San Quentin- and there was light

One of the inmate phones from the media center to find out if I’ll be coming to San Quentin today. I tell him Marin County is still on lockdown. To be clear, it is self-imposed because while there are no guards or locks restricting me from going out – the fact that our electricity has been turned off for five days presents problems. The Kincaid fire is causing evacuations and PG&E is shutting off the power in different areas around northern California. Driving is an issue because you can’t get gas and the traffic lights don’t work and there are only a couple of grocery stores open where long lines of nervous people fill carts with ice and non-perishable items.

Smartphones that still have a charge alert that the air quality is extremely bad and advise not going out. And since all the stores are closed you can’t go to a movie or hang out at the local coffee shop or go to whatever appointment you had booked weeks ago.

San Quentin is one of the only places in the county that has power and while it’s not exactly trading places, the irony does not escape me.

On the outside, we wait in a state of limbo not knowing how long we’ll be without electricity as high winds blow a blanket of ash over everything. We make do eating canned food and toss out the cheese and pate we were saving for the weekend. The chardonnay is not cold. Without stoves or microwaves, we improvise making simple dishes. ( I think of the men in prison who have learned the art of meal preparation with a bare minimum of supplies and make a note to ask for some recipes when I go back.)

On the outside, we were getting a taste of what it was like to be without. PG&E officers would dictate when the lights would go back on and subsequently when we will be free to travel, dine, shop, run our dishwashers and do the laundry. Adjustable beds are halted in sitting position, streets are lined with cars inconvenienced with electric garage doors that won’t work, views are obstructed by electric shades in smart homes as Alexa shimmies away in shame.

There is an ominous feeling in the air, not just because of the blanket of smoke that saturates the atmosphere, but because another layer of doubt tinges our sense of security. We are not in control here, and while the political climate has changed, and climate change becomes more political we become acutely aware of how tenuous the technology that we depend on has altered our universe. Losing electricity which results in the shutdown of technology is a reality check and another realization that it is the artery that pumps our daily lives with digital fuel.

Whyfi (sic) is questioning our patience. Streaming media gets hung up on mythical barriers like a river current taking its own course when a tree falls across its path. People everywhere in the same boat but floating on different oceans feeling isolated.

I consider life’s dance to be like a cha-cha; one-step forward, two steps back - while the tempo in prison is a slow waltz. Prison has its own clock that comes to a halt every week or so and patience takes on a new meaning that people on the outside can’t understand. It’s a consistent beat of waiting, waiting, waiting…

On the outside, we feel so out of step when the music stops even for just a few days. Our neighbor informs us they are going to get a generator so they can watch TV. People are going to bed at 8 PM. We are bored and antsy and for a brief moment, we might reflect on what it would be like to live in a time when people were forced to hide in attics or are living in the streets or detention centers and we know we cannot complain or feel sorry for ourselves over this temporary inconvenience.

We rest assured knowing it’s only a matter of a few days, a week at most until we get power again. But for the men in prison, their patience is restored by the one thing that keeps them going – hope. Their energy is fueled by rehabilitation programs and visitors from family and friends that let them know they still care; and people and volunteers that show-up and charge them with the belief that yes, change is possible.

And just like that, power is restored. We refill the refrigerators, gas up the car, charge our iPads, catch up on Netflix series and within a few days, all will go back to normal. The feeling of community that is generated whenever disasters like fires, earthquakes, floods, and storms occur slowly dissipates.

I return to San Quentin and walk past the guards and the bars clang behind me and the men greet me with questions about the blackout. They note I seem a bit frayed and I explain how being in the dark for so many days had me feeling a bit frazzled - waiting... and we all look at each other for a few moments with an unspoken understanding that I witness almost every time I walk through those iron doors.