Author: redcarpet

Editor’s Note: This is a two-part story — first the activist speaks, and then his student follows. 

PART I: The Teacher, By Kevin Cooper 

STOCKTON, CA. — I arrived at the California Health Care Facility at Stockton Prison on May 23, 2024, after being transferred from San Quentin prison’s death row, which was dismantled by Gov. Gavin Newsom. All death row inmates were sent to prisons throughout the state.      

The number of “points” an inmate had on his or her prison record, as well as bed space at other prisons, were used to decide which prison an inmate would be transferred to. Other things like medical issues, mental health issues, and any issue that the administration wanted to use for or against an inmate went into account as well. 

The higher the point level of an inmate determined the level of prison to which that inmate was sent. Because l had the lowest (good) point level —  19 — an inmate could have at San Quentin, I was allowed to be sent to a level 2 prison, the lowest security level facility in the state. 

I came to this health care facility because I have medical issues — a bulging disk in my back and severe arthritis in my right knee. If I did not have these medical issues, there is a good chance that I would have been transferred to another level 2 prison.

The first six months here was all about me adjusting. On death row, a level 4, I was in handcuffs and escorted by a guard everywhere I went. But as soon as I got here, the handcuffs came off, I was not escorted, and the biggest adjustment was that I did not have a prison guard with a gun ready to shoot me at any given time. I was not living under the threat of death every minute of every day. I fell into the same routine for a while, which basically consisted of going to medical appointments, mental health appointments and every other kind of appointment that the people who control this prison wanted me to go to.

One adjustment that was important for me was being around so many people. This prison is huge — it can house 2,953 inmates and is staffed by about 4,000 people, including custody, medical and support staff walking around all day every day. I have been learning about all of these different people who live on these prison grounds as a whole prison population. The imprisoned people here are called residents, not inmates, and there is a very large civilian work force here, as well as all the guards. At San Quentin I was only around 30 to 40 people, if that, at any given time. That was when I was out on the yard, and that also depended on how many inmates came out to the yard that day. But here, there are always people walking, looking, watching and doing everything else that human beings do.

This place is so big that the guards either ride bikes to get around or drive or ride in electric carts to get around. Wherever I go I am taken on an electric cart. Sometimes we are allowed to walk, but for the most part it’s on carts, except to the big yard which is a short walking distance from where I am housed.

I also had to adjust to living in a unit with others who, like me, were out of handcuffs and are living in a place where there are so many people of different cultures, religions, sexual orientations and all else. On death row there were gay and transgender people, but they were on a protective custody yard. Here they are everywhere with non transgender or non gay people. This is so very different from where I came from, but this is real life, and in real life, all different kinds and types of people do exist.

On death row I had an electric hot pot to either cook or heat my food, and while I still have it here, I now can use a microwave oven, and I can use an iron to press my clothes. I am allowed a razor blade to shave with, and a plastic serrated knife to use with our food. All these things I was not allowed to have on death row, and I really had to get used to having them without feeling that I was breaking the rules. Being able to stay in the shower as long as I want was a real change because on death row, showers were for 15 minutes only.

My life completely changed for the better after transferring from San Quentin. It was to change again for the better, but in ways that I had not intended when I got here. 

There are many inmate communities within the prison, and all are different. There are communities of gang members, even though here at this level 2 prison they are not as powerful or dominant as they are at level 3 and level 4 prisons. There are separate gang communities and other communities like religious, cultural and what have you. There are also different transgender communities in here.

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This prison is what is deemed the California Model by Gov. Newsom as he introduced this to the California corrections system. This prison has all of the diversity that society has because most of the inmates/residents here will return to society one day. Just about all have to go to the parole board, and will get released. If a person can make it in here, then they can make it out in society because, for the most part, this place is a form of society with all, or most, of the issues that people in society outside face. But if they cannot make it in here, then they probably will not make it out in the real world. That’s what the saying is in here.

