have a talk with him.” Leaving the confines of the monitoring room, Doctor Eloise Catherine Barnes C-Note’s God Is A Woman

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went into the romper room adjacent to the monitoring room. “Good morning C-Note,” Doctor Barnes said with a very warm smile. However, her good morning was quite disingenuous, as it was 9:45 at night. But she was well aware of the sterile nature her patient found himself in. No clocks, no windows, a white light always on, and in full body restraints. Time of day was not percipient here. She was not trying to be sadistic with her “Good morning.”

IT WAS NEARING THE end of the 72-hour hold, and she was hoping to sign off on removing him from the psychiatric hold, but she seemed concerned. He was not present and engaging but lost again in thought. Dr. Barnes did not immediately recognize by standing in the well of the door, with the door open, she was in violation of her ethical oath. Sounds of stimulation from outside the romper room were seeping in, violating the quiet sanctitude of this sterile environment.

…spurred by the “and I,” high pitched, booming soprano, from the voice of Ariana Grande’s God is a Woman, suddenly, he flashed into a state of disillusionment. The boiler

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induced droplets coming from the head of the shower, poured down on the lovers like a midday Summer’s rain. Eyes staring down on the bear back of her five foot, five inch frame. Tips of fingers took the place of the dewy droplets that once streaked down the motif of cell tissues that made up her ebony-mahogany complexion. Leaving the memory and entering into a semi-conscious state, where awaits a world of extreme whiteness.

White noise, from white lights, being tied down by white straps, in a white straight jacket, the siren snare of the sopranic “after midnight,” blaring from the voice of Ariana Grande’s

God is a Woman, reversed the wormhole’s return to reality. Comforted to the return of subconsciousness, lips touched lips, breast touched chest, arms enveloping the waistline of

the other. Warm beads of water scattered onto the heads’ of the young lovers, dripping from their bodies into the shower’s drain.

“Uuhh,” was the grasping sound from the burst of air plummeting into his lungs. Eyelids snapped open wide.

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“C-Note!” Was the shout that came from Dr. Barnes. Startled by his reaction after reaching out and touching his shoulder.

In the background was the light pitched voice of Ariana Grande singing God Is A Woman, the sultry sounding voice of the siren uttered, “my one…” He could barely distinguish whether he was hearing just background noise, or the soundtrack to his life.

Dr. Barnes did not understand what it meant to be inflicted, to be possessed, but he was.

“…all in me,” lamented the young songstress. Dr. Barnes looked at him and saw the blankness in his eyes. He had drifted off. He was reliving the memories again. Memories that had long remained dormant. It’s a cruel, cruel, cruelty, that can be played on a man; especially a Black man. Eddie Murphy and Martin Lawrence even made a movie about it, it’s called Life. Doctor Barnes just now came to the realization that this middle-aged man was once young. He no longer had a face without lines, or skin that was not taunt.

“How old were you when you came to prison?” She asked.

“Thirty-one,” he said.

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“So twenty-five years ago?”

“No, just twenty-one,” responded C-Note.

“No, I meant when you met Ebony.”

“Yeah, twenty-five years ago.”

Wanting to get her notes correct, Doctor Barnes asked, “So you met her on the Santa Monica Pier?”

“Yeah. It was wonderful.” Suddenly his whole countenance had changed. He became flushed again. Bright again. Young again. The doctor suddenly found herself bewitched.

Did his face just fluctuate? Shape-shifting in front of her very eyes? No, she thought to herself, as she became lost in his storytelling.

“I don’t even know why I was there,” he said.

“Where,” she asked?

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“The pier. I guess I was just feeling frisky that day.” He recalled how he was walking his dog at the beach. He loved the attention he would get from people whenever he walked his Chinese Pug. He had discovered a stray 15 years earlier when he was in his teens, and it was an experience worth repeating now that he was older. Being behind bars in his youth, taught him how to appreciate the little things in life. Confinement desensitizes a person to life. The environment of prison is sterile and lifeless. Nothing but walls or steel bars. And if you did see a creature, other than some hardened criminal or prison guard, it was the kind of creature you didn’t like, like ants, or rodents.

