Dear Governor is a production of I Heart Media and three Months Media. Dear Governor Newsom, Dear Mr Governor Newsom. This is an open letter to Governor Gavin Newsom. Dear Governor news Dear Governor Newsom, as you know. In late May one, twenty one incarcerated men from a COVID hotspot, the California Institute for Men and Chino, were transferred to San Quentin. Since then, over half of the men at San Quentin have become infected. To add insult to injury.
As of the time of this recording, all communications have been severed in or out of the prison. Mothers, spouses, children, friends have no idea how their loved ones are faring, whether alive, on respirator or dead. As of yesterday, thirteen of the men have died, eight on death row. The last we heard from our friend Jarvis Masters, he had been ravaged by COVID but was believed to be on the end, but we can't know for sure. Considering all
phone privileges have been revoked. This is cruel and inhumane punishment for all involved. It was also in late May that Jarvis published a prescient op ed in the Guardian newspaper advocating for why, now more than ever, monitored cell phone usage should be permitted in prisons. We hope you will hear his message and considered as a possible solution
to the dire circumstances we are witnessing now. To help share Jarvis's vital message, we have enlisted actor and advocate Dion Graham to read portions of Jarvis's appeal in his May twenty second op ed, Letting prisoners use cell phones make sense now more than ever. Not long before the COVID nineteen outbreak was declared a worldwide pandemic, there was a shakedown here on death Row at San Quentin State Prison. It was a massive search, and I wasn't surprised to
learn officials confiscated at least sixties cell phones. I know what it feels like to be caught with a contraband phone. It happened two years ago, and as punishment I was sent to the Adjustment Center solitary confinement for two months. I was set the solitary for the crime of wanting connection. With almost forty years as a prisoner, I'm old enough to remember a time when a shakedown wouldn't have resulted in the confiscation of sixty phones. It would have been
sixty shanks and other deadly weapons. This demonstrates what most prisoners really want now, to communicate with their family and friends, those precious parts of our lives not caged up in here. This basic need is all the more pronounced in the shadow of the coronavirus. A friend of mine told me that he won't be able to make it if the pandemic lasts for another few weeks. He's managed to survive for fifteen years as a condemned man, but the fact that the outside world is in such a state of
pandemonium as a bridge too far. He's not concerned about catching the virus himself, but he's scared to death about the safety of his friends and family. The last time Jervis's voice was recorded prior of the phone prohibition was July twelve. Here he is talking about COVID and COVID related deaths with the local group coordinator for Amnesty International in San Francisco, Gavrilla. Wells, have you talked in compared notes to any guard who have also had COVID? Have
you commiserated about the experience? I did, Yeah, it's the same thing. One of the guards who was on the ventilator are he was getting fed out at two. It was his first day back today. It was his first day back today, and I talked to him and he said it was He said it was rough. He said he's glad he made it through it, and he's glad he didn't affect his family. We all got the same string, you know. I believe we all got the same string.
So we're all done to share the same stories. You know, our chess was hurting hard to brief eggs and the body had a loss of case, sometimes delirious lower back pains. We all have the same thing. Are you feeling now, Jay, My bones are cracking. Like I said, it feels like I just came out of a football game. Everything hurts, everything hurts. But the nurses and the doctors told me that that's what's going to happen. You know, if you make it through this, you know you're still gonna you
can be thick, physically thick for a month. I wish there was I mean, it's just stupid thing to say. I wish there was a way that you could just get some sunlight on you. Yeah, you know the sunlight. I wish I could get that too. But when you say sun like, to me, that's fresh air. Yeah, to me, that's fresh air. And I wish I could have some of that. Now, know what fresh air means? When you want it? We all prove it in the same same stuff. It looks like a crime scene. It looks just like
a crime scene. And to me, that's exactly what it is. That's thy seconds. What I've been thinking about morning anything else, is that you know the guys they took out on my chair. They never they're never took anything out their salves, their seals, just the same. One guy's TV still on. Whoa, yeah that his TVs are still on. Another guy's coffees right there, and the cups sitting right down to bed. So cardovits TV is still on or still has coffee
in there. Yes, oh my god. If he walked by his sale, his TV is still on, his TV is still on, the pattering of them laying in the bed, he's still there. M hm. And it's scary and it's painful, and um, that's what gets me every single day. That's what haunts me. Actor Dion Graham continues reading Jarvis's May twenty second op ed making a case for cell phones
behind bars. On top of the double scourge of mass incarceration and coronavirus disproportionately affecting poor people of color, the current crisis magnifies the inhumane regulation that prohibits cellphones in correctional facilities. Riker's Island Prison, for instance, has a COVID nineteen infection rate seven times that of New York City,
the center of the outbreak. If cell phones were authorized there, family members could keep itally on the now more than eight hundred inmates who are being held in isolation or quarantined, but instead they're left to agonize whether he or she hasn't already been ravaged by the virus throughout the prison system across the country, cellphones are the lifelines that keep prisoners connected to hope. It's hopeless men and women who
are the ones who become violent and self destructive. For that reason, I believe cell phones make prisoners safer, connect and for any human being essential to life and ample research proves that inmates who remain connected to their families and friends are far more likely to re into society successfully and not reoffend Not only does cell phone access enhance the lives of prisoners, but consider the approximately three million American children who have a parent in prison today.
