Monday, May 12, 2008
On a visit to San Quentin, I learned that no one is beyond the reach of divine love -- despite society's way of stating the opposite.
Dec 19, 2003 | This is my last column for Salon for awhile. I am going on sabbatical, during which time I hope to help George Bush find employment for which his unique interests and training are better suited. I also need to get my joy back, however the presidential election shakes down. My pastor Veronica said yesterday that in Advent, God tells us to rejoice, but to do that, we need to have had joy before, and it's been a while for some of us. Veronica cried out, "Get your 'joice back." So I was trying to do that, though it's hard when you're living under a Bush. But before I go, there is one more story I want to tell you, because joy is medicine.
My friend Neshama and I went to San Quentin last week to teach inmates how to tell their stories through writing, and through the oral tradition in which Neshama has found her voice -- she studies with the finest local storytellers, and belongs to a guild where people learn to tell crafted stories from the stage. I was glad to be there for a number of reasons. First of all, because Jesus said that whatever you did to the least of his people, you did to him, and the lifers in penitentiaries are the leastest people in this country. Just look to see whose budgets are being cut these days -- the old, the crazies, the children in Head Start -- and that's where Jesus will be. He also promised that God forgives the unlovable and the unforgivable, which means most of us -- the lifers, me, Cheney.
Secondly, my father had taught English and writing at San Quentin during the 1950s and '60s. He published stories about getting to know his students in the New Yorker, and then wove them into a book called "San Quentin: Biography of a Prison." I grew up hearing and reading about his students. He did not bog down in complex moral and ethical issues -- victims' rights, recidivism. He just taught the prisoners to read good books, to speak English, and to write. He 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 over the years, in protest and silent witness whenever someone was going to be gassed.
And lastly, one of the inmates, named Wolf, the head of the Vietnam Vets group at San Quentin, had asked me to come help some of his friends with their writing.
I had been inside the grounds for worship services at night, but had never visited in broad daylight. Last week when we went it was pouring rain. Waiting outside the walls with Neshama, two San Quentin English teachers, and a friend from my church, I felt the entirety of the violence and fear of the world. I hardly know what to feel most days, except for grief and bug-eyed paranoia. But my faith tells me that God has larger cojones than Bush or Condi or Saddam or bin Laden, and that he has skills, ploys and grace adequate to bring light into the present darkness.
San Quentin is on a beautiful piece of land in Marin County, on the east shore of San Francisco Bay, with lots of sun, views of the bridges, hills, windsurfers. I tried not to worry so much as we waited. Veronica kept repeating on Sunday what Paul and Jesus always said: "Don't worry! Don't be so anxious. In these dark times, give off light. Care for the least of God's people." Jesus had such an affinity for prisoners. He had been one, after all. He must have felt anxiety and isolation, but he identified with the prisoners anyway. 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 the innermost gate, showing our I.D.s to the guards, getting our hands stamped with fluorescent ink: "You don't glow, you don't go," said one cheerful, pockmarked guard, which is the best spiritual advice I've had in a long time.
We stepped into a holding pen between gates, while my mind spun with worries about being taken hostage, and 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 for love and mercy and redemption. He taught that God is able to bring life from even the most death-dealing of circumstances, no matter what the terror alert level stands at. I have a slight problem living by this: Some days all that keeps me going is the image of Kissinger on trial at The Hague.
Neshama and I and our colleagues were finally allowed to step through the gates, and view the outer walls of the prison, which was built in 1852. San Quentin possesses great European beauty -- ancient walls, elegant gun towers. It's like a set from Edgar Allan Poe. Someone could do something nice with this place, something more festive. It could be a cute bed and breakfast, say. Or a brewery. I did not know who would be inside, except that most of the convicts are murderers serving life sentences. I imagined that some would be sullen and shifty-eyed, and others would be 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 and other accounts. But those were written years ago, when you could believe in caring for prisoners without being accused of being soft on crime.
Jesus was so soft on crime. He'd never have been elected anything.
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