A week or so before Christmas San Quentin was on a long lockdown.
I wondered how the guys were doing and felt that pang I often get when I'm enjoying a gorgeous day going shopping while the men are confined to cells about the size of a parking space. I'm inside a Banana Republic (a fitting name) outlet store when my phone alerts me San Quentin is calling. The lockdown is finally over. Can I come in?
"Uh, sure I guess - give me about half an hour to get there." I head to my car and then realize I’m wearing blue jeans which is against the dress code, so I go back to the store and buy a pair of gray pants. (I love a good excuse to buy myself something.)
It’s one of those days when the fog gets caught over the bay undecided which direction to take. I've been told heavy fog days pose a problem and the men can’t hang out at the mainline because the visibility is so poor. I park in the visitor lot, walk through the first checkpoint and proceed to the second gate to sign in. The third checkpoint is the heavy duty - I'm not kidding around this is a prison - gate which opens to a holding area where you're basically in jail until the guard clicks open the next gate. After the exaggerated clank of this last iron gate closes, I am free to enter prison.
The upper yard is peaceful enough. There are flowers and to the right several chapels, the infirmary straight ahead, and to the left, the adjustment center which is death row (that’s quite an adjustment.) I walk down the hill around the corner to the mainline and shades of blue, the scrubs that are their uniforms. A correctional officer is leading a dozen or so men in orange suits (newbies). I've been told not to look at them so I keep my eyes on the basketball court that I’ll cross to get to the education center for the final sign-in.
Since I’ve been walking across the yard for about eight months, some of the men recognize me and start a conversation. Volunteers have been cautioned to not "over-familiarize" with any of the inmates and I'm
supposed to keep my head down and not talk to them which is really, really difficult because anybody that knows me will tell you I engage in conversations with absolutely everyone.
I have my sunglasses on and my long-hair shielding my face and it seems strange because it's like I'm kinda hiding myself in prison. I can't help but wonder what some of the inmates think about this white gal strolling across their basketball court. Once the ball rolled my way and I wanted to pick it up and take a shot, but my good sense actually kicked in and I kept walking.
There are lines around certain areas that say, "Out of Bounds" and at first I'm unclear if I should be walking inside the lane or outside it or if it only applies to prisoners. It is about a ten minute walk and watching the men who seem to be in training lifting weights, doing push-ups and laps - remind me I really should exercise. Prison is a learning experience with a different set of rules and a language I'm slowly getting familiar with.
What I have learned so far, is that they have an outstanding rehabilitation program. There are politics, there are stories, there are rumors and injustices and suicides and all the kind of stuff that goes on in the outside world. I often have to remind myself where I am but I am never, ever scared.
I told Al that in some ways I feel safer here than on the outside. I relate the story of an anti-semite who was yelling at me while I was walking my dog (my dog, by the way is an atheist). And the crazy guy in a BMW chasing me down the road because he cut me off.
They watch the news and discuss terrorist attacks and immigration and the general state of affairs. And I can tell you this - a lot of the men I talk to seem a lot more sane than the people I meet on the outside.
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