Check Your 6

Issue 130

Hello, and welcome. I’m Simone—a writer, facilitator, and communications consultant helping people say what they mean, like they mean it—on the page, in the room, and sometimes, on camera.

Not to worry, The Letter is rarely about business; always about being human. (Psst… there’s no difference.)

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Hello, and Happiest Wednesday to you and yours.

Let’s get into it…

In Issue 129, I told you about John, the inmate I befriended a few years ago. Some of you offered to chip in to replace his art supplies, which were lost or stolen when he moved from San Quentin’s Death Row to Sacramento. So darn kind of you!

I reached out to John and suggested we work out an art deal. What if I commissioned him? I send money. He sends art. He wrote this:

My lawyer won’t be helping me buy Art this year, some way will come, I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough for me.

Commission? You have my first completed work!

Halloween? For the children, just be vigilante.

Medical? Things will be as they should be. Not an answer John!

Log when U can.

Resting well, 6hours last nite.

Good day my friend, log later.

J.

A couple of things about his message:

His lawyer, Mordecai Garelick, gives him $200 a year. If not for that annual income, John would have nothing beyond prison-issued basics—nor would he have been able to paint the piece my mom bought, the one that led me to him. Also, the name: Mordecai Garelick. It’s so good!

Check your 6. While he didn’t say it explicitly here, he has been telling me to check my six since we met. As a privileged, white woman from Mill Valley, the phrase was foreign to me. “Check your 6” means make sure you know what’s behind you. Forward is 12. Backwards is 6. Ironic I’m receiving safety advice from an inmate, but who better, really? I told him I almost never check my 6—and yeah, I know that’s a privilege.

Medical. He requested a wheelchair, much to his chagrin. He prides himself on staying upright, walking with a cane, but describes the debilitating pain he’s in constantly. He won’t accept anything to take the pain away. He tells me he deserves to live with it, given all the pain he’s caused others. If only it worked that way.

Sleep. When we met, John told me he only slept in 90-minute chunks—always had. I told him the sound of that made me want to die. Again, privilege. So, a 6-hour chunk is quite an improvement, wouldn’t you say?

Then he wrote:

Lets make a deal my friend, Business, I’ll do a painting each month, you send me 25$ each month.

Deal.

Many of you won’t need to know the complexities of sending money to an inmate in prison. Good on you! I’m learning.

As always, I’ll keep you posted. And depending on how this commission-thing goes, perhaps I’ll open the requests to more of you (in case you’re jonesing for art from an unusual source).

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I had coffee in Sonoma last week with an old friend. After my chai and her cold brew, we walked the four large blocks of the square, stopping to note the historic buildings and plaques still standing from eons ago. Don’t ask me what they said—I retained nothing—but my phone was listening and later that night, I was fed a story on Facebook, from 1989.

In a murderous rampage, a man named Ramon Salcido killed seven people (all but one were family). Two of his victims survived, so yes, he was after nine people. One of the survivors was his three-year-old daughter, Carmina.

The comments were flooded with recollections of the case—how deeply it had shaken people—along with updates on Carmina, now in her 30s (and, not surprisingly, yet sadly, addicted to drugs).

Before the drugs, she wrote a book called Not Lost Forever. I looked it up—because, well, I’m also communicating with a prison inmate—and now I’m reading it. Prize-winning novel? No. Free with Kindle Unlimited? Yes.

While I hadn’t heard of the Salcido case, I was painfully aware of one that happened nearby seven years later: the kidnapping of Polly Klaas. She was 12, taken from her home in Petaluma during a sleepover with two friends—while her mom and sister slept just down the hall.

This rocked my world. Rocked. It. A girl who already had trouble sleeping (me!), and who often feared the worst in the middle of the night (me!), was shaken to her core by the news—and all over the news, it was! Shortly after Polly was taken, I started therapy and continued for 30 years.

As I read Carmina’s story in Not Lost Forever, it occurred to me that John might have known Salcido, also sentenced to death at San Quentin a few years before John arrived.

While John has assured me I can ask him anything, I’m careful not to treat our relationship like a sensational one. He’s a person, not a specimen. I don’t ask much about life in prison or about his crimes.

I did ask if he has any friends. “Not really,” he said. He mostly keeps to himself. Since leaving Death Row, he’s been surrounded by what he calls “children”—younger inmates, noisier, less grounded.

He preferred the temperament of the elders on The Row—in chains, quiet and broken. He misses that, minus the chains.

In a message about wheelchairs, the crisp, fall weather, and a Halloween update, I wrote to John:

I learned of a story in Sonoma from 1989 of a man named Ramon Salcido who ended up in SQ after the murders of 7 family members. It was a random way the story ended up in front of me, but realized you may have been in SQ at the same time. Did you know him? I am reading a book written by his one daughter who survived.

He responded to all and offered this:

Yes on Salcido, very little contact though.

And that’s that. A tidy, full-circle murderous moment.

PS: My college major was Sociology, the study of society, human behavior, and social interactions. Does this help explain my fascination with prisons (which dates back a long way) and stories like these? I hope so.

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I can’t tell you what the barrel jean movement means to be, but I can show you—by replacing every pair of pants (which no longer fit my generously sized peri-body, anyway) with the style. I don’t recommend it. Variety is important. You need more than jeans shaped like Ricket’s legs in your life.

But me? I’m just fine with the horseshoe shape, which fits my horseshoe shape like a horseshoe fits a horse.

There is no shortage of options. Since I’m on a tight budget, and I love the Gap, I tried these on, and they’re good!

Another pair I’ve seen recommended on the socials is the Uniqlo Jersey Barrel Pant (they’re unisex). I tried them. They’re great! However, I’m ever-so-slightly between sizes, so I decided not to get them until I’m one size, not two.

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Two people who inspire me on social media:

1. Cruise became quadriplegic 17 years ago in a skimboarding accident, and the only mobility he has is in his head. He lives with his girlfriend of three years (also his full-time caregiver), paints, drives, travels, uses the computer, and on and on. It’s unimaginable to most of us, and a really beautiful example of living, no matter your circumstances.

2. Oliver quit his job at a tire shop, sold everything he owned, cashed in his 401k, bought a boat, and sailed from Oregon to Hawaii with his cat. He’s a very regular guy who chased a dream and captured many hearts. Few professional sailors thought he could do it. They now describe the joy of watching him prove them wrong. He was an amateur, not a sailor—and he made it happen. His next mission is to sail around the world. Non-stop. Alone. An 8-10 month journey. He’s awkward and knows it. He’s now internet famous—and still shows up like it’s his first time on camera.

Beyond the quotes, politics, sound advice, pretty people, and beautiful homes, who and what inspires you on social media? Please share. It’s not the monster we claim it to be, unless we succumb to the monster we claim it to be. Let’s not.

Until we meet again. With love and gratitude,

Simone

On the left, the painting my mom bought from John at the San Quentin Hobby Shop. On the right, a charcoal drawing John sent me. The bright piece to the right is from Molly M Designs (more on her in another letter).

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Oh, hey! Want snappier messaging? A clearer sense of direction? An open line of communication? Hire me to write, facilitate, or speak. Good communication solves so much—and it’s my wheelhouse. www.simonesilverstein.com