My first visit to prison
It was a journey. Here's what happened.
The evening before my first visit to see my brother, I go to the prison’s website to read about what to wear and what you’re allowed to bring inside. I learn that visitors aren’t allowed to wear any clothing that is blue, nothing too revealing, no yoga pants, jeans, flip flops, caps, sunglasses, purses, wallets, cell phones, and the list goes on.
I’m visiting my parents for a few weeks but only packed one pair of pants that won’t violate the dress code rules—my sensible, dark blue hiking pants.
My mom, who already visited my brother a few months ago, recounted a few of the scantily-dressed female visitors who were turned away because their pants were too tight, heels too high, or skirts too short.
I hold up my hiking pants to my mom and ask what she thinks. I tell her it could pass for faded black.
She looks it over and says, “It’ll be fine.”
I take her word for it but am still nervous about tomorrow’s visit. The dress code and unfamiliar landscape of visiting a state prison have my stomach in knots. But mostly, I’m filled with anxiety about seeing my brother for the first time in nearly four years. The last time I saw him, he was in an L.A. county jail awaiting trial.
County jail is kind of like a holding facility or a place people go to serve less serious crimes with lighter sentences. When I was in college, I visited a friend in county. He was serving a six-month sentence for multiple DUIs.
When I went to county to see my brother, I remember him looking cool and calm behind the glass window. I studied his face from behind the glass and thought about the possibility of prison, and it destroyed me. It was an awkward conversation and a lot of small talk about the meals he was eating and other people he met. My mom, dad, and I took turns holding the phone to talk to him.
When it was my mom’s turn to grab the phone, I saw the tears well up in her eyes, her face crumpling into an expression that was both love and sorrow and something maybe only a mother can feel. I turned away, not wanting to see her that way.
Even though it was an emotional visit, my family expected the trial to go in his favor. No spoilers here—it didn’t. He received 19 years, the maximum sentence for his crime.
I think about the way I felt on that first visit to county jail and wonder how much worse it will be when I see him in state prison. I’m glad there’s no glass to separate us and I hope it’ll somehow comfort my brother too.
I wonder if I’ll cry. Or if I’ll feel numb. Lately, I’ve been feeling more numb than hopeless, but I can’t be sure if the numbness is a form of acceptance. Perhaps I’m getting used to the idea that he’s gone. I have to keep reminding myself that this is about him, not me.
I imagine him to be pale and depressed. From his letters and phone calls, he tells me he’s barely getting yard time. When COVID happened, it basically shut down life inside prisons in the same way it did for the public. Programs, educational classes, the library, and the yard—closed indefinitely.
Unlike the outside, however, it would take much longer for the prison to lift precautions and resume life as normal. Until then, regular lockdowns occurred, stilting yard time, phone calls to the outside, and any social interactions.
The next morning, my mom, dad, and I pile into the car at 8 a.m. We’re about to embark on the three-and-a-half-hour drive to central California, a place I have only known from driving through, often with rolled-up windows to protect myself from the scorching heat and stench of the dairy farms and cows standing in their own poop.
Even though it’s the middle of June, I’m relieved the weather isn’t going to be over 100 so we won’t melt while we wait in line to get in. My mom reassures me there’s a tent for visitors, but she warns, it’s still hot.
I pull into the massive gates of Kern Valley State Prison and stop at the guard booth. He asks for our IDs and directs me to the visitor’s parking lot. We drive down a long road with mysterious white buildings and barbed wire fences. Maybe this is what North Korea feels like. It’s cold and intimidating. I notice the visitor’s lot quickly fills up.
My mom, dad, and I dutifully leave behind our cell phones and wallets in the car. You’re allowed one car key, dollar bills for the vending machine, and no more than 10 photos. These items must be kept inside a clear, plastic container or Ziplock bag so they can easily be examined. My mom’s wad of $1 bills is so thick I’m sure my brother will have a field day at the vending machines.