He knew how to draw a crowd. One thing about incarcerated men, once out, they “shine like gold and everybody wants to touch them.” Because it was evening, and there was a blaring heat from the hot sun, he wore a slingshot t-shirt. He made sure he wore the whitest of white. Those that didn’t like that type of swag, nicknamed the T’s, “Wife Beaters.” Of course he had on his overall-shorts, he was a master at the urbane look; as he lived in the most urbane part of the city, downtown. Downtown Los Angeles was a place hidden with jewels. It was the most industrious part of the city. From fruits to C-Note’s God Is A Woman

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flowers, the list could go on and on. It was the point of entry to California’s Central Valley, the breadbasket of the state. It was the entry point of Chinese goods coming from overseas. Even though they arrived on ships, far, far, away from downtown, they made no other stop once they reached the United States, but to Downtown L.A.. This has nothing to do with our very own garment district. Our jewelry district. Fish district, and so on and so on. It was the wholesale hub of the West Coast. A place that specialized in denim. To the bomber style fur filled denim trench coats, to the pre-washed, Laker yellow Cross Color jeans that FUBU made popular; and C-Note specialized in denim. These were a pair of deep navy blue pre-washed denim. The texture of these overall-shorts were so fibered out the game, it was as if he was wearing velvet. Even down to the tan, Tab boots, they were velvet like too. C-Note knew fashion; especially Street fashion, and knew the sources and connections where they were being created in downtown L.A. by hand. Of course any story on C-Note’s clothing wear would be amiss without mentioning his light touch jewelry choices. Always the male gold bracelet like the curb men’s Brachel with the matching gold chain necklace. And of course, one of his many favorite timepieces, this time a Gold

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Quartz, Day and Date Rolex. One thing that jail will teach you, how to work out. Guys in prison workout for a variety of reasons. Some to look good; some want to transform themselves from appearing as a victim of size disparity. Because if you have that scrawny look going on, somebody will try you, and yet others still, just to stave off boredom. As a youth athlete, C-Note had been lifting weights since his childhood, and had well defined deltoids. The delts, are the class of muscles that consist of the shoulders. There are three of them, and he made sure every one of their muscle fibers were stratified out the game.

Of course he made sure his pectoral muscles were eye-catching. This is the muscle group that makes up the chest.

Rarely would he ever pick up his Pug to carry him. While Pugs are toy dogs, they make up the largest. When he saw her it was from a distance. He noticed her walk, as she had her back to him. Next her legs. He loved them, as they revealed themselves in a pair of washed denim shorts. But it was the complexion of her legs that really caught his attention. They reminded him of a Tupac line, something about an Ebony Queen. This was

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not a big boned woman, but very petite. Later, he would tell everybody she was a mulatto, that she was mixed, an ebony and mahogany mix.

“Have you ever been to the Santa Monica Pier?” He asked.

Dr. Barnes was not from Los Angeles. She was not from California, but the Midwest. She moved to the Inland Empire, some five years ago, the desert. California State Prison Los Angeles County sat in the desert. The Mojave Desert to be exact. An ecosystem that contained Death Valley, the lowest point on Earth. They were far removed from the glitz and glamour of the Palm treed laden streets of Rodeo Drive, in Beverly Hills. The Wilton Becket designed Capitol Records building. The architect’s historic Capitol Records building in the heart of Hollywood. Nor the iconic Hollywood Sign, let alone Malibu laden milliondollar homes, nor the Venice Beach Boardwalk. She had never been. She did not know what being on a Santa Monica Pier overlooking the expanse of the Pacific Ocean looked like. With its reddish orange Evening Sun, setting itself on the ocean’s horizon. No, she

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was just a suburbanite, living in a tract home development. You couldn’t get more Leave it

to Beaver than that.

Before she could answer, he recognized the look on her face. It was a similar look that prisoners have who grew up in the Central and Northern part of the State. This is the L.A. they know. This desert. A desert so far removed from civilization you can’t get any overthe-air TV channels.

“I know that look Dr. Barnes,” C-Note said. “In L.A., you see Palm trees, out here, we see Joshua trees. We’re not in L.A..”

THE MENTAL HEALTH CARE system inside the California prison system has been for years notoriously detrimental. Beginning in the early 90s, a federal lawsuit had been filed against the state on behalf of all its prisoners as violating the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Clause of the U.S. Constitution. Eventually it was joined by a healthcare lawsuit. Despite years upon years of litigation, California still could not get its prison

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system in constitutional compliance. Later, it had been determined, the root cause was prison overcrowding.

California’s overcrowded prisons led to the most horrendous living conditions. Areas zoned as non living quarters, such as gyms and dayrooms, now were used as sleeping quarters, three-bunks high. State budget crisis after budget crisis, and hiring freeze after hiring freeze, led to a convergence of dysfunctionality of horrors and deaths. A prison system that made Abu Ghraib, the infamous prison in Iraq, look like a daycare center. It should be noted, these were from what had been officially reported. Imagine the Hell’s that had taken place that were left off the official reports. Eventually, in the 2010s, a conservative United States Supreme Court ordered California to release prisoners in order for its mental and health care delivery systems to meet constitutional standards.

