Horacio Orozco felt like an impostor when he walked outside of prison walls after more than 30 years.

“I was worried people would stare at me,” he said. “Like they would know I was an inmate.”

Technically, he still was an inmate.

Sgt. Brandon Woods and Transition Coordinator Sue Robson, staff members with the Oregon Department of Corrections, took Orozco on a field trip on June 23, a week prior to his release. Orozco was part of a transition program that allows incarcerated people to visit the community they will return to before they exit prison.

In street clothes, unshackled, Orozco met with the probation and parole office, as well as housing and employment services for Umatilla County, about three hours east of Portland.

“It’s one thing to have a phone number or an address to go to,” he said. “It’s another to talk face to face. Hearing people say they will help me — it’s a relief.”

Once he was out in the community, Orozco said the anxiety left him.

“I was walking as a normal person,” he said. “I wasn’t walking with a big orange sign that said ODOC.”

They visited a Walmart, where Woods and Robson helped him learn to navigate the store, showed him how to figure out the best prices on items and how to use the self-checkout.

“Woods was doing his best to be my friend and not my guard,” he said.

Woods has been a corrections officer since 2017, but this was his first time accompanying someone on a field trip. He said the event gave him a different perspective on corrections.

“The most impactful part,” Woods said, “was seeing others view Orozco as another customer shopping. … That was a powerful reminder that many interactions outside of prison are based on who a person is today, not solely their past.”

Woods said the trip is about helping long-term incarcerated people reconnect with society, build confidence and function independently.

They ate lunch at La Palma, a Mexican restaurant. The department provided Orozco with $30 to pay for his food and they ordered separate checks.

“The money felt weird. I haven’t felt real paper money in 30 years,” Orozco said. “I left the change as a tip. What am I going to do? I can’t take it back to prison with me.”

Orozco accidentally ordered a T-bone steak. He meant to order carne asada, but misspoke when the server took his order.

“I was overwhelmed,” he said. “I didn’t want to feel stupid, so I ate the steak. It was good.”

Orozco may have felt self-conscious when walking through the store or overwhelmed by the amount of items on the restaurant menu, but most of all he said he felt trusted. In fact, when he ate his steak, they gave him a metal knife and fork — utensils that are banned in prison.

“They trusted me with a knife,” he said. “I joked with Woods. I said, ‘Good thing we’re friends, huh?’”

Gaining trust

Trust was difficult for Orozco to earn. He had spent most of his prison sentence giving corrections staff reasons to distrust him. When he was incarcerated in 1996, he was a member of the Sureños, a Mexican American prison and street gang. He embraced the culture and violence that surrounded the lifestyle.

Officer Sheri King met Orozco in the summer of 2004.

“He was part of what I’ll politely refer to as a very large dysfunctional gathering in the yard,” King said.

Less politely, Orozco was part of a riot. In fact, during his time in prison he was sanctioned more than 30 times, mostly for gang-related activities. In total, Orozco estimates that he spent about 13 years in solitary confinement under 23-hour-a-day lockdowns.

“I was doing time as a prisoner,” he said. “I even made arrangements with the prison chaplain to send my ashes to Mexico. Few people know that. I was going to die in prison on the yard doing the work that I was doing. That was my mentality.”

As the years went by, however, Orozco’s state of mind began to change.

“I realized that my mentality was keeping me from growing up. I was giving up on life,” he said. “I wasn’t accepting responsibility for the things I had done.”

Around 2008, corrections staff took notice of the changes Orozco was making.

“It wasn’t smooth sailing, and there were plenty of obstacles along the way,” King said. “He kept pushing forward.”

Leaving the gang life behind, however, was difficult.

“It may be hard for some people to understand, but it was all I had ever known,” he said. “I dropped out of school in the fourth grade. My family couldn’t afford to take care of me. I was on my own by 11, mowing lawns and working as a barber to get by. By 14, I was stealing cars and selling drugs to survive.”

For most of his life, his gang was his family. It took him almost a decade to leave. But by 2018, he was on the right path. He was working, programming and facilitating peer-led recovery and support groups.

“I facilitated programs for both sides — my ex-homies and my ex-enemies,” he said.

Orozco had his first parole hearing in 2022. He was denied, but undeterred. In 2026, the parole board gave him an out-date.

Plans for the future

The field trip lasted about five hours. Orozco returned to prison to serve out his remaining week of incarceration, but with newfound confidence. He knew what to expect upon release, thanks to the efforts of corrections staff.

“I’m grateful I got to do this,” he said. “Now, I know what comes next.”

Orozco said his family is planning to visit him once he is free. Some of them are coming up from Mexico. He has brothers he has never met before, and other family members he has not seen in more than 40 years.

Once settled, he plans to attend night school and take college classes.

“Try to better yourself any way you can,” he said. “You may think prison is forever, but someday, someone in the big office that makes the rules might give you another shot at freedom.”

On July 1, Orozco walked out of prison again. This time, he didn’t have to come back.