Wall City: Devastation

WALL CITY

Fall 2021 Volume 4 Issue 1

DEVASTATION

San Quentin’s ongoing struggles since the coronavirus outbreak

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PLACE San Quentin’s Upper Yard A condemned prisoner, under escort and with hands cuffed behind him, is returned to San Quentin’s Death Row housing unit, East Block. This covered lane is the main thoroughfare through which all South, West and East Block residents must pass on their way to any other area of the prison. Education programs, self-help groups, religious services, medical services and the Lower Yard lie at various corners of the 170-year-old facility. To the left, a covered fence hides the recreation cages used by segregated prisoners. Many prisoners will traverse this avenue thousands of times in their decades-long incarceration.

FALL 2021 WALL CITY 3 Original photos by Phoeun You, Photo illustration by A.J. Hardy, SQNews

CONTENTS

The View

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Editorial

6

Over the Wall

7

Arts

10

Ghosts of COVID-19

12

Living Spaces

16

George Jackson

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Resurgence of the Native Hawaiians

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Support Us

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Photo courtesy of CDCR

Cover: Joseph Thureson, 71, remains in prison as a non-violent third-striker. Thureson survived San Quentin’s deadly COVID-19 outbreak with few symptoms in spite of having several highrisk health conditions, including emphysema and glaucoma.

During the outbreak, Thureson was recommended by his counselor for elderly release, but he has yet to receive a decision.

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Living Spaces After 14 months of shelter in place, the men of San Quentin emerge

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from the destruction left by COVID-19 and wonder if anything has been learned, or if it will be business as usual.

Editor-in-Chief Senior Editor Associate Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Circulation Manager Designer / Photographer SQ PIO Deputy Chief CDCR Office of External Affairs CDCR Information Officer 1 Adviser Adviser Adviser Adviser Adviser Adviser

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Marcus Henderson Juan Haines Kevin D. Sawyer Anthony Caravalho Charles Crowe Tim Hicks Edwin Chavez David Ditto Phoeun You Lt. S. Robinson Krissi Khokhobashvili Joe Orlando Sarah Horowitz Kate McQueen Doug Levy Alissa Greenberg Alastair Boone Dan Fost

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Photos by Phoeun You, Eddie Herena, SQNews. George Jackson photo by MRonline.

Marcus Henderson For more than two years Henderson has led the San Quentin News team as Editor in Chief. He was recently awarded second place for best editorial by the California Newspaper Publisher Association.

George Jackson Looking back after 50 years

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The 1971 killing of George Jackson left lots of questions unanswered. Discover new testimonies, from people who were there, that will help reveal the untold truth.

Tim Hicks

Timothy Hicks has been the Sports Editor for the San Quentin News for the past year. Although he is a sports enthusiast at heart, he writes and covers all different genres. “Writing is a form of therapy I use for transporting me to a world of fantasy and chance.”

Edwin E. Chavez Edwin E. Chavez has been a staff writer for the past year and currently serves as the Spanish Journalism Guild Chair. Through SQNews, Chavez aims to provide relevant news to the under-served Spanish community across the nation.

Charles Crowe Crowe is a staff writer for the San Quentin News. His writing has been published by the Prison Journalism Project and Straight Ahead!, the lobbying arm of the Abolishinist Law Center.

Resurgence of the Native Hawaiians

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Discover how members of the Native Hawaiian Religious Group went from being disconnected to finding their roots.

Kevin D. Sawyer Sawyer has written, collectively, nearly 500 short stories, news articles, memoirs, essays, poems and journals on a variety of subjects. His work has appeared in more than 25 publications. More than half of his writings have been published.

Anthony Caravalho Upon his arrival at San Quentin Caravalho attended the SQNews Journalism Guild and won two awards as a writer. He aims to open transitional homes for men and women throughout the nation upon release.

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Prison is a snow globe for infectious diseases

By Marcus Henderson

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have humanized life within California and the nation’s prison system. We had to fight for our religious rights (services, artifacts, grooming standards), and our access to the courts. We even had to fight to end the indefinite use of solitary confinement and win adequate healthcare — not something special, just adequate.

In 2011, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that California is required to reform prisons to provide constitutionally sufficient physical and mental care to incarcerated people. Almost a decade later that can seems to be continually kicked down the road. The cases went from Plata, Coleman vs. Gov. Jerry Brown to Plata, Coleman vs.

Gov. Gavin Newsom.

Now we are in the midst of a deadly pandemic and approaching flu season. The criteria of who may qualify for early release are very narrow. The debate centers on non-violent offenders versus those who have committed violent crimes.

However, the facts are rarely discussed or considered, mainly because of the type of crimes attached to the individual. According to CDCR’s own recidivism study, more than 50 percent of prisoners paroled after completion of a determinate sentence were convicted of a new crime within three years, compared to only 5 percent of lifer parolees who were convicted of a new crime within three years. A study by Stanford University between 1995 and 2010

Even in these times of crisis, it feels that we, the incarcerated, always have to prove our humanity to the general public.

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found that of 860 murderers paroled in California, only five returned to prison for new felonies, but none that required a life term, such as murder.

So it pains us who have done the work — those of us who have worked through childhood trauma and have learned from our mistakes — that we are still considered too “risky” for release.

We also acknowledge victim/survivor rights; we believe in their voices. We learned this through participating in our self-help groups. It’s not for us to tell people who have been harmed how they should feel. We must respect the process.

We just want to restore what we can.

As the coronavirus spreads and becomes our new reality, our fears of death are real.

All we hope for is for society to remember: Whatever the deed was, most of us weren’t sentenced to death by the state.

Thank you for your support and generosity Photo illustration by Phoeun You

rison is a snow globe. If you shake up any infectious disease, like the coronavirus or the flu, the particles will fall and infect every part of the institution.

Since the COVID-19 outbreak, at least 28 incarcerated people and one correctional officer have died at San Quentin. Prisoners have been put on ventilators; others were quarantined in the Lower Yard and a fear of death spread to the rest of the population — social distancing is impossible in our tiny cells.

While around 70 percent of San Quentin prisoners have been vaccinated, for correctional staff, that figure is closer to 50 percent. And now, faced with new coronavirus variants, like Delta, prisons around the country may be facing future, more dangerous outbreaks.

Even in these times of crisis, it feels that we, the incarcerated, always have to prove our humanity to the general public.

Calls for early releases to curb the surge of COVID-19 and deaths have set off an array of emotions, ranging from joy of family members and prison reform advocates, to fear and indifference from some of the general public.

How did we get here? We have had almost 30 years of constant lawsuits. I do believe some government officials want prison reform and that must be balanced with the concerns of the general public.

But I must say that it has mainly been the incarcerated and our advocates who

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While lounging on the Lower Yard, John Lam promoted the Kid CAT program to invite new participants during the Day of Peace event. Lam also wrote for Kid CAT Speaks! — a column for SQNews.

John Lam’s journey as a free man

By Tim Hicks

Q: How long were you incarcerated?

When did you parole?

I Sam Hearnes, SQNews

was incarcerated for nearly 16 years; my original sentence was 26 years to life. In 2018, I was given a commutation by Governor Jerry Brown, and my sentence was reduced to 16 years to life. This gave me an opportunity to appear before the Board of Prison Hearings 10 years early and demonstrate my rehabilitation and fitness to parole. I paroled on Oct. 9, 2019.

Q: How are you adjusting to the real world?

A: It’s been a bit weird. Not too long after I paroled, while I was still in transitional housing, the global pandemic struck, and so I have been quarantining and social distanc-

ing for about 18 months. The quarantining has been a bit of a blessing in disguise, as it allowed me time to focus on myself, spend time with family and really work to establish a strong foundation for the next chapter of my life. I was able to use the time to work on things I always wanted to, but didn’t have the opportunity to do in prison. I learned to code and created an app to trade crypto currency, took some classes online and applied and got accepted to all the universities I applied to.

Q: Talk about being accepted to Cal Berkeley?

A: Shortly after getting accepted to Berkeley, I also got accepted to UCLA. UC Merced offered a full ride, but Berkeley had always held a strong appeal to me. Growing up I was influenced by my parents, who gave

me the impression that if someone made it to Berkeley, they will have become successful.

Also I think it would be pretty cool that I finally get to see for myself what a Berkeley education is. When I took classes at Patten at San Quentin, the teachers from Berkeley often said, ‘you guys try harder than students in Berkeley,’ which left me with the impression that maybe we can become successful students there one day.

With that said, it still feels a bit surreal that I got accepted into Berkeley and will be living on campus and attending school there in a month.

Q: What is your major and why did you choose that?

A: My major is political science, but I’m thinking about switching my major to computer science, but for sure at least a minor in FALL 2021 WALL CITY 7

John Lam, in the middle, with members of Kid CAT as they gathered in the ARC building, to run workshops, hold meetings, and plan for upcoming events. Kid CAT collaborated with Elizabeth Calvin of Human Rights Watch to successfully implement juvenile policies such as: SB 260, SB9, and the Youth Offender Program.

computer science. My passion for criminal justice reform was born in San Quentin. The opportunities and people I met during my time there taught me that anyone’s voice can have the power to create systemic change.