Dr. Wilhelm Von Schliemann was a rock star in the world of psychiatry. Dr. Schliemann’s wife was shocked when he had informed her they would be leaving Paris and moving to

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Los Angeles for the Chief Mental Health job at California State Prison Los Angeles County (CSP-LAC).

Since his arrival at CSP-LAC, both the mental and health care delivery staff had swooned at his mere presence, whenever he walked the administrative halls, or the tiers in the prisoner cellblocks. From custody’s point of view, both administratively and down to the prison guards, his presence there was seen as an irritant. Just another damn, do-gooder, liberal, inmate lover.

Dr. Schliemann had been looking forward to this moment. For the past two weeks he had been getting to know the records on #K94063. A lengthy record indeed, considering this was his third prison number. Every patient has a history of intrigue, and he was no exception. Dr. Schliemann took notice, besides Dr. Barnes, there has been only one incident in which this patient has spoken to a mental health provider. The patient told a custodial lieutenant at a rules violation hearing for cell fighting, “I am not going to do another day of this life sentence in a cell with another swinging dick.” Custody immediately

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put him in administrative segregation, also known as the hole, or the box, for threatening to kill an inmate, and ordered him to be seen by a psych. According to the psychiatrist, his mental health was fine, but told custody not to double-cell him.

In the intervening years, several high-ranking prison officials, including at least one Warden, have convened committees to revoke his single cell status; only to be rebuked both by the prisoner and the committee members. In fact, custody has noted, “Inmate states, not being celled in the living quarters with another stank’in ass man, was freeing and conducive to good mental health.” Ironically, no mental health professional, which must sit on these committees, has ever found this sentiment irrational; despite custody’s response of writing him up for threatening to kill cellmates, even though he hasn’t been celled with anybody.

For Dr. Schliemann, this case was an odd one; because the patient in a two year span had created a prolific mental health profile outside of prison through his art. He wrote plays, like the tearjerker, Life Without the Possibility of Parole (a prison play), about

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women serving life without parole in a women’s prison. He was a poet, and wrote both micro poems, usually just four lines, to epic poems, nearing a thousand words. He was an award winning visual artist, and even started his own art form called Paintomes, which combines an original painting and poem in a digital format. According to his artistic profile, his works have either been exhibited, recited, performed, or sold, from Alcatraz to Berlin.

Even Google Search engine results, had recognized him as both, America’s, and the world’s most prolific prison artist. Such an explosion of creative output, must be the source

of his mental breakdown.

“No. I’d met her under the Lover’s Bliss.”

“Ah, I know that one,” as Dr Schliemann began to think of the words to this micro poem.

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“You wrote that to her?” Asked Dr. Schliemann.

“No. She inspired it.”

Dr. Schliemann began to wonder what else did she inspire, like the opening stanza to

Stradivarius. Stradivarius: Play Her Like was one of his many epic poems.

A crescent moon the light just barely shined on her hue She knew not what she possessed

“So where does the Crescent Moon come from?” Schliemann inquired.

“It was like in the movie, The Sound of Music, under the gazebo. We were in Eagle Rock.” Eagle Rock is a Northeast Los Angeles neighborhood that abuts the San Rafael Hills. A place where one can find great up close views to look down on the cityscape of downtown Los Angeles. “She wore a two piece short set. Where the bare skin of her back,

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barely exposed itself in an on the shoulder-neckline, light, sky blue, chiffon blouse. The expansion of the soft light of moonbeams, shone upon her ebony-mahogany mixed, complexion. I stepped closer to admire the smoothness of her skin. I had been drawn in closer, too close, into a kind of 20th century, World War’s ‘No Man’s Land,’ caught into a spider’s web, unable to break free from the whiff of her lightly dabbed perfume. Now I was overwhelmed in the rough seas of emotions, a cacophony of feelings, symphonic sounds loomed inside my head, only to reawaken from unconsciousness to seize her shoulders with both hands, like Boris Karloff’s Dracula in a black and white movie. But instead of biting, my lips drew near, touching flesh. Breathing her in, breathing her in. That’s where, ‘A crescent moon, the light just barely shined on her hue. She knew not what she possessed. But would let me explore; take charge of her, for this night.’”

“Uhmm,” Dr. Schliemann mouthed audible to his ears only. This could be an interesting

case study he thought to himself.

Thoughts of Ariana Grande’s God is a Woman filled C-Note’s thoughts.

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“Have you ever been in love doctor?”

“Of course,” Dr. Schliemann stated.

“I don’t believe you,” C-Note responded rhetorically.

