More than anyone, Marcus Henderson — father, son, grandson, nephew, friend, mentor, leader, brother —  is the man who helped me survive prison, and the man most responsible for my freedom. 

Marcus died in May 2025 from colon cancer at age 52, about six months after he came home from prison. He endured 25 years of prison, including one of the worst COVID-19 outbreaks in the country, but he couldn’t survive the complete disruption in his cancer care after he got out. 

Throughout my 17 years of incarceration, I had many cellies and friends, but Marcus was different. He had an unwavering belief in the good in people. That’s no easy thing in prison, where you’re sometimes surrounded by the worst in people.

Marcus and I met at what was then called San Quentin State Prison in California on the day we started at the San Quentin News newspaper in 2015. He was a sportswriter, and I was a layout designer. As new recruits, we were assigned the grunt work of cleaning toilets. Even down on his knees scrubbing away, he always had a smile on his face. 

We were fast friends. Even though he was Black and I was Chinese in an environment where race was a big part of people’s identities, we became brothers. He called me Chiu. I called him by his first name of Wali, which was his Muslim name. We were family. He was almost a decade older than me, but at the end of the day we had each other’s backs.

From the jump Marcus was professional, he showed natural leadership skills and he had a unique perspective on stories. Within a few years, he became the paper’s editor-in-chief. 

So many times I wanted to leave the newspaper because of beefs I had with certain personalities. So many times I ranted and dumped negativity on him. But Marcus always returned compassion and reason. He encouraged me to stay at the paper and he encouraged me to be a better person. 

Marcus convinced me that the paper was bigger than any one person. By publishing stories about our incarcerated peers — stories told with care and humanity — we could change the reductive narratives society told about us. For years, we published a newspaper every month as well as a quarterly magazine without the use of the internet and despite the hindrances of prison life, including lockdowns and onerous rules from the administration. 

Had I left the paper, I probably wouldn’t have had my sentence commuted by California’s governor and been given a second chance at freedom. I owe my release to him. 

I remember the day in spring 2020 when we were sent back to our cells, right as COVID-19 was about to change the world forever. I knew I probably wouldn’t see Marcus before I went home. 

I got out on May 1, 2020, soon after everything shut down. No longer at San Quentin, I continued to lay out the paper because I needed a job, but also because of what Marcus had said: The paper was not for us; it was for everyone in prison.

I believed in the newspaper’s mission, and I believed in Marcus.

Throughout the pandemic, Marcus didn’t stop putting out the newspaper. When people were infected and isolated in their cells, he risked his health to publish stories he believed people needed to hear. 

During this time, Marcus faced an internal rebellion that challenged his leadership. Others undermined him and tried to replace him as editor-in-chief. 

Marcus and I talked on the phone a lot during this ordeal. Instead of retaliating or lashing out, he was empathetic. He showed strength and patience and tried to show his enemies grace. I think this grew out of his moral and religious convictions, which were based on his deep Islamic faith that he developed while incarcerated.

After the pandemic, I went back to San Quentin as a volunteer with the University of California, Berkeley’s journalism class. But mostly I went back so I could be there for Marcus.

When he was diagnosed with Stage 3 colon cancer, Marcus continued leading the newspaper even as he underwent treatment. He created self-help groups, mentored people inside, and even convinced me to facilitate my own self-help group, which I still run. 

Despite his illness, Marcus was denied compassionate release, possibly because his cancer was in remission. But he was paroled in November 2024 just in time to be with his family for the holiday season, rather than being served the obligatory burnt kosher hot dogs in the chow hall. He went to live with his mother in South Central Los Angeles. 

When I was able to see him, it was one of the happiest moments of my life. The man I survived prison with was finally free — free from chains, free from mental anguish, free from the endless drama of prison. He brought home his joy, laughter and appreciation of life.  

A friend gave him an iPhone and he learned to text. He sent friends holiday messages and checked in with them regularly. He reconnected with his kids and shared meals with the volunteers he had met inside San Quentin. I gave him an Apple Watch as a welcome home gift, which he showed off to friends. 

On Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, he sent friends a picture and a quote by him: “Everybody can be great… because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

One day in March, we went to Venice Beach. We sat with our feet in the sand, enjoying the calm. As we strolled the boardwalk, people were hocking CDs of rap music. Marcus wanted to help them out, so he paid $20 for one even though he didn’t have a CD player. I had to pull him away after that. 

We also stopped by the basketball courts he went to as a teenager. We watched street performers doing acrobatics. Afterward, I took him to my favorite store: Costco. Marcus walked up and down the fruit aisle and bought enough Korean pears, grapes and melons to fill a fruit stand. In prison, we almost never saw fresh fruit. 

But soon Marcus’ cancer returned with a vengeance. Upon his release, his medical paperwork was lost, and it had taken months communicating with different counties to transfer his paperwork from the Bay Area back to Los Angeles and reestablish care. 

Once his coverage was finally worked out, the doctors had to restart his care and he had to request new referrals for specialists and the like. During this time, he took several trips to the ER following extreme bouts of pain.

His appetite left him. His weight dropped. By the time his treatment finally began, it was already the beginning of the end. 

On May 13, 2025, Marcus went back to the hospital. I went to see him in the afternoon and sat beside him. He was in so much pain. I remember the nurse coming in to change his IVs. She and I moved him into a more comfortable position. 

As the evening arrived, Marcus drifted off without a sound. At first, I thought the pain meds finally kicked in. Then the alarm went off. A half dozen hospital staff surrounded him. I sat there watching as the nurses tried to resuscitate Marcus, placing all their strength on his chest. 

I held back tears, denying what I was seeing. I wanted to tell the nurses to stop hurting him. He was at peace and finally without pain. But I also wanted him to come back to me. He was my best friend. My brother. 

Marcus’ Uncle Bryan came in moments after he faded away. He sat and cried for what seemed like hours. 

I placed my hand on Marcus’ chest and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we couldn’t get the treatments faster. I’m sorry we didn’t go to Universal Studios. I’m sorry we couldn’t go out more because of your f—ing ankle monitor. I’m sorry you were in so much pain.”

I thought back to another instance of life’s cosmic cruelty and unfairness. When my ex-girlfriend passed away in 2023, I remember writing in my notebook how I should’ve been there for her. Standing in that hospital I felt even more helpless even though I was able to be there this time for Marcus. 

Marcus was given a proper Muslim burial a week later at an Islamic center in Lancaster. 

I saw him one last time after the cleansing. “Please just wake up — I’m sorry,” were my last words to him. 

Marcus was meant for more. He would’ve changed people’s lives and done good for the community. He always placed others before himself. And even in his final days, he never placed the burden of his sickness onto anyone else. He was full of enthusiasm and positivity. He always believed the best in people, including me.

Some people never escape the grips of prison even after they parole. Marcus left with dignity, respect and honor, and he died surrounded by his family, knowing all the love we have for him.

After Marcus died, I kept listening to a song by The Offspring, “Gone Away”: