Reflecting on my encounter with Jay at San Quentin, I find myself still pondering over his story long after we parted ways. The stark contrast between our lives was palpable, yet he carried himself with such grace and resilience. The image of him savoring that Chipotle meal, a luxury most of us take for granted, remains etched in my mind.
Samuel L. Jackson is perched near a tranquil fountain, situated in the heart of a stunning courtyard. Just a few steps distant, a group of violinists, guitarists, and drummers are serenading us with tunes from various global locales. Jackson has graced this spot to engage passersby in a query: “What’s your preferred payment method?
However, no, he’s not filming a Capital One advertisement. A quick note about his middle name: it’s Lamont, not Leroy – this isn’t the actor from “Pulp Fiction.” Instead, we find ourselves at the oldest prison in California, attending the San Quentin Film Festival. This is a unique event, as it’s the world’s first of its kind, aiming to highlight creative work produced by individuals like Sam, who has spent 28 years behind bars. Similar to other musicians performing near the fountain, Sam belongs to the Greater Good Ensemble from Chapel C. He expresses and deals with his circumstances through his music. Within mere seconds of our first meeting, he’s already singing a tune he composed for the soundtrack of a film we will watch later, directly into my recording device.
He softly sings as he shuts his eyes, ‘I choose to remain blind,/ For I can’t bear the sight of suffering, pain, and struggle in our community,/ I prefer to be oblivious,/ For I don’t want to witness the reality that awaits people like you and me.
For approximately five years, documentarian Rahsaan Thomas, previously incarcerated, and Cori Thomas, a long-term volunteer at San Quentin, unrelated, have been brainstorming an idea for a festival. This festival was inspired by the life-changing experiences they encountered at San Quentin’s media center, where Rahsaan honed his skills in filmmaking while still behind bars. Following state approval in February, they assembled a team and started securing funds, as well as famous judges to assess films submitted by current and former incarcerated filmmakers worldwide. The aim now is to screen these films, with the hope of changing public perception about those who are incarcerated, as Cori explains: “The most effective way to accomplish this is to let people share their own stories.
The situation is critical today, and it’s not only due to the fact that, as Cori and Rahsaan informed me a week ago, the success of the first edition could determine their ability to carry out this venture again. Moreover, today carries significant weight because it involves securing someone’s liberty.
Initially, let me emphasize a crucial point, Cori began as she welcomed everyone on the opening day of the festival. She wanted to share that one of our finalist filmmakers, Raheem Ballard, is currently appearing before the parole board. So, I kindly ask that we all send him our best wishes. Fingers crossed, he will be able to join us for the award ceremony later this afternoon, hopefully with some positive news.
I experience a sinking sensation in my abdomen. This feeling is unfamiliar to me, yet I find myself surrounded by several of Raheem’s acquaintances, for whom this scenario is routine: they’re monitoring who might be leaving soon, hoping for something positive to occur, preparing themselves for potential disappointments.
We get comfortable to watch “Dying Alone,” a movie directed by Raheem, focusing on compassionate release – a process that allows terminally ill prisoners to apply for sentence reduction so they can spend their final days with their families. However, many who have proven their rehabilitation over the years are still denied this release, ultimately spending their last moments in prison after being strung along by the government. The movie brings back memories for men in blue uniforms as they watch their fellow ex-prisoners from San Quentin trying to secure release before their illnesses take hold. Yet, the film is not only about physical death; it’s a reflection of the loss of hope. I can’t help but ponder how Raheem might react if he receives unfavorable news today. Will there be an announcement on stage? Or will we learn bit by bit, discussing it in hushed tones among the audience?
Today, W. Kamau Bell, renowned comedian and TV host recognized for CNN’s “United Shades of America” and Showtime’s “We Need to Talk About Cosby,” is facilitating a discussion featuring the filmmakers whose documentaries we’ve just watched. Some of them are currently working within San Quentin, while others have visited after serving their time here or at other prisons. Unfortunately, Raheem couldn’t make it; he’s still awaiting his hearing.
During his absence, his colleagues discuss how filmmaking has impacted their lives profoundly. Louis Salé, the creator of the short film “Healing Through Hula,” which documents his journey back to his Hawaiian roots following imprisonment for a DUI fatality, considers this project as a “letter of apology” to his culture – acknowledging the time he strayed from it and turned to alcohol. On the other hand, Antwan Williams, director of an abstract dance piece titled “Every Second,” expresses that this film assisted him in dealing with the challenging transition out of San Quentin. He says, “There are parts of me that will always remain within these walls. I can never escape that past, but I refuse to let it hinder my transformation into the person I know I can become.