As I write this, I think about Rahsaan Thomas, who inspired an organization to advocate for a bill that became law which allows me — a felon — to vote. Being surrounded by guys like Rahsaan really inspired me and lit a passion in me to pursue a path toward becoming a leader in creating systemic change.

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Q: Did Kid CAT have any influence on you when you made parole?

A: I absolutely attribute the success of me

becoming who I am today, and the start of my process toward rehabilitation to Kid CAT. At one of the first meetings with Kid CAT, I witnessed a member who talked about why he was in prison. That was a very pivotal moment because it was the first time I have ever heard anyone in my incarcerated experience up until that point speak with authenticity, take accountability and being remorseful about the crime they committed.

It was also a conviction moment, because that day, I knew that the person who spoke was no longer the 14-year-old who committed the crime. Yet I couldn’t have said the same thing about me. That was the start of my journey toward rehabilitation. So me walking out of prison six years later was absolutely impacted by Kid CAT. Q: What kind of activities or organizations that are youth-related are you involved with?

A: Since my parole, I have been very fortunate to have helped lead a leadership pro-

Sam Hearnes, SQNews

Q: When you were at SQ were you involved with Kid CAT? Explain what the program is about. What was your role? How long were you involved?

A: Kid CAT was one of the first groups that I became involved with. It had a very special mission and was made up of members that were unique in the prison system — youth offenders serving life sentences. I came to prison at the age of 17 and didn’t have

any realistic hope of ever coming home.

In the mid 2000s, no lifers were being paroled. Being a part of Kid CAT taught me there was value in my experience; it gave me a platform to be heard and be empowered. Through Kid CAT we created a hygiene drive that collected hygiene products from inmates to donate to homeless youth in San Francisco. We held symposiums with legislators to advocate for criminal justice reform, and held workshops and teaching curriculum to help incarcerated folks learn about childhood trauma.

When I joined Kid CAT I was one of the first members recruited outside of the founding members in 2013. Over the next six years until I paroled, I served in a variety of roles. One of the most fulfilling ones was being a writer for the Kid CAT Speaks page in the San Quentin News.

Q: What are your living arrangements and job?

A: I am currently with family in Sacramento, but will be transferring my parole to Berkeley to attend school and live on campus. I also work a full time job with Asian Prisoner Support Committee leading special projects like publishing an anthology of prisoner writings and leading an internship program for system impacted individuals.

Q: Favorite foods?

A: There’s a saying by my friends about the “COVID-15,” representing the 15 pounds they gained during the quarantine. I feel like I’ve gained three times that amount.

The food is soooo good out here. I am very fortunate to be with a family that loves to cook and try new dishes every Friday. I haven’t encountered anything I disagree with yet. But I’m really loving sushi right now.

Photo courtesy of John Lam

John Lam, on Berkeley campus, focused and committed to fulfilling his goal in political science.

gram for the brightest underprivileged Asian Pacific Islander (API) high school students in Southern California through my sister’s non-profit organization, APIs Mobilize.

Through that program I was able to help facilitate and introduce students to lectures by the top API lawmakers in California.

Through that program we provided more than 33 scholarships to students and mentorship with top executives of non-profit and for-profit organizations all the while exposing them to a career in public service. In addition to my work with the youth, I have been involved with two organizations, one in Southern California called API RISE, and the other in Northern California called Asian Prisoner Support Committee. Through both programs, I help provide assistance with reentry, such as job leads, resources and education.

Q: Any other information you wish to provide, please feel free to do so.

A: I was once a youth offender serving a life sentence, never knowing when I will ever go home. I used to see guys parole and wished so badly it was me. Tomorrow was never certain; freedom was an abstract concept. Yet I lived as if I would go home tomorrow by focusing on school, staying out of trouble, giving back, and giving it my all in my self-help groups. If you have the opportunity, take the Victim Offender Education Group, if there is a coding program at your prison, please do yourself a favor, TAKE it! It is true what they say: They can never take away your education. I would actually go one step further and say you can build on your education and draw from your experiences when you come home. You can achieve your wildest dreams, things you cannot even begin to imagine. Learn to own your story and believe in the power of your personal narrative­; your freedom and your future depends on this.

When you come home, there will be a group of us that will be there to support you, so don’t fear not having anyone to come home to. Don’t think you’re too old or too young to start your process of change. Don’t waste your time; make the most of it and believe in yourself. I will see you when you get out.

Because San Quentin Killed Two More Today

By Ed “Foots” Lipman

They wrapped Big Fran in plaster and put him on a bed to heal & to watch each approaching stranger with dangerous eyes ...

The cops assigned to guard his door can’t understand that what’s become to past to them can be heard breathing softly on The Yard thru the eerie quiet of this prison hospital early in the dawn.

But Frank knows better; he’s learned today is as much a part of yesterday as is tomorrow; and that there are no innocent bystanders except most little children and a few truly beautiful women, both of which are said to be in short supply inside San Quentin. (the soft rain blows in, he watches it pattern the sheets but cannot move to reach the window ... ) The days will probably move in slow procession and sudden move arise to cause concern; but still he watches, knowing all the while that after all paranoia is nothing more than increased awareness. (from my window I sometimes see just his hands – they grip and flex like small animals, restless at the ends of his arms, waiting) — for Big Frank Tubach

after surgery, SQ 1975

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A journey into Afro-Futurism

By Marcus Henderson

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ibrant colors dance from incarcerated artist Lamavis “Shorty” Comundoiwilla’s paint brush on multiple canvases he transports viewers of his art in what can be deemed as Afro-Futurism. The fusion of pointillism (dots) and expressionism mixed with a dash of African symbolism in his painting The Feminine Yacub of 2042.

“It’s pulling from ancient historical figures to address modern problems, to give it modern relevancy,” Comundoiwilla said. During San Quentin’s COVID-19 outbreak and fourteen months of limited prison programing Shorty’s tiny cell become his art studio.

His life-sized piece The Feminine Yacub of 2042 depicts all-seeing eyes, pyramids, circles and cube shapes that are strategically placed around three African queens in full tribal dress. At 5 feet 6 inches tall, the painting towers over Comundoiwilla, who stands at 5 feet 4 inches. Native American hobby beads and jewelry are glued to the painting adding another dimension of realism. Reds, whites and yellow hues are added to his paintings to represent the different races and

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cultures. having with his parents about “equality.”

“Black people have been in the forefront “The art lets my parents know how much of the Civil Rights movement and with The I have grown and my understanding of the Feminine Yacub of 2042 it captures the ad- world. Also this is who I am and this is what vancement of the mixture of cultures. Also I think.” He credits Arts and Corrections it speaks to prisoners’ rights, gay rights and teachers Carol Newberg and the late Paul it’s just an extension of our Mooney for giving him the I have a right to tools to express himself. “I’m God-given right to be who we are,” he explained of his work. be Black. I was not as angry as I use to be — art Shorty has only been paintis calming.” He appreciates the born American. way that artwork allows him to ing for four years. Before that, he just drew with pencils and study history, as well as his own I’m making it colored pens. He got his inspiplace in it, and bring something my mission to ration to paint when he was in positive into the world. lockdown at another prison. replace what has With all the police killings It was Mother’s Day and he been destroyed over the years, Shorty believes couldn’t make it to the comthere needs to be more posiwith Black art. missary to buy a card so he tive images of Black people painted his mother something and their experiences. “I have special. a right to be Black. I was born American.

“My mother had the picture blown up and I’m making it my mission to replace what put on the living room wall. Then my father has been destroyed with Black art.” Even in bought me art supplies and said do more,” the midst of all the pain, Shorty believes art reflected Shorty. He said the images that he produces joy and love. “Like Paul Mooney paints are like a private conversation he is once told me, ‘Always paint colorful.’ ”

African symbolism art on display

Photos by Edmond Richardson, FIRSTWATCH

Opposite: The feminine Yacub (Jacob) of 2042 represents women of color transforming the future of America and making it more inclusive.

Above: The return of Eve is about Eve’s descendants rising to power and merging social morality to social order.

Top right: Amani Candice, a fierce and warrior-like queen of Nubia, who defended Nubia from the advancements of Rome.

Bottom right: Basheeba’s Passion depicts a woman’s desire to be seen as more than just her sexual passions.

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LIVING SPACES How COVID-19 constrained, reshuffled and otherwise upended the close quarters of San Quentin

By Charles Crowe

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The dimensions of the cells, about 4 by 10 feet, together with the practice of housing two men per cell, made the lockdown particularly trying. The inmates struggled with claustrophobia, lack of exercise, reduced family contact, and boredom. The architecture of the prison also increased the vulnerability of its inhabitants. Bars, rather than solid doors, comprised the front walls of the cells. If a neighbor coughed or sneezed, nothing blocked the airborne threat.

Photo by Phoeun You, SQNews.

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“The general feeling in the space was not energetic. It was the opposite...You could feel kind of there was just a sense of kind of hopelessness,” said Dr. Meghan Morris, epidemiologist.

