A Year in Reading: Ismail Muhammad
I’d never been inside of a prison until this past spring, when I received a grant to teach a creative writing workshop at the Contra Costa County Juvenile Hall facility. This meant driving every Tuesday morning for two months to Martinez, California, a sleepy city to Oakland’s north, until I arrived at a squat, nondescript beige building set off from the street by oak trees and a huge visitor parking lot that was always full. Usually I parked on the street, which extended on into the distance until it curved around into a residential neighborhood—California ranches, two car garages, various shades of beige and gray. From the neighborhood, not a single aspect of the prison was visible.
The strip mall parking lot aside, the juvenile hall was an unassuming element of the neighborhood: it featured a boxy modernist design, a pleasant little courtyard just out front, and a sleek glass façade. If not for the signage indicating that I had indeed stumbled upon a prison, I would have assumed I was walking into the local high school, with its boxy Modernist structure, pleasant courtyard, and glass façade.
