A few weeks ago, I went back to prison.
My colleague, Jody Kent Lavy, and I, were invited to attend an inmate-run banquet in San Quentin and a spiritual retreat with inmates at the Ironwood State Prison — all in the same week. This was my first time in a state prison since I served 13 years and vowed to never return. I was afraid the visit would reopen old scars, but my experience there was much different this time.
More than 25 years ago, when I was 13, I was convicted of first-degree murder for my involvement in the loss of another child’s life. I was sentenced to 25 years in the Illinois Department of Corrections and labeled an incorrigible gang member.
Yet I grew up to become an adult who dreamed of someday being able to live a normal life, pursue goals and live out my eternal apology to the victim, his family, my community and society as a whole. When we entered San Quentin, I walked hand in hand with Academy Award winner and human rights activist Susan Sarandon. The prison officials checked our IDs, stamped glow-in-the-dark watermarks on our wrists and escorted us through the main gate.
Once inside, we were immediately greeted by a group of smiling inmates who were members of KID C.A.T. (Creating Awareness Together), an extraordinary inmate-run program. Some of the founders and facilitators of this program, who served as our hosts for this banquet, were sentenced to life without parole when they were children. Instantly I saw myself in these gentlemen.
The first to approach us was a clean-cut and shaven Latino inmate who wore glasses and looked to be in his mid-20s. He smiled from cheek to cheek and thanked us for coming. I began to search for words to comfort him about his imprisonment, but his positive demeanor frustrated those efforts. It turned out that Miguel is much older than he looks, is a leader in KID C.A.T., is currently taking college courses and is a staff writer for the San Quentin News, the prison’s newspaper.
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He reminded me of how I spent my time in Galesburg Correctional Center in Illinois. I was an academic office clerk, a college student and a boxer/trainer — not just an inmate. I knew that one day I would be free, so I began to prepare myself for that eventuality.
But when I learned that Miguel was serving a life sentence that was imposed upon him when he was 16 years old, I marveled at the resilience and strength one must possess to pursue positive goals in the face of uncertainty and despair. For many years he had no hope; unlike me, he didn’t have a light at the end of the tunnel. But now, thanks to the great efforts of advocates in his state, he and other KID C.A.T. members are the beneficiaries of youth sentencing reforms — changes that now make it possible for them to have a parole hearing in the future.
KID C.A.T.’s mission is to serve as a support group to its members and to organize acts of community service and goodwill, Miguel said. Some of members’ past activities have included food and hygiene product drives for the homeless, fundraising to sponsor youth involvement in community programs, partnering with outside organizations to raise awareness and funds for cancer research, and folding hundreds of origami hearts for kids at Oakland’s Children’s Hospital. All these activities took place behind the walls of San Quentin and were facilitated by inmates whom the now-disproven superpredator theory once deemed as heartless and godless monsters.
Among KID C.A.T.’s guests that evening were Sarandon and Ronald Davis, warden at San Quentin. The chapel had been set up to accommodate 400 people. At each table sat a mix of inmates, volunteers and other outside guests. KID C.A.T. members served us food, tended to our needs, extended their appreciation and inspired those in attendance to be lifelong reform-minded advocates for children. Inmates from the San Quentin News who were referred to as “professional journalists” conducted video interviews, asking about our involvement in sentencing reform and what justice means to us.
As I mingled with members of KID C.A.T., I thought about how they were much like me and other members of the Incarcerated Children’s Advocacy Network (ICAN). Most of us were convicted of homicide-related offences when we were children, and since our release have dedicated ourselves to uplifting our communities. Some of our members are juvenile justice practitioners, substance abuse counselors, gang intervention specialists, youth program coordinators, motivational speakers and so on. Many of the individuals I met at this banquet could easily fulfill these positive roles in our society. Much like us, these men can help ensure that other children do not go down the same path they traveled in life.
Phillip, a juvenile lifer with outstanding public speaking skills, was master of ceremonies for the event. He called up the first act — three inmates who explored their childhood experiences in relation to the school-to-prison pipeline. Their stories introduced the audience to the realities of children who contended with absent parents, bullies, violent communities and unaddressed traumas. They made us laugh and shed tears.
All the while, they refused to shift blame to others. It is our responsibility, they said, to try and understand what led them to the most regretful day of their lives. And it is up to them, despite their negative and non-nurturing upbringing, to hold themselves accountable. They now stand as men who have reflected upon the horrors and mistakes of their childhood lives, a past “self” that now exists only in memories and in their ever-growing sense of remorse and responsibility to humanity.
I experienced a similar transformation. By my early 20s, I had already developed a greater sense of who I was as a positive adult. I came to realize that a lot of my actions as a child had stemmed from growing up in an abusive home where I contended with alcoholism and mental illnesses. My stepfather had a drinking problem, and both my mother and brother were experiencing schizophrenia. My siblings and I had been shuffled in and out of foster care because of abuse, and by the time I was 11, I had already joined a gang.
That same year I almost lost my life when my friend shot me in my face by accident. By the time I was 13, I had already racked up 19 arrests and seven convictions — for mostly violent and gang-related offences. In many ways, I was a product of my environment, a frightening and neglectful world that turned my underdeveloped brain into my greatest downfall. Like those I met at the banquet, it wasn’t until years later, as I began to mature, that I came to realize how much I had harmed others as well as myself.
Like me, many of the KID C.A.T. members had given up gang involvement and had earned vocational certificates and associate degrees. One mentioned that he is just a couple of courses away from earning his bachelor’s degree through a college correspondence program. I will never forget the joy I felt when I earned my bachelor’s degree and spoke before my graduating class in Galesburg Correctional Center.
Meeting the men in San Quentin brought me back full circle to that time in my life when I began to redefine who I was in this world. I didn’t want my 13-year-old self to be my legacy. I wanted to become someone positive, someone who would contribute to humanity and make a positive difference in the world.
As a youth justice advocate for the Campaign for the Fair Sentencing of Youth and the coordinator of the Incarcerated Children’s Advocacy Network, I feel like I have been able to do just that. But now, more than ever, I understand that my journey is not just about my positive change and redemption; it’s also about helping to pave the way for others who also deserve a second chance.
When I left prison years ago, I never thought I would ever return. But after seeing so much of myself in these men, I realize that as long our country continues to condemn children to hopelessness, a part of me will always remain there.
Xavier McElrath-Bey is youth justice advocate at the Campaign for the Fair Sentencing of Youth. He also is coordinator of the Incarcerated Children’s Advocacy Network, which is comprised of and led by individuals who went to prison for serious crimes as children.
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