Above, an incarcerated resident sits on West Block’s fifth tier stairs during the pandemic with limited programs, and no certainty about when programs would resume.

blocks. East Block houses Death Row, while North and West Blocks contain the general population. Until the COVID-19 outbreak, South Block served as a reception center to intake from county jails, along with other functions. This big building consists of four sections called Alpine, Badger, Carson, and Donner, each with almost 250 cells. There is also a five-building dormitory called H-Unit and an Adjustment Center (AC), which serves as the prison’s disciplinary housing, also known as the Hole. The cells in the AC have solid doors, a feature that became important when the virus broke out.

The dimensions of the cells, about 4 feet

by 10 feet, together with the practice of housing two men per cell, made the lockdown particularly trying. We struggled with claustrophobia, lack of exercise, reduced family contact, and boredom. Many feared the deadly virus. We knew it was coming.

We just didn’t know when.

The conditions outside the cells were also very difficult. Long, compressed lines of men waited to receive medications or pick up food trays. There was not room to spread out. Red tape on the floor suggested six-foot intervals for these queues. But only sporadic efforts were made to enforce the spacing, because the population far outnumbered

Phoeun You, SQNews

n early May, 2021, a big green bus rolled along the north end of San Quentin’s Lower Yard, its powerful engine echoing off the 30-foot wall. It settled into the prison’s Receiving area, discharging a loud hydraulic sound as it knelt to unload its human cargo. A handful of prisoners exercising on the Yard — for the first time in nearly fourteen months — paused and warily watched the new arrivals. I was one of them.

We knew that the last buses into the prison nearly a year before brought the virus that sickened more than 2,200 and killed 28. Since then San Quentin had been sealed against newcomers. Would CDCR really start pouring more people into the prison immediately on the heels of disaster? I wondered.

That disaster began slowly. The sickness had not yet appeared behind these walls at the end March, 2020, as COVID-19 deaths in the United States topped 1,000. But we knew how vulnerable we were. California’s oldest prison was populated beyond its design capacity. In response to a lawsuit brought by prisoners, the First District Court of Appeals would later order a 50% reduction in San Quentin’s inmate population.

But that reduction would in turn be halted by an appeal of the Court’s order.

The architecture of the prison increased the vulnerability of its inhabitants. Bars, rather than solid doors, comprised the front walls of the cells. If a neighbor coughed or sneezed, nothing blocked the airborne threat. Each cell block was in reality one huge room, just a few feet separating men in any cell from their neighbors. As massive as the cell blocks were, the two men in each of the little cells felt starved for living space.

Due to the threat of the virus, the prison was in lockdown mode beginning March 14, 2020. Confined to cells 23 — and often 24 — hours per day, we saw no visitors and made few calls. The prison’s vaunted education and rehabilitation groups shut down.

Outside volunteers stopped coming. The library, chow halls, and chapels were closed.

Nonessential medical services were cancelled. Only the most vital inmate workers worked.

About 4,000 men lived in San Quentin at the time of the lockdown, a number well beyond the prison’s designed capacity of 3,082. We are kept in one of four large cell

the six-foot intervals. Men ing aids and borrowed earA notice posted outside our cell labeled us waited to shower in the plugs to protect him from small space allotted, elbow COVID-19 contaminated. I thought of Hurricane Katrina, the noise. “Thank God I’m to elbow, unmasked. Signs deaf,” he said. in the area insisted on soJaime “Happy” Paredes, how first responders had painted big X’s cial distancing, an imposanother hearing-impaired on houses where they found bodies. sible mandate. We joked man from North Block, was darkly about the warnings. sent to South Block’s BadPressed by these conditions, state officials found bodies. In spite of my negative test ger section on June 23. Weak with active began to allow San Quentin’s population to results and my protests, I was left in the COVID-19, he was given a filthy cell withattrite during the lockdown. Some prisoners cramped cell with my sick companion. He out cleaning supplies. A neighbor gave him with very short time remaining on their sen- was only mildly ill, and I didn’t even know a little Cellblock, a liquid cleaning agent. tence were released. Others paroled. Mean- he was sick until his positive test was re- “I had to cut up a shirt to use as a cleaning while, intake from county jails was halted, turned. I soon became ill too and tested pos- rag,” he said. “I used it to clean the toilet and ending San Quentin’s use as a reception itive for the virus. the mattress.” He didn’t have the strength to center. Effectively, those leaving the prison The illness was all around us. Calls of clean the floor. were not replaced. As South Block’s recep- “Man down!” punctuated our nights as well The electrical outlets in Paredes’ cell did tion function wound down, many of the cells as our days. By mid-July more than 2,000 not work. Initially, the guards in the buildin that building became vacant. The popu- were confirmed COVID-19 positive. The ing didn’t know that he was deaf. They lation gradually dropped from more than prison’s few hospital beds were immediately were banging on his door to wake him for 4,000 to about 3,500 in early June. filled and prisoners were shipped to outside vital signs and for standing counts. Tommy Where I lived in West Block the decline medical centers. Some sick men were moved Wickerd, a neighboring prisoner who served of the prison’s population was not discern- from the cell blocks to the few “solid-door” as inmate interpreter for the deaf, repeatedly ible. My cellmate and I were still crammed cells in the prison’s Adjustment Center, but yelled to the guards, “He’s deaf!” Paredes together in the tiny cell. The crowding in spaces there were quickly exhausted. Others fought through his five-day ordeal. “I was the queues and the showers continued. The were moved to the gym, to the chapels, to very sick and didn’t want to eat, but I forced men in the building followed grim reports the empty cells in South Block, and to tents myself to eat to keep up my strength.” On on television news of the sickness and death on the Lower Yard. Many of the sick, like June 28, at the urging of Wickerd, Paredes outside the prison’s walls, and warned one my cellmate, were simply left in their own was returned to his cell in North Block. another that the prison was a tinderbox wait- cells, even when their cellmate, like me, had Sometimes efforts to isolate and spread ing for a spark. out the sick could be frantic and incoherent, not yet tested positive.

Each man here has a unique story to tell epitomized in Richard Fernandez’s experiOutbreak about how the pandemic impacted their liv- ence. He tested positive for COVID-19 in Meanwhile, at the Chino California In- ing space. I spoke with Randy “Dos” Stuart North Block on July 25 and moved to the stitution for Men (CIM), a state prison in of West Block, who became very ill with Catholic Chapel. The church’s pews had southern California, 509 prisoners had test- the virus and was moved to Saint Francis been replaced by cots, and the tapestries that ed positive for COVID-19, and 10 had died Hospital in San Francisco. He returned one normally adorn the walls had been removed. by the last week in May. There were no month later to a 220-bed Alternative Care Five days later he was moved to the Protespositive cases at San Quentin when the now Site (ACS) constructed in San Quentin’s tant Chapel, which was similarly converted infamous transports from Chino CIM rolled Prison Industry Authority (PIA) building. It to a sick bay. The same day he was moved onto the empty Lower Yard at San Quentin housed very sick men returning from outside again to one of nine tents erected on the and unloaded 122 men on May 30. Twen- hospitals and other men who were not as ill. Lower Yard, each housing 10 beds. This arty-five new arrivals subsequently tested Accustomed to the impersonal treatment by rangement came to be known as “Tent City.” positive for COVID-19. The tinderbox was prison medical staff, Stuart was touched by Within two days he was moved again, this ignited. On June 13 there were 49 cases at the warm, attentive care he received from time to the “Big Tent,” an expandable unit San Quentin; by June 23 the number jumped nurses and doctors in the PIA building. that could shelter 160 beds. Five days later close to 800, and it surpassed 1,500 by the Joshua Lovett, a hearing-impaired resi- he was moved to the ACS. end of the month.

Finally, on August 12 he was considered dent of North Block, was moved to the CarAs the virus spread through the prison son section of South Block when he tested “resolved” and returned to North Block. like a wind-driven fire, my cellmate tested positive. Two of Carson’s five tiers still held In 18 days he had lived in five improvised positive for COVID-19 on June 25. I tested reception inmates when Lovett moved in, housing arrangements and come full circle negative. A notice posted outside our cell la- and the noise in the building was deafening. to his original cell block. “I had tested posibeled us COVID-19 contaminated. I thought One prisoner banged his plastic coffee cup tive, but I was asymptomatic,” said Fernanof Hurricane Katrina, how first responders against the iron bars of his cell throughout dez. “Every time I moved, I was around a had painted big X’s on houses where they his waking hours. Lovett removed his hear- new group of sick people. It was frightenFALL 2021 WALL CITY 15

One of CDCR’s big green buses kneels to load men for transport between prisons. It was on such a bus that the sick men from Chino (California Institute for Men) made the fateful trip to San Quentin in May, 2020. And it was a bus like this that the men on San Quentin’s Lower Yard saw as they emerged from their 14-month lockdown in May, 2021. Since then the buses have arrived steadily.

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We knew that the last buses into the prison nearly a year before brought the virus that sickened more than 2,200 and killed 28.

Since then San Quentin had been sealed against newcomers.

Would CDCR really start pouring more people into the prison immediately on the heels of disaster? I wondered. getherness with my cellmate, I accepted the offer. I was hopeful when I moved alone to a cell in the Badger section of South Block.

