Prison Journalism Project’s Learning+ trains incarcerated writers in the tools of journalism so they can tell powerful stories. As part of the program, students send us homework assignments — typically pieces of writing — and PJP learning coaches then return extensive feedback.
This blog, On Assignment, will showcase just a few of the hundreds of pieces we receive from the dedicated students of PJP Learning.
One of the first assignments in Learning+ asked students to conduct an observational study. Writers chose a place or event that would be interesting for an outside reader to experience, and reported everything that happened over 30 minutes.
The pieces sampled here include reflections on meditation, retreats from chaos and word-by-word recordings of writers’ immediate surroundings. These have been lightly edited for length and clarity.
An Attack in the Yard, Next to a Garden
By Brian Quintanilla, writing from California
“CLACK, CLACK!” The metal sounds were loud.
“AWW!” someone shouted. Then I heard the shuffling of feet and saw dirt levitate.
“What the …” I uttered as I looked around. I was standing in line in the hot prison yard to use the restroom. It was a ridiculous 110 degrees.
I spotted three inmates on the ground fighting. One had a horseshoe. Another had a knife approximately 8 inches long. These knives are called “ice picks.”
It was a scene out of “Animal Nature,” when a lion traps its prey and penetrates it with massive claws to weaken it.
A rush of adrenaline sent goosebumps across my entire body, like tiny ants crawling inside me. Startled, I walked away from the horrendous scene. An eerie silence spread through the yard as the population witnessed the brutal attack.
The emergency alarm began to blare — a signal to all of us to sit on the ground while corrections officers and medical staff attended to the victim.
I sat next to the mini-garden the prison added a year ago. There were wild limegrass and prickly plants producing lavender grazes. The dirt surrounding the grass had this tar look from the constant watering an inmate had done.
The wind blew over my face and body, temporarily cooling me down. I got a scent of flora combined with water that gave me a satisfying pine aroma. Mother Nature was prospering. Suddenly, I saw a butterfly hovering around the garden. I sat there staring.
One of my oldest and vaguest memories of my mother popped up, along with feelings of abandonment and separation.
“Mijo, if I ever pass away, I want to be resurrected as a butterfly.” Her analogy was she’d been struggling — “crawling” is the word she used — all her life, and once she made it home, she would become free, hovering in the heavens.
Several minutes passed as my mind began to build a bridge into my heart, bonding me to my beautiful mother.
Meanwhile, the massive yard was a crime scene. The ambulance arrived. Over a dozen corrections officers came in riot gear: vests, zip ties, batons, pepper spray and the 40-millimeter launcher that blasts grenades of mace — what we call “Big Bertha.”
The COs stood around the aggressors like skyscrapers soaring above them, while medical nursed the victim. I vividly remember blood-soaked gauze pads on the ground.
Amid the chaos, the butterfly floated in front of my face. Then it flew back to the garden. It was the essence of inner peace — peace that only a mother can provide.
Honor Dorm Traffic (an Excerpt)
By Jessica Lynn Lopez, writing from California
The unit echoes with the raspy metallic chime of the CO shouting “last call for chow,” as the first inmates begin to trickle back in clumps of twos and threes. It’s a dangerous world we live in, so using the buddy system is natural.
Once you step out that door of the unit, you dread the distended wailing of the alarm system, which demands you sit down on the ground where you are and check your watch as the show commences. If the COs walk to the offending building, you know it’s only a medical emergency, to which you can usually rejoice because it is usually the shortest of waits — 15 to 20 minutes.
The worst thing that can happen is when the PA announces from the main yard admin, “All inmates and all yards get down. Cease movements on all yards.” The COs milling on the yard safeguarding the doors to the chow hall take off at a dead run, pulling out batons and pepper spray as they run the stretch to the offending yard.
If even the corrections counselors flood out of their offices in the same direction as the disappearing COs, all the inmates caught unaware prepare for a long time on the ground because we all know it’s a “riot.” Those lucky enough to make it back inside a unit’s front door scramble for seats in the dayroom or make last-ditch runs for the safety of their rooms like cockroaches scattering in the light.
This is our daily routine, day in and day out. Everything is subject to change on a moment’s notice, so staying on your toes in prison is synonymous with surviving. Those who live in honor dorms are considered the most rehabilitated, so we must live our lives to the highest standard. Yet we are still inmates and at the mercy of the ever-changing windstorm of “rehabilitation.” Is this the reason CDC made the valuable monetary decision to become CDCR … ?
