unforgivable, which means most of us—the lifers, me, maybe you.
Second, my father had taught English and writing at San Quentin during the 1950s and 1960s. He published stories in
The New Yorker
about his students, and then wrote a biography of San Quentin; I grew up hearing and reading about his students and the place itself. He did not bog down in complex moral and ethical matters—victims’ rights, recidivism. He just taught the prisoners to read good books, to speak good English, and to write. My father treated them with respect and kindness, his main philosophical and spiritual position being: Don’t be an asshole. My brothers and I stood outside the gates of San Quentin with him and his friends over the years, in protest and silent witness whenever someone was going to be gassed.
And last, I was happy to be there because one of the inmates, Wolf, the head of the Vietnam vets’ group there, had asked me to help some of his friends with their writing.
I had been inside the grounds for worship services at night but had never visited during the day. When we went, it was pouring rain. Waiting outside the walls with Neshama, two San Quentin English teachers, and a friend from church, I felt aware of the violence and fear of the world. I hardly know what to feel most days, except grief and bug-eyed paranoia. But my faith tells me that God has skills, ploys, and grace adequate to bring light into the present darkness, into families, prisons, governments.
San Quentin is on a beautiful piece of land in Marin County, on the western shore of San Francisco Bay, with lots of sun, views of the bridges, hills, windsurfers. I tried not to worry as we waited. On Sundays, Veronica kept repeating what Paul and Jesus always said: Don’t worry! Don’t be so anxious. In dark times, give off light. Care for the least of God’s people. She quoted the Reverend James Forbes as saying, “Nobody gets into heaven without a letter of reference from the poor.” Obviously, “the poor” includes prisoners.
Jesus had an affinity for prisoners. He had been one, after all. He must have often felt anxiety and isolation in jail, but He identified with the prisoners. He made a point of befriending the worst and most hated, because His message was that no one was beyond the reach of divine love, despite society’s way of stating the opposite. God, what a nut.
Finally, we stood outside an inner gate, showed our IDs to the guards, and got our hands stamped with fluorescent ink. “You don’t glow, you don’t go,” said one cheerful, pockmarked guard, which was the best spiritual advice I’d had in a long time.
As we stepped into a holding pen, my mind spun with worries about being taken hostage, having a shotgun strapped to my head with duct tape. I don’t think Jesus would have been thinking these same thoughts: everything in Him reached out with love and mercy and redemption. He taught that God is able to bring life from even the most death-dealing of circumstances, no matter where the terror alert level stands.
Our group was allowed to view the outer walls of the prison, which was opened in 1852. San Quentin possesses great European beauty—ancient-looking walls, elegant gun towers. It’s like a set from Edgar Allan Poe. Someone with the rightattitude could do something really nice with this place, something festive. It could be a cute bed-and-breakfast, say. Or a brewery. I did not know who would be inside, only that most of the convicts were murderers serving life sentences. I imagined that some would be sullen and shifty-eyed, and others charming cons, trying to win me over so I would marry them and get them better lawyers, and consort with them on alternate Tuesdays. I knew there’d be camaraderie, violence, and redemption inside, because I’d read my father’s accounts and the accounts of others. But those were written years ago, when you could still believe in caring for prisoners without being accused of being soft on
Second, my father had taught English and writing at San Quentin during the 1950s and 1960s. He published stories in
The New Yorker
about his students, and then wrote a biography of San Quentin; I grew up hearing and reading about his students and the place itself. He did not bog down in complex moral and ethical matters—victims’ rights, recidivism. He just taught the prisoners to read good books, to speak good English, and to write. My father treated them with respect and kindness, his main philosophical and spiritual position being: Don’t be an asshole. My brothers and I stood outside the gates of San Quentin with him and his friends over the years, in protest and silent witness whenever someone was going to be gassed.
And last, I was happy to be there because one of the inmates, Wolf, the head of the Vietnam vets’ group there, had asked me to help some of his friends with their writing.
I had been inside the grounds for worship services at night but had never visited during the day. When we went, it was pouring rain. Waiting outside the walls with Neshama, two San Quentin English teachers, and a friend from church, I felt aware of the violence and fear of the world. I hardly know what to feel most days, except grief and bug-eyed paranoia. But my faith tells me that God has skills, ploys, and grace adequate to bring light into the present darkness, into families, prisons, governments.
San Quentin is on a beautiful piece of land in Marin County, on the western shore of San Francisco Bay, with lots of sun, views of the bridges, hills, windsurfers. I tried not to worry as we waited. On Sundays, Veronica kept repeating what Paul and Jesus always said: Don’t worry! Don’t be so anxious. In dark times, give off light. Care for the least of God’s people. She quoted the Reverend James Forbes as saying, “Nobody gets into heaven without a letter of reference from the poor.” Obviously, “the poor” includes prisoners.
Jesus had an affinity for prisoners. He had been one, after all. He must have often felt anxiety and isolation in jail, but He identified with the prisoners. He made a point of befriending the worst and most hated, because His message was that no one was beyond the reach of divine love, despite society’s way of stating the opposite. God, what a nut.
Finally, we stood outside an inner gate, showed our IDs to the guards, and got our hands stamped with fluorescent ink. “You don’t glow, you don’t go,” said one cheerful, pockmarked guard, which was the best spiritual advice I’d had in a long time.
As we stepped into a holding pen, my mind spun with worries about being taken hostage, having a shotgun strapped to my head with duct tape. I don’t think Jesus would have been thinking these same thoughts: everything in Him reached out with love and mercy and redemption. He taught that God is able to bring life from even the most death-dealing of circumstances, no matter where the terror alert level stands.
Our group was allowed to view the outer walls of the prison, which was opened in 1852. San Quentin possesses great European beauty—ancient-looking walls, elegant gun towers. It’s like a set from Edgar Allan Poe. Someone with the rightattitude could do something really nice with this place, something festive. It could be a cute bed-and-breakfast, say. Or a brewery. I did not know who would be inside, only that most of the convicts were murderers serving life sentences. I imagined that some would be sullen and shifty-eyed, and others charming cons, trying to win me over so I would marry them and get them better lawyers, and consort with them on alternate Tuesdays. I knew there’d be camaraderie, violence, and redemption inside, because I’d read my father’s accounts and the accounts of others. But those were written years ago, when you could still believe in caring for prisoners without being accused of being soft on
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