So, for the first eight months at this prison I basically went about learning this new way of life, meeting new people, trying to fit in and not make waves or get into any trouble. I kept up my San Quentin exercise program, I played basketball, I reconnected with all my friends, comrades, and fellow activists that I knew from my San Quentin days. I went on visits with them, and I continued to work on my case. I did not have to work in the kitchen because of my bulging disk, and I was not sent to school either …  but I would be.

I love to read books, and at San Quentin I read a lot because I was confined to a cage for most of the day. But here at Stockton I was out of the cage from 8 a.m. until 4 p.m. when I had to return for institutional count. I also had to return at 11:30 a.m. for close custody count because I am from death row, but other than those two times, I was out until 8 p.m. I was finding it difficult to read books because I was always on the move, unlike anytime during my stay at San Quentin.

In early January 2025, my eighth month in this prison, I received a notification called a ducat that I was to go to school to participate in a group class with other inmates and a teacher. This group class was mandatory, and it was run by a company called Center Point, which had signed a contract with the state to come into these prisons and teach drug rehabilitation to inmates/residents. 

I never had a drug issue or problem in my life so I wondered why I was enrolled in this class without my knowledge or permission. This class and its classroom are located right behind the big yard where we all go to play basketball, soccer, horseshoes, or to just walk around the track. Four times around the track equals one mile, and a lot of inmates walk it during various times of the day. Once I was told by the neurosurgeon that I could not play basketball anymore because of my spine and those bulging disks; I started to walk the track too.

I had to go to school Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. While at first I did not want to go and could have used my medical problems as a reason not to, I did go, and mostly I am glad that I did. Every morning is like a traffic jam with cars on the street. We are let out of these units at 8 a.m. but have to be at school or work or wherever at 8 a.m., so inmates are going in all different directions to get to where they have to go.

For the first three weeks to a month, I went to and from school with nothing good, or bad, or different, happening. Just another day in the life of an inmate in the joint.

Then one day, after leaving school and walking back to this unit, someone caught my attention. I saw this person from behind. I saw their back, and I watched how they walked with pride, self respect, and dignity. This is how I walk, and I recognize others who do the same.

Most men in this prison to various degrees walk with their heads down, backs bent and shoulders slumped, but not me and not this person I saw. At that time I really paid it no mind other than acknowledging that this is how this person chose to walk. It is a personal choice to walk in a prideful way. During the next week or so I continued to see this person, who, in the first eight months of being here I never noticed, even though I was out on the yard exercising or playing ball, the same yard that I now had to walk across to go to and from school.

One day I asked someone I was walking beside who this person was, and he asked, “Who?” So I pointed to this person and the Black man with me said, “That’s a homo.” I could not let this opportunity pass me by to try to correct this Black man about the way he described that person. So, I asked him, did he know our real history as a people in this country? 

He said of course he did. Then I stated while we were walking back towards the units we live in, if he really did, then in my opinion, he would not call anyone any derogatory names because we, as a people, have been, and in some circles in this country still are, called every derogatory word that can be called. I asked him, how can we do to others what was once, and still is, being done to us? That we have to be better than those who are demeaning us!

I asked him what he would do if that person who looks like a white person, who he called a homo, called him a nigger? He said that he would punch him in the mouth. So I said, then what kind of stuff is that? You can call people negative names, but if they call you one you want to punch them?

He turned and walked away. I would find out in the weeks to come this would not be my only time dealing with Black men who are homophobic and oppressive to other people, thinking that they are better than other people, while being willing to fight and hurt anyone who disrespects them. This double standard is a way of life in this prison, San Quentin and every other prison. 

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I was taught to be an activist in large part by a gay white man when I was on death row. He and other members of a group that no longer exists called The Campaign To End The Death Penalty visited me, and taught me about the history of activism. He and quite a few women in the organization befriended me, took me under their wings and taught me as well as fought for me and against this state trying to execute me. In fact, I can honestly state that if it wasn’t for that organization and all of the activists within it, I would have been executed by this state.

I learned a great deal from that organization and that gay man who befriended me and worked hard to keep me from being executed. They put together all the information that they could gather about my wrongful conviction, turned it into fact sheets, took those fact sheets everywhere and educated the public about my case. They taught me how to speak at public events and then held public events that allowed me to speak. They took my case to the Northern California Innocence Project, who in turn contacted the law firm of Orrick, Harrington & Sutcliffe LLP, who took my case pro bono and stopped this state from torturing and murdering me in the name of justice. This law firm still represents me.