Now down low

to the ocean floor

dolphins and whales

Oh what the Hell

like the fun ride

Fourth of July

roller coaster

No Costa Nostra

They both knew by the words to Stradivarius what he had meant, and the depth to which each of them would go to possess that kind of love.

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“No, I have not,” Dr. Schliemann began to look upon his patient more intently. He was thinking, he would able to better understand the depth of his infliction that led him to the attempted suicide.

“Do you remember what you were doing that day?

“What day?” Asked C-Note.

“Why did you want to kill yourself? What caused you to want to die? Do you remember what you were doing that day? The day you almost died.”

“Yeah.” C-Note began to reflect, as he retold Dr. Schliemann of the events of that day.

The day that led him to commit suicide.

The day began with excitement in the air. For weeks, the prisoners were awaiting a food sale. While he did not have any money to purchase the chicken dinners, he was given money from somebody else to do so for them. Before noon, C-Note was back in his cell with an eight piece chicken dinner, half of them fried, half of them baked. This was on the weekend, Saturday, and college football played prominently on the television airwaves. He

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was not big on watching sports. He thought it was a big waste of time. He was however, receptive to watching the local sport clubs, and the Dodgers were playing at five. The first game to a playoff run. He was unaware of the chicken he was consuming. He had made sure it had both fried and baked pieces, since he couldn’t decide which kind was better.

There was definitely a difference in the texture. He tore into the fried chicken like an ogre.

But the baked chicken, had so many spices, it made his face numb. Piece after piece of chicken he consumed; so much so, by the time they called the evening meal, he had refused to go. Stuffed, he fell asleep.

C-note had awoken quite groggy, and quite stuffed. Barely feeling around for the television channels, he began to change channels in a semi-comatose state. How is it possible I’m

just now catching the beginning of a movie? As the movie began, it was a movie unfamiliar to him, The Red Violin was what it was called. A familiar actor of great stature flashed across the screen. Samuel L. Jackson, the African American actor who has made more money for studio execs., than any other actor in Hollywood. When he was in a movie, you knew it was going to be good. C-Note could not help but flash into the mesh C-Note’s God Is A Woman

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of the Ariana Grande song God is a Woman, as he began to relive, by describing, The

Red Violin. Scene after scene, C-Note began to tell Dr. Schliemann the story of The Red Violin.

He could not give an accurate account of the movie, but he remembered the opening scenes of Italy during the Italian Renaissance in the 16th century. There was a craftsman of violins. C-Note began to describe the sensuous nature of the instrument, it’s like a woman. The idealized woman. The long neck, and body of an hourglass.

“Can you imagine her in the hands of a skilled Master, Doc?” Dr. Schliemann, surprising found himself agreeing with his patient. He had never looked at the instrument as this prisoner was describing it to him.

A finely grained wood, in which hours upon hours of kneading her. Smoothing over every nook and cranny to ensure the smoothest of texture. C-Note’s description of the process had Dr. Schliemann reliving his own memories of sensually massaging his new wife’s back. How he would rub his hands over the back of his 48-year-old wife. He was 62. His

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wife’s grandparents had immigrated in the early 20 th century from Romania. Her blotchy, off-white, barren skin, with a few glasses of Burgundy, was very receptive to the kneading of his powerful hands. Although an academic, during his youth in Neu Beckman, Germany, he and his pawh would cut down trees for firewood during the Winter. Memories of Karen’s auburn hair and eventual moans of pleasures, temporarily had the good doctor not be so attentive to his patient’s story.

Dr. Schliemann quickly turned his attention back to his charge. The craftsman, as C-Note was telling the story, was somewhat mature, and his wife younger, but not outrageously so, but she was beautiful, and pregnant. He loved her. Clearly he loved her. Like Abraham of the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic faith, she was with his first born. The craftsman, was creating a violin for his child. There was such great love and attention paid in the creation of this instrument, but while near creation, his wife went into labor. Unfortunately, a labor that killed her. Suddenly the twist in the story had taken Dr. Schliemann by surprise. For the love of one’s life to suddenly die in labor. The horrors of it all, he thought to himself.

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Now he was beginning to see an outline that drove this man to make the fatal decision to take his own life.

C-Note went on to tell how in his grief, the violin maker cut a lock of his beloved’s hair.

He then went on to carry her limped body to his studio where he cut her wrist, and drained her blood in a bottle. He mixed the blood to create a paint, and painted the violin in the blood of his beloved, thus, The Red Violin. His son who survived the birth, when he was around five, the violin maker took him to a monastery of Christian monks who had an exceptional gift of training child prodigies in the use of the violin. He bequeathed The Red

Violin to his child, who took it with him into the monastery.