According to the Fragile Families and Child Well Being Study, kids with an incarcerated parent are three times more likely to suffer from behavioral problems and depression and kids without one. Imagine the positive impact it could have on the lives of these children if they could call their mother or father and share what life was like in this new social distancing reality, how sad they are because they missed their friends, or how happy they are to see their
teachers online. The ability to call a parent could be transformative, and it could be life changing for prisoners like me too. All of us in this god forsaken place would rather stay in our own selves to talk with our families and anything, and now, more than ever, for people isolated from the world, hearing a loved one's voice or a grand baby coup for the first time is healing. In addition, this is time spent not being violent in the yard.
It's time spent not stewing in your own rage, frustration, and depression. We would have time to be normal, thinking, feeling, human beings. We'll post a link to Jervis's article in our show notes. But he goes on to make the case that not only would cell phone usage save money for the families of the incarcerated, but with managed access technology that exists now, prisons could track and monitor all
incoming and outgoing calls and texts. Not only that, but the National Institute of Justice takes the position that managed access is one more piece of the puzzle to mitigate contraband cell phone usage. The secret that the prison system doesn't want to acknowledge is how much more serene and less disruptive it is when inmates are on their cell phones. My favorite memory with my phone was staying up all night talking with my brothers and sisters in a group call.
I hadn't talked to them together like that in more than three decades. Considering we were all separated in different foster homes as children, we had a lot to remember together. We laughed, we cried, whispering to my siblings. I felt alive that night. When the world overcomes this nightmare. Who knows if we'll ever get that chance again. Last week, Shambala Publications released Jervis's latest autobiographical book, Finding Freedom, How
Death Row broke and opened My heart. Robert L. Allen, Senior editor of The Black Scholar, writes of the book a deeply moving, life affirming memoir written from the nether world of San Quentin. His book is a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit. Up next, actor Dion Graham, whose voiced the audio book for Finding Freedom, will share some of the amazing wisdom that Jarvis has put down on the page. I'm Diana Graham, and I'm an actor
and also narrate things as well. And I came to know about Jarvis because Shambala Press reached out to me to narrate his great book, Finding Freedom. Jarvis has said that you two have become quite good friends during the process. Yeah, I appreciate I definitely appreciate Jarvis, and uh, you know, I'm I'm wishing him well during these times, particularly what the conditions are in there right now and also in
his fight to gain his freedom. This system is one that disproportionately targets and holds black and brown men in particular, and you know, that is something that we need to continue speaking out about and looking at why that is and what that means In terms of of our democracy and what we want our democracy actually to be, and particularly in light of current events. I think it's important, and I think it's important for us to think critically
about that and also to think compassionately. You know. I think we can do better, and I hope that the governor will find it in his heart and in his uh it makes sense to him that we do do better. The audiobook of Finding Freedom, How Death Row Broken Open My Heart can be found at shambala dot com or audible well linked to both sites in our show notes. Now Dion Graham reading from the chapter called Scars. I remember the first time I really noticed the scars on
the bodies of my fellow prisoners. I was outside on a maximum custody exercise yard. I stood along the fence, praising the air. The yard gave my lungs that my prison cell didn't. I wasn't in a rush to pick up a basketball or do anything. I just stood in my own silence. I looked at the other prisoners playing basketball or handball, showering, talking to one another. I saw the inmates. I felt closest to John Pete and David
lifting weights. I noticed the amazing similarity of the whiplike scars on their bare skin, shining with sweat from pumping iron in the hot sun. A deep sadness came over me as I watched these powerful men lift hundreds of pounds of weights over their heads. I looked around the yard and made the gruesome discovery that everyone else had the same deep gashes behind their legs, on their backs, all over their ribs, evidence of the violence in our lives.
Here were America's lost children, surviving in rage and in refuge from society. I was certain that many of their crimes could be traced to the horrible violence done to them as children. The histories of all of us in San Quentin were so similar it was as if we had the same parents who I was a trusted comrade of most of these inmates, and to a few of them, I was their only family. Normally, I wouldn't dare intrude
on their private pain. Even so, I made up my mind that I would bring John, Pete and David together to talk about their scars. These men had probably never spoken openly of their terrible childhood experiences. I doubted that any of them would ever have used the word abuse. They looked hard into the corps standing round the weight lifting bench, proud of their bodies and the images they projected.
