My Day Behind Bars

Not Your Average Writer's Retreat

Imagine my surprise when I was told a group of inmates at Soledad State Prison wanted to meet me. Not me, specifically, but someone who wrote for a living.

The invitation to teach a one-day seminar was tempting but daunting. After all Soledad had been home to Sirhan Sirhan, Robert F. Kennedy’s assassin and Juan Carona, infamous serial killer of 25 farm workers. There were seriously dangerous people inside.

I had been asked by a friend who taught the same group of inmates regularly and assured me there was nothing to fear. She was the safest person in the prison, not because of the heavily armed guards and her panic button, but because her students had told her they’d protect her with their lives. Literally. How had she won such devotion? She showed them respect, treated them kindly, and always told them the truth. I should do the same.

There were more official caveats which prison officials had her pass along. The most important, do not wear blue. Why? Well, in case of a riot, the guards can distinguish you from the prisoners and are less likely to pick you off from their tower positions. Note to self. Shelve the blue jeans.

My friend asked if I had any scripts I could leave behind. Her students were anxious to read samples of TV shows and movies. Sure. No problem. Oh, one other thing. Remove the brads and secure the pages with rubber bands. Brads can be honed into weapons. Weapons. Hadn’t occurred to me, but okay.

Forewarned and appropriately dressed in drab brown attire, I left my house early on the appointed morning, bracing for the experience of leading a writing workshop with drug dealers, murderers and others who had committed an assortment of serious felonies. On the other hand, they had the perfect background for a writer. Not because all of us are felons (only a few) but because they have unusual stories to tell. They have something to say. Not everyone who writes can make that claim.

At 6:30 a.m., the small town of Soledad is cold and unwelcoming, like the prison it hosts. The guards and their families live in long, low bungalows placed safely around the outside of a tall hurricane fence topped with barbed wire. Inside the compound, inmates live in three-story, rectangular buildings. Stark, bleak boxes reminiscent of Hitler era, functional, Bauhaus architecture. I was scared straight just standing in the parking lot.

The visitor’s area was crowded with relatives waiting to see incarcerated loved ones. Two Hispanic girls, maybe four and five, dozed on either side of their mother. They had on pretty dresses, ones they might have worn for a quinceanera; white and lacy with ruffles around the bottom. And shiny black shoes that didn’t reach the floor; out of place in this lifeless room, but a welcome bit of warmth. Their mother said they had ridden a bus all night to see their father for a few minutes. Could this place possibly be more depressing?

Yes, it could. Once admitted inside the prison proper, requiring entry through a series of heavily fortified barred doors, a prison official insisted on showing me around before the morning session. Like a cock of the walk, he led me down one corridor and, pointing to a cell, told me to “take a look.” The cell had a small window in the door and I glanced inside – where an inmate sat on his bed. The look he gave me was chilling and heartbreaking. Part anger, part humiliation. I’d inadvertently violated his living space. But the official wasn’t bothered. Privacy? It was just some inmate. Later, my friend told me the official was roundly hated by the prisoners. I kind of hated him myself and I’d only known him for five minutes.

The morning session was made up of “short timers,” men who would be released within a year or two. Generally, their crimes were less severe, mostly nonviolent and drug offences. The stories they had written reflected aspects of their lives, clearly autobiographical. Some were funny, some sad, some angry. All heartfelt. And revealed talent. The one I remember most clearly was inventive, satirical and accompanied by colorful illustrations. “The Cereal Killer” about a psychopath whose crimes were inspired by Captain Crunch. This guy clearly should be writing for The Simpsons.

The main topic of interest was money. How much was I paid for a script? How much do writers earn working on shows? How did I get to be a writer? As short timers they could see the light at the end of the tunnel and were beginning to think about what came next.

After lunch we met those who were not getting out any time soon. They had committed more serious crimes including murder. A tall lanky guy introduced himself as “Tombstone” and proceeded, much to my discomfort, to explain how he’d used a tombstone to bludgeon someone to death, hence his moniker. He assured me he only became violent when drinking to excess, as if this somehow mitigated the savagery of his crime. The other prisoners were clearly unhappy with his “confession.” My friend later explained Tombstone had violated an unspoken rule about discussing one’s crimes with a stranger. It was considered rude. And undignified. Those were not the first two descriptives that came to mind – how about demented and psychotic?

As with the morning group, the writers displayed talent and read their pieces with pride and enthusiasm. Most of those I met were impressive, but probably not representative of the general prison population. Better spoken, better educated, and more imaginative. But this only made it worse. All that potential, wasted. To crib from Marlon Brando, they “coulda been somebody. “

I was struck, in retrospect, by the lack of self-pity or self-justification in their stories. They implicitly acknowledged their crimes and were using fiction as a way of expressing themselves, exploring their lives and sharing their insights. Each trying to answer, in his own way, the question they must all have wrestled with – how did I end up in here?

Driving home, I couldn’t shake the darker side I’d witnessed; the gloomy surroundings, the little girls riding a bus all night, and the cruel, indifferent official who made me look into that cell. The potential for violence was everywhere, from the towers with heavily armed guards to the panic button my friend had by her side, to the men I saw gathered in racially self-segregated, hostile groups on the exercise grounds. Even my choice of brown was an uncomfortable reminder.

As for the men I had met, their chances of making a living as writers were probably nil. Whatever their talent, by the time they got out it would be too late. When I told my friend she said, “Of course.” Nobody had illusions, especially the inmates. Then what was I doing there? Inspiring them to write. In the time she’d been running these workshops, they had not only grown as writers but become less hostile, more introspective, even more empathetic. She was helping them, in a way, break out of their own private prisons. Trying to give them the self-confidence and insights to better survive once they regained their freedom.

I wasn’t sure I’d helped them do any of that. And the inmates, while cordial didn’t say much at the end of the day. But my friend later told me they had enjoyed the sessions, and it had given them something to aim for. Even if unattainable. So, my visit had accomplished something. In other words, one of my more productive days as a writer.