SQUIRES
How prisoners change young lives
By Charles David Henry
Photographs by Eddie Herena
A dozen teenage boys arrive at San Quentin and shuffle around, awkwardly trying to look cool. Flanked by rose bushes and razor wire, the Plaza is a luxuriant little square inside the prison gates. Each of them has a back-story but today the plan is to keep them out of prison — courtesy of San Quentin Utilization of Inmate Resources Experiences and Studies, better known as SQUIRES. The Plaza is bounded with religious chapels on one side, and on the other a four-story “Adjustment Center,” a prison-within-a-prison housing gang bangers, men who’ve shanked other inmates, and worse. Suddenly, Upumoni “Upu” Ama, a 6-foot-3-inch Samoan inmate, steps out to meet the teens. He and a half-dozen other inmates eyeball the teens, deciding which young man they want to spend time with during the tour. “You’re going to spend the day here as one of us,” Upu says. “You’re going to eat our food, walk our yard, and step into our cells. But where you’re standing right now?” The big man pauses, and throws his arms open wide. “You’re in the middle. There’s the Adjustment Center, where the worst of the worst are. And, there’s the chapel — which signifies doing the right thing. The choice of where you ultimately want to end up is yours.” SQUIRES has a long history. It started in 1964, when a man on Death Row was concerned about his son. Convicted murderer Ross Parker Keller’s teenage son was already in trouble with the law and might be headed to prison or worse, he feared, if there wasn’t some kind of intervention. But the boy wouldn’t share his feelings, or understand where his actions were taking him. Keller wanted his son to taste the bitterness of prison life, and lose his freedom for a day, so he might not spend his life here. It might deter him from a life of crime. That boy’s fate is unknown — there’s not much documentation about the pro-
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gram’s early years— but Keller’s work has touched thousands of lives. For decades, confronting a juvenile with an up-front, inyour-face approach was a traditional way of scaring troubled teenagers straight. Hardened lifers, violent men, offenders scream at young offenders, searing them with a nightmare view of the incarceration ahead if they didn’t go straight. SQUIRES is not Scared Straight. It uses feelings instead of fear. The boys in the program get a tour of life behind bars, and they’re asked to say how it feels. SQUIRES wants them to trust the word of the prisoners, and themselves, and to look at their life in a new way. In the late 70s, the Los Angeles County Probation Department asked the California Youth Authority to evaluate a project designed to send probation camp youth to a juvenile visitation program at San Quentin. The County Board of Supervisors approved the youth offender program and agreed to send a small group of 16- to 17-year-olds from probation camps to San Quentin. A study made sometime later concluded that, 12 months after a visit, “those who participated in the program committed fewer offenses, drug and property offenses subsequent to their experience when compared with similar youths who did not.” Within the year, Contra Costa County wanted access. In
SQUIRES member Upumoni Ama talking to at-risk youth on the San Quentin Plaza
time, groups of 20 to 40 kids started coming every two weeks. Kids qualify for the program after being busted six or more times, often for violent crimes. Wall City recently spent a day with one of them. Out of respect for his age, we’ll call him Kid. A 14-year-old from Novato, just a few miles north of San Quentin, here in Marin County, he arrived impeccably dressed in designer jeans and expensive Nikes. His eyes are wide and he looks nervously from side to side. In the Plaza, he listens to Upu narrate the history of the prison. Before he knows it, another prisoner walks up to him. “I’m Adnan Khan,” he says, thrusting out his hand. “Those are cool
Jordans, where are you from?” Adnan inquires. “Is this your first time in prison?” Wary, Kid acknowledges Adnan’s question with a nod. Adnan, 32, recently elected as Chairman, has been in prison for 14 years on a robbery-murder conviction. He is an American Muslim of Pakistani heritage who has a long history with SQUIRES, including a visit as part of the program when he was 15. Though it didn’t take, he’s now an earnest believer in trying to wave off others. He is a mentor, the guy who pairs up with the visitors — and maybe saves them, too. Adnan keeps up his conversation with Kid, looking to gain his confidence, and perhaps pick up a little trust. It seems to
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