The last time that I saw, spoke to and thanked this man for all that he did to help me, I asked him what I could do to show my heartfelt appreciation and thanks to him and the organization that he was a part of. He told me simply to “pay it forward.” But, at that time in my life I was doing everything but paying it forward. I was too busy trying to get off death row and out of prison, which I am still trying to do.

However, I am older now and I see so many things differently than I did when I was younger. Especially “isms” — racism, classism, sexism — and all the rest, including homophobia. That’s because all of us are being oppressed by the same power structure, the same oppressors.

The next time I saw that person walking across the yard, “paying it forward” flashed into my mind. So I decided to go speak to this person, and I did. I ran up to this person and said in a loud voice, “Excuse me but can I speak to you?” This person turned around, and I swear I was looking at a woman! 

This person who was described to me as being a “homo,” is a transgender woman. 

I took a minute to regroup and then introduced myself by saying, “Hi, I’m KC and I have a very important story to tell you;  will you please listen?” She said that her name was Gia and yes, she would listen, but not right then because she was on her way somewhere. So I said cool, nice meeting you and maybe the next time I run into you out here we can talk. She said maybe, and turned around and left.

One thing was apparent when I spoke to this transgender woman named Gia, and that is she is proud, confident and has dignity and self respect. I knew right then that I was going to pay it forward through her. I was going to make an activist in action out of her, as I was made an activist in action. Being an activist in action means that you just don’t talk the talk, but you walk the walk by getting involved in whatever issue that needs to be addressed.

I did not know how I was going to do it, or even if Gia wanted to be an activist. I just saw something in her that made me believe that she could be one, just as those people from the Campaign To End The Death Penalty saw something in me.

The next time I ran into Gia on the yard was a few days later, and she just happened to not be doing anything or going anywhere, so I asked her if I could speak to her, and she said yes. So, we went and sat on a concrete bench, one of six or seven of them situated around the yard.

I told her the same story I just told you, but I also told her that when I was inside that death chamber waiting room, not knowing if I was going to be executed or not, there was a very large protest outside the prison from people who are against the death penalty, but also from people who learned about my case and did not want to see an innocent man murdered by the state in their name. 

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Many of those people I would learn about after the U.S. Supreme Court refused to lift the stay of execution granted by the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals earlier that day were from the lesbian, gay, transgender and nonbinary communities. They showed up, stood up, and spoke out on my behalf as did all the other people from different communities who opposed that execution.

I asked Gia if she ever thought about becoming an activist. She said no, but then she told me that she was not allowed to sing in the church choir in this prison because she is transgender, and that Black men opposed her getting in the shower at the same time that they were in the shower. She lives in the dormitories. There are four of them, and there is one big shower for the people in those four dormitories to use. Each dorm has its own big shower.

Gia is a Latina, but she looks white. She is very intelligent and speaks her truth. She then looked at me and told me that there was a time when Black people were told that they could not get into anything where white people were, and “here we are in 2025, and I have Black men telling me that I cannot get into the shower with them even though there are 12 separate showers in the shower room. I don’t want to look at their little dicks, I just want to take a shower.”

I told Gia that she has what it takes to be an activist in action, and I would like for her to think about becoming one. I also said that I will be in touch with her about this. So, over the next few weeks whenever I happened to see Gia, I would stop and ask her if she had thought about becoming an activist. She said that she was so busy that she hadn’t given it much thought, in my mind that meant that she had not thought about it. So, I decided that if I was going to go through with this, and I was, I would have to change tactics, and I did.

I found out exactly what dorm she was in, and I would take her avocados, or peaches and other things like that, even a few Hershey candy bars. It didn’t work because one day on the yard she said, “Let’s talk.” Then, point blank, she said, “I am not attracted to you, all you want to do is f–k me and that is why you are doing all this stuff. But I ain’t like that, so you should just find someone else to get at. There are lots of transgender females here.”

