by Franklin Lee
The metal crossbar slid open with a loud “clank,” signaling each of us “fresh fish” to open the metal-barred gates into our personal purgatory. The small, dark, concrete 6 X 9 room held a solid metal bunk bolted to the floor, a stainless steel sink and toilet combo just behind it, and the barest of essentials; one thin mat for each bed, two starched sheets and two questionable black blankets. The cracked plastered walls showed wear from years of exposure to human sweat, tears and who knew what else, unveiling several paint layers of puke green, rusty red, and a beige that was once off white. Some of the old layers most likely contained lead.
After making my bed, I climbed onto the top bunk, staring at the old scarred and worn walls. The last occupant left a souvenir for me; a taped magazine picture of an ocean 
sunset with a scripture scribbled beneath it. It was from Philippians 4:8: “whatever things are true, noble, just, lovely, good report; if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy.. meditate on these things.”
Outside I could hear the roar of laughter, and hundreds of conversations in every direction, all talking over one another, reminding me of a demented Mad Hatter’s tea party. A half-scripted rap song or a lunatic’s heckle filled the night as I, staring at my paper ocean, attempted to drown out the chaos of my living Hell.
This was my first day in San Quentin State Prison.
About two generations ago, hundreds of Chinese escaped the Communist regime, in hopes for a better life in America. A century earlier, many sought the taste of “Gold Fever,” or a chance to earn money to send home to their families by laboring and dying while building railroads. Around the early 1900’s, many Chinese immigrants were locked away in a prison just east of the city in the bay of San Francisco, called Angel Island. Families were torn apart, separated by gender into cramped dorms, most often three metal bunks high. The government interrogated the Chinese trying to determine who were already citizens and to cap the flow of immigrants pouring onto America’s soil.
Months would pass, many families never learning what had happened to their loved ones. With no access to paper with which to write home, poems, letters, and personal stories of singular struggles were carved in silence into the wooden walls of the barracks. The hope was that one day someone would discover their sad fates.
My grandfather was one of the lucky ones. His father had already established dual citizenship through Hawaii, and paved the way for his son to come to the states. Later my father, at age thirteen, and his mother, would find themselves walking the streets of San Francisco, brought over from China by my grandfather.
Lying wide awake in my bunk that first night, I could hear the late night encore of “San Quentin Idol” as contestants try to out-rap one another with their own “hardcore gang” lyrics. Finally, the evening concludes with the Lord’s prayer being recited and everyone joining in. Halfway through it, it gets drowned out by the Prison’s prayer; the program shut-down call. Across the rotunda, in the other block, I could hear the rallying cries of Blacks, Whites, and Mexicans shouting out their good-night role calls. How did I end up being drafted in this army of criminals, locked away in one of the worst places in the world?
Growing up as a Chinese-American, I live a life of duality. Some may see it as a collaboration, a hodge-podge of two cultures blending into one. I called it “not quite one or the other.” Often shunned by my white peers for my “slant eyes” or “pug nose,” to describe my characteristics; “Ching Chong China man” or “Ah-so” to describe my language; “too smart” or “bad driver” to describe my personality. I had to struggle against my anger, feelings of injustice, and disgust towards the ignorant and prejudiced, but it is not in my “Asian nature” to lash out. I can’t fault the “Gui Lo” person because I am and will always be an outsider.
The other duality is my being an American. Asians look at. me as “white washed” or “ABC” (American Born Chinese), as if I am not real enough to be Chinese or even considered Asian. I have an American tongue because I have difficulty rolling my dialect as quickly as my Chinese brothers, and because I would rather eat a hamburger than white rice. I grew up believing that I did not fit in anywhere.
The next morning, I marched down the tier with the other inmates, through narrow corridors, descending stairs, and into a dingy, stained, raucous chow hall. The food was barely edible. Suddenly I even missed the taste of white rice. In prison, everyone sits at the same time. Everyone gets up at the same time. Everyone walks at the same time. You are just a number in blue, forced to comply with any whim or command of the guards. Talk in line; you get yelled at. Hands not behind your back; you get yelled at. Walk out of line; you get yelled at. In San Quentin, you are a nobody. Unless the guards or some other inmate provides you with some unwanted honorific.
In Asian culture, honor is everything. Living without honor is a fate worse than death. In the past, Japanese men who disgraced their family’s name, committed “Hari-kari” or ritual suicide, often by disemboweling themself with their blade. In China, the dishonored are shunned or beaten; often a daughter who has shamed her family is excommunicated. Those who brought shame upon the family are exiled not only by their family, but their friends and the community.
It made sense to me, although it was a painful truth, when I was escorted throughout San Quentin for medical and psychological interviews. The Asian officers or Asian free staff would avoid me with such distaste; it was as if I had the plague or some other communicable disease. All eyes would disconnect from mine, and I walked in bitter silence. I was not White. I was not Asian. I was not human. Who is a typical Chinese-American? A straight “A” student carrying a 4.5 G.P.A. who becomes the next successful doctor or entrepreneur; a computer genius or savvy engineer who creates the next smartphone or luxury car; a lousy driver who sings Karaoke every Friday night, dining on sushi and dog, who roll their “R’s” when they talk, timid and passive, but a master of Kung-Fu or a prodigal pianist. I have none of those traits or talents. My family are not “Crazy, Rich Asians.” My parents struggled every day to make a living. I never had straight “A’s” in high school and I did not become a doctor. The only typical thing was that my parents owned a generic Chinese–American restaurant and I was that kid doing homework at the far corner table.
