Throughout 2007, Books Not Bars toured all of the youth prisons in the Division of Juvenile Justice (more commonly known by its former initials, “CYA”). This third post describes the complex in Ione, CA.
I can tell we are getting closer to the prison because Lourdes and Joyce are tensing up in their seats in front of me, and the air is more silent than ever.
We drive past an impressive, towering castle that looks like it has been around for generations. It looks alive, as though it has watched many stories evolve. “I think that used to be the prison,” Lourdes states dryly. It took me all day to understand the context of that comment.
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As we drive past, I spot a newer facility. The current DJJ facility has been renovated and sits directly next to the haunting castle. As we approach the front office and enter the waiting room, I almost feel like I am walking into a different time period in a romantic novel. The buildings are perfect; yet it is the kind of perfect that weeps of creepy spores. The waiting room is dim. Scattered around the room are framed photographs and glass display cases housing antique objects such as old handcuffs. I feel as if the room is in limbo — like a museum displaying a very responsibly groomed exhibit of the history of the “Preston School of Industry.”
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Starting the tour, the air is heavy. The landscape is trimmed and fresh looking, it looks like a park. We meet the superintendent who does a great job of making us feel comfortable — making it a point to project his certainty and willingness to take us anywhere and expose us to anything. He can’t stop telling us, ” If you want to see anything, just tell me, and I’ll show you.” As he leads us confidently through the grounds, it seems more like a stroll in his backyard for him.
“This is Ironwood. Every unit is named after a tree.” The superintendent proclaims it proudly, as though he truly believes that these nature oriented titles like Redwood and Sequoia represent something peaceful. Ironwood is the lock-up building, where wards are sent if they commit a “violent” act inside Preston. There are a couple of guards here, and just like everyone in Preston, guards in Ironwood have a stern metal face on, a military equip uniform, and a normalized attitude towards the disturbing environment they are running.
Ironwood houses solitary cells with one concrete bed and a thin mattress on top, and soundproof walls.
Apparently, Ironwood is where you are placed when you go “too far.” The first room we see in this building is unbelievable to me to this day. Behind a set of regular sliding bars is a room with showers to the right. On the left side, we are all exposed to two four-wall enclosing cages.
“These are real? Wait, I mean, are these here for people?” I ask myself underneath my breath. These cages look like human-size hamster cages.
“What are these for?” I ask.
The superintendent answers back nonchalantly, “Oh you know, we just need to use these when boys are just coming from a heated situation, and we need to protect them from each other and to you know, protect us. It’s just to calm them down right after they get into a fight when they are just getting here.”
Then we are in the hallway where the cells are lined up. Young men are staring at us from their small windows. The rooms are sound proof, but some of the wards know we are there. We disperse into the hallway and try to talk to people through the cracks in the doors. Walking through that hallway is devastating. The hallway reverberates with banging noises coming from the wards inside. At one point the walls seem to be shaking, almost as if we are in someone’s bad dream in a corrupt mental hospital. There is screaming in Spanish and English. I sense in these long moments desperation, isolation, innocence, relentless urgency…
We sing happy birthday to a 19 year old, in his fourth month of solitary confinement. He can’t get a phone call on his birthday. We are his party right then and there. He just wants to talk to us. That’s it.
I hear a ward further down the hall screaming at the top of his lungs. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I see a guard rush towards his cell, laughing. She approaches the cell window with another guard. They are both laughing. My heart is raging, my hands are so angry.
This visit to Ironwood is surreal, like we stepped in and out of a different time zone. Coming outside, I looked up to the sky and ask for it to listen. These boys desperately need the world to listen.
We walk down to a building called Redwood, where the boys with special mental needs are placed. Although the units have other buildings, the boys are in the main room during recreation time.
