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excerpt from a memoir in progress…

Blond, blue-eyed Jacques Verduin was a tall, handsome man with a chiseled jaw. He had dedicated his life to rehabilitating “lifers” at San Quentin, many of whom had killed or been involved in violent crimes or criminal gangs. He had worked with hundreds of men for many years, and I was intrigued by his work.

I was the managing editor of the San Francisco Chronicle when I met Jacques in 2003, and it was not easy to get clearance for journalists to enter San Quentin. I didn’t want to jeopardize Jacques’ credibility or his program by coming into one of his group sessions. Prisons don’t like journalists coming in under any circumstances. But, when I left the Chronicle a few years later, I got in touch with Jacques. Since I was between jobs, I felt I could go into the prison as an observer and friend.

Walking through the prison yard with Jacques that first day, I felt like I did when I was a foreign correspondent entering a world where I did not have control of anything, often surrounded by hard men with guns. In those places, and in San Quentin that morning, I was flying on trust.

No guards walked with us. We were simply two white guys in civilian clothes walking through a yard filled with hundreds of prisoners, nearly all of them Black, wearing baggy blue prison pants and light blue shirts, lounging, playing basketball and tennis, running around a track, lifting weights. Except there were towers where you could see guards silhouetted holding automatic rifles and more guards with clubs, mace, and handcuffs strolling around or watching on the edge of the yard. 

It was a clear, warm day with a gentle breeze. The Marin County sky was cobalt blue, and Mt. Tamalpais stood etched sharply less than 20 miles away.

I had been in a prison once, captured and flogged by the Uganda Army in 1982. I was released after three days. It was a long three days. Now I am passing through security clearances to visit Jacques’ program called “Guiding Rage Into Power” (GRIP).

Every stereotype I had about inmates was ringing in my head. Those stereotypes were shattered by the three dozen men who sat waiting in a classroom for Jacques and their weekly class to begin.

When I walk in, the men are seated in folding chairs in a large circle. Many say hello and welcome. Others just stare. I sit on a folding chair and shake the hands of the men on either side of me and say hello. I have taken the plunge and am not calm.

I’m introduced as Jacques’ friend. Jacques explained to me that the essence of this program was the power of the group—the honesty of every man—confronting not only what they had done to get into prison with a life sentence, but going deep into their own trauma and the trauma they had created in their victims, families, and themselves. Witnessing and feeling others’ honesty, tears, and pain in the circle was a catalyst for trust that allowed them to share with intimacy their own pain and vulnerability.

I do not say a word. As the three-hour session nears its end, an inmate with black, long hair tied in a ponytail turns to me and asks, “So what’s your story?” 

I am not prepared for the question. I am surprised and silent for a hard, long moment. Much of that day has been a discussion of trauma in their lives or trauma their actions had created in others. They have spoken of sadness, loss, and grief with a clarity of honesty I have rarely heard and was not expecting to find or hear in a prison.

I too have unresolved trauma, but I do not have the strength to release it in front of this group of strangers inside the walls of a prison that is their home. I thank them for letting me into their circle. I tell them I hope to come back again.

The man who asks, “So, what’s your story,” is a convicted murderer. He has been in prison for over 35 years. His name is Robin, and he is Comanche Chippewa. Twelve years later, after being released from San Quentin, he will play his exquisite tribal flute, crafted in his cell at San Quentin, at my son’s memorial service and help Ben’s soul, spirit, energy cross over. 

***

After that first visit in 2007, I went back to that group week after week. I felt that I was learning more about spirituality and honesty and healing from those men than I had ever learned or witnessed before.

But I stopped going in early 2008 after I took the job as executive director at the Center for Investigative Reporting (CIR). I did not feel comfortable going back while I was running an investigative reporting journalism organization. I did not want to jeopardize all that Jacques was doing.

Ten years later, I had left CIR, and I met Jacques by chance at a 2018 Christmas party. I was happy to see him, but as soon as I shook his hand and looked at him, I knew something was different. His face was taut, and he was a bit rigid. I asked if he was OK, and he told me he had Parkinson’s disease. Before the night ended, I asked Jacques if I could return to San Quentin. He said yes. 

I started going to San Quentin again a few times a month and sat in a class that graduated in the spring of 2019.

My 26-year-old son Ben took his life a few weeks after that graduation.

One of the first people outside my family I reached out to was Jacques. I needed to hear his comforting voice and words of solace and support. I also wanted to go back to San Quentin yet again. I wanted to sit in a circle with Jacques’ next class. Inside a prison, I had found a grace, serenity, and honesty that transcended those walls and the crimes of the men there.

I had come to understand that for me and the group of men I had shared the circle with, the prison, at least for a brief time, was a sacred space. A place where a deep common bond between men was forged. Forged by sharing stories of pain and trauma. And by sitting in that honest fire of vulnerability, the healing heat of trust, and even love, could bathe you.

The group I became part of, a few weeks after Ben died, came to be called “Tribe 864.” They arrived at that number on one of the first days when each man was asked how many years he had been incarcerated. As each answered, another inmate tallied the numbers on a white board. The total for this group of men was 864 years.

Again we sat in a circle on folding chairs. The meeting again began with a meditation. Jacques introduced me as his friend. 

At some point on that first day, I was asked to speak and introduce myself. I did so and then told the story of Ben’s suicide, not leaving out any details. 

I talked about how I lived in fear Ben would take his life or hurt others, and of my deep, powerful, loving, and frighteningly painful codependent connection to him. I told them Ben left with love, grace, and serenity and that he left behind notes that were helping me.

I breathe deeply, sigh, and sob as I tell the story.

When I finish, there is silence in the circle. Most of the men are Black. There are a few whites and Hispanics and two Asian men—men who want to be in this circle. There is a long waiting list to get into GRIP.

An older inmate raises his hand. He is heavyset and rumpled in his prison blues. I learned later that he has been in prison over 40 years for homicide. He is an elder.  

“I got something,” he says. I am taking notes because I want to remember. “Thank you, Robert. My condolences. I thank you for sharing your story and Ben’s story.”

There is a long pause.

“I have never told this to anyone,” he says. “But when I was a boy, my favorite uncle, a very successful man I saw as my father, took his life. No one knows why. He was successful, and I and my family have lived in shame my entire life that a man we loved committed suicide. He jumped off the bridge too. I feel I must share this now to honor my uncle and Ben. I thank you Robert, and I thank Ben.”

I breathe deeply, several times, and feel disbelief and wonder at what I hear. I have an empty feeling, but a sense of calm begins to enter me.   

 A younger inmate, a powerful, handsome man, maybe 35 raises his hand.

“I got something,” he says. “Thank you, Robert. I have never shared this either. I tried to kill myself, more than once. My mother was an addict, and she died of a drug overdose when I was 13. I had so much rage. I was so angry at her, so ashamed, and so alone. I honor Ben’s death and his courage.”

Others speak. My body is glowing with a warmth I do not understand. I am hugged and thanked by men in the group when the session ends. I feel drained and grateful.