When you look at me, what do you see? Do you make your mouth wider to articulate each word in hopes I understand you better? No need, my English is fine. Maybe you pull your eyes at the corners to make fun of me. I had an argument once with a white inmate who stated I must not be a full Chinese because my eyes slant the wrong way and I must have Japanese blood (This is the ignorance I have confronted my whole life). Maybe you compare your skin to mine to see if I am dark enough to know what racism is? When I fill out forms, I am not white, Black, or Mexican. I am categorized in prison as “other,” even though there are more Asians than any other ethnic group in the world.
The enslavement of Blacks was forever abolished, and yet Asians labor in sweat shops, performed forced prostitution, and sweat as field workers. Slavery still exists in this country. The cry for diversity warms the media, yet while more and more Black and Mexican icons go mainstream, Asians are still marginalized.
I feel that I am nothing but a marginal person.
I stood in the small enclosed yard, overlooking the bay, watching commuters on the ferry float by. Like most of the inmates, I wore a white T-shirt and boxers as part of a controlled, three-hour yard time. Most of time, “we craved fresh air,” a break from the 21-hour confinement we suffered. On many days it would rain, a common occurrence next to the bay, or a heavy, dripping fog would descend. On this particular day, it started to rain. There were no shelters, no coverings, just the freezing rain, pelting me in my boxers. The guards, above us, in their enclosed tower, just watched us armed with their loaded rifles.
In prison, the Whites hang out with the Whites, the Blacks with Blacks, Mexicans with Mexicans, Asians with Asians. All others who felt misplaced hung out with the “paisas,” non-affiliated Mexicans, usually the ones who speak no or little English. To mingle with another group could lead to an act of violence. Like packs of wolves marking their territory, the clans do not cross boundaries. The White’s TV, the Black’s table, the Mexican’s equipment time– everyone has their place. You have your own kind to watch your back; in the showers, in the chow hall, or out in the yard; and when another of your kind falls out of line, you handle your own. If a fight breaks out, you must protect your own. It is a race war in a place that is supposed to deter us from gangs, and if you are not part of a gang, you could be a casualty.
It is a fine line to walk the straight and narrow. Outside, the magnifying glass watches you. In prison, it is a microscope. Every step, every action, every reaction is scrutinized by everyone. If you are not in prison for drugs or gang violence of some sort, then you are looked upon with suspicion. The pecking order finds murderers on top, with gangs, and snitches and sex offenders on the bottom of the totem pole.
The percentage of Asians incarcerated is small. I am one of the unlucky ones. An Asian without an affiliation does not fare well in prison. Small in stature with features like delicate porcelain, Asians are targeted as passive, easily manipulated, or worst, preyed upon by obsessive sexual predators.
After being locked up in San Quentin for a year, I had the experience of being part of its 150+ year history as the oldest continually run prison. I spent a year in “reception” as they call it, a hub for incoming inmates. My stint at San Quentin was over. I witnessed some of the most horrific incidents; from seeing several stabbings with homemade shanks, gunfire from the guards, and even getting caught on the sidelines of a ten-man fight with a pepper spray bomb. I watched strong, tough men attempt to hang themselves or slash their wrists; inmate receiving a cracked skull from a block gun misfire, and worse, cockroaches. Thousands upon thousands of cockroaches. At night, I could hear them scurry across the walls and floors. In the darkness, rats fed upon whatever they could scavenge. San Quentin, at 150 years of operation, is a sad, sad testament to the stain of incarceration. It is a stain upon this state and this country.
When I was thirteen, I visited my father’s village in China. Already experiencing culture shock while visiting the big cities, my father’s village was a stone in the pit of my stomach. Two hours from the nearest city of Canton, we traveled through rice fields and flat farmlands on an old, one lane, unpaved road. When we arrived, I saw a small community of wooden shacks. The one belonging to my father’s family had two rooms; one for a bedroom for six, separated by a curtain, and the main room with a small, portable sink to serve as kitchen, dining and living area. There were no wood floors or linoleum and carpet, only dirt, and the light source was a shoddily rigged light bulb, dangling from the ceiling. This was the poverty my parents grew up in, much like hundreds of villages across Asia. It was what my father left behind, in order for me to have a better life.
I look down the concrete and steel tier of fifty cells, one of which I slept in feeling like being in a nightmare hostel. It was three in the morning when I got the wake up call to pack my meager belongings. I was trans-packing to my next destination. I will now serve the next twenty years, bouncing around to various prisons all over California.
One day, I will go home, wherever that may be. In twenty years, most of my family will be gone. I am still trying to determine if it matters. I have lost my identity within the judicial system, but I will continue to discover myself. I will always carry my Asian shame, like a scarlet letter, I have but I will not waste my mind and heart and spirit on looking back. I have only the future to look forward to.