Following the panel discussion, it’s now time for the awards ceremony. Gentlemen make their way onto the stage to celebrate their victories in the short film and pitch categories. However, before we proceed to the distribution of grants, Rahsaan takes the microphone. A rhythmic tapping on a lap starts, marking the beginning of a drumroll that echoes throughout the auditorium. The audience is left in suspense as to what’s coming next, but Rahsaan’s grin suggests excitement.
“Raheem was found suitable,” he says.
The roars are overwhelming. In an instant, everyone rises from their seats and remains standing for over a minute. As the applause subsides, someone shouts out Raheem’s name, revealing that he has arrived in the same space as us. The noise escalates even further.
Raheem has been in prison for twenty-two years, and he shares with us this fact. “To tell you the truth,” he says, “I wasn’t expected to be here today. In 2004, when I was sentenced, they indicated my release would occur in 2039. Pondering over that, it was difficult not to lose hope. It seemed so distant into the future.” However, he adds, “But all thanks go to God.
“Allahu Akbar,” someone calls to him: “God is great.” People continue to shout his name.
Standing before you all, I passionately express my belief that beyond these very walls lie untapped reservoirs of exceptional cinematic talent. I urge everyone here and beyond to embrace this potential, let’s turn this gathering into an annual event where we celebrate our shared love for cinema.
The awards presentation continues. Raheem is announced as the recipient of not one, but two prestigious awards: the Supported Artist Award from the International Documentary Association and the American Documentary POV Award. Interestingly, these recognitions were bestowed upon him before either organization was aware that his parole hearing was taking place that very day. Another round of applause fills the room, but Raheem is nowhere to be found – he had urgent matters to attend to. As Rahsaan explains, “He rushed back to his cell to phone his family and share the wonderful news that he’s finally returning home.
We go back to the courtyard, where both imprisoned and free individuals receive identical meals – make-your-own sandwiches on untoasted bread, containing vacuum-packed ham slices and plain mustard packets. Raheem, chuckling, regrets the lack of funds for better cuisine, promising improvements next year. Some of my external companions choose to save their sandwich kits rather than consuming them, intending to snap photos once we retrieve our phones, but I’m too famished for that. Henok Rufael, who has spent 18 years behind bars, appreciates my consumption of the “prison food”: “It’s meaningful that you share this experience with us today.
It’s evident that the day has taken on a different atmosphere since Raheem was deemed suitable. While some are bypassing the lunch queue, there’s noticeably less division near the fountain; individuals dressed casually are interacting more freely with those in uniform, exchanging pleasantries, laughter, and even posing for photos on the red carpet. Meanwhile, in the auditorium, a fresh sense of excitement prevails as filmmakers present their work and the audience engages in discussions about them; people seem to be feeling more confident.
On day two, we’ll be featuring discussions among various movie directors advocating for prison abolition. This special session will focus on movies about prisons, created by filmmakers who haven’t served any time in jail. These films will be evaluated by a jury comprised of men currently incarcerated at San Quentin.
At 8:30 in the morning, we go back to the penitentiary to catch the documentary titled “Songs From the Hole”, which focuses on James Jacobs, also known as JJ’88. This man wrote raps during his time in solitary confinement. The film brings together Richie Reseda, a former inmate and producer, with Contessa Gayles, who directed the CNN documentary “The Feminist on Cellblock Y” about Reseda while he was still serving his sentence.
Following the screening, I don’t beat around the bush. “If you’re sporting blue,” I address those in the audience who are incarcerated, “the ordeal you’re experiencing is unjust.
Brad Jenkins, previously an associate director at the White House’s public engagement office during President Obama’s term and current CEO of Enfranchisement Productions, agrees following the viewing of “Four Letters.” This short film chronicles the story of Charles Anderson, a man who utilized coding skills he picked up in prison to build a thriving post-release career.
He casually expresses his view that there should be no prisons, yet he proceeds to talk about programming related to prisons in a seemingly unrelated manner. However, his stance on the abolition of prisons remains implicit.
Following is a showing of “The Strike,” chosen as the top feature by an internal jury on this day. This documentary focuses on individuals involved in hunger strikes that occurred in California state prisons during 2011 and 2013, as a means of protesting harsh solitary confinement conditions. One of the main subjects of the film, Jack Morris, shares his thoughts during a Q&A, stating that prison staff members may experience their jobs in a way that is comparable to those they supervise.