I just sat there looking dumbfounded, and then got angry and said that she got me mixed up with other dudes in here. I was doing all of this to get her attention in order to make an activist out of her. I then got up and walked away and said “I ain’t doing this no more.”

But a few days later I saw her again, and I said, “Can we speak about what happened during our last talk,” and she said yes. I did my best to assure her, and to reassure her that my intentions are what I said that they are. I did apologize for my anger at that time, and she apologized for accusing me of what she did. Then she told me that I had no idea what it is like for her as a transgender woman in a men’s prison. She was correct, I had no idea, but I wanted to know and hear it from her. Then I found out what it is like to be seen talking to and walking with a transgender woman in a men’s prison.

Out on this massive yard where Gia and I would get together and talk, there are also all the other inmates who go to the yard, including men from the unit I live in. One of these men, a Black man, saw Gia and me talking and walking or sitting numerous times. He took it upon himself to label me a homosexual. When Gia came into the unit that he and I live in, as part of her prison job as a Peer Support Specialist — helping fellow inmates in whatever type of way that they need help — she and I would be at a table talking and laughing and still getting to know each other. While Gia did not say yes to becoming an activist, she did not say no. She was learning from me about activism and how she could make a positive difference in how people viewed transgender people.

One of the things that really was pushing her in the direction of becoming an activist was all the negative reports we all saw on the news about transgender people. All the attacks and setbacks and court cases and reforms that are taking place to keep transgender people in the shadows of society.

All those negative attacks on Kamala Harris in those Republican commercials about transgender people and so forth and so on — If you’re part of a culture that is under constant attack and you have a voice, you can use that voice to fight back if you know how. That is what I do when I speak out for all human rights, and against things like the death penalty and mass incarceration because this is used on mainly poor Black and brown skinned people, though lots of poor white people get caught up in this as sacrificial lambs or collateral damage by the powers that be.

These are the things that Gia and I would speak about on the yard or in this unit. Her job as a Peer Support Specialist allows her access to different units and makes it possible for her to come in the one that I am in on a regular basis as part of her job. To these small-minded and uneducated men, mostly Black, all they see is two men engaged in talk for the purpose of having sex. They do not see two human beings sitting down, talking about any number of real life and death issues. Because I am a secure man, secure in my masculinity, secure in my sexuality, secure in my spirituality, and secure in my blackness I have no problem talking to any other human being no matter who they are.

I am not a small-minded person, and as an activist in action I have to speak to all different people, especially all different oppressed people. Yet there are Black men in here who are so ignorant of our history and our oppression that they openly and proudly do to others what historically has been done to us Black people. It’s apparent that they don’t know who James Baldwin is, or Bayard Rustin, or Nikkl Giovanni, or Audre Lorde or any of the gay men and lesbian women or transgendered people who are Black and have lived and died fighting to make this world better for all of us, but especially for we people who are darker than blue. 

But I know about these people, not all of them, but enough to know that they are my people too. For quite a few weeks this Black dude kept calling me a homosexual in front of everyone that he could. Every new Black man who came into this unit he would pull them aside and tell them negative things about me. Out on the big yard he did this too, all because I was walking and talking and laughing and building a friendship with Gia and others in her community.

I would not have taken this verbal abuse and insults from him had this happened at San Quentin on death row. I would have dealt with him right when he first disrespected me. But I am no longer at San Quentin and I was doing all that I could to fit into this new world I was in. However, one day he did the same thing out on the big yard while I was hanging out with a few other men who I knew and who had also come here from death row. So when I returned to this unit and he was there sitting like he was king of the mountain, I said to myself, now is the time to bring him down. Gia happened to be in my unit at that time, and I apologized to her afterward for what I did.

I called one of the men who I associated with here and I asked him in a loud and clear voice, did he know that I was a homosexual? He looked at me puzzled but said, “No KC, I didn’t know that.” I then said, “Well, this Black buffoon over here,” and I pointed to him, “says that I am one.”

I then called him out to fight in front of the whole unit. To come and kick my homo ass if he hates them that much. “Get up punk and let’s do this,” I told him, but he would not get up.

