Choosing Between Food and Medicine

by Brother Y?

In this past election, I wrote myself in for District Attorney. Not because I actually want to be the D.A. but rather in protest of the present D.A., Kamala Harris. On my way to the voting booth to write my name in the open space left for other candidates, I noticed a billboard advertisement by the San Francisco Food Bank, which stated "Because no one should have to choose between food and medicine." In spite of the valiant effort by the food bank and its many volunteers many people still have to choose between food and medicine or breaking the law, which is exactly how my own saga began.

On September 1, 2006 I was arrested and held for 6 weeks without proper medical care. Of the four people who sat on a cold cement block waiting to be transferred to 850 Bryant St. from the park police station in Golden Gate Park, three of us were Black males and the fourth was a White male. On the next business day the White male was allowed to be released on his own recognizance almost immediately. The rest of us sat in jail waiting for a sympathetic judge.

For the other two it took a few days but they were eventually released. I was not so fortunate. It did not matter to the first two of three judges that I saw in subsequent visits to the court room that I take over five different medications a day, nor that I am a veteran of The United States military service. In fact one of them asked me what ship I was stationed on presumably so he could catch me in a lie because when I told him I was stationed on the U.S.S. Caloosahatchee I could swear I heard him mumble "Okay that didn't work." Eventually I was transferred along with several other inmates to "B" pod where we had a little more freedom of movement.

But they continued to make mistakes with my medication, and I didn't get my diabetic snack that I requested immediately until the weekend before I got out. I wasn't allowed to make any phone calls until I got to "B" pod about two weeks later. My good friend John Caldera was the only person whose number I had in memory and so I called him practically every day. John was gracious enough to put money on the books for me nearly every week, and I truly believe that had he not my health would have deteriorated drastically.

The meager portions were made up of mostly carbohydrates. As a testament to how few calories were contained in each meal one of the few times that my blood sugar was high was after I binged on 7 king size Snickers bars just about every other time it was low normal or low.

While incarcerated I began to notice a trend, that trend being every single young white male who came in custody was out within three days. The only exceptions being those with medical or mental health holds. Every single young black or Latino male was transferred to San Bruno within several days.

Almost all of the Asian American inmates were immigrants with poor or very limited English. One was back within a week after posting bail and I am convinced that it was only due to his poor English and the same lazy racist cop who happened to see him in the same neighborhood that he previously arrested him in.

What I found to be completely appalling is that the deputies who appeared to be the cruelest and most brutal were those who apparently migrated from Latin American countries or Asia. Of these brutes the one who stands out the most in my mind is a deputy Le. I made a point of remembering his name because I vowed that I would do everything in my power to bring him to justice one day. The thing that stuck in my mind the most was his particular way of dealing with one of the inmates I befriended when I was first transferred to "B" pod. The inmates name is Steve Green A.K.A. M.C. Creamy

In our first conversation Creamy told me of how he had been both victim and perpetrator of violence and he dreamed of one day being part of a campaign to stop the violence. Creamy has all of the classic symptoms of posttraumatic stress syndrome [p.t.s.d.] as well as several permanent physical injuries. One evening Creamy was in an unauthorized area of the pod when deputy Le noticed he immediately demanded Creamy to go to one of the lockdown cells. Prior to this incident he had constantly been getting into trouble I believe mainly due to his p.t.s.d. and perhaps other mental or emotional problems. I believe that these issues direly need to be addressed in the justice system.

Green refused to comply and subsequently Le attempted to subdue him by ordering him to place his hands behind his back presumably to handcuff him. Again Green refused to comply so Le grabbed his arms and jacked them up behind his back without bending but rather straight up as if they were some sort of handle that needed to be yanked in an upward position. This apparently agitated one of his permanent injuries, because at that point I heard him scream like a banshee. Through the subsequent struggle Le finally managed to get the handcuffs on him and began to push him backwards as if he were a wheelbarrow. Again I heard him scream one of the most agonizing screams I have ever heard in my life. Le managed to get Green into one of the holding cells.

During the course of this incident myself and several other inmates protested to which he responded by saying everybody shut up and go back to your cells. We all continued protesting all the while. Then it became eerily quite as we all anticipated what came next. Several large deputies entered the pod led by the shift sergeant. From my cell I could not see what happened but again I heard more agonizing screaming.

Several days later Green returned to the pod bruised noticeably, quiet and apparently mentally depressed. Steve explained to several of us during a mealtime that he was stripped naked with his underwear ripped off of him like a rape victim and thrown in "The hole," basically a concrete closet with nothing in it but a hole in the ground to use as a toilet.

I and several other inmates wrote formal grievances regarding the incident and of course they took their sweet time in getting back to us. In fact I even had to write a grievance about not having my grievance answered. By the time my grievance was finally answered it was the weekend before I finally got o.r.'d which occurred on a Wednesday. I responded to the grievance in the appropriate space and got no response presumably because I was out of custody. I later found that I could submit grievances to a Lt. Kennedy at 25 Van Ness Avenue. Each time I went he was conveniently out of the office.

To this day no one has responded to my grievances and I've been out of jail for almost a year. As far as I'm concerned the fact that they did not reply to my accusations is proof enough that they acknowledge that my and many others' civil and human rights were violated.

Please stay tuned for Part II of Brother Y's journey in the criminal iNjustice system.