The mainline yard that I walk through every day is a big open area surrounded by a landscape of hills and a stoic Mt. Tam guarding the blue sky. On any given day there are men playing basketball, running around the track, playing cards or doing exercises to maintain their already perfectly buff bodies. It’s by no means a walk in the park, but I think a few hours of fresh air and exercise provides a mental escape that perhaps allows their souls to breathe.
The men who are in “solitary” at San Quentin are separated from other inmates as punishment or because it may put them in a dangerous situation. Inmates have attacked and killed other inmates using a handmade weapons called a shiv, and I’ve been told that some prisoners hire others to act as their bodyguard.
The inmates on death row or in the SHU (security housing units) are confined to the outdoors in a much smaller area fenced in with barbed wire with ample views of all the dankness a penitentiary has to offer. The space itself is no bigger than a basketball court and crams in dozens of inmates at a time for short periods of time.
Enclosed in yet another enclosed space, is an area that looks like a kennel inside a huge tent inside a locked gate and more razor wire. This is the area where the men who don’t play well with others get to exercise a couple of hours a few days a week. The day I walk through, none of the men that I see in the cages are doing much more than sitting next to the side of their cage conversing with another inmate in his cage. They are talking.
I miss talking to people. We have lost the art of staying in touch by bombarding digital deluges of insignificant information on others. I call Facebook ego book. It’s a faceless fact-less fakebook which offers one more way of disconnecting ourselves from reality. (Of course it does have its place, and while I don't use it to post very often, I do find that links to articles and events are useful.)
A conversation, just to remind you, isn’t really accomplished by what amounts to a three-sentence soundbite with hours between responses and a thread that tangles more than sorts through a discussion. Ask the men in San Quentin if they would rather sit in their cells and text someone or talk to them in person.
I walk by a man standing perfectly still in his exercise cage and with a vacant blank stare that scares me. He is no longer there. I wonder when the last time was he had a conversation with anyone or if in fact, if he ever talks at all. I wonder if he ever had parents that loved him or what damaged him to the point that he committed whatever crime he was in for. If he could ever speak for himself.
It’s ironic that having the freedom to actually talk to someone anytime in practically any place in the world, we resort to leaving a digital sticky not on a screen. Our smartphones are an appendage we feel lost without having on our person at all times. Yes, I text and it’s convenient and has its place. But that place is not to replace the mantra we use with our kids at an early age – use your words.
My girlfriend just had knee surgery followed by a cough and cold she caught on a bad vacation. She returned home early with stomach problems that sent her to the Doctor. After a few texts about the lousy weather and not being able to hike because of recovering from surgery and going to the doctor today – I called her. After catching up on the snippets of her health and aborted vacation, we dive into a much deeper discussion that could surface only through the labyrinth of conversation.
We weave through the basic disgruntlement of getting older, and why does it seem that intelligent creative people seem to be the demographic for depression. This leads to how men seem to take aging in their stride and a lengthier discussion about how the adamant eve has taken a bite out of our looks and why it matters so much. I’m not sure how we segued to talking about her grandson, but all roads lead to phone. I feel fuller and closer to her after we speak, something that digital discussions leave dry.
Like many people, I have a love hate relationship with technology. I have been fired by email, and years ago a man broke up with me on my birthday affirming how easy it was to delete me from his life in so many zero’s and one’s. I have learned about a friend’s husband’s death, that my oldest and closest girlfriend made a visit to my ex-husband in South America (and neglected to tell me), and that Sally’s husband makes an outstanding lemon meringue pie; all through the wonder of social media.
As I walk by the basketball court, an inmate stops the game so the basketball won’t hit me. A few of the men recognize me and wave and some others smile and say thanks for coming in. I know my being there is appreciated not just because it shows that even though the public may perceive them as monsters, I am there to listen to them, to talk to them - and in a very obscure way – be their voice.
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