Summer story
I stood surrounded by barred walls holding my ID above my head. Behind me, Richardson Bay in the Bay Area of California. In front of me, San Quentin State Prison. I walked in with six of my co-workers from my summer internship. We were there for a meeting with the incarcerated men we work with at our nonprofit, Humans of San Quentin. All summer, I read letters from people in prisons across the country, but today I would be shaking their hands.
When you step inside of San Quentin, its initial beauty almost makes you forget where you are. The tip of Mount Tamalpais pokes out behind the prison’s historic walls and potted plants decorate the courtyard in front of me. Dante was the first person that I met inside. He shook the hands of everyone around me and told us he was in for attempted murder. Every person I met told me their crimes as if they were telling me about their year in school or their major. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I couldn’t just say “oh, cool!” as I might to a peer telling me their academic interests or hobbies.
He led us to his nine-by-five cell that he shared with another man. I tried to ignore the men peering down at me from the five levels of cells that towered above. I was in their space. Their home. I understood they were going to look at me, a 21-year-old female in their all-male prison. I was out of place and a reminder of their current state.
The men on the rec yard wore variations of what they call their “state blues”. They have a combination of jeans, blue pants, a blue shirt, white shorts, a white shirt, and all grey sweats. All I knew about prison, aside from the stories I read during my internship, was from television. My understanding was narrow, and my life had been privileged considering I only knew one person who was incarcerated until now. I didn’t expect there to be so much creativity. From the way they decorated their cell to the way they personalized their style; these men took what little they were issued and turned it into something of their own.
In the education center, I sat with a team of incarcerated tutors who helped men study to get their GEDs. According to Michael, a 65-year-old serial bank robber who spent hours tutoring his peers, the average literacy rate in San Quentin was that of a 4th grader. Nevertheless, hurdles were surpassed and the impossible seemed to come to life. Coby, an Irish gang member, told me he learned to read during his seven years in solitary confinement.
I found myself slowly growing comfortable in this environment. Making conversation with the men around me and learning about their past life, current experiences, and future hopes. When we stood back in the courtyard to leave, Dante made me realize once again how my privilege can get in the way of reality. He pointed in the distance and asked what we saw. I scanned my environment: people playing basketball, the freeway, a couple of seagulls, a man running. Wrong. My eyes, the ones who got to leave at the end of the day, saw these minute details. But their eyes, the ones who might spend a lifetime here, saw the massive wall that separated them from the outside.
Dante told us that even though it seemed beautiful, and the people seemed friendly, we were still in a prison. Some of the people inside had spent years working on their reform and preparing to make their impact on the world better than before they went to San Quentin. But just four days before I came to the prison, three people were murdered by other incarcerated people. It wasn’t a movie, and it wasn’t just a field trip. The only thing that separates you and me, he said to us, is one bad decision.