The cell was filthy, but once I cleaned it up I was glad for the change. Until late February, I was left alone. Then, without explanation, we were suddenly moved from Badger to the Alpine section of South Block. In Alpine many of us were forced to double up in the cells. My move to South Block in pursuit of a cell to myself was in vain.

While this development was frustrating and disappointing for me, my outcome was relatively mild compared to that of John Sullivan. Sullivan moved with the rest of us from Badger to Alpine on Feb-

ruary 17. Housed alone in Badger, he was paired up with another man in Alpine. But on the morning of March 10, he was dead.

His bloody body was removed in the early morning hours, his cellmate taken away in handcuffs.

One tier above, Bill Hinson had been awakened by the sounds of Correctional Officers (COs) and medical personnel attempting to revive Sullivan, an effort that lasted nearly an hour. Finally, Hinson heard a voice say, “I’m calling it.” The voice then stated a time. Another neighbor, Jeffrey Isom, was a friend of Sullivan’s. He mentioned that Sullivan was very “short” (close to the end of his sentence) and spoke about the respect he

Photo courtesy of CDCR

ing.” During the five days he spent in the Big Tent, the air conditioning ran continuously, producing nighttime temperatures below 50 degrees. “I woke several times each night because of the cold,” Fernandez said.

San Quentin’s outbreak of COVID-19 peaked in July. Ultimately there were 2,241 confirmed cases. By August new cases declined sharply. So many people in the prison had been sickened that the potential victim pool was essentially exhausted. While the outbreak in the prison seemed to have burned through the available human fuel, the pandemic continued to rage outside the walls. The tents on the Lower Yard came down and life in the crowded cell blocks continued, still in full lockdown mode.

But efforts to reshuffle living arrangements at San Quentin continued. Double-celled residents of North and West Blocks were offered single-cell living in South Block. After months of too much to-

had for him. “He had his head on straight,” Isom said. “He was personable.”

After more than a year locked down, an exhausted population at San Quentin had quit wondering when relief would come.

That’s what epidemiologist Dr. Meghan Morris saw when she visited the prison in April, 2021. On May 26, 2021, testifying as an expert witness in a Marin County Superior Court evidentiary hearing in a habeas corpus proceeding, she said, “I was really struck at how quiet it was, and it actually felt very eerie to me. The general feeling in the space was not energetic. It was the opposite. I saw men just lying there. You could feel kind of there was just a sense of kind of hopelessness. That was the word I used.

Nobody said that to me. That was just the impression that I had when I was walking through.”

Aftermath

Through gradual attrition San Quentin’s population fell to 2,384 by the time the prison reopened on May 5, 2021. To its residents this number seemed a reasonable match for the facility. Since then the figure has been creeping up: 2,418 on May 19, 2,434 on June 2, 2,548 on July 29, and more than 2,700 by September. The prison has design capacity of 3,082, as noted in the evidentiary hearing referenced above. Provisions of a federal receivership allow California’s total prison population to be 137.5% of prison capacity. But individual prisons may have populations well in excess of that ratio, so long as the statewide ratio is maintained.

Once the prison reopened, the big buses kept rolling in to San Quentin. The first newcomers were directed to the Alpine section of South Block, where I live. As the population in our section swells, we hear, see and feel the change. The competition for showers and phones has intensified. As we exit the building for chow or Yard, our massed bodies evoke images of crowded street scenes in downtown New York. The constant hum of the building, absent only in the middle of the night, increases daily as our numbers grow. At times the noise reaches a deafening crescendo. We run fans to create white noise. We wear headphones and crank up our music in a vain attempt to escape the cacophony that is the inevitable result of too many people living in a con-

fined concrete and metal space.

There is a profound disconnect between what prisoners see and what prison officials see when they consider population density at San Quentin. In the evidentiary hearings referred to above, the Acting Warden was asked if he believed that the prison was overcrowded at the time of the arrival of the fateful buses from Chino in late May. He recalled that at that time, the prison “had roughly 3,992 inmates,” and conceded that the number was over design capacity. But he also said, “I did not believe that San Quentin was overcrowded.” To the men who lived doubled-up in the prison’s tiny cells, who witnessed firsthand the devastating impacts of the crowding on the spread of the virus during the outbreak, such remarks are very difficult to understand. As San Quentin’s population is nudged back to pre-pandemic levels, it can only be hoped that the prison’s ability to protect its residents, as well as their overseers, will not be tested again with such intensity.

HOSPITAL EVENING UNTITLED III

By Ed “Foots” Lipman

The Dr. makes a lot of noise when he makes his rounds maybe he thinks that sounds will help us heal The nurse is nice she wants to know how i feel — How can i feel?

Here in San Quentin Here in the hospital I don’t bother to smile at her she’ll have to understand when it hurts to stand or walk pretty legs don’t mean a thing.

SAM's AQUA Adventures

By Quint Clark

…And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning shears…

I understand the pruning shears and the plowing shares, I just don’t know what to turn the fish hook into.

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The March Of Memories

By Edwin E. Chavez

18 WALL CITY FALL 2021

O

n a Friday afternoon in November, an event dubbed Mourning Our Losses was held on San Quentin’s Lower Yard. It brought together about 200 people to pay tribute to the many lives lost during the COVID-19 outbreak. Attendees included the prison’s residents, people formerly incarcerated and volunteers from the surrounding San Francisco Bay Area.

The event was organized by Mourning Our Losses volunteer Kirsten Pickering and hosted by San Quentin resident Arthur Jackson. Mourning Our Losses is a Texas-based nonprofit created to track and highlight the moral cost of mass incarceration nation­ wide, and to honor all those who have died while living or working behind bars.

The event began with participants walking a commemorative lap of silence on the Lower Yard. The walkers held up photographs and sketches of 25 of the people lost to COVID-19 at San Quentin.

“Walking with a photo around the track in silence was a very reflective reality check of how serious and dangerous COVID-19 is,” said Gordon Kimbrough, an incarcerated substance abuse counselor.

Bands performed and speakers addressed attendees, to encourage and inspire survivors and to reminiscence about the trials endured by San Quentin survivors of COVID-19.

Some San Quentin residents read poems in honor of fallen friends and to relate their personal experiences during the COVID outbreak.

One of them was Warren Corley, who read a poem he wrote about his dear friend Darryl Gualt, one of the mourned.

“Darryl loved the Lord. He was always putting others before himself,” Corely said. “We miss him dearly. He died the way he lived, with courage, joy and giving people whatever was needed.”

Before falling victim to COVID, Gualt was a 25-year cancer survivor.

Gualt was also remembered by event organizer Pickering, who taught philosophy classes at San Quentin in the past. “I think of him often. He was one of my students here at San Quentin,” she said.

Michael Moore shared a piece called “13 Bars,” named for the style of door that made men at San Quentin so vulnerable.

“There are 13 bars, three inches apart, that allow for air to circulate into our cells,” Moore said. “People were dying all around me, literally from COVID wafting through the bars and into our lungs. I had to just sit and wait my turn.”

In honor of his friend Eric Warner, who died from the virus, Tony deTrinidad read “Invacuate-19.” The poem described the frequent sound of alarms, which indicate someone was in pain or was being placed on a gurney by emergency responders.

“Every time an alarm went off I would wonder who was dying now,” said deTrinidad. “Who else is in pain?”

Several of the prison’s religious leaders offered spiritual messages to the audience. Hector Frank Heredia, Native American chaplain, spoke about the dead. He reminded listeners to remember them in our hearts because they are our people.

“To all our relations we come in a good place to pray for those

FALL 2021 WALL CITY 19

20 WALL CITY FALL 2021

Members of Continuum perform between prayers and testimonials, channeling the emotions of the crowd. Continuum was one of several musical acts taking the stage to offer both mournful and upbeat songs and raps to honor lost lives.

a University of California Los Angeles (UCLA) study, “COVID-19 Behind Bars Data Project,” that showed that the outbreaks and deaths were going unnoticed.

“By April 2020, many could see the political leaders were not going to act, or [were] not [acting] quickly enough,” said Pickering. “So a group of us came together, people formerly and currently incarcerated, people who had worked or volunteered inside, to create a way to remember the lives of the people we were losing around the country, and to mourn and celebrate them together.”

Around the time the UCLA study came out, Mourning Our Losses was founded by Kelsey Kauffman, formerly a warden of a women’s prison in Indiana. Later she advocated for the incarcerated. Perceiving that politicians and officials were not moving fast enough to address prison overcrowding, she worked for de-incarceration.

A few family members of San Quentin’s COVID victims heard about the Nov. 5 event. They were moved to send in words of love and gratitude directed to the people in blue and all of the other attendees at the event.

The Mourning Our Losses inside team included SQNews staffer Juan Haines and Brian Asey, SQTV producer. The outside team members were Tom Lapinski and

Pickering. Haines, Asey and Pickering read messages received from family members of victims. The messages expressed appreciation for the event memorializing their loved ones.

“When the prison was on lockdown, I was keeping track of the people who were dying,” said Lapinski, who has been a volunteer at San Quentin for nearly 40 years.

San Quentin’s lockdown lasted from March 2020 until May 2021.

