Prison journalism: How I became a scholar behind bars

I arrived in prison in the spring of 2010 — a season of new life and chirping birds — to serve a life sentence for being the getaway driver in a neighborhood shooting. I was sent to a maximum security prison in California, a barren concrete fortress notorious for violence. The environment was loud, unruly and dismal — and wanted to swallow me whole. 

That first night, lying on my bunk, I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep. But in the darkness, I sensed a flickering light of hope. I would not let this place devour me, I thought. I knew if I worked hard enough I could regain the dedication, perseverance and work ethic that I once possessed. 

First, I needed help.

Not long after I arrived in prison, I noticed a tall, dark-skinned man with graying dreadlocks that draped past his shoulders. He carried a sturdy book in his hand; it must have outweighed a dictionary. He seemed to bring that book with him everywhere — to the library, on the way to the doctor, to the yard. 

One day I asked him what it was.

It was “Introduction to Psychology,” a textbook for a college course he studied on his lunch break at work, and whenever else he was free. I was astonished. College in prison? But how? He explained to me that we could take courses that were taught by actual professors and could complete the lessons by mail.

“But,” he said, “you do have to purchase your own textbooks.”

No problem, I figured, assuming they cost around $40. 

“Upwards of $300,” he replied.

I was shocked. “Who’s scribing those things?” I thought. “King Midas?”

I returned to my cell dejected. In my old neighborhood, $300 could get you drugs, alcohol, tattoos, even a used handgun. Feeling guilty for disappointing my family by going to prison, there was no way I’d burden them by asking for money for textbooks. On the other hand, the highest-paying inmate jobs at my prison came in at around 25 cents an hour. 

Suddenly, it hit me.

Back when I was an ambitious student in high school, I aced a test called the Golden State Exams during my sophomore year, in 2002. As a reward for scoring in the top 10th percentile of the entire state of California, I received an $8,000 grant through the Governor’s Scholarship Program to cover higher education expenses. (The program has since been phased out.) I never ended up attending college after high school, so I wondered if the funding was still available to me. 

I raced back to my cell and rummaged for a pen, paper and an envelope. I scribbled out a letter and sent it off. Soon I learned that the funding was indeed still available. I couldn’t have been more excited.

Before I knew it, I was enrolled in college, beginning my studies. But school was difficult to manage with a hectic work schedule and the chaos of prison. Incessantly missing my family took a toll on my studies too. 

But I received support and motivation from my peers. By taking courses and carrying my textbooks back and forth across the yard, as my friend had before, a few other inmates looked to me as a source of inspiration. 

Most declined my offer to help them enroll in college, but they eagerly inquired about my studies, quizzed me with cue cards and listened patiently as I recounted lessons. With each passing semester, it was as though my educational journey had become a journey for my peers as well, even if they weren’t in school themselves. 

Just as it takes an entire village to raise a child, it took a community of incarcerated people to raise a scholar. By August 2017, I graduated from Coastline Community College with three associate degrees: in business, American studies and social and behavioral sciences. I even made the dean’s list.

Now, as an author, I use my education to reach out to youth who are exposed to street violence, alcohol and substance abuse and who are at a crossroads between education and crime. I support them by writing letters, raising funds for charity and participating in an in-person book club with youth and their parents here at the prison.

I can hardly describe the impact of turning my life around and finding purpose. 

As I continue to support the community, I often reflect on those men that helped me pursue education inside.

At night, when all is quiet and dark, I lay on my bunk and shut my eyes. Deep within, a familiar flicker still glows bright.

Written by Ramelle Kamack for The Prison Journalism Project

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