I was excited to go to prison. A sentence I now recognize as a privileged one. It’s easy for me, a white girl in college to say I’m “excited to go to prison” because people automatically assume that I don’t mean “to stay”. I went to prison on a field trip, as part of a philosophy class about the nature of punishment and responsibility. Up until this point, I thought of prison in terms of philosophical readings, lofty ideas, Shawshank Redemption, and Orange is the New Black. Now, I can only think of prison in terms of the people I met and all of the questions they left me with.

The Man In The Window

We walked into one of the maximum security buildings, what the officer called Close Custody, and what I had expected to look like Shawshank Redemption looked more like a depressing middle school cafeteria. It was efficiently built, with tan walls, metal tables, and rigid chairs built into the ground. One wall was taken up by public shower stalls, another had a large tinted window to the concrete yard, and the third was two stacked rows of heavy metals doors with small round windows at head level.

Most of the inmates were out in the yard enjoying their daily thirty minutes of free time, two were sitting at modified computers emailing their families, but several were staring at us through the windows of their heavy cell doors. I made eye contact with one on the top level, he smiled and waved at me but I wasn’t sure how to respond so I lowered my eyes and pretended not to notice. Our group stayed huddled together and everyone was careful not to lag behind our guides. Our whole lives we had been told that prison is for bad people, and the big gates and barbed wire fences are meant to keep us safe from them, so something about being in the same room as they had us all feeling a bit anxious.

The officer leading our group led us up to an empty cell and began to unlock it so we could look inside. That’s when I noticed the Man In The Window. He was in the cell next to the one we were approaching and had a big smile on as he tried to get our attention. He called out “What are the school kids doing here?” and “Welcome to the happiest place on earth”. A few of us looked away uncomfortably and a few chuckled, but I noticed the officer telling him to “settle down.”

I was the last one to get to step inside the cell. It was narrow as a hallway, empty but for two bunked cots and a small metal toilet. I wondered what it'd feel like to have the door closed behind me for twenty-three hours a day. At least, I’d have a roommate to keep me company. Unless I didn’t get along with them. That’s when I heard The Man shout “Close the door and show them what it's really like!”

I turned and left the cell as quickly as I could. The first thing I saw when I walked back through the door were the backs of my professor and classmates. I assumed they’d been told to turn around and did the same, but not before seeing the corrections officer who had originally told the man to “settle down” with his face inches from the door's window, commanding The Man to “sit on the bunk” and holding up his fingers as he counted down from three.

The Man With The Dog

If Close Custody was a depressing middle school, then Minimum Security was a low-budget high school. Outside, there was a large, concrete recreation yard surrounded by tall brick buildings. The first room was an administrative area, full of offices and inmates coming and going from meetings with their counselors. Inside one of the offices, I saw a poster with a tropical beach and large type that read “Just another day in paradise”.

But this building didn’t feel like paradise. It felt like a mix between every prison movie I’ve ever seen and an overcrowded community center. There were rows upon rows of cells with large iron bars, but the inmates came and went from their cells freely and a few of them had radios and small TV sets. One of the officers explained to us that this was the oldest part of the prison and had been built for maximum security, but since it was being used for minimum, each inmate got a key to their own cell and was free to come and go, as long as there didn’t go near the large gates in the rec yard and were always back by count time.

Some of the inmates stared at us as we walked past, most seemed to be intentionally ignoring us, digging their heads deeper into their books or readjusting their headphones, anything to avoid eye contact. Maybe it was the large iron bars, maybe it was the talkative tour guide, but I got the uncomfortable feeling that this wasn’t too different from a zoo tour. We were privileged outsiders coming in to ogle at the ‘other’.

Midway down the cell block, I saw a man walking towards us. He looked like a prisoner straight out of the movies. Huge muscles, shaved head, more tattoos than skin: everything I saw told me “hardened criminal”.

But the officer guiding us waved him down and the man came over smiling and introducing himself to us amiably. That’s when I noticed the puppy by his side.

“This is Lila!” he gushed as she ran up to us, licking our hands and begging for attention. “I’ve been training her for four weeks now and she is so ready to graduate, she didn’t even know ‘sit’ when I got her and now she can do everything.”

He tried to get her to lie down and roll over but she too excited with all the new people to pay attention.

“What does she need to do to graduate?” Someone asked,

“Sit, stay, lie down, come–“

Lila ran between my legs and nearly knocked me over.

“–stay calm in crowds…”

Everybody laughed. For just a moment, we were a group of kids meeting an excessively proud dog owner and his lovable puppy. His whole life, he told us, he had never been successful in caring for someone other than himself, but with Lila, he knew he was making a difference. It wasn’t until someone asked what it means when a dog ‘graduates’ that the mood changed.

The officer explained, “The dogs we get are the ones the Humane Society considers unadoptable. But after the inmates train them, they're ready to go back and get adopted. It teaches the inmates responsibility and gives back to the community, but I’ve seen the most hardened criminals cry when their dogs get taken away.”

“I know I’m going to cry,” the man told us, “I say goodbye to her every time I leave for work in the morning because I never know if she’ll still be here when I get back.”

