What really happens behind bars? Insiders make videos to show you.
Part of a wider media initiative at California鈥檚 San Quentin State Prison, FirstWatch gives participants the opportunity to tell their stories 鈥 and be held accountable 鈥 through the lens of a camera.
FirstWatch participants (from l. to r.) Adnan Khan, Travis Westly, Eric Abercrombie, Lawrence Pela, and Kevin Neang learn about filmmaking through an initiative at San Quentin State Prison in California.
Lauren Lee White
SAN QUENTIN, Calif.
Against a vista of rolling hills and palm trees, a five-man film crew is setting up for a shoot. They white balance the cameras, adjust the tripods, play with composition. One man roams among them with a smaller camera, getting coverage of the shoot.
That鈥檚 not the only kind of coverage they need, though. Lt. Sam Robinson of the (CDCR) watches over them, because they must be under the supervision, or 鈥渃overage,鈥 of a corrections officer at all times. The men, members of a filmmaking program called听, are incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison.
Their work, part of a tradition of media and arts initiatives in prisons nationwide, offers an opportunity for participants to share what their lives are like in jail, and in some cases, to come to terms with the actions that brought them there. It gives voice to those who are incarcerated, something advocates say supports individual and community healing.听
鈥淔ilm [is] what鈥檚 out there right now,鈥 says FirstWatch participant Adnan Khan. 鈥淲hen it comes to incarcerated people and how incarceration is perceived 鈥 the source of information that most people get is from the news, the movies, from YouTube. We want to reclaim that narrative.鈥
Artmaking programs for incarcerated people have been around for decades. California鈥檚听 program, for example, began in the 1970s and 鈥 having weathered budget cutbacks in the early 2000s 鈥 currently has a presence at every CDCR facility. San Quentin itself has offered filmmaking before, as featured in a 2009 Discovery Channel series titled 鈥.鈥
FirstWatch began in January 2017. Participants report to the media lab each weekday morning and spend the day working on projects until midafternoon. Two of them, Lawrence Pela, 35, and Mr. Khan, 34, have been with FirstWatch from the start. Mr. Pela has served 11 years of a 46-year sentence, and Khan has served more than 15 of a 25-year-to-life sentence. Khan co-founded FirstWatch and, in October 2017, co-founded the Oakland-based nonprofit with executive director Alexandra Mallick.听
In contrast to those stories that highlight violence and racial tension in prisons, 鈥淲e sit in conversations together about our lives, the things that we鈥檝e done and how we should change,鈥 Pela says. 鈥淲e put ourselves in places where we鈥檙e willing to be vulnerable with each other, and that鈥檚 one thing you certainly don鈥檛 see in prison movies and shows. That happens so much here.鈥
Most of the films focus on one element of one man鈥檚 story: 鈥,鈥 鈥,鈥 鈥.鈥 One of their most recent, and strongest, films is about San Quentin inmate Ralph Brown, who speaks about the pain of being an incarcerated father and missing huge parts of his son鈥檚 life.
The films run just a few minutes long, and the crew鈥檚 filmmaking skills undergo a striking evolution over time. The composition, editing, and sound design get tighter and more professional with each video posted on their site. The participants are self-taught, relying on a library of film school classics.
鈥淲e don鈥檛 have internet, we don鈥檛 have YouTube, and we don鈥檛 have a professional coming in here and teaching us,鈥 Khan points out. 鈥淎 lot of how I learn is just watching TV, watching movies and watching documentaries, literally counting how long each clip lasts.鈥
One FirstWatch film, titled 鈥,鈥 shows a man dramatically backlit, seated in a chair. Punctuated by long cuts to black, 鈥淐hoy鈥 tells the story of Doug, a man he killed, through the points of view of Doug鈥檚 family members. Watching it is something like participating in a virtual听, in which victims, families, those who are incarcerated, and other affected community members come together to discuss a crime and its aftermath.
鈥淩estorative justice and FirstWatch are hand in hand,鈥 Khan says. 鈥淎ccountability is a huge piece when you come to these circle settings. So what we鈥檙e trying to do is fill that gap with these videos and show we are responsible. We鈥檙e not denying our crimes, we鈥檙e not denying our actions, we鈥檙e not blaming people. We are understanding what we did and why we did it.鈥
In addition to posting their work online, the FirstWatch crew is planning to work with CDCR鈥檚听 to promote the accountability message through video. Mike Young, the manager of Victim Services, says, 鈥淭his is one of the first times we鈥檝e worked directly with a group of offenders, with the offenders being able to have a direct impact on the healing of the survivors.鈥
Better outcomes from arts participation
The benefits of formal, structured arts-in-corrections programs are . Studies consistently show that participants have fewer disciplinary infractions in prison and are听 to violate parole, reoffend, or return to prison once released, though the size of these reductions vary by study.
鈥淚n all cases where it was studied, arts programs [in prisons] reduced recidivism among people who had participated in the programs versus people who had not,鈥 says Mandy Gardner, coauthor of the , a comprehensive list of evidence-based studies looking at arts programs in US prisons and jails. Once released, she says, participants 鈥渂ecame not only not negative parts of the community, but positive.鈥
Even for those with life sentences, she saw evidence of benefits to arts programs: Fewer violent crimes behind bars make the prison environment safer for officers and others who are incarcerated. And based on the volume of evidence that found increased confidence and communications skills among arts program participants, she says, 鈥淚 would surmise that a program like FirstWatch would lead to better relationships with the people who are still on the outside,鈥 such as friends and family members.
San Quentin鈥檚 media boom
San Quentin appears to take these benefits seriously. The prison is a hub of media-making. Its media center turns out a glossy magazine called听, the, a closed-circuit, the beloved podcast 鈥溾 and FirstWatch.听
The decision to have this kind of programming at the prison was at first based on common sense, Mr. Robinson says. 鈥淸San Quentin warden] Ron Davis and his predecessors saw that 90 percent of people incarcerated in California end up returning to their communities. How do you want a guy to return to the community? Do you want a guy who鈥檚 been locked away and whose only opportunity has been to hone his criminalistic skills?鈥 he asks. 鈥淕iving a person hope and a new way of looking at things is the better course of action.鈥
Ms. Mallick, of Re:store Justice,听plans to create a similar program at the California Institution for Women, roughly 50 miles east of Los Angeles, with the hope that LA鈥檚 nearby film community will provide equipment and expertise to the women there.
Even so, replicating San Quentin鈥檚 level of programming, particularly arts programming, at other facilities would be tough. The prison is in affluent Marin County, just outside San Francisco, with all its attendant wealth and resources 鈥 FirstWatch itself was funded with a single gift to Re:store Justice from an anonymous donor,听along with in-kind donations of software, computers, and other film equipment. The Bay Area is a hotbed of criminal justice reform activity, an easy commute for activists and other reformers to come teach classes.
And, as the FirstWatch crew emphasizes, the climate in the prison allows for education and self-reflection. 鈥淲e鈥檙e in a very unique place in San Quentin,鈥 says Travis Westly, one of the newer members of FirstWatch. 鈥淏ecause of our environment, we can let our guard down. When you put people in an institution where you provide hope, you give them the ability to change themselves. And if you give someone the opportunity to change, you never know what the results may be.鈥
Update: Adnan听Khan was freed on Jan. 18 at a resentencing hearing,听according to Alexandra Mallick, after听then-Gov. Jerry Brown听听his sentence on Dec. 12 to 15 years to life.
This story听was written for the听, a national news site that covers the issue daily. A of the story also appears on the JJIE site.听