San Quentin medical staff also addressed the crowd, reflecting on the losses being memorialized, and the overall impact and the trauma San Quentin residents endured during the pandemic. Dr. Alison Pachyn­ ski, San Quentin’s chief medical officer, reminded the gathering how important it is to pause and reach out to someone during a time of mourning. Dr. E. Anderson, San Quentin Suicide Prevention Coordinator, introduced Brothers Keepers, a support group run by prisoners. The group offers counseling to prisoners going through crises due to loss of loved ones, illness, board denials and other concerns.

Antwan “Banks” Williams, a well-known voice of Ear Hustle before paroling from San Quentin, closed out the event with an inspirational rap song. His moving lyric summed up the event well.

Phoeun You, SQNews

who have passed on,” said Heredia. “Most of those brothers that passed, I knew them on the row [Death Row]. They are not forgotten; we don’t leave anyone behind.”

Reflecting on how dealing with the deaths of others can be difficult for many, Imam Mohamed, Muslim chaplain, said that the reality of death can weigh us down if we deny it. Therefore, it is important to ask God to bring us together as one.

In tribute to the lives lost, a moment of silence was accompanied by the sounds of bells rung 27 times from a band member’s electronic keyboard. According to Buddhist tradition, the number 108 represents infinity; when divided by four it equals 27.

Among the musical guests at the event was David Rodriguez, bandleader of Treasure Out of Darkness. “My sister passed away from COVID-19. The way I was able to play my music is something to ease the pain,” said Rodriguez.

Darryl Ferris leads alternative rock band Continuum. He knew five people who lost their lives during the pandemic. “It is nice to honor those victims, but also to honor these around the country and the world. I pray the Lord will give all the surviving victims comfort for their loss,” he said.

The rap group Da Conglomerate sang an inspirational piece aimed at a younger audience. The message in the rap was geared to be a public service announcement, according to Steven “Rhashiyd” Zinnamon.

“It means different things to all of us,” said Zinnamon. “It shows the difference in the growth prior to us having insight into our younger selves.”

Others present at the remembrance included James Fox, who teaches yoga at San Quentin, and Sherie McNaulty, a sponsor for the reentry/non-violence self-help program No More Tears.

Fox said that grief is a process that has no time limit and “has a cousin named trauma.” McNaulty agreed. “I think this was good and long overdue,” said McNaulty. “It gives people the freedom to mourn. Sometimes people don’t even know that they have the freedom to mourn.”

Pickering talked about how she became a Mourning Our Losses volunteer. She spoke about lives lost in prisons, jails, juvenile halls and immigration detention facilities.

She said she was concerned after reading

“I never really felt like somebody — until somebody told me I could be somebody — now I’m somebody — who just wants to tell somebody — that you’re somebody — you’re somebody to me,” rapped Williams.

To date, Mourning Our Losses has made about 900 contacts with incarcerated people in 41 states. The organization has 24 incarcerated volunteers who have memorialized more than 250 people. Volunteers come from California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Illinois, Indiana, Louisiana, New York, Pennsylvania, Texas and Virginia. Others come from prisons in Georgia and from the Yale Undergraduate Prison Project.

On stage,Tony deTrinidad dedicates a poem to Eric Warner, a friend whose life was cut prematurely short by the coronavirus: “As a draconic virus engulfs the planet, With no shelter but shelter-in-place, victims fall grasping behind even these prison walls.

Who’s fallen this time?

And, ‘Am I next?’ ”

Phoeun You, SQNews

Send memorial submissions to: Mourning Our Losses P.O. Box 4430 Sunland, CA 91041 Mourning Our Losses P.O. Box 15005 Austin, TX 78761 Website: mourningourlosses.org Email: mourningourlosses@gmail.com

Closer than you think

By Erick Maciel

This painting is intended to depict San Quentin’s health care system during the COVID-19 pandemic.

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CRIMINAL, REVOLUTIONARY, MURDERER, ICON? ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF GEORGE JACKSON’S DEATH, THE ANSWER DEPENDS ON WHO YOU ASK.

BY KEVIN D. SAWYER

22 WALL CITY FALL 2021

ifty years ago, George Jackson, 28, was fatally wounded by a guard at San Quentin State Prison. Today his name, and the story of how he and five others were killed in a single day of violence, continues to reverberate in unsettled opinions throughout the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) and beyond.

No matter whose story is told, August 21, 1971, the day Jackson was killed, is still the CDCR and San Quentin’s bloodiest day. His death at the 169-year-old prison

Illustration by @grazie.arte

ONE YEAR TO LIFE F

Countless prisoners, Blacks in particular, revere Jackson as an author, activist, theoretician, tactician, comrade, political prisoner, voice of resistance, and the symbol of Black manhood; one whose political ideology exists in a perpetual stage of expansion.

The disagreement extends to his death itself: Was he justifiably killed as a hostage taker trying to escape the prison? Or was he murdered? Without question, prisoners and guards were killed. Five decades later the mantras “Black Lives Matter” and “Blue Lives Matter” have dominated public discourse, leaving us as divided as ever, and still no closer to the truth.

Agreement on who Jackson was and what he stood for, and what happened on that day in 1971 and why, may never come. But that may not matter because finally, after decades, many people on both sides of that debate have ultimately recognized Jackson’s essential points: the evils of racism, and the need for prison reform.

Jackson’s death sparked a movement on both sides, creating a confluence, where revolution met rehabilitation, unwittingly.

But it’s still a work in progress.

has been described by the state as an escape attempt went awry. It was a day that also led to the deaths of correctional officers Jere P. Graham, 39, Frank DeLeon, 44, and Paul Krasenes, 52; and prisoners Ronald Kane, 28, and John Lynn, 29.

Jackson’s name generates dissimilar inferences, depending on whose narrative is read. The state’s official police, prosecution, prison and political storylines paint a picture of a criminal, cop killer, gang leader, militant, revolutionary, Black Panther and Marxist-Leninist.

Who Was George Jackson?

In 1960, at the age of 18, George Lester Jackson was unknown to the state prison system and much of the world. He was arrested in Los Angeles as an accomplice in a gas station robbery of $70. Although there was little evidence of his guilt, on the advice of his court-appointed attorney Jackson pleaded guilty to the charge in exchange for a light sentence in county jail. The judge sentenced him to one year to life in state prison, which placed his sentence in the hands of the Adult Authority—the parole board at the time. Jackson spent the next 10 years in prison, seven and a half of those in solitary confinement.

“To me, Jackson was just another inmate,” said Mike Loftin, 74, in an interview for this story. “He was an incarcerated felon.” Loftin was a prison guard who started his career at San Quentin in 1966 and retired after 32 years. He said Jackson was his tier tender in Carson section. “He wasn’t that militant back then. Then they transferred him to Soledad.”

“Jackson first began studying radical political theorists, including Karl Marx and

Frantz Fanon…under the supervision of another African American prisoner, W.L. Nolen, who ran a reading group for prisoners,” Keramet Reiter wrote in her book 23/7: Pelican Bay Prison and the Rise of Long-Term Solitary Confinement. “Nolen, Jackson, and other members of the reading group were ultimately affiliated with the Black Guerrilla Family (BGF), which was founded sometime between 1966 and 1971.

According to its followers, the BGF is a revolutionary political organization; according to prison officials, it is a prison gang.”

While in isolation at Soledad prison, Jackson studied law, history, political theory and other subjects—a common practice among Black prisoners of his era. Jackson led political education classes with other Black prisoners to further their knowledge.

These classes, according to legal scholar Azadeh Zohrabi, led to the formation of the BGF. “I met Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Engels, and Mao when I entered prison, and they redeemed me,” Jackson wrote in his best-selling book, Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson. “I met black guerrillas, George ‘Big Jake’ Lewis, and James Carr, W.L. Nolen, Bill Christmas, Torry Gibson and many, many others.” Their goal was to transform “the black criminal mentality into a black revolutionary mentality,” Jackson wrote. Because of that, he and others were “subjected to years of the most vicious reactionary violence by the state.”

Violence by — and Against — the State At San Quentin, Loftin said, Jackson “wasn’t treated any different than anyone else.” But the former guard also acknowledged, “We didn’t have all that militant stuff going on.” Then came the Black Panther Party, he said.

In January 1970, W.L. Nolen and two other Black prisoners were killed at Soledad by the “notoriously racist correctional officer Opie G. Miller,” Zohrabi wrote in a 2012 publication of the Hastings Race & Poverty Law Journal. After the district attorney declared Nolen’s death “justified homicide,” correctional officer John V. Mills was beaten by prisoners at Soledad and thrown from the third tier in a cellblock on January 16, 1970. Jackson was housed in that block. “Despite the lack of any phys FALL 2021 WALL CITY 23

24 WALL CITY FALL 2021

© The Regents of the University of California. Courtesy Special Collections, University Library, University of California, Santa Cruz, Ruth-Marion Baruch and Pirkle Jones Photographs.

ical evidence, Jackson and two of the prison, which is where receiving and other Black inmates, John Clutchette release was back then. At the time, he was a and Fleeta Drumgo, were indicted for 25-year-old Vietnam War veteran who saw killing Mills,” Zohrabi wrote. combat in Da Nang in 1965 and 1966.