It occurred to me as I approached them that such a posture of pride symbolized the battles they had made their bones with. This was prison talk for proved their manhood. At one time I had been hardened as well and had made my own denials. The difficulty I would have in speaking with them would be interpreting the prison language we all used when talking out our past. Shucking and driving was the way we covered up sensitive matters. John was a twenty eight year old bulky man serving twenty
five to life for murder. I had met him when we were both in youth homes in southern California. We were only eleven years old. Throughout the years, we traveled together through the juvenile system until the penitentiary became our final stop. When I asked him about the scars on his face, he said they came from kicking ass and in the process getting my ass kicked, which was rare. John explained that his father had loved him enough to teach him how to fight when he was only five
years old. He learned from the beatings he got in a sense, he said, he grew up with a loving fear of his father. He pointed to a nasty scar on his upper shoulder, laughing, He told us that his father had hit him with a steel rod when he tried to protect his mother from being beaten. Most of us had seen this scar, but it never had the nerve to ask about it. As we stared at it, John seemed ashamed, avoiding our eyes. He mumbled a few
words before showing us. As many other scars, he can remember every detail surrounding the violent events that had produced them. I realized that these experiences haunted him. Yet as he went on talking, he became increasingly rational. He's been more than half his life in one institutional setting or another, and as a result, he projected a very cold and fearsome, almost boastful smile. He wanted nothing of what he shared with us to be interpreted even remotely as child abuse.
This was especially apparent when he showed us a gash on his back that was partially hitten by a dragon tattoo. It was a hideous scar, something I would have imagined finding on a slave who had been whipped. John motioned me closer and said, rub your finger down the dragon's spine. I felt what seemed like thick, tight string that moved like a worm beneath his skin. Damn, John, what did the hell happened you? I asked. There was something in the way I questioned him that made John laugh, and
the others joined in. He explained that when it was nine, his father chased him with a cord. John ran under a bed, grabbed the springs, and held on as his father pulled him by the legs, striking his back repeatedly with the cord until he fell unconscious. He woke up later with a deep flesh wound. John, smiling coldly, joked that that was the last time he ever ran from
his father. David and Pete recounted similar childhood experiences. Their stories said much about how all of us had come to being one of the worst prisons in the country. Most prisoners who were abused as children were taken from their natural parents at a very early age and placed in foster homes, youth homes, or juvenile halls for protection, where they acquired even more scars later in their lives.
Prisons provided the same kind of painful refuge it is terror of trying to realize that a large percentage of prisoners will eventually re enter society, father children, and perpetuate what happened to them. Throughout my many years of institutionalization, I, like so many of these men, unconsciously took refuge behind prison walls. Not until I read a series of books for adults who had been abused as children that I become committed to the process of examining my own childhood.
I began to unravel the reasons I had always just expected to go from one youth institution to the next. I never really tried to stay out of these places, and neither did my friends. That day, I spoke openly to my friends about my physical and mental abuse as a child. I told him that I had been neglected and then abandoned by my parents heroin addicts. When I was very young, I was beaten and whipped by my stepfather. My mother left me and my sisters alone for days
with our newborn twin brother and sister. When I was only four years old. The baby boy died a death, and I always believed it was my fault since I had been made responsible for him. I spoke to them of the pain I had carried through more than a dozen institutions, pain I could never face. And I explained how all of these events ultimately trapped me in a pattern of lashing out against everything. But these men could
not think of their own experiences as abuse. What I had told them seemed to sadden them, Perhaps because I had embraced a hidden truth that they could not. They avoided making the connection between my experiences and theirs. It was as if they felt I had suffered more than they. That wasn't true. What they heard was their own unspoken words. Eventually, we all fell silent around the weightlifting bench, staring across the yard at the other men exercising. John and I
spoke again privately. Later. You know something, he said, The day I got used to getting beaten by my father, by the counsels in all those group homes was the day I knew nothing whatever hurt me again. Everything I thought could hurt me I saw as a game. I had nothing to lose and just about everything to gain. A prison cell will always be here for me. John was speaking most for the men I had met in prison. Secretly, we like it here, this place welcomes a man who
was full of rage and violence. He is not abnormal here, not different. Prison life is an extension of his inner life. Finally, I confided to John that I wished I had been with my mother when she died. Hey, didn't you say she neglected you? He asked. John was right, she had neglected me. But am I neglected myself as well? By denying that I wished I had been with her when
she died that I still love her. As Jarvis's legal team at Kirkland Analysis preparing for the post conviction proceedings to appeal his death sentence, we are planning season two of Dear Governor, in which we will follow those proceedings and, pending the reinstatement of phone privileges, Jervis is looking forward to continue sharing his story along the way. Thanks to
Dion Graham for lending his passion and incomparable pipes. Special thanks to Gavrilla Wells for providing audio of Jarvis and for her steadfast devotion to human rights and social justice. Today's episode was written and produced by Donna Fazzari and myself, Cornyicole. Our theme song sentenced his compliments of the band Stick Figure from their album set in Stone. Stu Sternbach has composed the original music. Nate Defort did the sound design.
If you'd like to learn more about Jarvis and support his cause, please visit free Jarvis dot org. For more podcasts from I Heart Radio, visit the I Heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows back at