I stand for dignity because I know what it feels like to have it taken from you, and I also know what it takes to get it back.
For 30 years I lived in a place where people and systems define you by your worst moment and make you carry that guilt for the rest of your life. I refused to accept that.
Dignity is about having the right to tell your own story, to be able to say, “Greg is who I am, someone who made a bad decision,” not just what I did. It’s about being seen as a full healthy human being, not a derogatory label such as “Inmate”, not a number attached to my last name, and definitely not a mistake.
And it’s not just something I talk about, it’s something I stand on and advocate for, not just for myself but for others who are still being silenced or misrepresented every day.
That understanding didn’t come from a theory. It came from living inside prisons for over three decades, in a place that slowly takes you apart piece by piece. It’s not just the concrete walls, it's how your identity gets erased. Over time, I began to realize that the outside world never got to hear my version, a version that truly represents who I am or who I was becoming. I was reduced to a story that other people were telling.
Most of the time, that story was inaccurate, incomplete and very harmful. It suffocated my entire being, my growth was stagnated, and I was left with only my worst moment to define me, as if that’s all there is to who I am.
I lived with that for years. Then something shifted. I was given the opportunity to be part of the media center inside of San Quentin. I learned how to first turn on a computer, then learned how to create life-altering stories that we shared with the world.
This opportunity was a chance to feel like a human being again, in an inhumane environment. It happened because we saw there was a real need to take control of our narrative, and we said let’s see if people really value what we have to say. We decided that if our stories were going to be told, then we should be the ones telling it.
That changed everything for me, I was empowered. When I finally got the microphone in my hand, it wasn’t about sounding good or impressing anyone. It was about saying to the world: “This is what happened. This is what I did. This is who I became. This is how I changed.” It was the first time I felt I could be honest and be viewed as human again.
That’s when I began to understand dignity, not as something people give me, but something I stepped into when I finally was able to speak for myself.
I take full responsibility for what I did. I make no excuses. And I also don’t think my entire existence on this earth should be reduced to one bad decision. Imagine if you did something wrong, and that was all you were known for, how would you feel? A single decision should not erase everything that comes after it, or everything that led up to it.
People are more than their worst bad decision. That’s something I had to learn the hard way, and it’s something I still carry with me today. Because once I understood what it felt like to have my identity stripped away, I couldn’t ignore it when it happened to other people.
I started to see how often people are denied dignity, not just in prison, but everywhere. In how we talk about other people, how we label them, scrutinize them, demonize them, and then how we decide who deserves forgiveness and who doesn’t.
Dignity is not sitting on the sidelines hoping things will change. It’s about stepping up when you hear or see something is wrong. It’s refusing to normalize dehumanization of others. It’s choosing to see people as the full versions of themselves, flaws and all.
Since I have been home, what I see that is broken in society comes from people who have gotten far too comfortable not seeing each other as human beings. We stop being curious. We stop being neighbors. We stop looking up from our devices. We stop making eye contact, and we stop listening. It’s become too easy to dismiss and disregard people. We all must do better.
I refuse to live that way anymore, because I know what it costs, and the price was a hefty one. Now that I’m home, I continue to push this positive work forward. Through KALW, I help create space for folks to share their stories with the world. I know what it meant for me back then to finally get my chance to step away from the shame and the guilt and express my humanity. Being on the radio wasn’t just about being heard, for me it was about being restored to my original self.
That’s what Uncuffed is about: giving folks the microphone and stepping out of the way so they can finally say, “This is who I am.”
Standing up for dignity isn’t about one individual story, It’s about believing that everyone has a story worth telling. And if we lose that belief, we lose something essential about what it means to be a human being.
So when I say I stand for dignity, It means that I stand for truth. I stand for people being able to speak for themselves. And I stand against any system or person that reduces someone to their worst moment in their lives. Because I’m an example of living through that type of reduction, and I know what it took me to come out of the darkness and come back from it.
So if you stand for nothing, then you fall for anything.
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This piece was brought to you by KALW Speaks, a monthly series of essays from KALW staff and contributors, exploring the ideas that drive our work. Each of these essays reflect our commitment to innovation and invites you into a deeper conversation about the future of public media.
Learn more: From A Whisper To A Roar.
