Life at San Quentin State Prison

1/14 - Greetings from "Prisneyland."

There are certain places that you grow up only seeing on television, books or in other mediums, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon and Stonehenge. (I've been to all of those places! Isn't that cool?)

Add to that list the inner plaza of San Quentin State Prison. 

After successfully navigating the foreboding, castle-like facade of the front entrance (on my first attempt, the guard turned me away because I had brought my phone with me so I had to walk all the way back to the visitor parking lot) and proceeding through two heavy, iron-barred doors while flashing my identification card, I had one of those moments which is typically reserved for landmarks seen on my travels. 

"Wow."

I had only seen the inner plaza in TV documentaries. On the right was the Captain's Porch and various religious halls, directly across the plaza was the prison hospital (where I work) and to the left was the Adjustment Center (the prison inside the prison). In the middle of the plaza was a memorial to those who died on the grounds of the institution, going all the way back to its birth in 1852. This whole scene was dotted with the shades of green of Correctional Officers and shades of blue, yellow, orange and white of the inmates. 

On my first day, it was sensory overload. 

I felt discomfort by being in this kind of environment, one which is filled with some of society's criminals. I kept expecting someone to yell at me, for an inmate hurl some poisonous words my way. But it did not happen (and still hasn't). These men are wired in a slightly different way to the rest of us. So, I was immediately on my guard. 

I felt fear in that plaza. 

Quickly, however, I learned that because this is a place with a dangerous environment, I must adapt to it. I must check my fear at the door and walk around with a sense of confidence. Put on the poker face. If there's anyone who's able to sniff out fear, it's a prison inmate. 

1/30  - There are preconceived notions, and then there's reality. 

My words from a few weeks ago were of my first impressions and preconceived notions. In reality?

San Quentin is the Club Med of California state prisons. It's part art museum, part preserved historical landmark. I've learned that if an inmate had a choice of any prison he could stay at in California, it would be San Quentin because of the amount of opportunity the inmate has for self-improvement. The sports teams play civilian clubs; the San Quentin Warriors had a basketball game with representatives of the Golden State Warriors last year. There's a San Quentin newspaper. There's a San Quentin Museum, curated by a former guard. 

In fact, there's a podcast recorded by inmates within San Quentin called "Ear Hustle," which is about prison life and the stories from within. 

San Quentin is a fascinating place. 

2/14 As I sit at my desk listening to the distant thuds of a foot slamming into a cell door on the floor below mine, most likely driven by a state of frayed mental health, I decided to do more writing. 

San Quentin is a Level II, non-designated prison, meaning it is a lower security institution overall, and gang affiliations and behaviors are not tolerated here. The institution is commonly referred to as "soft" and "not real life," especially for a correctional officer, because there are more violent prisons throughout the state. Inmates on long sentences can enter a waiting list for a spot at San Quentin, but they need 10 straight years of good behavior to be considered. 

Correctional officers are trained in a way which reminds them that this isn't a real prison environment. Though many of the inmates have freedom of movement between their groups and appointments, the exercise yard and their cells, officers are trained to treat everyone as if they're a Level IV inmate; the highest threat. It's easy to get complacent here, to let your guard down. 

Everyone is reminded to not become the next Peter Felix, to become so manipulated by a sociopathic inmate that you become their drug mule, stuffing burritos with dope and trafficking it into the institution. 

Though there are more violent prisons in the state, one still has to be aware of their surroundings, especially when around inmates. Don't let them walk behind you. Don't give them any personal information. Call them out on attempts to manipulate. 

So when I took a walk with my supervisor last week, a tiny tornado of a woman whose head barely reaches my chest, I had to put on a poker face. We were headed into "Blood Alley," the path which leads from H Unit (Level I security dormitories) to the exercise yard. It's a six-foot wide gravel path with a tall, barbed-wire fence on one side and an imposing, yellow, asbestos-laden wall on the other. Since there are parts with bad visibility to the guard towers, this path is known for violence between rival gangs. When navigating these areas, the key is to walk with purpose and sport an unreadable face.

The same can be said when entering housing units. I've stepped inside West Block and North Block, and both times I noticed that the inmates seemed to immediately know strangers were in their midst. Men on the fourth and fifth tiers of the blocks peered down curiously at us. Inmates walking along their individual tiers glared at us. The energy was different; it was a hive of activity, with men doing their laundry, talking on phones or the barber waiting for his next client to sit in his chair and ask for a fade. 

30/3 - It's now almost three months since I started at San Quentin and am enjoying myself. I'll include some photos I've taken since moving here.

A new job

13/12 - I got the call when I was in the Sherwin-Williams store in Natomas. While they took care of the product transfer, I stepped into their cavernous warehouse and answered the call from an unfamiliar number.