This showed Gia and others that I will stand up and speak out and fight for what I believe in. It is not so much what I said, but the way I said it that embarrassed him, and afterwards made some of the other Black men who hung around him stop hanging around him and they left him alone. But my confronting him wasn’t over yet.       

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Throughout all of this Gia and I were doing our own fighting. We were like oil and water, we just didn’t mix. We stopped speaking to each other over words said, then we would make up, and then we would repeat this. But we never stopped saying “hi” when we saw each other, nor did we disrespect each other. We just couldn’t communicate with each other. We were talking at each other instead of to each other. We were making points, not communicating. We weren’t listening to each other, I as an alfa male, and she as an alpha transgendered female kept bumping heads. 

Each of us wanted to control the narrative. Finally, after one of these arguments, I just threw up my hands and turned and walked away. I had given up on Gia, me, and this “paying it forward” idea. I just wanted peace. But as I got further away from her, I found myself going back, agreeing neither of us was “a quitter.” We made peace with each other and agreed not to fight anymore. But in all of this, she still had not agreed to become an activist. During the next coupIe of weeks, I gave her copies of essays that I had written and were published in ScheerPost to let her see and read what I do. 

Now was the time to show as well as tell. I reached out to a couple of my activist women friends and told them about Gia, me paying it forward, and what I am going to do to make Gia an activist because I have great women activist friends who live in San Francisco and Los Angeles. They know about the transgender issues that are in the news everyday. A couple of my activist women friends work with transgender people. I asked them to get on Gia’s messaging app and welcome her into our activist village and family, and they did.

One of them has a radio program on a great radio station in Los Angeles, and I asked her to speak to Gia on the phone about coming on her radio program to speak about transgender issues and what it is like being who she is in here, and why she did not transfer to a woman’s prison which she is allowed to in this state. So, they messaged each other, spoke on the phone about Gia doing a radio interview, and the next thing I know, they did it!

My friend sent me a message after it was over and said Gia did great, especially since this was her first radio interview. A couple other friends of mine messaged me too, and told me the same thing. I had yet to see Gia after the radio interview, but I was happy because I knew that what I saw within this human being was real.

I also felt happy because I did pay it forward and with a person from an oppressed community that I never worked with or ever had any kind of dealings with before, meaning that I had reached out beyond my comfort zone for the bigger picture, which is our collective right to our human rights!

I was on cloud nine, but I could not have done this without all the help from every activist in action that I met throughout my life, and of course Gia’s willingness to trust me in this, as well as the activists who I am working with right now at this time in my life.

The next time I saw Gia I saw nothing but teeth — her big ass smile was all I saw! She was so proud of herself, and rightly so, and told me right then that she is now a full fledged activist in action. She will never be silent again. All I could say to her was, “I toId you so.” I believed in her as an activist before she believed in herself. I saw her in my mind’s eye as an activist long before she saw herself as one.

I then contacted other activists in action who I know and told them about Gia, and asked them to get an event for her to speak at, and another friend of mine who I had speaking events with in the past has agreed to put together a Zoom type speaking event for Gia.

Some of the activists I know have got onto Gia’s messaging app, and they all send messages back and forth, and Gia is now part of our activist village and family. In the not too distant future, Gia will do her first live in-person speaking event. That old saying of “each one teach one” is truly being displayed now, and it’s my hope that Gia will pay this forward too.

As an activist I stand by and support all oppressed people because I am an oppressed person, and in truth, all poor people are oppressed to one degree or another. While this is not the first time that two entirely different people from two entirely different cultures and lifestyles have had their worlds collide, and they ended up collaborating and working together for the common good; this is the first time for Gia. 

I honestly believe that because we are so very different from each other, and because we both are traumatized people, this has helped us to open both our minds, hearts and consciousness so that we do understand at this point in time in our lives. We understand that our fight is not with each other, it’s with and against the people and system that has traumatized us, and who are oppressing us equally.

