November 20th was San Quentin's Transgender Day of Remembrance. I had planned to go hiking with my girlfriend Cindy that day but she understood my last-minute change of plans as I’d just returned from a week in New York, and she knew it was important to me that I show up to support them.
It may sound strange to say I missed prison but working at San Quentin has consumed most of my time for well over a year and I was invested in what I was doing. I don’t have relationships with the staff or correctional officers, but I finally felt acknowledged by a few of them. (I used to wonder what kind of person would be a prison guard, and have since realized this is another mistaken assumption people have about prison – guards aren't monsters either.)
I felt that twinge I always get when I walk into San Quentin; the juxtaposition of Mt. Tam, the sparkling bay, crisp fresh air and the colors of the autumn leaves that couldn't be contained by barbed wire. I was free as a bird which imposed a moment of guilt every time the bars clanged behind me because of course I could leave.
I knew there were talented people inside; poets, actors, writers, musicians. Some would be performing at the event, in particular an inmate J who also worked at the media center. I went in early so I could assist with video production if needed.
I walk to the media center past familiar faces of men in the yard, and even though we don’t have conversations there are nods and waves and comments: “Thanks for coming in”, “We appreciate your time”, "Nice to see you again". I would like to stop and listen to the guys playing guitar on the yard or pick up the basketball that inevitably rolls by my feet as I walk past the court but I know this is out of bounds.
Boundaries in prison are obviously taken very seriously and for good reason. And if ever I needed to keep my friendly open nature and witty repartee in check, it was when I was in San Quentin. I took note when one of the inmates responded to my concern over my sense of humor by citing a lesson he learned early on. “Be who you are, but remember where you are”. It becomes my refrain.
We lug the cameras and assorted equipment over to the chapel where the event is taking place. A mash-up of inmates with tattoos, ponytails, and different degrees of interest in the days proceedings join volunteers, staff, medical workers and visitors. Someone says Senator Weiner will be there. A line of inmate's parade into the chapel holding signs that read “We will never forget”. I feel a sense of pride that I've been allowed to witness such a personal and private glimpse into the lives of inmates who suffer an entirely different tier of imprisonment. Today, they could remember who they were.
I was already in a melancholy mood when J sat down at the piano and proceeded to sing an original song. For me a great song is when the melody transposes the listener into this ethereal space that can supersede remembering where you are. In other words, I was transported not just by the lyrics but by the entire experience and it literally brought me to tears.
The energy in the room came to a crescendo and J received a standing ovation. I needed to leave but first I wanted to let J know how much the day and his singing meant to me. I walked over to where he was standing amongst a group of others to tell him how moved I was and said goodbye.
A guard followed me out and my first thought was that she was bringing me some Kleenex. This was not the case. She took out her note pad and wrote down my name and informed me that both J and I were being written up for “over-familiarity”. I was truly shocked. Perhaps I had touched him to get his attention or maybe he briefly touched my arm but it didn’t register with me at all.
And just like that the gorgeous day, the moving song, my sense of purpose coming to San Quentin, came crashing down. I had a visceral reaction, feeling scared and totally powerless. Of being wrongly accused, not being able to defend myself or explain the circumstances (not that it mattered) and in that moment who I knew, how much money I had were insignificant. I was being pulled over by a cop who had all the cards. They were armed with batons and weapons and tear gas and handcuffs dangled down their backs. I shuffled out of prison that day shaken with the profound experience of what many of these men had felt and feared a good part of their lives.
The table were turned. Me and J were the white guys and she was a cop of color. And the only thing that mattered to me at that moment was what would happen to J who would be written up for my not remembering where I was. I had let down my guard.
I signed out and as I walked back past the chapel I saw that the guard had pulled J outside and while I don’t know what she was saying, I could only imagine how the applause he received earlier was being thwarted by the reprimand I had imposed.
I was vaguely aware of the point system but have no idea if this will affect the timing of J's parole hearing or length of his sentence or being able to continue working at the media center.
Word will get out and I will have a Scarlet Letter and have to sensor myself to a point where the very reason I am there, to spread some humanity to inhuman conditions, will be in check. It is, so unfair. Yeah.
If I am allowed to return I shall have to remember to restrain my every move. The cadence will be reiterated until it’s ingrained in every move I make: Remember where you are, Ginnie, remember where you are.
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