Prison Journalism Project

I took in the earthy perfume of the garden, picked a cherry tomato and popped it in my mouth. My months tending these plants had paid off, and the result was delicious — sharp but mellow, with a soft crunch. I sampled a yellow bell pepper in the next row. It was so sweet and flavorful I could have eaten a meal of these by themselves. I looked over the dozen or so rows: lettu...

In March, a flier at my new prison grabbed my attention. It outlined the prison’s upcoming biannual restorative justice program.

Before I transferred to Prairie du Chien Correctional Institution, a minimum security prison in Wisconsin, I had heard of the concept but never participated in any program. A newspaper article may have a snippet about the practice’s commu...

Recently, I sat on a plastic chair across from Shakir, my teenage son. He had traveled with his older brother from about an hour away to visit me here in Trenton, at New Jersey State Prison. The three of us were discussing the importance of putting knowledge before wisdom when, out of nowhere, Shakir began to cry.

At that moment, my son felt the weight of a cruel f...

I wake up early at 6 a.m. It’s a habit I picked up back in my early 20s, when I was a defense contractor for a private security firm. I’ll get all the sleep I need when I’m dead.

I’ve made myself a “nest” — that’s what one of my street friends calls my makeshift pile of pillows and blankets — in my solitary confinement cell. I stretch my neck as I first wake, the ...

I got to know James “Buck” Martin some years ago while working at Green Meadow Correctional Facility’s law library, where we both clerked. No one introduced us; our inevitable meeting was the result of limited library space at the former maximum security prison in New York, which pushed even the most reserved people toward each other.

In prison, you sometimes cros...