We walk to the tent area and I push my dad in his wheelchair. The air is hot and dusty. The thirsty and depressing landscape reminds me that no prisoners will survive if they attempt an escape.
We’re here on a walk-in day so it’s on a first come-first serve basis. There are about fifteen people ahead of us in line. Even though it’s barely 1 p.m., they won’t allow visitors inside until 2 p.m. I brace myself for an hour’s wait while standing around without the comfort of my phone.
I notice most of the visitors are women—mothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends, and kids. I see toddlers and elementary-school-aged kids and wonder how well they know the person they’re visiting, most likely their father. I think about what kind of life they will have as adults in the face of their father’s absence.
While waiting, we fill out a form that asks for our names and inmate’s name, and booking number. After an hour or so of waiting, a prison staffer comes out. I’m surprised to see she’s wearing a brightly colored dress and not in a tan uniform like everyone else. She’s a large African American woman holding a walkie-talkie. She addresses the visitors in a way that says she’s repeated her little speech a million times.
She speaks slowly like she’s talking to people who don’t speak English or can’t hear properly, and announces, “Please fill out the visitation form. If you need a pen, I have one for you. No cell phones, purses, or wallets.”
After a very long hour, we walk to the front of another building—this is stop #2 before reaching the visitation room where my brother will be waiting. We’re forced to stand outside and the suffocating heat is dampening my already dampened mood.
As any Asian woman would do, I shield my face with the photos I brought. My mom reassures me it’s not that hot and compares today to the last time she visited. Her words do nothing to cool the sun’s rays.
After what feels like forever, a blank-faced prison guard opens the front door and starts checking visitors in. All the guards wear the same diarrhea-green uniforms. Not one guard smiles or makes eye contact. The vibe makes me uncomfortable like somehow, everyone in this room is an inmate, guilty for showing up today.
At the check-in desk, a female guard with fake eyelashes asks for our IDs and COVID vaccination cards. Whoa, whoa, wait. COVID cards? Isn’t the mandate for showing cards over? She tells me we can’t go in without it.
I turn to my mom with wide eyes. “You didn’t say I needed to bring my vaccination card!” As if scolding her would somehow make my card appear. Fortunately for my folks, their COVID cards were in the car from their previous visit.
Before I start to spiral into frustration and despair, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s another visitor. She says her name is Lisa. She pulls me aside with a look on her face that says she has the answer. She confirms if I have a photo of my vaccination card on my phone and I tell her yes.
She instructs, “Drive down to the Hyatt, it’s only 10 minutes away. Print out your card in their business center. Then come back. You’ll still have plenty of time left for the visitation, don’t worry!”
With a bit of hope and more anxiety, I do exactly what she says and return a half hour later. I show fake-eyelash-guard the printout and she tells me to wait for my name to be called. Five minutes later, I’m removing my shoes and placing my plastic Ziplock bag on a tray to be pushed through their X-ray machine.
I look at the guard standing on the other side of the metal detector and he motions for me to walk through. Before I can feel good about making it to this next phase and through the metal detector, I hear a voice.
“Her pants. They’re blue.”
Like a balloon that has lost all its air, I’m ready to deflate on the dirty office floor. Even though I thought my pants could pass for a faded black, another guard, who I’ll call Hard Ass, determined they were blue. I was instructed to walk across the Saharan desert parking lot to the prison’s visitor trailer. There, I can borrow a pair of non-blue pants.
I quickly swap my pants for some too-large faded khakis and return a half hour later to the office, dripping in sweat. The guards finally usher me through the back door where I wait for a chain-linked fence with barbed wires to open. After a loud buzz, I walk through.
I see signs for C-Yard. There are rows of nondescript white buildings and asphalt roads made for both pedestrians and golf carts. After a 10-minute walk, I step into the C-Building and show my ID and the blue paper I was given at the office with a photo of my brother’s mugshot, name, and booking number. I’m asked to step inside a hallway with metal doors on both sides.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the final door to the visitor’s room opens slowly.