The T.V. plays, there are some boys just sitting there silently. One of the boys, Luis*, tells us that he has been locked up here since he was 13 years old. He says he has a 45-year to life sentence. Lourdes asks him in disbelief, “What could you possibly do to deserve that?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I don’t know, maybe they just didn’t know where to put me.” I remember those eyes. The same heart shone through. I swear it on my life, I saw it in Luis’s eyes — and Pedro’s eyes and Ray’s eyes, and birthday boy’s eyes.
I venture off into the hallways to check out what the cells look like, and to see if I can talk to someone in his cell. I found Jose*, a 16-year-old boy. He is pacing back and forth, until we see each other. He iss wearing a thick gray gown that has Velcro straps.
After we introduce ourselves, I ask him what he is wearing the dress for.
“It’s cause they think I’m gonna hurt myself again.” He shows me his wrists.
It took us both a while to talk. “Did you get any help for that? Like any counseling or something to help you?”
“Naw…”
“How long have you been in Redwood for?”
“A couple of months. They transferred me from Ironwood.”
“Oh, how did that happen?”
“I was there for too long. They kept me in there and I kept getting out and coming back in. I’m in a family gang, and I gotta fight you know, gotta protect myself. I reached the max time I could be there so they sent me here.”
That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds more like he wasn’t convenient to handle, so he was pushed around spaces. And now he is in another form of solitary confinement in a restraining gown, with no form of support.
The tour is over, and the parking lot is on the other side of the front office. Our steps are long and weighted, and I sense the million emotions that are flowing through everyone’s bodies.
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Every time I think about that day, I think of the snickering guards, the facade, the landscape, but I will never let go of the few words we heard from each cell, the stories of each boy, and the young faces peering at us from those soundproof windows.
“I don’t care how clean it is, I don’t care how busy the children look. The mopped shiny floors are not enough for me. It is still a prison. That’s what I know. It is still a prison.” -Joyce Cook
*Names have been changed.
10 Comments
My heart goes out to these boys. They are dying, dying to be seen, heard recognized, touched, loved. The “sanitized” violence, the cruelty with which the boys are treated, speaks volumes about the dominator paradygm society in which we live. It is their birthright to be treated as human, and to be nutured and guided along a path back to their true selves, with all the support systems in a society necessary to do so. Thank you for reaching out to them.
And your only seeing one moment in the lives of: check out the path these kids have gone through. The go from abuse, neglect, abandonment by family and/or suffer disorders, then go into the community, make bad decisions and then the state continues the abuse.
I suggest you also spend time with foster parents if you want the real meat and potatoes. They are the least heard from but know the system and kids the best. The biggest problem is finding a decent one, as the state prefers to hire people that will not “kick up dust”, or voice an opinion, preferable those who are disabled and need the income. GO FOR IT
Victoria Grandetta
Advocacy for Incarcerated Youth
Portland, Or.
My son has been in the cya system for 14 months now he has never been in trouble in his life and He started at Preston he was there 4 weeks then sent to Dewitt Nelson. I came every sat and sun to see him If he would not have been sent to a lodge where he knew alot of wards from his home town he would not have made it there. He knew these kids since he was about 8 years old. All gang members now but they knew him from when he was akid so they couldnt believe he was there because he played football for his high school and grad. with a 3.5 the first week my son was so scared because all the gangs wanted him to join with them. He is not now and has never been in a gang and he just tried to keep to his self the friends from his childhood asked him to join with them too. but he said he didnt want too. He just wanted to do his time and get out. he was messed with everyday wards talking crap. He was told that the whites run with the southerns and he told them I dont run with anyone I run with my self if it wasnt for the childhood relationships he would have got jumped but they keep everyone away. He was a lucky one because the stuff my son has seen in those 14 months are unreal . As a parent I have made my voice clear at all the facilities I make sure I talk to my son as much as I can so I know what is going on all the time. But this is not a easy task because it is hard for me to believe that my son had to fear the staff as much as the wards it is a broken system believe that and I am fighting to get my son out of there as soon as possible. like I said he is a lucky one because he has 2 parents who love him dearly and have been here to help him as much as we can. Ive been to the governor and all the powers that be. and I will never stop tell I can see some kinda change with these kids.