The child was attached to this oddly colored instrument. It went with him wherever he went. He even slept with it. One day, a great man of wealth was to have his fancy entertained by putting on a kind of talent show, where he would listen to the performances of the squires. This young squire, the violin maker’s son, was the youngest of them all.

The Lord who came to indulge himself, at first would not allow himself to be entertained by

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such a youngster, but he had found the performances of the older boys most unsatisfactory. The violin maker’s son, who was a master himself, the master over The

Red Violin, would not perform for this Lord at first. But finally he gave him a tease. And only a tease. Upon hearing the sounds emanating from The Red Violin, suddenly the Lord, and all in the room interests’ peeked. The violin maker’s young son took The Red Violin and began to play; going in for the kill; when suddenly he passed out, and died on the spot. Of course everyone was in shock, but the Lord’s attention was drawn to who would take responsibility, not for the dead boy, but of The Red Violin. Somehow The Red Violin found herself amongst a band of roaming Gypsies. These too in a folksy kind of way, were her Master, and master her and play her well they did. The joy The Red Violin brought to their existence, especially with the strong drink was amazing.

“But what broke me, was when she fell into the hands of a scoundrel,” C-Note said in a tone that got Dr. Schliemann to thinking this story was really going to get interesting.

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He was like an Adonis, the white male Hero on the cover of any Harlequin romance novel.

And like most scoundrels, he was a gigolo.

“Did you see Richard Gere in American Gigolo Doc.?” Dr. Schulman nodded that he had.

Like most pretty boy scoundrels he had his rich suitors. His patronistas. But unlike most pretty boys, he had talent. He could woo The Red Violin, or rather she could woo him.

Only she could inspire him. Only she could bring out the best in him as an artist. Only she could bring a passion that was enjoyed by others, the audience, the suitors, or patronistas rather. When he would play The red Violin in a solo performance at the music hall, a music hall in which a full symphonic orchestra was merely his opening act. He made the violin scream, like the high aerial of an opera singer. He played The Red Violin while making love. While inside the womb of his lover.

“Maybe because these were actual nude scenes, this is what sent me over the top.” Then, C-Note began to tell Dr. Schliemann of a literary work in which describes the fairer sex of such high order, he did not share it, for fear of it being labeled blasphemy. Blasphemy in

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the religiously fanatical world in which we live today is something not to be taken lightly, thought Dr. Schliemann.

“Keeping this work private sounds quite burdensome?” Dr. Schliemann inquired.

“Not no more,” C-Note stated matter-of-factly.

“What change?” Asked Dr. Schliemann.

“Have you ever heard the Ariana Grande song, God is a Woman?”

“No I have not,” stated Dr. Schliemann.

“Well that’s what changed,” said C-Note.

DR. SCHLIEMANN’S HANDS TREMBLED profusely, as he held in his hands the worn paper, with words written in pencil, of such high literary art in describing the fairer sex, it could be deemed blasphemous. This very brief literary prose began:

Someone once asked me, why do I paint women, and I replied, “I paint lots of things.

But women are God’s Angels, they are a corrupting force. They’re not evil, but what

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man has not been brought low by them? One look from Athena, and a thousand

ships were launched to die in vain for the love she could bequeath. And the stories

of old, of Angels leaving Heaven, to take on a man’s body, just so to have sex with

Her. I know what Heaven is, and it’s the insides of a woman’s womb. I’m No Angel,

but they know, better still, that they found nothing inside of the House of God, that

could compare, to the inside, of a woman’s womb.”

About the Author Donald "C-Note" Hooker is a native of Los Angeles and a California State prisoner. He is a poet, playwright, performing artist, award winning visual artist, and the King of Prison Hip Hop. His works have either been exhibited, recited, performed, or sold, from Alcatraz to Berlin. As a poet, he has had his work on display at the Marin County Free Library in the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Marin County Civic Center, recited at an African-American Poetry Fest, New York Coffeehouses, an Entrepreneur Training Commencement Address, and as a part of an eulogy. He also has been a contributing writer or visual artist to California Prison Focus; Prison Action News; Mprisond Thotz; Hamilton College’s,

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Page 31 of 31 American Prison Writing Initiative; John Jay College of Criminal Justice, Prisoner Reentry Institute’s, Our Voice; The Real Cost Of Prison; and Turning The Tide. In 2017, Google Search listed him as both America’s and the world’s most prolific Prisoner-Artist.

Contact Info:

California State Prison-Los Angeles County

Donald “C-Note” Hooker CDCR# K94063

P.O. Box 4490

Lancaster, CA 93539

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