The book If They Come in the “I was one of the youngest guys here at Morning, edited by Angela Davis, that time,” he said in an interview on prison asserts, “Deputy Superintendent Wilgrounds. As Bobby Jackson was waiting to liam Black stated, ‘We believe that the be processed, another prisoner in chains on death of Officer Mills was reprisal for his way to court turned and looked at him. the death of the three Black inmates.’

“We had a connection,” said Jackson.

And, as if to balance some score being “It was like he was saying to me, ‘This is kept, prison officials proceeded to find my last go round,’ like he was saying, ‘I’m three Black suspects who, they said, doing this for you.’ ” That prisoner, Jackson had killed Mills.” said, turned out to be one of the men killed And so began the case of the in the Marin County courthouse incident.

Soledad Brothers. The case and his (He cannot recall whether it was McClain best-selling book brought Jackson or Christmas.) “That was a traumatic time notoriety. Because of the publicity, for me,” he said. “That changed my whole the venue was changed from Montelife; my whole perspective.” rey County, California, where Soledad “That was a turning point,” said Jackson. prison was located, to Marin County.

“I became more conscious of who I was.

The change led to Jackson’s move to I realized I was part of a group—like I’m San Quentin, where he awaited trial in part of this.” He said he was just an ‌exthe prison’s Adjustment Center.

By this time, Jackson had caught AFTER DECADES, MANY PEOPLE ON BOTH SIDES the attention of authorities higher than OF THAT DEBATE HAVE ULTIMATELY RECOGNIZED those who operated California’s prisons. His activities were being tracked JACKSON’S ESSENTIAL POINTS: THE EVILS OF at the national level. Documents RACISM, AND THE NEED FOR PRISON REFORM. released through the Freedom of Information Act reveal FBI Director J. Edgar the order and fired a barrage of bullets into Marine from Santa Ana, California, who’d Hoover was in continuous communication the van. Four men died in the shootout, been sent to Vietnam at age 19. His parents with the Bureau’s field office in San Fran- including young Jonathan and Superior had always taught him to do the right thing. cisco regarding the Soledad Brothers.

Court Judge Harold Haley. Inmates James “I wasn’t really Black conscious,” he said.

McClain and William Christmas were also Jackson said while in Vietnam, two miliA Courthouse Shooting killed. The only prisoner to survive was tary police were looking for another Black Jonathan Jackson was killed in 1970, a Ruchell Cinque Magee, who is in prison, soldier in his tent. The MPs asked him year before his brother, George. At age 17, now in his 58th year. and the other Blacks if they’d seen that the younger Jackson attempted to free his “Understand that San Quentin has a no- “nigger.” Jackson protested the use of that brother from prison. His plan was to free hostage policy,” said Loftin. word and became confrontational. No one other San Quentin prisoners and take hos“To the Man-Child,” George wrote of else supported him or showed solidarity. tages at the Marin County courthouse on his brother in Soledad Brother. “Tall, evil, Instead, they turned their backs on him. He August 7, 1970; and then “negotiate the graceful, bright-eyed, black man-child— said that incident was the reason he could release of his brother,” according to U.C. Jonathan Peter Jackson—who died August relate to the Blacks’ struggle at San QuenBerkeley professor William J. Drummond 7, 1970, courage in one hand, assault rifle tin. “I developed that commonness with the in his book Prison Truth. in the other; my brother, comrade, friend— movement.”

“Armed with three guns registered in the true revolutionary, the Black communist A Fugitive is Caught—and Acquitted the name of author and former UCLA pro- guerrilla in the highest state of development, fessor Angela Y. Davis, Jonathan Jackson he died on the trigger, scourge of the unrighAfter Davis’ alleged role in what some attempted to flee the courtroom after seizing teous, soldier of the people.” have called the Courthouse Slave Rebelthe judge, an assistant district attorney, and lion, “a warrant was issued for her arrest in A Turning Point some jurors.”

California and, as she declined to surrender The Marin County Sheriff gave an order Bobby Jackson (no relation to George), under the circumstances then prevailing, not to fire on the getaway vehicle. How- now 75, arrived at San Quentin on August she was designated as the FBI’s ‘most ever, San Quentin prison guards disregarded 7, 1970. He’d just gotten off a bus in front wanted fugitive,’ ” according to the book

Agents of Repression by Ward Churchill and Jim Vander Wall. “Davis was head of the Soledad Brothers Defense Committee and an increasingly effective spokesperson for the movement as a whole,” they wrote.

Loftin, the former guard, believes Davis, an outspoken member of the Communist Party, had a big influence on George Jackson. “She’s the one who got in his head,” Loftin said.

She was apprehended two months later in New York City, and faced charges that, for a time, could have sent her to the gas chamber. (According to a New York Times report, Davis was granted bail in February 1972, five days after the Supreme Court ruled the death penalty unconstitutional.)

The call by millions around the world went out to “Free Angela Davis Now!” On June 4, 1972, she was acquitted of all charges.

The courthouse incident may have foretold George Jackson’s demise. In his final book, Blood in My Eye, published posthumously, he wrote: “I’m in a unique political position. I have a very nearly closed future, and since I have always been inclined to get disturbed over organized injustice or terrorist practice against the innocents— wherever—I can now say just about what I want (I’ve always done just about that), without fear or self-exposure. I can only be executed once.”

Photo courtesy of Mike Loftin

Another Violent Day Two days before George Jackson’s trial for the killing of Mills at Soledad prison, he was shot and killed by a guard in a gun tower inside San Quentin for allegedly using a gun and trying to escape.

Jackson’s controversial death, and the other killings 50 years ago, rocked guards and prisoners at San Quentin. Bobby Jackson was housed in San Quentin’s Donner section. He recalled his housing assignment on the fifth tier in cell 5-D-46. “I’d just left the old hospital,” he said. “All kinds of confusion was going on. Everybody knew something was going on.” He said a local radio station broadcast the news about something happening at San Quentin.

Bobby Jackson said the night following George Jackson’s killing, everybody was talking about it, “especially the Blacks.” He remembers San Quentin was locked down for about two and a half weeks. “It was like

the world was ending.” There was talk of retaliation among every group on the yard (Blacks, Whites and Mexicans).

History can sometimes overlook the fact that three officers were murdered the day Jackson was killed. But the names Graham, DeLeon and Krasenes have not been forgotten.

Robert Ayers Jr. “I knew Frank DeLeon well,” former San Quentin warden Robert Ayers Jr. wrote in an email for this story. Ayers began his career as a correctional officer with the then California Department of Corrections on January 24, 1968. Decades later he became warden.

When he worked as a rank-and-file officer, he knew all the staff who were killed. Of DeLeon, Ayers wrote, “We worked together frequently in Visiting, on the Main Yard, and in housing units.” His contact with Paul Krasenes was limited. “My memory of him is he was a somewhat gruff ‘old timer.’ I also had limited contact with Jere Graham.

My only real recollection of him is his nickname was ‘Barabbas.’ ” Ayers wrote that when the violence took place in the AC, “I had just returned home from (Army Reserve) annual training that day and heard the news on TV that afternoon. I went to San Quentin Sunday to do what I could. The Watch Sergeant said he didn’t know if he could pay me, but I insisted on working…To this day I still don’t know if I got paid.”

Conflicting Perspectives “Jere Graham was my best friend,” said Loftin. “I was sitting at a bar in downtown San Rafael, awaiting for Jere to get off work so I could have a beer with him.” Loftin said he was at the Gold Clown bar when his father, who was a watch commander at San Quentin, called there to tell him Graham was dead, and to stay there.

At the time, Loftin said he felt “anger.”

Hearing the news about his friend, “I had a few more beers. I had no idea what was even going on. It wasn’t until later that I found out. Several guards had their throats cut.”

At least one survived. CDCR records show that DeLeon was shot. Loftin said Sergeant McCray, who worked in the Adjustment Center, played dead in order to survive.

“I worked for Sgt. Ken McCray in the

hospital and in the East Block,” Ayers wrote.

Watani Stiner had a different view of the day. Stiner was convicted for conspiracy to commit murder of Black Panthers Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter and Jonathan Huggins at UCLA in 1969. He was incarcerated at San Quentin and recalled the day of Jackson’s death in 1971.

Stiner was 23 years old at the time. “I was conversing with a small group on the upper yard, under the shed near the North Block chow hall,” Stiner wrote in an email for this story. “We were discussing a recently released film, Shaft.

“We heard two shots followed by a series of whistles,” Stiner wrote. “While standing under the upper yard shed, just outside the north block chow hall, I saw someone running down the ramp near the Adjustment Center.”

Loftin, the guard, noted, “Back in the day, all we had were whistles.”

Stiner recalled a chaotic scene. “Guards were running all around, down to the lower yard and toward the AC building. Several guards quickly lined the gun rail and aimed their rifles down on us,” Stiner said. “They were screaming: ‘Bury your faces in the ground or get shot — NOW!’ ” Of that fateful day, Stiner wrote, “Guards

Former guard Loftin: “All we had were whistles.”

rounded up every prisoner they classified and thought to be a ‘Black revolutionary.’”

