In November, Juan Moreno Haines earned a coveted promotion. The California journalist was named editor-in-chief of Solitary Watch, a non-profit news organization reporting on conditions in US prisons.
Haines helps 16 writers craft story ideas, fact-check, edit articles and navigate the many hurdles of reporting on neglect and abuse behind bars, all while dealing with a major obstacle no other media leader in America has to face: he is prohibited from directly communicating with his journalists, most of whom he has never met.
Haines himself has been incarcerated for 27 years and does his job from inside San Quentin prison, the sprawling state prison just north of San Francisco. All of his writers are incarcerated, too. Unless they’re located at his institution, he sends them messages and edits through intermediaries at the non-profit.
Haines is is one of several writers at the forefront of US prison journalism, which has been expanding in recent years.
Incarcerated people across the US have launched newspapers. Writers behind bars have recently earned mainstream placements, including in the New York Times, New Yorker and Washington Post. One San Quentin podcast was a finalist for a Pulitzer and Haines himself has won numerous awards for his reporting.
Prison journalists have been supported by non-profit groups like Solitary Watch, Empowerment Avenue and the Prison Journalism Project, which help mentor and edit writers and get their work published. San Quentin has a media center where residents have access to certain equipment and technology and work on a newspaper, podcasts and film-making.
But these journalists’ work isn’t without risk. Some incarcerated journalists have reported retaliation and censorship. Others have been stymied by dysfunctional prison mail systems that delay their communications or entirely reject the delivery of some letters.
“One of the best ways for us to fight for our rights in here is by telling stories,” said Haines, 66, who has written for the Guardian.
At Solitary Watch, Haines oversees writers covering topics including healthcare, strip searches, trans rights, labor issues and prison food. “I report on policies that don’t work, because I want them to work. I don’t enjoy being critical, I just want the government to be aware that what they’re doing isn’t going the way they intended.”
I met with Haines on a recent evening in the chapel of San Quentin. We were gathered for a celebration to mark the launch of a new season of Uncuffed, a podcast hosted by residents of San Quentin and another California state prison and produced by KALW, a member station of National Public Radio. More than 20 incarcerated journalists were joined by media colleagues and supporters from the outside, who had been checked for compliance with the strict dress code – no blue, orange, yellow, green, brown or gray clothing, nothing too suggestive or tight, no attire that could resemble any prisoner or guard uniforms.
Uncuffed’s third season brings to life the humanity of people inside. “People come to prison and are told their voices don’t matter,” said Greg Eskridge, an Uncuffed host and incarcerated founding member. “But there are so many people who have changed their lives and restored themselves and the radio programs give them an opportunity to give a true depiction of what’s actually happening inside the prison. We can talk about our lives, our journeys, our struggles, our heartaches.”
The work is an antidote to mainstream coverage of criminal justice, which, he said, often dehumanizes people in prison and misleads the public about the dangers of crime: “A lot of it is political and sensationalized.”
In the episode Art Saved My Life, Jessie Milo, 44, traces the generations of incarceration in his family, recalling how his father used to take him to rob houses when he was a baby, later joking he was good at staying quiet. From prison, his father would send Milo drawings he made in his cell. Years later, their roles reversed. Milo first started drawing on handkerchiefs behind bars and he now makes comics published in San Quentin’s newspaper and other outlets.
Milo sought a transfer to San Quentin after learning of its arts and media programs. “And now I get to tell my story, which is healing, because people hear us and we’re not carrying them alone.” He said there were no news articles about him when he was given a roughly 170-year sentence for attempted murder at age 22: “We all want to be seen as humans. I don’t know what’s worse – getting my life sentence or feeling invisible.”
Some in San Quentin have had their stories heard and seen by tens of thousands of people. Ryan Pagan, an Uncuffed host and producer, also makes short films with Forward This Productions, housed out of the prison’s media center. One of his recent videos, featuring him getting a haircut and chatting about his hopes of becoming a firefighter before he was jailed, went viral on Instagram.
Pagan was one of six people graduating from Uncuffed’s audio storytelling training program that evening. “I still feel like I don’t deserve any of this. I’m still working on myself,” he said when he took the stage to accept his certificate. “I’ve come to terms with what I’ve done. I took a life and I think about it every day. Accepting this award, I [think] of how his family doesn’t get to enjoy events like this. But it ain’t about what I deserve. It’s about, how can I reach those minds on the path I went down and hopefully stop them from making the choices I made.”
Pagan’s wife was allowed to attend: “It brings some normalcy to me, it’s like a date night,” he said, as he held her hand. But the joy of the night did not last. A month later, he was placed in solitary confinement, known as “administrative segregation”, accused of having an inappropriate relationship with a volunteer. He was cleared of wrongdoing after five days – he said it was a case of mistaken identity – but during that time had to visit his wife behind glass, no contact allowed, he said: “We try to do good in here and then we get reminded this is still prison.”
Steve Drown, a 73-year-old founding member of Uncuffed, in his work reflects on his 46 years in prison, including in an episode about reconnecting with a brother he hadn’t seen in 50 years. He has also been exploring stories about the challenges of learning technology after decades inside and the inhumanity of prison healthcare at his age. He was recently treated for a collapsed lung and was chained down to the gurney before he could be loaded into the ambulance, he said: “That’s when I feel most incarcerated – when I’m out in society shackled and handcuffed.”
Uncuffed and other San Quentin media programs have been celebrated for their 0% recidivism rate – those freed only ever return as advocates. But the initiatives are still only accessible to a small fraction of people behind bars, and rarely to those incarcerated in remote institutions. And those in San Quentin’s media center say their work is not without challenges. Several journalists who work there said officials recently told incarcerated participants they can no longer message volunteers on their tablets, slowing down their communications and projects.
Lt Guim’Mara Berry, a San Quentin spokesperson, said in an email that residents are “unable” to use tablets to communicate with media volunteers, but that select people are authorized to call the volunteers on the phone: “This allows for transparency and the calls to be monitored in order to dismiss any suspicion of inappropriate conversations.”
Regarding Pagan’s placement in segregation, Berry said she could not comment on the specifics of his case, but added, “CDCR takes all allegations of misconduct very seriously … The investigation was completed and Ryan was released back to his regular assigned housing unit.”
Jean Casella, the director of Solitary Watch, said when the organization promoted Haines to editor-in-chief, she hoped he’d soon be doing the work from home after serving nearly three decades of a life sentence for robbery. But in June, he was again denied parole: “We were not going to let that stop us,” she said.
Haines continues to call into staff meetings by phone and use priority mail to exchange messages and edits and at times has colleagues record his voice so they can play it for people in other prisons. He’s used to the limitations, but he still fantasizes about what it would be like to do journalism outside San Quentin, with the internet at his fingertips: “If I was out there working, with access to the material I need, I’d be in heaven.”
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