Another Journey: Days 31 & 32

DAY THIRTY-ONE--Monday, June 9, 2008

It's an odd sensation to wake up in the same city I woke up in yesterday without someplace to rush off to. So I decided to check something out.

One of the people who came to the event at Book Passage yesterday was Nan Sincero, who is on the staff of Centerforce, a San Rafael-based non-governmental organization that provides support, education and advocacy "for individuals, families and communities impacted by incarceration." In other words, they offer help, education and direction for prisoners, ex-prisoners and family members of both. You know, the kind of assistance you'd think the government of a civilized country would provide its citizens.

Centerforce works to bridge the yawning gap between the society that punishes people by shutting them away in "animal factories" and forgets about them, and the society that expects them to behave like thoughtful, productive citizens when they come out.

The dissonance makes me think of Ernie, a tough former drug addict I once knew who worked with people who were trying to get their lives together. Someone used the word "rehabilitation" in reference to them and Ernie said, "Rehabilitation, bullshit! These people have never been habilitated in the first place."

Like Ernie, Centerforce understands that too many in our society haven't had either the education or the life experience needed to provide them with the tools--and the self-esteem--necessary to build a productive life. When they run afoul of the law and end up in the system, they're seen as "wrongdoers"; they become things--not people--that need to be punished and controlled. Instead of human beings without hope, in need of education and habilitation, they're miscreants to be handled, usually in ways that are demeaning and dehumanizing. And when released they're thus likely to be more lost, angry and antisocial than when they went inside. But thinking of them as humans in need of attention doesn't play well with the "tough-on-crime" crowd, so politicians preen and growl and spend our money building more and bigger prisons rather than providing the programs that will actually help people straighten out their lives.

Politicians having failed, Centerforce has picked up the fallen flag. And Nan Sincero, who works with them, stopped in to say hello and pass on some information. We had met earlier this year when I spoke at a conference she organized, and she presented me afterward with a beautiful wooden box that had been made by a convict in San Quentin. It is truly a work of art, carefully crafted and delicately detailed, and shows extraordinary talent on the part of its creator, a man named Brad Benito, who has developed what is clearly a valuable skill in the prison workshop.

Touched by the gift and thrilled at its beauty, I told her at the time that I'd like to go up to the San Quentin gift shop when next in the area to see about buying some more boxes. They'd make wonderful presents and their purchase would mean some money--and perhaps most importantly some attention and appreciation--for the artist who did such fine work.

But her purpose in seeking me out, Nan said, was to let me know that if I did want to go up to the gift shop I'd better hurry. They're shutting down the program. At first I couldn't believe my ears. They're shutting down a program that offers inmates the chance to learn a craft, to develop a skill, to begin to believe they're capable of doing something worthwhile? Why?

She'd asked the warden, she said, and was first told it was a matter of money, then that it was a lack of teachers, and finally that it was simply a directive from the top of the Department of Corrections and there was nothing he could do about it.

What it is, of course, is a crime. Not the kind one goes to jail for, but rather the kind those with power inflict on those without it, especially the ones about whom no one cares.

So this morning I drove up to San Quentin to buy some more of those creations by these talented men before the program is ended. But when I got there I found the prison gift shop closed. Despite the sign on the door saying that this was the time for it to be open, it was closed. And the guard at the gate had no information about why it was closed and when it might be open.

Standing there at the east gate of this awful place, where I've stood too many times protesting the killing of one of its inmates, it was exactly as I had once described it: "San Quentin, a dreary leaden lump, sits like a turd on the north shore of picturesque San Francisco Bay. Standing with your back to this house of misery allows in the unalloyed beauty of the Bay, but to turn and face it brings back with a cold slap the depressing reality of our failed system."

Mule carried me quietly back to the city, neither of us having much to say.

In the evening we went over to the Barnes and Noble Bookstore on Jack London Square in Oakland for another event. Barbara, the events manager, said from reading my book she was sure I'd appreciate one she had recently published and gave me a copy. It's a collection of poems written by middle school kids in Oakland, a heartbreaking series of cries from young people yearning for a chance, some attention, a reason to hope. It's wonderful that someone listened and printed their cries, and inspiring that these kids were willing to so bare their souls, but I can't help but wonder how many of them, if not heard, will end up where I stood, so frustrated, earlier today.

A nice group showed up for the book event and most of tonight's discussion, interestingly, was about social justice issues, particularly the death penalty. Two people in the group, while not unpleasant about it, just felt strongly that some people don't deserve to live. As I tried to say, I'm not suggesting that my morality is higher than theirs; they have every right to believe as they do. But at a minimum, it seems to me, if you give the state the right to kill, it becomes your responsibility to see to it that the system used is just, fair and incapable of error--of mistakenly killing an innocent person. A rational look at our system exposes it as unjust, unfair, corrupt, and wracked with error. So before the killing begins, one supporting the right to kill has the responsibility to fix the defects that have created a racist system that is only used against the poor, is bankrupting state budgets and encouraging base behavior on the part of police and prosecutors. Once those things are sorted out, the only remaining questions become, "Are we helping or harming our society by stooping to the level of the least among us at his or her worst moment?" and its corollary, "Do we deserve to kill?"

Brian Copeland, the radio talk show host who interviewed me yesterday, came by as promised and after the talk we went out to dinner. A very nice man, a new friend.

