In one of the latest PJP Learning+ assignments, we asked students to write a profile using strong reporting, interviewing and narrative writing skills.
Each profile spotlighted people the writers genuinely admired, and was written with care and curiosity.
The excerpts below show a leader who found purpose after hard-won growth, a teacher helping others write their stories, and an artist who turned creativity into healing. Together, these stories illustrate how journalists can use close observation and interviews to find the depth of people around them.
These profiles have been lightly edited for journalistic style.
A Sharp-Tongued Woman Learns to Listen
By Lisa Lesyshen, writing from Colorado
Tina B. walked through the prison yard, carrying a daily planner book, paper and a pen. She was a woman with a purpose, a woman who now knew how to help others while also helping herself, a woman focused on creating community. This confidence and self-awareness were Tina’s new armor that offered her a whole new world.
Tina’s transformation was not a rebirth. It was a hard-fought evolution that began with her collision course with the justice system at the age of 21 to her segue of becoming a peer behavioral health specialist for Denver Women’s Correctional Facility.
Everywhere there are millions and millions of unrecorded lives — ones that society identifies as inconsequential and not worthy of a narrative. This is a tale of self-improvement in the most difficult environment with the least amount of assistance from the penal system.
Teaching Others to Write Their Own Story
By Bonnie Vang, writing from New Jersey
It’s 2:10 p.m. on Wednesday, March 4, at Federal Correctional Institution, Fort Dix. Before the intercom system announces the ending of a move, Calvin K. is writing the day’s lesson on the chalkboard: “Social Studies – Major Civil Rights Movements in U.S. History.” The squeak of the chalk leaves its white dust behind as he continues: “American …”
Two students, prisoners like him, walk in with notebooks and pencils ready. The classroom has an assortment of smells, each owned by a student here, a small class of 10. Yet an earthy aroma swirls in from green potted plants nearby and dominates the scent.
In direct sunlight, Calvin opens a textbook. The room is silent except the “shushing” of the air conditioner, the shuffling of paper and the occasional clicking of pens.
“Some people read to escape this world — the reality. But imagine how liberating it would be to write your own story,” Calvin said in an interview. “Here, we’re always trying to get to the other side — to greener pastures — but we’re stuck in prison, so we make do with what we have. That means that the story we write for ourselves has to begin right now with our actions.”
Calvin never believed he could teach. He was accepted into many colleges and universities but chose not to attend. Rather, he stayed home with his sick grandmother. He didn’t have the money to go anyway, so he stayed behind to work as a manager for a grocery store and at a local corn farm.
Learning to See Herself Differently
By Colleen Thompson, writing from Arkansas
Any time you see Michelle P., she has a book in her hand. Whether she’s sitting on her bunk, at a table or walking the barracks.
Some people come to prison with disabilities they were born with. Michelle was born with a developmental delay, due to the fact that her mother was addicted to drugs while pregnant with her.
She didn’t start speaking until she was 10 years old. She says she has always had trouble with reading, math, concentration, comprehension and pronunciation.
When she was in a special school growing up, she’d get frustrated from not understanding what words meant. So her adopted mother, who couldn’t read either, let her quit school.
She could barely read until she was placed into prison GED classes with a great teacher, Mr. Tim S., who realized she needed extra instruction.
This year is the first year of her reading intervention. She realized she was improving when Mr. S. would tell her she was doing well. This built her confidence and made her want to read more.
Mr. S. says he has seen definite progress in her work. She is now reading the second book of the reading intervention program and taking timed tests. In the last two timed tests, she went from 70 words per minute to 78 words per minute.
From Self-Forgiveness to Service
By Lori Towle, writing from Michigan
Sara opens the envelope an officer gave her with her name and prison number on it. Inside is a certificate of appreciation from her supervisor for facilitating another grief and loss group. She smiles with gratitude. She knows that the mental health services department, where she works, appreciates her and the hard work she puts in with the women at the prison. Sara is proud of herself and how far she’s come.