"We'd like to offer you the job," said the woman on the other line. 

"I accept," I said with no hesitation. 

I got the job as an office technician in the mental health office of San Quentin State Prison in Marin County. That was the end of a job search that lasted damn near two years, back to when I was laid off from Bleacher Report while waiting for a train in a crowded train station in Paris, in January 2017. 

Relief is the only thing I felt. Weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I wanted to sit down on top of a five-gallon bucket of paint in the warehouse because my knees had gone a little weak. I was, and still am, simply ecstatic that I no longer have to write a cover letter and fill out my education and work history for job applications. 

It's been a year and a half since I returned to California from France. I have no concrete number, but I estimate that I sent out between 150 and 200 applications. Since September, when I connected with a job developer through the California Department of Rehabilitation (it turns out that my heart condition makes me disabled), I have turned in more than 70 applications. 

Sin City, Zion and a large canyon

1/5 - Sullen, green eyes peaked over the top of a cardboard sign the homeless young man held in front of his face on Fremont Street in Las Vegas. The sign read, “Go fuck yourself.” 

This was my lasting impression of my third visit to Sin City this past weekend. I was in the city for two nights because there was cold and snowy weather in both of my ultimate destinations in southern Utah and northern Arizona. Nevada’s desert oasis has plenty to offer a traveler, if they’re willing to fork out a hefty amount of cash. 

If not...then you have to look elsewhere outside of the gleaming lights, glitzy skyscrapers and casinos of The Strip. 

Or, you can take a portrait with one of the many Elvis impersonators throughout the city. But make sure to tip them; I gave $1.25 in quarters and he was happy. This photo was good for a cheap laugh and it did indeed lift my spirits.

Since I had one full day in the city, I chose to get tickets to the Mob Museum and the Neon Museum. The two locations are normally packaged together for $48. After several hours, I got a pleasant walk through some of the history of Las Vegas. The Neon Museum was essentially an outdoor boneyard of old, faded, tired neon signs from some of the city's most famous buildings. This was like a retirement home for neon. Most of the signs had lost their original luster, but still others still lit up the night, memories of a luxurious past. 

I made the road trip to Vegas from Sacramento via Reno as a celebration; I quit my job last Friday and will begin my new job on Monday. That was 450 miles through the desert on Highway 95 in Nevada, braving dust storms and driving rain in the darkness on a two-lane highway. I find the desert interesting because you can see forever. It's a desolate, barren, dull environment that feels as if it won't end, but I still find it fascinating because things pop out of nowhere, such as Walker Lake. I prefer it much more to driving the 275 miles from Bakersfield to Sacramento on Highway 99 because the Central Valley in California offers no landmarks whatsoever. It's flat, featureless and straight, and it's the most boring road trip I can think of.

1/7 - As I sat in my silver Toyota Camry while facing the entrance to Zion National Park and its many jagged red and orange peaks, the tops of which were shrouded in mist, I chatted on the phone with a Human Resources representative from San Quentin State Prison (it was surprising that I had cell reception in the valley).  

“Am I to report to the prison on Monday?” I asked. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

After I hung up the phone, I started laughing hysterically. I was ecstatic. I was high on life. Moods do not get better than in moments like that. Not only was my job search officially over, but I found myself in the world famous Zion National Park where the sharp and imposing sandstone peaks look so massive that they feel fake, like a stage backdrop. It is similar to Yosemite National Park, but a different color altogether. The combination of good news and good vibes created a rapturous concoction of endorphins. I felt elated as I drove along the valley, blissfully taking in that awe-inducing natural setting.

Typically, the entrance fee to the park is $35, which is good for one week. However, since the United States government has been shutdown due to negotiation based on a selfish need to win against the other party, few of the park’s services were available, including the collection of entrance fees; The State of Utah provided some funds to keep services such as the visitor center operating, but for just a short time. And since I visited in the winter, the park was quiet and relaxed. Absent were the massive crowds that show up during warmer weather. 

Before arriving in Zion, I had booked a spot on a tour with Enlightenment Photography Excursions for $235. Sean, a man my age who grew up in Utah, was leading the group and gave technical advice to us when shooting a scene. Along with me, David and Addie joined us as well. 

David was 80 years old, but he had little issues keeping up when we decided to park off to the side of Highway 9 and trek through untouched snow on top of slick sandstone. And though he has been in the states since 1966, his British accent is still going strong so his sense of humor was as dry as can be. At one point we were talking about animals and asked if he had any pets. He responded with, "yes, my wife. I feed her and give her flowers. That's all there is to it, really." His wife, Addie was a pleasant woman whose enthusiasm was infectious. She would see something in the hills, point it out and be the first one to hop out of Sean’s truck with her camera, in hot pursuit of her subject. 