The first thing my son said is mom I cant believe so many of these kids have no where to go even if they get out. no one to call no one to care about them. This experience has changed our lives forever. My son who was a spoiled brat before now sees what he had and has . Ive talked to alot of these kids and they can change but we need a program and staff that cares if they do. I know there are people out there that do. These guards teach I dont respect you as a person so thats what they get in return. Do you think they hire only guards like this no the system who trains them makes them this way so its the system. There are a few bad bad seeds out there and some kids very few cant be changed but so many of these kids just need a chance to change. it is shameful that this is how we treat the children who will shape our world after we are gone Kill them with kindness and show them the way its the only way. show them they can be someone and make a difference in this life.
I think you guys are totally right. I am currently a student studying criminal justice and came across this website while researching a paper on juveniles. In the future i would love to work with juveniles. I have been a witness to children that were just left to raise themselves. And this is a very sad thing. Most of these children have noone to tell them right from wrong.Lots of children dont even know when they will see a parent again or have a good meal in their stomachs. I came from a family were no one has really any form of education, but iam doing my best in trying to break that cycle that has fell upon us.Hopefully in the future i have a chance to make a differnce in one of these kids life.
I think its very sad, and it breakes my heart to see and hear how they keep these kids.these kids are not safe in there the staff are trained to treat these kids like animals.ive seen this place my self its creepy there are things that go on in there that no one know of these kids are afraid to open up.they need to be investigated the only thing we can do is pray for these kids.
Sence i read the artical bout how these kids were being treated ive been so sad and just start to cry.i myself have a family member in CYA,and ive been told some very horrible stuff that is going on in there.the staff make these kids fight and a boy almost lost his life.these kids dont want to report these things because of what might happen to them.there has to be somthing we can do to help these boys.were do u report these things there are many familys waiting to do this but are also scared cause of what will happen to there child.
this is a message to the blog moderator, I feel that you should post a story about this great video. Its a hip hop song and video about the Green Party, made by an independent rap group from the bay area. Its pretty good, well made, positive, uplifting, and catchy. I know that this is “Obama’s time” but people should have an option and to that they need to be informed. The video talks about a black woman and puerto rican woman running.
check out the link,
http://www.youtube.com/someofallparts
I spent both Christmas and New Years Eve holidays of 1968 in Preston’s old solitary confinement building located next to Preston Castle.
While in solitary we were only let out once every evening to shower except on Christmas Day. On Christmas Day all of us were allowed to eat dinner in small groups at the dinning hall on the first floor. It was a smaller dinning room than I had ever eaten in before consisting of a half a dozen, four person, square, stainless steel tables in two rows of three. It was primarily used by the guards except on special occasions like Christmas day.
This smaller number of inmates eating allowed the guards to keep a closer eye on the potentially troublesome bunch that the system found necessary to confine inside this jail within a jail for disciplinary reasons.
I sat with three other inmates on one of the four metal backless stools bolted to the concrete floor and painted over with Grey epoxy paint. My eyes scanned the face of each inmate appraising their probable social status in the pecking order of institutional life.
The one directly across from me was a slightly built dirty blond around sixteen years old with even younger boyish features. His face however seemed tired as though he had been under extreme stress for way too long. I knew the look well it was the same expression one sees on fallen prey when they come to realize there is no way to escape their fate.
I didn’t know him but I still felt profound sadness for him. I imagine that this feeling is similar to how a soldier on a battle field feels as he passes the fallen.
The inmate to my left was of a different lot I imagined him to be still holding his own but only by the narrowest of margins.
Now the guy on my right had the look of a career criminal a true survivor of the system that would be willing to use any means necessary to survive even if it meant stepping on top of the first’s inmates head to keep his own above water.
Even with this unflattering appraisal of my dinning partners after days of isolation I was eager to swap stories with each of them.
The conversation followed the normal pattern of conversations between inmates “Where are you from? What are you in for? What unit are you in? How long do you have to go? Why were you sent to hole (solitary)?”