“I love helping people, especially in this grief and loss group,” Sara said. “It’s beautiful to see a woman whose heart is hurting change to a woman who is healing. It’s a transformation on the inside that you can see the change appear on her face.”
Sara was not always so willing to help others. She was carrying a heavy burden of pain, and there was no relief in sight. She came to prison a broken woman, unable to forgive herself for committing her crime, for leaving her children behind, losing her business and getting involved with a man who was physically, mentally and emotionally abusive. She should have known better, just like how her mother used to tell her, followed by, “What’s wrong with you?”
Painting Freedom: The Life and Art of Eric B.
By Ali Moseley, writing from California
Eric B. has spent nearly four decades behind the walls of California prisons. Sixty-five and serving a sentence of 27 years to life, he lives in San Quentin Rehabilitation Center, where art has become both his lifeline and his legacy.
Raised in Altadena, Eric is the twin eldest of seven children. His childhood unfolded in a home scarred by addiction and instability: an abusive father and a mother battling mental illness, both trapped in cycles of substance abuse. At 14, Eric was arrested for the first time.
“When I was young, I drew lowriders and hot rods to escape,” he recalls.
His preferred mediums now are slow-drying acrylics and oils on hardboard canvases. He aims for photorealism — though, as he admits, he doesn’t always reach it. For him, art began as “an activity to process emotions,” a way to wrest meaning from turmoil and fear.
That act of escape became survival. At Avenal State Prison, he co-founded Artistic Rehabilitation Therapy, or ART, where creative practice was reframed as healing work.
By the time I met him in San Quentin’s chapel during a self-help circle, Eric had grown into a quiet elder presence. He spoke sparingly but with a painter’s patience, his words layering like brushstrokes. Some of my reflections resonated with him, sparking a connection that would later shape our collaboration on Open Mindz: The Enzo Project, a project blending art and restorative practice.
The Dog Program That Helped a Human
By Erin Kuhn-Brown, writing from Nevada
It is not always easy to wake up each morning at 4, but once Jasmine locks eyes with her dog, Kinny, it suddenly becomes worth it. She always springs awake to tie her shoes and grab the dog’s leash for their very early morning walk.
The dog program in prison has grown Jasmine’s self-confidence and has given her back her voice and the ability to exude assertive behavior, which she wondered if she would ever regain. Kinny displays characteristics she struggled with, making Jasmine truly empathetic in her approach to gaining Kinny’s trust as a good, safe leader.
“I thought I was just working on the dog. But in reality, the dog was working on me,” she says. She goes on to explain that this dog program has reprogrammed her to who she used to be before the trauma.
Jasmine references the movie “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” as a clear depiction of the type of life she lived prior to prison. She says she was “fearful, sinful, confused and lost” and “successful in all the wrong ways.” The only follow-through was in keeping her children safe.
The Brother I Found in Prison
By Cesar Hernandez, writing from Texas
At 61, Oscar is a few years younger than my father. But in the year I’ve known him, he has become a brother to me.
We have both been incarcerated 16 years and share things we don’t share with others. A few days ago he said he cares about me, which I suspected but didn’t have confirmation.
Prior to prison Oscar was a gang leader. “I’m not proud of those bad things I did, so that’s why I don’t share many of those things with you,” he said.
Over time, he has shared a few stories about his life.
“My dad was a police officer in Mexico,” he told me. “One day he wakes me up at 3 a.m. With tears in his eyes he says, ‘I just heard about the man you severely beat. You need to get out of here.’”
Right after, his mom packed him food and clothes. He and two gang partners traveled a long way to his uncle’s house in the middle of winter. “We spend the night outside. I have to hold Pablo so he doesn’t freeze to death. We barely survived the freezing night.”
Oscar is now a Jehovah’s Witness and tries to do the right thing and preach God’s Word. “Somehow God helps me and the other person understand each other,” he said. “My English is limited, but when it comes to the Bible, I can teach others.”
He also has an exercise ministry. He is very fit for his age. “When I get out of prison, I don’t want to burden my family,” he said. “I want to work and contribute.
“Every day I pray to God to grant me patience and let me walk out of prison alive.”
