Behind the thick, cold, steel prison bars sits a man convicted for felony drug possession, in the maximum-security sector generally reserved for only the most dangerous offenders. Automatically, his difference from the violent criminals housed with him is apparent, but so is his familiarity with the prison lifestyle. Lock-up culture is one of intimidation, fear, inequality, paranoia, and hopelessness. Everyone here may never see freedom again.

In the mess hall, the prison’s poor imitation of food is slopped onto trays to be eaten with dull utensils that make sporks seem efficacious. After choking down his serving, the prisoner spots a neglected piece of stale-tasting bread sitting on someone else’s tray. Permission is granted to eat the bread, but he must pick it off of the tray himself, because initiating physical contact with others is strictly forbidden. Just as he reaches for the bread, a command booms down from the catwalk above the tables accompanied by the unmistakable shuck of a gun being cocked.

“Put down the fucking bread and get your hands back on your side of the God-damned table,” screams a guard while lowering his aim.

The prisoner drops the bread like it’s scorching hot after being in the toaster too long. Meanwhile, the other inmates snicker, in a poor attempt to contain themselves from cracking up at their ability to execute one of the oldest tricks on the book. Its clear judging by their piercing glares that the joke is on him. Fool.
This is just the beginning of Frank Williams’ road to recovery. Today, he is the director of the Bayview Senior Re-Entry Program in San Francisco, where he focuses on providing assistance to ex-convicts attempting to rehabilitate themselves with the life skills they need to get back to the real world.

Progressive service providers like Williams’ senior program, SFSU’s Project Rebound, and San Francisco’s Old Skool Café, are valuable because they make the transition from prison life to the streets easier, lending a helping hand to those who want to help themselves. The program leaders also understand that even a held hand cannot be left to its own devices.

“We live in a very self-centered, individualistic society and people generally are not willing to put themselves out there for the greater good of us all…in fear of what might happen to their careers,” says Gerald Miller, a director at the Center for Juvenile Criminal Justice (CJCJ).

Miller, like Williams, did time for drug related offenses for the first half of his life but now works to help prevent others from repeating the same mistakes he made. Those who can relate to the struggles of rehabilitation, having been through the process themselves, run many service providers.

CJCJ is one of the many branches of the Safe Communities Re-Entry Council (SCRC), a unique, government-funded San Francisco organization focused on preventing those previously incarcerated from going back to jail.

“San Francisco is a very innovate city,” says Ross Mirkarimi, San Francisco’s District 5 supervisor, “and the goal of the SCRC, and programs like it, is to facilitate a more accountable strategy to address recidivism.”
Mirkarimi, who started in the SCRC, cites the same problem that nearly every other coordinator experiences in attempting to establish the programs necessary to prevent ex-convicts from returning to jail: funding.
Despite the groundbreaking nature of the city’s efforts, the money necessary for the programs to run effectively is generally unavailable from the government. To avoid relying on insufficient financial backing, those who pioneer these programs are forced to find creative ways to subsidize them.

“I have lived without a salary or benefits for three years,” says Teresa Goines, founder of the Old Skool Café, a program she started three years ago to help disadvantaged youth get a head start on re-entry to society.

Her “little knuckleheads,” as she affectionately refers to them, have the opportunity to learn food-service industry skills from top restaurant staff across the world—they can even take cooking lessons from premier chefs. They then take those skills learned in the program’s kitchen and apply them to the creation and serving of food for the public to enjoy. Goines also draws from her past as an actress and dancer and integrates her passions into the Café, giving the kids the opportunity to show their diverse talents.

Despite the lack of financial gains, Goines has established a self-sustainable resource that bases its rehabilitation efforts on healing body, soul, and spirit. She has found that treating her staff with the same respect and expectations that she would any other group of professionals in the performance or service industry is an effective method in yielding real results. Goines refuses to allow the participants in her program to be late more than once without being notified of the possible repercussions should tardiness become habitual. Regardless of abilities and talent, she is not afraid kick out repeat offenders.

“With two jobs, a family, courses on campus, and then online classes once I got home too, even if I was tempted to fuck around, I wouldn’t have had the time,” says Jason Bell. Bell is the director of Project Rebound, a campus-based organization that helps those imprisoned or recently released get into San Francisco State.

Bell, too, spent time in jail and found that once he got out, the only way to stay out was to stay busy. He earned a bachelor’s degree in social work and then went on to earn a Master’s degree in sociology—two common fields of study for those attempting to use education in order get their life back on track.

Nearly forty percent of all individuals enlisted in Project Rebound go to school in pursuit of social services degrees. According to Bell, the program’s graduation rate is higher than the rest of SF State’s general population. He claims this is because, for people enlisted in the program, the stakes are considerably higher.

Robert Julliett, an 18-year-old student at SF State with plans to major in business, exemplifies that testimony. Since becoming a part of Project Rebound, he sees school as the primary difference between his old life and his new one. To damage his chances at school is to put his future in jeopardy.

“If I just give up on school, then I’m giving up on myself,” says Julliett. “Back on the street, just trying to get money, I might end up on one of my homeboy’s tee-shirts or a tattoo. That’s not the way I want to be remembered. I would rather go to school and try to make them proud in a different way.”

For Juiliett, a crucial aspect to recovery is realizing that he has the potential to be more than he had ever been. He has to actively build self-esteem in order to believe that he is capable of being more than what society expects—and more than what he expects from himself.

“I would rather go to school and try to make my partners proud in a different way,” he says. “So when they see me in my suit and tie or on TV for bringing jobs back home, I can inspire them to believe they can do the same.”