I did not transfer to this prison to make, or even try to make, anyone an activist. I still, to this day, do not know why I chose Gia for this most important career. Being an activist in action is not what you do, it’s who you are. Somewhere in all of this uncertainty I saw something in her that made me pursue her in becoming what she now proudly has become. I honestly have no regret about doing this, even with all the negativity that happened between us in the beginning. I would do this all over again with her if I had to. The bottom line is we are human beings, different yes, but equal in our collective humanity. All we want is to be respected, not even accepted, but respected as the diverse human beings that we are.

In truth, we are not asking to be respected; we are demanding it. And we will stand up, speak out and fight back for it in the rich and historical way that is a very real and undeniable part of this world and this country’s torturous history.

PART 2: The New Activist, By Gia Rocha 

Kevin Cooper is a force of nature. From the moment I met him, I’ve found myself swept up in the immenseness of his passion for activism and social justice. On a morning not long ago, I was walking quickly down the outside driveway of the large oval-shaped yard where I’m currently housed. I was rushing to an appointment with a client of mine as part of my job as a Peer Support Specialist. I had a million and one things on my mind and was walking at a pace somewhere near the speed of sound. 

Suddenly, I noticed a person coming straight toward me. They were moving at a pace far exceeding my own and with a level of determination that made my speed and laser focus seem like I was daydreaming while on a stroll in the park. 

Before I knew it, this person had managed to stop me right in my tracks, a feat many have attempted and failed. (We’re talking freight train speed here, people!). With a great deal of determination in their eyes and conviction in their heart, this person asked me three things right then and there: “Do you believe in a version of yourself not yet fully realized? Do you believe in a future for yourself that has not come into fruition? Do you see the activist I see within you?” 

And just like that, an activist was born. A rebel heart beat for the first time. I was humbled, just about brought to my knees really, after reading about Kevin’s story and hearing him speak of the grave injustices he continues to face. I found myself so furious at the ineffectiveness of the justice system and much more angry with myself for believing the illusion that in the pursuit of truth and justice, people will always do the right thing, no matter how difficult it is. Kevin and I are different in so many ways. We’re somewhere between tomato, tomAto and potato, potAto. 

For starters, Kevin is a Black cis-gender heterosexual man and I’m a Hispanic transgender queer woman. Yet in spite of our differences (the list is long, folks) we have miraculously found a way to bond in a way that does not require color or gender but, instead, demands bravery, honesty and respect for each other as human beings. Like a rose rising through a crack in the cold cement, we have created a real sense of hope in a place that thrives off of hopelessness.

I have been in this prison for three and a half years. During these years I have been silent. I have come to understand that in some cases, and this is one of those cases, silence is betrayal. It’s a betrayal to all the transgender people who have made it possible, through their immense sacrifice, for me to live as an open and proud transgender woman in a men’s prison. Whether it be through their brave fight against injustices, persevering past inhumanity, and clinging to life in the face of death, I am indebted to all those who have made it possible for me to be the woman I am today. 

Pain is the common denominator amongst those who have known injustice, the pain of being treated as less than human and the pain of not being recognized as valid in the public space of society. On a deeply personal level, nothing hurts me more than the senseless violence against, and murder of, my transgender, non-binary and intersex family that, more often than not, is met with absolute ambivalence by the justice system and by society as a whole. 

Being in prison, I feel completely and utterly helpless at times. Turning on the news is a painful reminder of how the lives and experiences of the LGBTQIA community are used as political weapons; as if our mere existence is irrelevant, dispensable and worthless. Kevin Cooper has helped to reinforce in me the belief that with pain comes power. I make a choice everyday: Do I allow my pain to hold me hostage, to silence me, and to rob me of the opportunity to be brave? Or do I use my pain as a catalyst to find the bravery necessary to change the hearts and minds of those who would hurt me and my loved ones? 

I choose to speak life. I choose to speak hope. I choose to silence death and speak hope into the work of those who came before me and into the work of those who will continue to fight long after I am gone. It has not and will not be easy. But it has and will always be worth it. 

To contact Gia, write to her at: R. Rocha BM2901 – CHCF E3B/127U P.O. Box 213040 Stockton, CA 95312.