While we shot the sunrise the morning after my arrival, I giggled out loud again. There was plenty of pink in the sky to complement the epic, intimidating peaks of Zion, and I found myself awestruck at the opportunity that I was given. To be in the park at that moment and photographing the sunrise, I was content (though the wind was chilly and bitingly cold).

1/8 - After 5.5 hours of driving through silent and lonely desert bordered by the red walls of Vermillion Cliffs National Monument and home to the Navajo Indian Reservation, I gasped. 

"Wow!"

The Grand Canyon makes Zion look like a warmup. I braved the packed-down snow and ice at Moran Point on the South Rim at sunset and ignored the camera for a few moments. I drank that setting in like a shipwreck survivor dying of thirst. My jaw fell open. I giggled. I felt a deep chill quite unrelated to the near-freezing temperature. I had goosebumps. 

After seeing the chasm with my own eyes, I quickly accepted that a hike into the Grand Canyon was out of the question. At an average of one mile deep, 277 miles long and 18 miles wide at nearly 7,000 feet in elevation, the trails into this canyon are not ones that can be taken lightly. Planning and preparation are essential. The Colorado River has carved the canyon so deeply that it cannot go much further. The bedrock through which the river flows is billions of years old, and one can see history through the layers of rock along the canyon walls. The higher one goes, the younger the rock

I have finally seen one of the wonders of the world with my own eyes. Check another box off the list. 

1/9 - With two cups of coffee in me at 5:30 a.m. I felt ready to chase a sunrise over the Grand Canyon. I even shadow-boxed in front of the bathroom mirror for a moment to let off some of that nervous energy. 

My target was either Navajo Point or Desert View Watchtower. As I gingerly drove along the icy surface of  Highway 64 before dawn, I nervously kept my eyes on the sky above the Kaibab National Forest. I saw clouds. Soon I saw color. Magenta! 

After 30 minutes of driving and one moment of frustration while driving through a spot of fog, thinking I wouldn’t be able to see the sky, I arrived at Navajo Point. Here I was able to capture photos of the Canyon with tinges of pink on the skyline. 

I snapped photos while my fingers burned with cold and my breath rose before my face in the below freezing temperature. There was just one other person there, a man with a large red beard who had never been to the Grand Canyon before either. 

With the sun up and slowly casting its light, I watched as the rock formations in the canyons seemed to change color. In fact throughout the day as I trekked that five-mile round trip along the Rim Trail, I noted how light and shadow always seem to create different scenes. Early in the day, patches of sunlight found the ground inside the canyon, creating individual spots of vibrant color. In the afternoon with the help of a sunny sky, the shadows of individual mesas and temples intertwined with the orange, red and brown of the canyon system, like they are engaged in an eternal dance. 

In the evening, I noticed how the remaining sunlight poured into the canyon at increasingly shallower levels, creating vast sunrays which eventually only illuminated the tallest parts of the cliffs. It was as if Mother Nature was pouring shadow into the canyon until it was full for the evening. There also seemed to be a blue tinge to the light. Some of the photos I got simply made me giggle out loud. A small group of Chinese travelers stopped where I had set up shop and watched me work; they chatted with me for a few minutes and I pointed out what was happening to the colors during the sunset progression.

Though I was mesmerized, these details are nothing new to the people who have been visiting the canyon for thousands of years. It’s one of the World Heritage Site for a reason. I had never seen anything like it before and might never seen anything like it elsewhere. 

I spent 24 hours inside the Grand Canyon National Park and throughout that time I kept the word “gratitude” in mind. I was fortunate enough simply to be visiting, but it was special that I attempted to chase sunsets and sunrises. I was grateful just for the opportunity even though I arrived late for the first sunset and sunrise and felt the inevitable stab of disappointment in myself for not starting a few minutes earlier. 

These two parks were places I had wanted to visit for a while. I did what I wanted to do and though my trip was a bit hurried, I still have the memories of how both places made me feel. I laughed hysterically more in 3 days than I had in a long time, and adventures such as these do well to rejuvenate my soul. 

1/11 -  I made the journey home yesterday and not much of note happened besides a pleasurable sunrise over the Mojave Desert. It was the most golden of light and there were sunrays washing over each of the numerous mountains in the desert. Unfortunately, there were no safe areas to pull off the highway to take a photo. 

Plus, my memory card was completely full. 

In conclusion, I drove more than 2,000 miles, and I drove 630 miles on Thursday alone, spending about 12 hours on the road. It was the longest road trip I have done in my life in a 24-hour period.