The Man with the Nazi Tattoos

By the time we walked out of Minimum, our group had become visibly more relaxed. We no longer clumped together or hurried anxiously to keep up with the guide. When inmates passed by our group some of us would smile at them and get friendly smiles in return. I felt silly for having been so uncomfortable and prejudiced before, these were just people after all.

As we walked, our guide began talking to us about racism and gangs in the prison. She explained that many of these men weren't racist on the street, but would adopt such views in prison to fit in.

“Did you see what the tattoos on his knuckles said?” Our professor asked us, referring to The Man With The Dog. We hadn’t.

“Sieg Heil–The Nazi salute.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. How could The Man with the Nazi Tattoos also be The Man With The Dog? How could I reconcile my image of this man who clearly had so much love in his heart, with a man who would permanently mark himself as a supporter of hatred and genocide? Who am I to judge him? Me, someone who doesn't have the faintest idea of the pressures of prison society? But then again, is there any excuse for associating oneself with ethnic cleansing and mass murder? I know I'm in no place to judge, but I'm in no place to forgive, either. So where does that leave me?

Jack and Jesse

Our last stop on the tour was the Sustainable Practices Lab. From the outside, it was indistinguishable from every other stereotypical prison building in the complex, but inside could not have been further apart from that stereotype.

For the first time, our guide was not a corrections officer or prison administrator, we were introduced briefly to the corrections officer who ran the Lab, but only long enough for him to introduce us to Jack. He was the first inmate I saw not wearing a standard uniform, instead, he sported a clean white shirt with the words “Tour Guide” on it. The title suited him, everything from his cheerful and talkative demeanor to the way he occasionally walked backward as he showed proudly us around reminded me of one of the college tour guides I see leading groups around campus.

We were shown a greenhouse area that grows produce for the prison cafeteria, a bike repair station that fixed bikes for underprivileged kids, a woodshop that fixes chairs and equipment for nonprofits, a compost bin trying to keep the prison green, and even a teddy bear workshop that repurposes old prison uniforms into stuffed animals for children in need. Unlike anywhere else in the prison, everyone seemed relaxed and happy to be there. The inmates chatted with each other and the corrections officers alike, whenever we got to a new station, there would be someone eagerly putting down their work and coming over to tell us all about it. After visiting the sewing station the workers insisted we each take a stuffed animal as a keepsake. As we left a wood sculptors workshop, I overheard Jack thanking him for his time and the man replying “made my day.”

Finally, we met Jesse in the sign shop. When we entered, he was laying out rows and rows of handmade coasters to show us, each decorated with different animals and comics that he had designed. He talked at length about all the skills he had gained working in the sign shop, how good it felt to know his work was going towards charity, and how well it prepares inmates for paying jobs once they get out.

Someone asked him what his favorite part of working there and after a moment of thought he said, “I get to create my own narrative here. I came to prison eighteen years ago with a narrative already set up for me. They say ‘this is who can socialize with, this is what you eat, here is where you go, this is who you are,’ and you follow along cause you want to survive. But you lose yourself. When I’m here, I get to be my own person.”

Jesse paused for a moment and Jack jumped into finish for him, “People don’t end up in prison because everything is going great," he said, "They come here because they're broken somehow, and broken people continue to break things. But when I’m working here, I’m not just a felon or a violent person, I’m someone who builds things and helps people, and I help these younger guys get skills to use when they get out.”

“Jack and I,” Jesse said, “We're in here for life, but if I can help even one of these guys have a better chance on the outside that’s enough for me.”

I barely heard the last part of what Jesse said. I was still processing “here for life.”

The Corrections Officer

As we left the Sustainable Practices Lab, the corrections officer in charge of the program asked us if we had any last questions before leaving. After a few awkward moments, our professor was the one who asked what we were all thinking.

“I think we were all surprised to hear that Jack and Jesse are serving life sentences. As someone who knows and works with them, does that make sense to you?”

The officer considered it for a minute, before answering. “Of course it bothers me. They did bad things but that doesn't make them bad people, I’m only five beers and a bad choice from ending up just like them. But this is something for you guys to go discuss in your philosophy class, I just do my job."

After that, we went straight back through the big barbed wire gates, passed the security doors, and then back into the administrative offices. With each checkpoint, the knot that was forming in my stomach tightened. We returned our name tags and thanked the administrator for the tour. Then we went back to the parking lot, into our cars, and away from prison.

Only as I turned to take one last look at the big concrete buildings did it hit me; Jack and Jesse were never going to see this side of the prison again. They had both seemed so smart and funny and kind. How could people who clearly cared so much about helping the community, never be given another chance to be part of it? Jesse said he'd already been in eighteen years, was he even the same person who'd been sentenced almost two decades ago? Would I feel differently if it turned out they'd killed or assaulted somebody? Or were theirs part of the twenty percent of life sentences that were for non-violent drug crimes? Would it make a difference? Who am I to say? All my life I've been told that a prison is a place for bad people who we need to be protected from, but now I'm not so sure.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected walking into prison, and I’m still not entirely sure what I gained walking out. I'm not sure what the big moral to this story is or how to justifiably sum it up. All I know is that all my life I'd been told that prison is a place for bad people who we need to be protected from, who don't deserve to live in our world. But now I'm having some trouble believing its that simple.