On Breathing Away Constant Hypervigilance
By Angel Chavez, writing from California
Once a month, for the past five months, I’ve done something I’ve never done before: allowed myself to get completely comfortable among others!
This started on the day I peeked in the gym window, yearning for a workout after a stressful morning. Here’s what happened:
12:55 p.m. on a Friday: I look in the gymnasium, hoping to see it open for exercise. Instead of activity indicating an open gym, I see a circle of yoga mats in rare dim lighting.
12:56: Someone passing by asks, “Are you going in?” I reply, “What is it? Yoga?” He answers, “It’s deep breathing,” and explains that what I’m seeing is Breathing Beyond Bars about to start. He invites me to participate.
1:00: Upon entering, I observe the group of 25-30 residents removing their shoes to either lay or sit on their mats.
Hesitantly, I do the same. “Hesitantly” because I’ve never gone shoeless, much less relaxed, in a roomful of incarcerated peers.
During these first 10 minutes, the facilitator, Aly, welcomes us, thanks colleagues whose impact on her she is about to share, and explains how deep breathing changed her life from the first time she learned it. After residents also speak, the practice begins.
1:10: I scan the room for threats — an ingrained habit. Satisfied, I am nonetheless hyperaware of every sound as I tentatively lay down, refusing at first to close my eyes.
1:20-ish: As I struggle to match breath for breath, my eyelids close — reluctantly, due to a life of trauma, mistrust and a refusal to relax. But Aly’s calming breathwork suggestions coax me into letting my guard down. I listen to the hypnotic flute music and the participants’ synchronized breathing.
With my eyes closed and alertness forgotten, I feel cold air flow into my nostrils, tingling in my hands and feet, and my consciousness drifts like a leaf riding the current of a slow stream.
1:25: Completely immersed, both physically and spiritually, I become consciously aware that I’ve been in a trance-like state. I see flashes of colors — hues of purple, yellow, red and orange — all of which is only interrupted when I notice that my hands are shaking convulsively.
Present day: I still cannot comprehend the involuntary shaking of my hands. But I know my life has drastically improved since that day. I instantaneously felt the benefits of deep breathing, which asks only for concentration and trust (for relaxation).
Since then, I haven’t missed a gathering. I’m happy to share that my resistance to comfort has dissipated while, correspondingly, my ability to trust and relax has elevated. Looking back, I believe that because I was so focused on matching Aly’s guidance, something had to give. And what “gave” was hypervigilance.
Observing the Correctional Facility’s Library
By Tina Lunney, writing from New Jersey
Being a librarian here gives me the opportunity to observe my surroundings through all my senses, such as what I see, what I hear, what I feel and what I smell. I immersed myself in this full experience while I was alone in the library.
It is a far cry from the public library that many of us have visited, but the optics are similar. Once you walk through the door, you immediately see metal bookcases that are bolted to the wall for safety: 15 three-shelf bookcases and three six-shelf bookcases. The library consists of so many different genres: novels that are categorized by author, classic novels, African American, sci-fi, humor, education and, lastly, romance.
It may not seem like a lot of books, but in this small space, the books are jammed on the shelves, some on top of each other, which makes it difficult for someone to find something specific. Some of the books that have been read for so many years, even decades, have yellow pages and repaired covers. But as the cliche says, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
Thankfully, the windows are open, and I can hear the birds chirping on this beautiful fall day. Since there are not many quiet environments, I appreciate the stillness and peacefulness I feel within my mind and heart right now. Allowing your mind to be aware of your surroundings heightens each one of your senses.
Some may say the library has a smell, but as a book lover, you can never say it has an odor. The smell of old books is a unique smell, which brings you back to the first time you read Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby.”
Room With a View (an Excerpt)
By Lucretia Stone, writing from New Jersey
At the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women, on the east wing of the north hall housing unit, I have a single occupancy room with a view. The window faces the front of the building, providing a partial view of the compound. My quiet time, which is also my praying time, is between 5 to 6:45 a.m., before the institutional count clears.