A woman near the back of the room stands up. The men all crane their necks to see what she has to say — it’s Rosalinda Rosalez, associate warden of San Quentin. She’s sorry for taking time that an incarcerated person could be using to ask a question, she says, but she needs to get something off her chest: She’s always known correctional officers have a shorter life expectancy than the average person, but after watching “The Strike,” she finally understands why.
Rosalez states, ‘We cause death due to enforcing cruel policies.’ He suggests that we leave our compassionate nature outside.
There are whispers and shocked exclamations. From the stage, JoeBill Muñoz, one of the film’s co-directors, asks, “Is there a journalist here?” In surprise, Rosalez follows up. Her query is this: How can they arrange things so that “The Strike” becomes required viewing for all staff members of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation?
In the afternoon, I question Jay Kim, a 28-year-old who is imprisoned, about his feelings regarding my statement. He declines to represent all inmates, he informs me, as he’s only served three years of his sentence and is due for release in two months. However, he emphasizes that during the festival, we have been exploring and understanding various factors leading to incarceration, and his experience within prison has caused him to view the staff in a similar light.
When I face difficulties with someone, I recall these details: They enjoy watching Netflix, prefer meals from Chipotle, own a Honda Accord, and can get anxious around girls. In essence, he handles the type of behavior Rosalez mentioned by choosing to rise above it. ‘Indeed,’ he adds, ‘the police may treat me in a degrading manner, but that only indicates they have some inner turmoil or unresolved issues.’
I think a lot about Jay after I leave San Quentin for the last time.
On the second day of the festival, ham sandwiches weren’t available; instead, I was given potato chips, popcorn, and M&Ms as alternatives. By 10 p.m., when I returned to my hotel, my stomach grumbled with hunger. Frustrated, I searched for options on Uber Eats but found only chain restaurants were open at that hour. As I waited in the lobby for my delivery, I reminisced about a few hours earlier when I was enjoying bags of SkinnyPop with Jay. I wondered if he ever got to eat anything more than pre-packaged snacks and sandwiches, and he shared excitedly that sometimes, a prison program would bring in Chipotle. Now, holding a burrito I didn’t particularly want, I remembered that Jay hadn’t had a proper meal that day, and felt a twinge of guilt.
While we were at San Quentin, Joe Talbot, director of “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” and a member of its industry jury, expressed repeatedly that this was the finest film festival he had ever experienced. A few days after our departure from the prison, he texted me, “Many film festivals seem to lack the authenticity of the films they showcase. They are primarily focused on pitching, selling, sponsorships, and celebrities.” San Quentin provided a “remarkably surprising reinterpretation” of these typical events, according to him: “Rather than the usual pitching and competition, every conversation started with genuine inquiry and somehow challenged my preconceived notions.
During my interactions at the festival, many individuals expressed discomfort about the vulnerability displayed by the men in blue. I can relate, as it’s an uneasy feeling. The power dynamic between us is challenging to address because, by virtue of our external positions, we hold some control over how their narratives are shared. Time and again, these men express gratitude for being treated as fellow humans. However, the question remains: How do we ensure that this gratitude is truly deserved?
Just prior to the final film festival showing, I found myself seated near the fountain’s edge for a chat with Alex Ivany, an editor who contributed to Ava DuVernay’s 2016 documentary “13th.” This thought-provoking piece posits that the American prison system is an extension of slavery. During our conversation, a man named Ramon Fritz, who has served time in prison, joined us.
He mentions that we’re experiencing the sparkle and sophistication today, glancing over our shoulders. Beyond the misty spray behind us, beyond the courtyard, he can catch a glimpse of the prison cells where he spends his nights. “I wish we could give you a peek into our true life,” he adds.
However, the current access we enjoy to the prison is a precious privilege, as he points out. Amidst individuals dressed casually, engaging in discussions about art and creativity usually reserved for outside settings, Ramon momentarily forgets his surroundings. For the first time in a while, he admits that he feels liberated – and subtly emphasizes our shared duty to ensure such feelings of freedom continue whenever possible, by maintaining access for others.
“I hope this is not the last time you participate in something like this,” Ramon tells us.
We say that it won’t be, and I hope that we’re telling the truth.
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2024-10-16 21:49