CCA News
Sentenced: CCA Writers Take on San Quentin
Posted on Tuesday, April 5, 2011, by Simon Hodgson
On March 4, 2011, ten CCA writing students followed in the footsteps of Johnny Cash into the oldest correctional facility in California: San Quentin State Prison. We were there to attend a creative writing class, an invitation arranged by MFA Program in Writing faculty member Anne Marino. Last year, Marino participated in a literary contest pitting a handful of Bay Area professional writers against a group of inmate writers. After experiencing the inmates' responses and the quality of their work, she organized a new graduate-level course as part of the ongoing ENGAGE at CCA initiative: "Slammer: Writing In and About Prison," in which students would read works about incarceration and explore the roots, themes, and social and psychological significance of prison literature. Which is how Paul Blumer, Lauren Camacho, Max Cherney, Kyler Hood, Luisa Leija, Julian Quisquater, Rae Thomas, Rachael Volk, Jeff Von Ward, and I came to pass through the razor-wire gates of San Quentin on this blustery Friday evening.
Before driving out to the bleak, wind-swept promontory in Marin County, we'd all familiarized ourselves with San Quentin's guest handbook. The guidance notes issued by the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) were intimidatingly direct. For instance: "Wear shoes you can run in." No visitors are allowed to wear green (the color of the guards' uniforms), orange (the jumpsuits worn by recently arrived inmates), or blue. Inmates wear dark-blue denim pants and shirts the color of Tar Heel blue, both stenciled with "CDCR PRISONER" in large yellow print.
At the main gate, we signed in with driver's licenses or passports, then drove around to H-Unit, a lower-security section containing 1,000 of San Quentin's 5,000 inmates. Before entering the yard, we passed through four more security gates, signed in again, went through a metal detector, and were reminded of the prison's policy: "Hostages will not be recognized for bargaining purposes." Then we were led to the classroom by Kent and Keith Zimmerman, two brothers who have written books on the Chicago mob, the Sex Pistols, and the Hell's Angels, and who have run the creative writing program in San Quentin for eight years.
One by one, 30 inmates sloped into the classroom, some nodding at the Zimmermans, others quietly settling into their usual seats. Scattered around the room, writers shook hands and introduced themselves. Everyone seemed wary and watchful as Kent explained the plan: We'd all write for 30 minutes, then he and Keith would collect the work. Next Friday, we'd come back and they'd read the anonymous pieces aloud, then three judges would pick the winning team. When each person stood up and introduced themselves, the tension broke. "Hi, my name's David, I’m from Oakland and I love life." "Look out," said Larry, "'cos here we come." "I'm sorry I'm not gonna be here next week," said Brian, "I'm tunneling outta here tonight!"
Before we started writing, inmate Greg Carter read out an introduction he'd prepared on behalf of the H-Unit writers. He welcomed us to San Quentin and talked of his classmates and their work: "All those Friday nights of study, while the world slipped by." It was a lyrical opening, but there was a sting in the tail. Carter paused and looked up at the CCA students around the room: "Youse guys are in trouble. And just so you know, trouble was the only thing we were good at." The Zimmerman brothers chuckled as Carter returned to his seat, grinning at the applause and appreciative yells.
The title of the exercise, "At the Crossroads," elicited stories of adultery, bank robbery, seduction by the devil, grievous bodily harm with a gas can . . . and that was just the CCA students. Also in the mix were tales of Indian drug deals, regret, assault with a can of Pepsi, unrequited love, anger, auto accidents, Jack Daniel's, hookers, family, and fishing. When Marino and the Zimmermans read them all out loud the following Friday, it was impossible to tell whose story was whose. Some were considered and plotted, most were raw and painful. The result? The inmates won. "What will you take away with you when you go back to the CCA?" one of them asked the student writers. "The shame of defeat," said Julian Quisquater. The inmates roared. We'd lost the throwdown but gained something else: admiration for their skills, a new perspective on our education, and respect for other writers plotting their own literary path.
Some Californians would argue that prisoners don't deserve programs such as this creative writing class. Why should offenders get a free education when everyone else has to pay for theirs? One response is that learning is freedom. For every additional level of education, Kent Zimmerman says, recidivism rates decline. The more educated the inmate, the less likely he or she is to re-offend (thereby saving the state $52,000, the annual cost of incarcerating one prisoner). Creative writing can also be transformative. Earlier in the semester, we'd already seen one example of this, when Joe Loya visited our class. A former bank robber who'd served eight years in federal prisons, including San Quentin, Loya turned his life around by writing, becoming a successful journalist, author, and screenwriter. Even in our short stint in H-Unit, we could see how the Zimmermans' class was quietly changing lives when one veteran inmate revealed that taking the class had encouraged him to write twice a week to his mom.
As we swapped stories, what became clear were not our differences but our similarities. All of us were writers aiming for the same goal: to tell an enduring story. What else did I take from our strangely privileged visit to San Quentin? Memories of the watchtowers, the breezeblock classroom walls, the list of prison courses on an officer's notice board (yoga, parenting, introspective art). An appreciation of the prison programming staff (including Community Partnerships Manager Laura Bowman) as well as volunteers like Keith and Kent. And the humor and humanity of the guys inside. After we'd written our stories, one inmate confessed that he'd struggled with starting his. Then, he said, he went to the restroom, "and it all just flowed from there." The guy next to me leaned over and muttered: "He's just used to writing on the wall."
A book collecting the CCA and San Quentin "Throwdown" writings is now available at Lulu.com.
Learn more about CCA's MFA Program in Writing, including how to apply.