I found the story of the inmate across from me to be incoherent as his eyes darted around the room wildly. He kept saying that he was going to be released and was flying back home. I took this with a grain of salt as the wishful thinking of a desperate boy for how could he ever hope to be released so soon after being placed in the hole.
I swapped stories with the others as well then it was back to our isolation upstairs (I was staying on the 3rd floor).
Later that evening after I had taken my shower I heard the young man shout “I can fly, I can fly, and you can’t keep me here no more”. Then a guard said in a panic “Grab him he’s going to jump”. I heard the young man repeat “I can fly, I can fly” then a loud sickening thud like a melon hitting the floor. He had jumped over the 3rd floor railing.
I had heard the jail house rumors of other inmates that had been killed before by throwing them over such rails so I surmised that he was probably dead or at least seriously injured.
After the commotion down stairs subsided, a short interval of relative quiet followed then a guard opened the slot in the door and tossed some hard candy wrapped in paper through the opening unto my cell floor. This was meant to bring us a little Christmas cheer but the process was handled with such callous disregard for our feelings that it did little to raise ones spirit.
I tried to ask the guard about what had happened below and if the young man I had dinner with was OK. He told me that I should not speak unless asked to. So I sat back on my bed and opened the twisted piece of paper holding the candy and tried to break a piece free. The pieces had become stuck together in one large piece along with bits of the paper wrapping. I looked out my window and wondered what the scene had been like on the first floor. The smell of spit and mucus (much like the smell of a persons sneeze in a closed car) emanated from the protective screen which was meant as an additional barrier to the bars on the window and I asked myself how I could eat candy under such circumstances. I hesitated but tried a piece anyway. The candy had a familiar taste but one in which under normal circumstances I would not have eaten. I needed some distraction however and continued breaking off pieces until it was all gone.
I then laid back and watched the eerie shadow of Preston School of Industry’s original building from the 1890’s on my room’s walls. I had passed the now vacant building on the way to solitary and it reminded me of a haunted castle from a horror movie. (In fact it has been used as a haunting back drop in movies.)
As we had passed the building on the way over the guard had pointed out a wood platform that he said had been part of the old gallows from which they hung inmates in its heyday. (not true) I wondered how many young men had lost their lives over the years from acts of desperation, murder or execution. I wondered how the jumper became so disturbed and what had been his fate. How his parents would react to learning of his action and on Christmas Day no less. I wondered if the guard had been truthful about the purpose of the platform. I wondered if the jumper had been trying to tell me of his plans at dinner. Did I miss an opportunity to warn the guards? I tried to put these thoughts out of my head for there was nothing I could do now. I tried to sleep to avoid having to think about him but his face at dinner would greet me whenever I closed my eyes. It was early morning before I fell to sleep.
During the remainder of my time in solitary I did thousands of sit ups and push ups to exhaust myself in order to sleep. I don’t know the truth to this day but it has only gotten worse over the years. I am lucky that it was 1968 not 2008.
I was abused and neglected as a child, left to raise myself. I did not get in trouble despite my circumstances. If I grew to be a 4.0 college student, wife (7 years), and mother (2 girls after many parenting classes), then these children in prison could have too. What are responsible citizens supposed to do, live in fear of these offenders? I feel bad for those children raised in horrible situations because I grew up like that, but I never hurt anyone because of a crappy deal from life. If these children want to act out theft, rape, and murder like adults, then how do those of us who obey the laws protect ourselves from these ‘innocent’ children?
Best thing to ever happen to me. i spent 3 years in preston.I daliverd the mail to the lodges, cloths and worked the trade line.. printing… i was let out 3 months before my 21st birthday. i stated my reign of crime at age 12. i was released in 1985
to not return to prison seance . This place was the last stop for me , i realized i was too old for this, i was now an adult now and have a 12 year old. he loves football , video games and staying out of trouble. . . Hi to tj,kipp,staf and guards.,BB