"All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.

Each of the persons

deprived of their liberty must be treated humanely and with respect for the inherent
dignity of the human being."
Inscription at Justizzentrum Leoben Prison, Austria
The Washington State Penitentiary crouches on the top of its hill overlooking
Walla Walla. Surrounded by imposing razor wire fences, its heavy structure looms in the
air and it waits, still and tense. I remember the first time I entered that prison.
I was raised in a tiny Western Washington locale called Stanwooda white,
Christian, conservative area, both a farming town and commuter community. My family
was a rare atheist, liberal ship in a sea of homogeneity. Growing up there I never really
felt touched by what I deemed as bigger world issues. Instead, I was fully immersed in
the everyday activities of small-town life.
One of my favorite activities was soccer: I began playing when I was five and
have never stopped. I remember playing soccer games in the shadow of the Monroe
Reformatory: my teammates would joke that the prisoners would escape to come and
get us while we played. I would laugh along, never imagining this as a serious threat
the real criminals were those mug shots I saw on TV associated with the murders and
shootings that felt so alien from my own life.
I was also a serious student and in 8 grade I was assigned to debate the ethics of
eating meat. After my research revealed the inhumane conditions for animals on factory
farms, I was convinced that eating meat was wrong. I decided then and there that if I was
going to convince everyone else that killing animals was unethical, then I had to align my
actions with my words: from that day forth I have been a vegetarian.
th

I feel myself shrink as I approach the gates, unusually confronted by the massive
presence before me. I am about to see the real deal, meet the faceless criminals who were
why even small-town parents worried about their kids being out late at night.
In high school, friends and I would play late night rounds of cops and robbers
a game that involved running through streets and gallivanting through peoples
backyards. We never once worried for our safety or thought that we were doing
something wrong. I remember being so concerned about being caught by my friends
playing the cops that it didnt even cross my mind that I could be caught by the real cops.
We were nave and privilegedour white bodies and tight-knit rural community allowed
us to act in ways that in other contexts would get people locked up.
During this time I also started to participate in National History Day. Each year I
studied topics that gripped me, like William Wilberforce, crusader abolitionist, or the
1948 Genocide Convention. I was deeply upset as I learned about historical injustices,
like slavery and genocide, where human rights had been so blatantly ignored and
stunningly violated. At the same time I was inspired by the individual and collective
efforts to make meaningful change and to abolish these inhumane practices.
The last metal door shuts behind me; whatever lies ahead, there is no backing out
now. We shuffle through the fluorescent-lit hallways, into a room where three men sit
waiting.

Through my early experiences I had solidly formed an identity as a humanitarian,

but there was still so much that I could sense was just outside my frame of view. When I
arrived at Whitman College I was searchingready to change, ready for a challenge,
ready to engage. In my first year, I stumbled upon a class: Sociology of Prisons and
Punishment. It sounded interesting and as a first year I was exploring, absorbingso I
signed up. It quickly became my favorite class as we immersed ourselves in a world that
had always seemed to float just outside my sphere of consciousness. I was finally
discovering the realities of the American correctional system. The realization that my
actions playing cops and robbers would have put any inner city black teenager in juvi
was sobering. We toured penitentiaries, went to the local jail and juvenile justice center,
heard guest lectures from the criminal justice system. I was all inemotional,
experiential, analytical, as we delved into this new world.
We stare at each other, only five feet away but worlds apart; this is the first time I
have knowingly seen a convict. But what I noticed was that they just seemed like, well,
normal people.
The summer after my first year, I decided to intern at the Washington Coalition to
Abolish the Death Penalty. I talked with hundreds of people canvassing at community
events: getting out and conversing with people about our justice system felt amazing. It
gave me even more energy as I realized that I had more than just an interest in criminal
justice: I had a passion, a need to engage.
Inspired by my internship, when I returned to Whitman I independently organized
five eventsthe Week of Action Against the Death Penalty. I worked to share with my
peers and continue the dialogue I started that summer. Meanwhile, I continued to take
classes related to criminal justice, joined the colleges Prison Research Group, and began
volunteering at the community Juvenile Justice Center.
The ice is broken and the conversation flows: the topics range from our love of
food and the horrible gloop served at the penitentiary to talk of hyper masculinity and
rampant gang violence. We share stories, we laugh, and we listen.
Eager for further immersion, I interned at The STAR (Successful Transition and
Reentry) Project. I learned the ins and outs of reentry into the Walla Walla community
after incarceration, built close relationships with STAR clients and staff, and became well
versed in resources for people with felonies. I found myself in constant conversation with
the ex-convict clients and was deeply moved by their stories.
Ready for another challenge, I wanted to completely abandon my comfort zone.
So, I went to study abroad in Nicaragua where I continually found ways to pursue my
passion for criminal justice. For my month long independent research project I lived in
the rural countryside and interviewed Nicaraguans about conflict resolution through
mediation. I saw how poor, rural communities without access to enforced justice systems
were using innovative methods in order to resolve conflict. This type of work
immediately clicked for me: I loved talking to people and hearing perspectives that were
so different from what I had heard in the U.S.

As I interact with the very criminals that the news made me fear, that my
community hush-hushed, there is one thought that floats through my head over and over:
these are people. All of those jokes with my soccer team about the men at the Monroe
Reformatory feel surreal. These are real individuals with names, identities, and lives they
are living.
Upon my return I was interested in hearing more voices on criminal justice. I
dove into research on the project The Oral History of the Penitentiary. I transcribed and
detailed stories ranging from the recollections of the first woman correctional officer, to
memories from past Washington governors as they laid out their relationship with the
institution.
This is how I was first struck with the idea for the Watson. I was listening to an
interview with one of the most famous superintendents of the Washington State
Penitentiarywarden Bob Rhay. Rhay went on a European Trip of Prisons to learn
about alternatives to the U.S. prison system and when he returned people said he was a
changed man. Though I am no Bob Rhay, it stuck with me that this opportunity to view
the way other societies handle their worst would be a life-altering experience.
Upon exiting the gates, something feels different. I look back and suddenly the
Pen has changed. In the dusk, its lights emit a harsh but warm glow and I see past the
stoic structure to envision the men who live within those walls.
Three years ago I never would have predicted that I was going to build my life
around criminal justice. There really is no completely rational explanation for my
obsession but either way, crazy or not, I have pursued every opportunity to be involved in
this world, and push myself and the boundaries of this interest. I have engaged peers,
concerned citizens, community members, incarcerated youth and men, ex-felons,
correctional staff, volunteers and many more about criminal justice here in the United
States. But, based on my experience in Nicaragua and the role-model of Bob Rhay, I
know that there is so much more out there: I have much to learn and there are stories
waiting to be told about systems of corrections in other cultures. Now is the time to take
my passion a step further, expand my worldview and engage these voices around criminal
justice in a broader context.