Not So Different After All

The last time I was in a prison was to visit my father. I swore I would never go back. Years later, something was pulling me to San Quentin to finally share my story

- GIGI BIBEAULT

One day about 35 years ago, I stood in line to enter one of America's most notorious state prisons: San Quentin in California.

From the front gate, the prison looked like a fortress perched high above San Francisco Bay. Multistory cell blocks were guarded by razor wire and surveillance towers. The prison's Death Row housed dozens of men condemned to die.

Today the prison has been refashioned as a criminal rehabilitation facility, and there's a moratorium on the death penalty in California.

Back then, San Quentin housed some of America's worst criminal offenders. It was a fearsome place. Waiting to go inside, all I could think was, Why on earth am I doing this?

I was a single woman in my late thirties. I volunteered with an addiction recovery organization that sent people into hospitals and prisons to share recovery stories and offer a message of hope.

Seven years sober, I had volunteered to join my organization's four-person delegation to San Quentin because I lived nearby in Marin County. Now I wondered if I had other reasons.

We showed IDs, passed through security and gathered in an assembly area. I took a deep breath. Memories from long ago crowded into my mind. I felt a rising sense of dread.

We listened while a guard gave instructions. "Do not engage with inmates unless explicitly instructed. Keep yourself focused on what you're here to do, and do not attempt to enter unauthorized areas. Your meeting room is on the other side of the yard over there."

The guard pointed across a large outdoor exercise yard toward a far-away building. Another guard escorted us out, and we began walking across the yard. I tried not to show my mounting sense of misgiving. We entered a large classroom with about 60 desks in rows. Every desk was occupied by an inmate.