The room is larger than I imagined. The fluorescent lights and dropped ceilings make it feel like a nursing home. One entire wall has vending machines filled with sodas, chips, and chocolate bars. The tables in between the inmates and their families are low, like the kind you’d see in a kindergarten classroom. The room is loud with lively conversations and occasional bursts of laughter. I notice smiles and tattoos on the faces of the incarcerated.
I scan the room and spot my family right away. As the only Asians, we stick out. My jaw drops when I see my brother. His drastic weight loss makes me notice how long and narrow his face is, just like my mom’s.
His hair, which is normally cut short or completely buzzed, is now longer than mine. His mane is so black against his translucent skin it looks almost blue. He says he hasn’t cut it since he first entered prison. It’s tied in a thick ponytail. He looks like he could be a kung fu master or medicine man, but without the foo-man choo mustache.
He walks towards me with one arm outstretched. I tear up as I give him a hug.
“It’s good to see you,” I say.
“Yeah, you too. Long time,” he replies without a smile.
I settle down at the table. We all kind of stare at him, waiting for him to speak.
My mom breaks the stillness. “How do you feel, being in here?”
He replies, “I feel okay. I just do the same things every day. Wake up at around seven, go eat, watch some T.V., and go outside if they let us.”
My mom gasps, “My God, you’re so white. How often do you see the sun?”
She pulls down the front of his shirt so we can see the area under his neck. She gasps again. I wish she’d stop pointing out his physical flaws brought on by prison life. Sure, he looks like he was dipped in bleach, but what can he do about it?
“We only get yard once a week because we still have lockdowns from COVID. A lot of times I don’t even go out because it’s too hot.”
My parents click their tongues in disbelief and disapproval.
“You should still go outside and get some Vitamin D. Move around, go exercise,” my mom insists.
I ask him if he’s cracked open any of the books I sent him. I carefully curated a few memoirs and sent them from Amazon. The prison is more likely to accept books from the outside, as long as they are paperback and sent directly from Amazon.
I sent him one of my favorites, “Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted,” by Suleika Jaoaud. The story is about the author’s cancer diagnosis at the age of 25. He shakes his head and says he hasn’t gotten to any of them yet.
I specifically sent him “Between Two Kingdoms” because I want him to understand that death is coming for all of us—it doesn’t matter where you are. Even though he’s locked up, his life is still under his control. He can choose to live his best life, he just doesn’t realize it, nor does he know how.
We talk about the book and my insane afternoon of two rejections from the prison office. I tell him lockdowns are completely over on the outside and it’s mostly back to the way it was before COVID. My parents encourage him to go to school and or find a job. He doesn’t look us in the eyes when they tell him these things.
The three hours goes by faster than I had anticipated. The guard announces loudly that we have a few minutes. The other visitors stand and give hugs and kisses.
My mom puts her hand over my brother’s and gives him a look that says she’s sorry. We each give my brother a hug. As we shuffle out with the others, I turn around and notice the inmates are still seated, now at completely empty tables. I realize they are waiting to be told when to get up.
Seeing my brother alone at the table, I’m suddenly reminded of when he was in elementary school. He was definitely mischievous and had tons of energy, but he was also a good kid who loved playing with his friends and riding bikes. I think about how helpless and lonely it must be to watch us leave.
Despite all the woes I went through, the first visit was time well spent. I’m no longer anxious or fearful about how he’s doing or making future visits.
As I write this, I’ve visited my brother a total of three times. He’s no longer at Kern but at a much smaller facility with way nicer guards and a much easier visitation process. 😁
Here’s more stuff about my brother…
Wow! What an ordeal just to visit a loved one!
Your writing had me right there --hot and worn out from all the rules. Heartbreaking to leave your brother there, but I’m glad they moved him to a smaller and more user-friendly place.