I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I worked next to David Jassy in the radio room at the San Quentin media center. A professional musician, a composer, who made a fatal mistake one night in Los Angeles when anger got the better of him.
After eleven years behind bars, he was commuted a couple of weeks ago. I believe he was going home to Sweden to see his son who was only eleven years old when he last saw him. He worked with the younger incarcerated men in a music program at San Quentin and composed music for the popular podcast, Ear Hustle, and was very much respected on the inside. His commutation signed by Governor Gavin Newsom said, “He is a valued member of the music program among his fellow inmates and continues to support and encourage those around him whether through his music or personal conduct.”
For a year or so I sat adjacent to him in the media center, but he was in his own world and kept to himself which was easy because his headphones acted as a buffer. We barely spoke to one another and I wondered how much he was listening to some of the conversations I was having with other prisoners. I wanted to share some of the stories of my past life as a musician with him, but it was not going to happen.
Most of the men I meet at San Quentin are eager to talk and with good reason. For one, I’m a woman. I’m also intensely interested, and I listen. But Jassy’s personae was different. He would sit in front of the keyboard and every now and then I was privy to the strokes that were interpreting whatever was going on in this man’s head. Music, the great escape.
Prisoners disappear. They get transferred to other prisons, they get put into isolation or stop coming to the media center and in the best of all cases get paroled. Those of us who volunteer don’t always know when this will happen or where they go. Even though we’re not supposed to care about the men, they matter to us. Why else would we be there?
A few days before everyone was put on lockdown, I was inside telling one of the men that I had heard they might parole some men early. I knew they were scared of the virus because they told me that they were in the worst possible position which of course proved to be true. We all had to stay away, nothing new for them.
My husband just had a granddaughter we’ve yet to meet. I’ve missed my own grandsons crawling and might miss his first few steps as well. I literally had my bags packed and was on my way to New York to visit my ninety-five-year-old Mom who had fallen the day the shutdown was put in place. You can’t say goodbye you can’t even say hello.
It’s been rough but I’m fortunate; can’t complain but then I can’t ignore how much this sucks either. I do miss seeing the men at San Quentin, and it sounds strange to tell people I miss going to prison. But I do.
I’ve asked prisoners if they think there’s anything they would miss about San Quentin when they got out. Some admit they have it better in prison then they would in a world that was foreign to them; with no family or place to go or chance of employment. They have medical care and food and without any other family ties or friends on the outside, they have a sense of belonging, for what it’s worth. San Quentin has a low recidivism rate and from what I’ve observed a good number of men leave and make the world a better place.
I’m in a bad demographic for the pandemic and recent health issues with my husband resulted in our being tested. (For perhaps the first time ever, Trump told the truth when he reported that the swab up the nose is extremely unpleasant.) COVID free, I thought I was a step closer to seeing my grandkids until I get a call that someone was around someone who tested positive.
As weeks turn to months, tempers grow short. I get mad at my husband. So mad that I want to jump in my car and drive to my girlfriend’s house on the beach. I can’t leave. It’s reminiscent of the time I had a snafu with one of the prisoners and was crying and wanted to run away – but I couldn’t. I couldn't leave without going through security checkpoints and guards who would question my state of mind and have me explain what happened (which was totally innocuous).
It is so absolutely wonderful to think that Jassy is now free. I think maybe his Facebook page will give me a clue but content tracing is not entirely accurate either. So wherever you are, goodbye, and hello to your new life. Your music has no doubt been your salvation. I’ll be listening.
Comments