Stiner was a member of the US organization, considered by some as rivals of the Black Panther Party. “We were immediately placed in the ‘hole’ (anywhere from six to 18 months).”

“In the prison system we were seeing a FALL 2021 WALL CITY 25

The Killing of George Jackson George Jackson was shot outside San Quentin’s Adjustment Center. He is alleged to have possessed a gun. Prison officials maintain the weapon and a wig were smuggled into the prison for Jackson by his civil attorney, Stephen Bingham, who brought legal papers in for his client to review.

Prisoners had control of the AC when Lieutenant Dick Nelson arrived on his day off. “He took a weapon onto San Quentin grounds to take back the AC,” said Loftin.

It was said to be a Thompson submachine gun, “just to let them know he was there and serious.”

According to Loftin, the prisoners yelled, “We’ve got hostages.” But Nelson “let out another burst” from the Tommy gun, Loftin said. “If San Quentin ever had a hero, it was Dick Nelson.”

“It was something I had to do,” Nelson said in a 2020 Inside CDCR interview, posted on the department’s website. “I still honor and recognize the correctional officer who walks the cell block (and) walks into danger every day. Those young men and women…are the real heroes in this business. I take pride in defending and protecting the line officer…That’s how I’d like to be remembered.”

26 WALL CITY FALL 2021

“Nothing but Turmoil” “I don’t believe that (George Jackson) had a gun concealed in his hair,” said Gerard Trent Jr., 76. Now in his 51st year of continuous incarceration, he arrived at San Quentin on April 11, 1971, nearly four months before the killings. “Also, I have never met anyone that even thought it was possible for him to do so.”

Trent said he was on the upper yard in front of the canteen when he and other prisoners were all told to get down when they heard gunshots. “That was a time when gunshots seemed routine,” he said. “For a while, days, there was nothing but turmoil.

“The general thought and feelings were George had been executed, and the inmate

memory. “After the incident, the convicts were on their best behavior because they knew we were pissed off,” said Loftin. He said guards tore up cells. “Someone could have said good morning, and if it was taken the wrong way—” He let the words hang, indicating a potentially dire confrontation.

Ayers concurred. “My memories of the week or so immediately following 8/21 are a bit haunting,” he wrote. “Staff took out their anger on virtually all inmates.” Retaliatory cell searches were routine. “When inmates questioned why their property was being thrown away they were unceremoniously taken to (the hole).” He wrote about feeling “quite guilty” for how he treated several prisoners. To remedy the role he played in

THROUGH OUR DEAD, WE’RE WARNED THAT EACH OF US HAS BEEN CHARGED WITH THE RESPONSIBILITY TO OBSERVE OUR PAST TRANSGRESSIONS, AND EACH OTHER’S. the retribution, Ayers attended their disciplinary hearings “and told the committee (which) inmate didn’t do anything wrong and shouldn’t suffer any consequences.”

Trent wants to remember George Jackson as a powerful advocate for Black people—a courageous stance that brought him powerful enemies.

“We should never lose sight of who George Jackson was as a man,” Trent said.

“Because, when it’s all said and done, the belief and evidence is conclusive, that he fiercely loved his people; and that his people could one day enjoy the freedoms that others notably enjoy. That made George a thorn in the side of many that extended all the way to the office of the U.S. FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover.”

An “Astonishing” Refusal Stephen Bingham, who repreJackson at San Quentin in 1970. In less sented Jackson in a civil suit against than a year, he would be dead. the then-CDC, is probably the last civilian to see George Jackson alive. population began to brace themselves for Bingham was accused of smuggling a the retaliation that everyone knew was 9mm Astra pistol into the prison for Jackcoming,” said Trent. “Let me be clear, the son. “No, I didn’t,” Bingham told the San majority of guards were not taking part in Francisco Chronicle in 2001. “It seems to the executing of that violence against some me there were enough guns floating around (prisoners).” the Adjustment Center that there was no Loftin, the former guard, has a similar particular need for one more.”

© The Regents of the University of California. Courtesy Special Collections, University Library, University of California, Santa Cruz, Ruth-Marion Baruch and Pirkle Jones Photographs.

rise in Black inmates viewing themselves as ‘political prisoners,’ a view fostered and supported by activists in the community,” Ayers wrote. “I recall a great deal of distrust between many staff and Black inmates.

There had been several fatal assaults on staff throughout CDC.” Ayers wrote that immediately following August 21, several of the prison’s staff resigned but some returned to work after a few days. “Their issue was rage rather than fear.”

“At the time,” Stiner wrote, “I equated Jackson’s struggle, sacrifice and his martyrdom in the same category as Nat Turner,” a slave who led a revolt 140 years earlier.

Their rebellions had a coincidental starting point: August 21, 1971 for Jackson and August 21, 1831, for Turner. “Jackson (in my mind at the time) was a defiant revolutionary killed on the prison plantation,” Stiner added. “There were chants in the hole: ‘The dragon is free!’ And ‘Funerals on both sides.’ ”

© Dennis Morris

Like Angela Davis a year earlier, Bingham went into hiding and eventually left the United States, after a grand jury indicted him on two counts of murder and one charge of conspiracy. Unlike Davis, who remained a fugitive for barely two months, Bingham lived in Europe for more than a decade before returning to the United States to stand trial, which lasted three months.

“I was acquitted in 1986,” Bingham wrote in an email for this story, adding it is “an acquittal which San Quentin officials astonishingly continue to refuse to recognize in their official SQ publications.”

Trent reiterated that he doesn’t believe the gun allegation ascribed to Bingham.

“Neither did a jury of his peers,” he said, “because Mr. Bingham was found ‘not guilty’ on all charges.”

Loftin, the former guard, feels Bingham should not have been acquitted, putting the blame on liberal Marin County. “If you were going to go to trial, Marin County was the place to go,” said Loftin. “I, once again, was under the impression that the justice system failed.”

George Jackson’s Legacy For 50 years, the state has maintained its version of the accounts on how and why George Jackson was killed. It’s an unambiguous story that blames Bingham and Jackson, but assigns the state and the prison no responsibility. The account contravenes other history.

Given such recalcitrance, there remain two sides to this story about what happened on August 21, 1971. Proponents of each version have not yielded or found common ground. Yet the events of that day still reverberate. And they may finally be helping guide the system to the positive changes so long desired.

“George Jackson, perhaps even more in his death than when he was alive, was a critical spark in the struggle for the Nation’s conscience that led to shining a spotlight on the enormous defects with our criminal justice system and the positive changes which have followed,” Bingham wrote. “Faced with severe challenges after the killing of George on August 21, 1971, and the killings soon after at Attica, the prisoner rights movement has since come back stronger than ever, as evidenced by: the strength

George Jackson’s death at San Quentin led to a demonstration in London’s Grosvenor Square in 1971.

of Critical Resistance; the 2013 hunger strike at Pelican Bay which led to a lawsuit resulting in severe restrictions on CDCR’s power to arbitrarily put people in solitary confinement; numerous judicial decisions finding prison conditions unconstitutional; the erosion of support for the death penalty, as states continue to abolish it; the strengthening of the restorative justice movement; and the remarkable election of progressive prosecutors.”

George Jackson’s death certainly echoed in 2020, when Minneapolis police killed George Floyd, bringing renewed attention to the problems of racism and nationwide protests that have wrought many more changes.

“The late ’60s and early ’70s was a volatile period,” wrote Ayers. Citing the Vietnam War, rising racial consciousness and tension, and political turmoil, he wrote, “It was like present day USA.” In 1951, San Quentin warden Clinton T. Duffy wrote in his book, The San Quentin Story, that “San Quentin is still a prison. Its men are prisoners, controlled, locked up, stripped of their rights as citizens, doing time to pay their debt. Confinement in itself is punishment, whether for a day or forever, but California’s Department of Corrections feels that confinement need not be without hope, or the chance to remake shattered lives.”

Somewhere along the way, that idealistic notion dissipated. Hopelessness set

in among many prisoners. Nevertheless, changes have taken place and San Quentin seems to be finding its way back to Duffy’s belief.

Through our dead, we’re warned that each of us has been charged with the responsibility to observe our past transgressions, and each other’s. Today, with all its infamy, San Quentin is no longer the violent penitentiary that many people dredge up from its past.

In the garden chapel area where staff and visitors enter the prison, the American flag flies at a constant half-staff, near the memorial to 10 fallen officers—three of whom fell on that notorious day some prisoners call “Black August.”

And just beyond that area, around a corner on the interfaith chapel, there is a worn-out light from the past that has not been replaced with the others that align the building. Prison folklore has it that Jackson died in that spot.

Fifty years after its bloodiest day, San Quentin is the CDCR’s flagship prison for inmate rehabilitation. Today it vaunts dozens of self-help groups and programs, educational and college courses, vocational training, and more. And every year correctional staff and thousands of outside volunteers come inside the prison from surrounding communities to help men return to their humanity and to the democratic social order on the other side of the wall, hopefully better than they were when they left.