DAY THIRTY-TWO--Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Up and out this morning for an interview on KCBS Radio down on Battery Street. Nice couple, Stan and Holly; they covered all the high points and it was quickly over. As Stan said, "In news-talk radio nothing gets more than five minutes and then we're on to the next subject." He was very sweet, though, when saying goodbye, in that he got up, shook my hand and said, "Keep on with the good work you're doing."

Those little grace notes mean a lot.

I had taken a cab down to the station because I'd been warned that parking might be hard to come by, so since it was a lovely morning and I had nothing on the schedule until the event at The Booksmith later that evening, I decided to walk for a while.

Ambling up the street with nowhere I have to be provides a rare moment of freedom, taking me to a fantasy about a trip on my motorcycle, going "where the front wheel takes you," as another rider once said to me while we boarded a ferry from England to Norway. What an incredible feeling that is!

I'm brought back to the present by the ringing of my cell phone. I keep it on in case Shelley needs to reach me, but it rings so seldom it's always a surprise. This particular surprise is my friend Blair, from Las Cruces. After I missed seeing him back on Day Four and we caught up by phone he's taken to checking this blog once in a while and dropping me a line via e-mail. Blair and I have known each other since high school and our recent communications have centered on having learned that another of our number from the old days is quite ill. It's an odd thing to take in, this realization that the circle of friends you've known since childhood has reached the age where disease and too often death is the subject that puts you back in touch. Fortunately for me, this awareness has caused some of our old gang to be more respectful of the passage of time and more inclined to reach out once in a while just to check in, make sure things are OK and let each other know we care. I'm deeply touched, then, when after a brief and, with Blair, always funny conversation, he signs off by saying, "Love you, Mike," words I'm happy to return. And then I continue my stroll through the warm San Francisco morning, a very rich man.

Once past the strip clubs and topless bars, walking through Chinatown is interesting. If you stop for a minute, watch and listen to the passersby, breathe in the odors and let your eyes move slowly over the signs all around, you can easily be transported far, far away. This is quite a country we live in.

Turning on Powell, I head up to the Fairmont Hotel, wondering if the cable-cars are running this early. They are, I learn, so I wait at the corner of Powell and California, in front of the Fairmont, for a ride down memory lane. This is the corner where, as we were leaving a CBS function twenty-six years ago, I asked Shelley--who I really didn't know very well but somehow knew I didn't want to let her escape--if she'd like to take a cable-car ride. After a brief hesitation, she said yes.

Long story--much too long to go into here--but, trust me, it's a good one. And the cable-car ride in her honor is just right. For some reason, as I'm getting off, the conductor won't take my money, saying, "Free ride today." Maybe he knows.

Back at the Hotel Rex I decide to try the San Quentin Hobby Shop once more. But rather than just drive out there cold again, I tried calling to see if I could find out if it would be open. I don't know if you'll ever have occasion to call San Quentin, but if you do you'll find it's a pain in the ass. Everything is robot-voices and answering machines. One could easily come to the conclusion that there are no human beings at work there. Well . . . I didn't mean it that way.

Anyway, nothing. Lance and Stefanie at DPF have the numbers, but they know only too well the difficulty of finding an actual human to talk to. Finally, I try Nan Sincero at Centerforce, who apparently knows all the secret combinations. She finds out that the shop is closed again today, though no one seems to know why, except for the possibility that there's been a lockdown at the prison. She'll call me tomorrow morning if she finds out it's open. I have to head out of town tomorrow, but maybe . . .

The Booksmith is out in The Haight, as it's known--or Haight-Ashbury when it was the center of the Hippie movement of the '60s. Another independent bookstore trying to survive under the onslaught of the big chains, it's a great place with a wonderful selection. When I arrive, Thomas, the manager, takes me into the back room and asks me to wait awhile even though a number of people are already there, ready for me. Parking is tough here, he says, and--of course--this is The Haight, so he likes to delay the presentations just a bit.

When he comes back to get me it appears he was right, the crowd has swelled considerably. Thomas's introduction is quite complimentary, the kind it's hard to listen to because you're standing right behind him with your face hanging out and it's so embarrassing you want to crawl into a hole somewhere. But he is gracious about it and the crowd is generous in response, so we start on a high note and it seems to sustain.

The areas of interest expressed and the questions asked are "a great mix," as Thomas put it later, and the time passes swiftly. In trying to bring it to a conclusion, I say, "I don't want to keep you here all night," and one woman calls out, "Oh, we don't mind."

It was that kind of a night. The book signing and picture taking goes well, too, with a very enthusiastic young woman from Tennessee topping things off by presenting me with a large, knitted something--I could see this girl and her friend busily working away at it during the entire session, needles flying. It's big, whether a "throw" or a "lap-robe" or a knitted poster I don't really know, but as she unfolds it, the message comes clear: it says MASH in yellow letters on a green background. And it's not quite done--hence the furious knitting during the presentation--so she says she'll have to mail it to me. It's all a bit nuts, but she's so charged about it that there's nothing to do but laugh and say thanks.

Back at the Rex, a call to Shelley tells me the Lakers won, which is very good. The Celtics are beginning to scare me.

To bed.

To read other entries in Mike Farrell's book tour diary click here.