During that time of morning, while all IPs are still locked in, everything feels calm and peaceful. From my window I watch as an autumn sky transitions from dusk into dawn. I watch this scene while on my knees, feeling the coldness of the concrete floor beneath me. From this position, the sky looks so close it appears accessible to me. As if I could reach my hands out and touch it. I pray and watch as the darkness gives way to vibrancy. Puffy clouds that laid deflated in the darkness start to awake and regain their puffiness. I’m in awe of the transition, and express my thankfulness to God in prayer, saying, “God, you created this magnificent beauty! I thank you for sharing it with me.”
Simultaneously, the officer’s parking lot that is positioned directly underneath the transition, is starting to fill up with cars. I hear laughter in the distance and multiple conversations between the officers as they exit their cars. Shift is changing from the 10 p.m.-6 a.m. shift to the 6 a.m.-2 p.m. shift. The gates are being popped open to accommodate the flow of people. In my room, my nostrils fill with the smell of coffee brewing, teasing my taste buds and causing my mouth to water. I wish I had a hot cup of coffee to enjoy this morning with as well.
Just then, in my spirit, I hear God telling me, “Soon I will cause these gates to open and set you free.”
Reporting From the Sidelines of an Evening Dash
By Brittany Miles, writing from Florida
The yellow No. 2 pencil rests between my thumb and ring finger as I wait for something interesting to happen. I sit on the cool tile floor, wedged between the sink and my foot locker that is bolted down.
My head rests on the concrete wall where the nonstop breath of a cricket invades my eardrums. A bird’s final goodnight chirps ring through the cricket’s music. I sip lukewarm black coffee and listen to my neighbors argue about who swept the room last. The officer screams “count clear!” from the office and I perk up, knowing the action is about to start.
The 40 women toeing the boundary of their cells for the past 30 minutes take off running at full force to the officers station. The cells form a horseshoe shape around the dayroom with a top tier to match. There is one staircase entrance directly in my line of sight.
The women whose rooms are to my left and right make it straight up the staircase, but their efforts to be first are thwarted. One runs out of her shower slide, leaving it behind for someone else to trip over, and the other is cut off by a young girl with a little more speed who jumps down the entire flight of stairs from the top tier and lands against a cement wall. She is third in line. The older women know they will never be first, but they run anyway, hoping to secure a decent spot.
Five privileged individuals saunter down the staircase, one crunching on an apple, and claim spots in line. The older woman who was in 11th place is now bumped back to 16th. She rolls her eyes and grumbles to the girl behind her about how this is ridiculous and somebody has to do something about it.
Sets of questioning eyes land on me as I write what I see. There are two sides to the dorm. Down the hall, the other wing’s women line up at the officers station. Michelle is 20th in line but really 40th since the sides will alternate.
By the time the line cycles through, Michelle, who never ran, cut or complained, has been pushed back six more places by others who decide they need a second turn before others get their first. When Michelle finally reaches the front, there are no slots left to sign up for.
For the fifth day in a row, Michelle will not be able to use the phone.
Around the Call Center Watercooler
By Victoria A. Dennis, writing from Tennessee
It is 8 o’clock Friday morning at work. Everyone is still trickling in and getting ready for the day to begin. The first meeting is in 15 minutes, but time is your own until then.
The most popular place for everyone to congregate is around the watercooler. Some are just waiting for the hot water to heat up, a few are lamenting hard clients the day before, and others are sharing their weekend plans.
You can almost taste the anticipation and eagerness for the last day of the workweek — but here, it is mixed with the bitter tinge of despair. Despair that it is the last day of the workweek and that means two long days of prison life.
This may have had the appearance of a normal Friday at the office in anytown, USA, but it was just a prison job. A prison job better than most, both in pay and opportunities, but still just a prison job. It is the environment that makes it special. Ask any worker what they like the most about the job and the response is sure to be, “The environment. It makes me feel as though I have left prison for the day.” But there is just something … more … about the place.
A soft rumble of separate conversations nearly drowns out the sound of the air conditioner as it blasts across exposed arms. The rhythm of the radio playing quietly in the background blends with the murmur of many phone calls and the clicky-clacky of computer keys.
It’s an office like any other, with scents of coffee, tea and hot cocoa under the slightly stale air of the warehouse-like room. It’s employees gathering to gossip, complain about hard clients, and celebrate the weekend, as long as no one looks outside a window and sees the chain-link and razor-wire fence.