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The Native Hawaiian Religious Group’s mission is to connect the Asian Pacific Islanders (API) community within San Quentin to their spiritual and cultural roots.

Resurgence of the Native Hawaiians Reclaiming their traditions and cultural identity

By Anthony Manuel Caravalho

T

28 WALL CITY FALL 2021

and drug usage at home, I believe Hawaii can be more than a tourist attraction. To me, it all starts with a willingness to encourage people to be and do more by leading.”

The San Quentin Native Hawaiians and members of the AAPI community together make up the NHRG. The group assists in the rehabilitation of the incarcerated men.

The group’s mission is helping participants connect with their roots and culture through traditional dance and chants, while encouraging a spiritual journey. Some of the men were disconnected from their culture before incarceration. As a result, they gravitated towards gangs, drugs and violence. Through the NHRG these men are able to hold them-

Eddie Herena, SQNews

he Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) prison population in the U.S. skyrocketed 250 percent in the 1990s, while the country’s overall prison population grew by only 77 percent. AAPI is now counted within a group called “Others” by the prison tracking system. Among “Others” released from state prisons across this country in 2005, the recidivism rate for the AAPI community is sobering. Seventy-two percent were arrested for another crime within three years. For the AAPIs that return to San Quentin’ there is hope through

spiritual services called the Native Hawaiian Religious Group (NHRG).

In San Quentin, one of the few remaining native Hawaiians is perched in his cell, meditating and reading about returning to the place he now understands is his home — Hawaii. Travis Vales, 28 years old, has his sights set on returning to the Islands, “to go home,” after his prison term is complete.

“Being at San Quentin has allowed me to touch my familial roots like I would never have done on the streets. Now, I want to utilize my knowledge and skills to provide affordable housing, and to teach basic work skills and money management. If I can assist in fighting the epidemic of homelessness

Eddie Herena, SQNews

selves accountable and take responsibility for their actions. Unfortunately, the NHRG has been on a year and a half absence due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

When the NHRG resumes, Vales will have an opportunity to study his culture, which he believes will make him “one with the earth and all of its peaceful aspects.” He continued, “I pray I can be touched by the spiritual teachings of Kumu Patrick Makuakāne, the way my incarcerated brothers here before me were touched. I can look forward to seeing my family come in to watch me perform in this holy ritual.”

Kumu Patrick Makuakāne, a spiritual leader, is the cultural anchor of San Quentin’s NHRG and is assisted by Adel “Auntie Adel” Serafino and Jun “Auntie Jun” Hamamato. Their goal is to build a bridge between the outside local AAPI community and the incarcerated AAPI community. Adel teaches ukulele. Hamamoto teaches origami classes.

History of the AAPI struggles The economic boom of American and Japanese commercialism, both before and after WWII, diminished the footprint of native Hawaiian tribes. Today they are a shadow of what they were. Since 1918, when Queen Lili‘uokalani exchanged Hawaiian sovereignty for a paltry sum of money, Hawaiians have seen their homeland gentrified and their native identity fade.

As was the experience of natives on the mainland whose land was incorporated into the United States, Hawaiian native culture became blended with the mainland’s White, European-rooted culture. This relationship led to an erosion of native cultural values.

As investments from the mainland accelerated following WWII, including a building boom in the '70s and '80s, the “progress” that it represented was never fully shared by the native people whose culture contributed so much to the appeal of the islands. Don Ho’s Tiny Bubbles thrived, as the island culture became merely a tool to promote tourism. Pacific Islanders believe that they have witnessed the destruction of their communities and now are contemplating reparations.

“To my knowledge the Homestead program and an educational grant are the only reparations currently available — I hope to help change that. For my family’s just rewards, I intend to take advantage of the

The men of Native Hawaiian Religious Group practiced traditional dances to keep traditions alive. For more about NHRG log on to www.naleihulu.org.

Adel Serafino entertained the audience with songs “Blue Hawaii” and “Aloha ‘Oe.” Behind her, enjoying the music, is NHRG’s spiritual leader Kumu Patrick Makuakāne.

reparations currently in place. I believe the state program supports native Hawaiian ownership of land and property if you are at least 50% legitimate — if DNA proves me legit,” Vales said. “Unfortunately, the current Homestead program gives land to those

eligible, but the land is underdeveloped for the next 20 years and one must pay one dollar per year for property tax. Essentially this delays real ownership rights until my next generation, when we can actually build.”

Native Frankie Sierra added, “I am not FALL 2021 WALL CITY 29

Members of the Native Hawaiian Religious Group. Top row from left to right: Jimmy Vue, Harold Meeks, Kumu Patrick Makuakāne, Tith Ton, Alladin Pangilinan, William Tupou. Center row: Adel Serafino, Mua Vue, Louis Sale. Bottom row: Derrick Kaulapai, Neil Prudente, Chanthon Bun and Jerome Hermosura.

30 WALL CITY FALL 2021

in this case the propaganda of America. Because of this, people aren’t aware of how my homeland and our culture became part of the United States.”

Following Queen Lili‘uokalani’s forced submission to the United States in 1893, a failed 1895 insurrection led to her arrest for treason, and her detainment under house arrest in her own palace. In protest, Lili‘uokalani declined an invitation to watch the annexation ceremony as Hawaii was officially absorbed by the United States in 1898. For the rest of her life, the deposed queen fought to preserve native Hawaiian rights and traditions.

As Hawaii became a territory, the U.S. penal system was brought to the islands. Reports by The Department of Justice’s Bureau of Justice Statistics and the Amerasian Journal provide the following details about the impact of the system:  Native Hawaiians disproportionately impact the U.S. prison system and

share in the statistic that, in this country, Native youth, which are only 1% of the total national youth population, account for 70% of youth taken into federal custody  Native Hawaiians make up 24% of Hawaii’s population yet account for 39% of its incarcerated population  Native American women are incarcerated at six times the rate of White women  Native American men are incarcerated at four times the rate of White men The Makahiki Celebration “Makahiki originated hundreds of years ago during a three-month moratorium agreed to by all Pacific Island cultures during their ancient and historical cultural battles. All warring parties agreed on this cease-fire to allow their warriors time to reflect, replenish and celebrate life,” said Makuakāne, who reminded us that the assault on the islands

Eddie Herena, SQNews

100 percent pure Hawaiian and am called a Howlie by my people, yet I know my Great Aunt Lu who is still alive and has 11 children, speaks generationally for my family,” He continued, “I would love to go back to my country, now that I understand the history of my native country. Yes, we were a country — and it was stolen from us. In the age of amends to races, where people have grown away from tradition, I pray our heritage is not forgotten at the time of reparations.”

Vales’ attitude toward America’s takeover of Hawaii is peaceful and passive. He believes that although Hawaii’s traditional ways are forgotten or deemed obsolete by the White man, Hawaii’s culture has not become extinct; instead it has morphed and adapted to survive — even if by a thread.

But Vales also assumes the stance of a peaceful warrior, stating, “Like all conquerors in war, the worst of the war is always overlooked and hidden by propaganda —

Eddie Herena, SQNews

was not just on the people, but on the environment as well. He also spoke of environmental protections in Hawaii to thwart over-development in the tropical paradise, adding, “If we come together as a community and think as one, there is so much more that we can do.”

Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, October 2019 was the last time the NHRG was able to celebrate the feast and, more importantly, conduct services throughout the year. Native Louis Sale reflected on the importance of the healing that happens in the group. Sale, who performed a solo at the last Makahiki, had five family members drive from San Diego to see how his hard work paid off.

“I’ve been to a lot of prisons and there is nothing like San Quentin,” Sale’s wife said.

“We are thankful they instill our culture deeper into our men. This program shows that the miracle of rehabilitation includes interacting and healing with and through family, even in a land that may not be considered paradise. Here, it’s all about family and community.” The family members lovingly called themselves “Louie’s masters.” The show had a relaxing Polynesian feel. They were amazed.

Moving forward with purpose The AAPI incarcerated culture’s reemergence is assisted through the hard work of NHRG and support from the Asian Prisoner Support Committee (APSC). Supporters like Ngheip Ke Lam have returned to help the incarcerated AAPI community in San Quentin and Solano state prisons transition back to society. As a formerly incarcerated man, Lam understands their transitional needs, and can assist them in their transition.

He works for Oakland’s chapter of the Asian Prisoner Support Committee (APSC). This is an important part of their cultural revival.

The men of NHRG can take what they’ve learned to help teach their families, children and the community their traditional roots and cultural values. Through the NHRG, men like Vales, Sale, and Sierra learn about the “Kealapono” — the righteous path — and adapt its principles into their daily lives.

Sale adds, “It’s beyond learning about Kealapono; it’s living and breathing it in all aspects of our lives. I intend to give back to my family and the community because it’s the Kealapono way.”

It’s beyond learning about Kealapono, its living and breathing it in all aspects of our lives.

–Louis Sale

NHRG member Louis Sale described the history of a traditional dance before performing.

In 2019, during the last Makahiki ceremony, Nā Lei Hulu I Ka Wēkiu dancers from the Bay Area collaborated with the NHRG and performed traditional dances to honor traditions and pay homage to their ancestors.

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