I first went to prison a year ago. I left the city I was familiar with, took a winding drive through faded towns, passed diners I imagined once saw better days, passed the final gas station.



I arrived at a maximum-security prison in a corner of New York state. It was an imposing fortress of concrete, loops of barbed wire, and layers of fencing, and corridors upon corridors divided by sliding metal doors, which locked in over 2,000 men, most of them serving sentences of 25 years to life.



In the entranceway, a long line of women slowly shuffled forward, each laden with grocery bags stuffed with potato chips and other processed snacks. Guards with wooden batons holstered at their hips, thumbs hooked into their belts, strolled about. The women were waiting for prison officials to inspect their food items and then transfer them to prisoners who missed the taste of what were now, to them, luxuries. Those behind bars here were likely the husbands, boyfriends, fathers, sons, or brothers of those patiently waiting in line.



It was impossible not to notice that every woman in line was a woman of color.



When I tell the guards I'm a law school student, they look confused. What is she doing here?



I'm with a small delegation of other Yale students, participating in a seminar twice a month that brings together law students and convicted felons to break down communication barriers between those inside and outside of prison.



This prison is not that different from other big prisons across America, built on the outskirts of small towns, typically with high rates of unemployment. Since the 1980s, the majority of prisons in America have been built in depressed, rural areas in an attempt to create jobs and spur growth. These areas are also predominantly white; as a consequence, guards who are primarily white watch over prisoners who are primarily minorities.



The guards told me much the same story: they sacrifice their lives to working in prison so that their children won't have to. "I drive exactly 48 miles to work and back every day to pay for my son to go to college, so he won't ever work here," one male guard said. "I know it's a 48-mile drive because I dread going to work, and I can't wait to get home."



I asked some of the guards what they thought of the prisoners. "Some of them just need to go home," said one. "But some of them are "baby rapers" -- they deserve to be here." Another declared: "We always have to watch our backs, because you never know when violence will break out, and you can never be too careful." Yet another hardened guard warned me: "Never tell anyone your full name, where you live, or any other identifying information about yourself. You don't want convicted felons to find you when they get out."



I was intimidated before I even entered the cellblocks.



My classmates and I had to go through the metal detector. The underwire in my bra set it off. I was directed towards a nearby broom closet, where I removed my bra from underneath my thick sweater. I placed it in a brown paper bag, and reemerged to hand it to a guard. The second time through, shoulders hunched, I passed. I was allowed back in the closet to put my bra back on.



Next, we went through a series of metal doors. Each opened before me only after the ones behind me clanged shut.



Yellow lines down the center divided the hallways like roadways, with stop signs at each intersection.



"NO TALKING," demanded the signs on the walls.



Even when only one or two guards were in sight, there was an overwhelming sense of control.



We reached the prison block for educational programs. I found myself in a room full of prisoners. All wore the standard one-color prison uniform. Scars and tattoos snaked around their necks and arms.



These men greeted me with warm smiles and friendly handshakes.



I was embarrassed to think that if I had been on the street and seen them, I probably would have been intimidated and crossed to the other side.



Conversation flowed and laughter came easily as they peppered us with questions.



What is it like to live on your own, and to do your own laundry? What is it like to go to a bar? What is it like to own a cell phone? What is Facebook like?



I learned most of these men had been incarcerated since they were as young as 17-years-old, and had been sentenced as adults. They hadn't done many of the mundane daily things that I did without a second thought, but they had also lived through much more than I had.



They spoke of growing up in public housing in Harlem, the Bronx, or Queens, where violence was the default way of resolving issues, and where they were at once over-policed and under-protected. Even before their teenage years, they took for granted that, in all likelihood, they would spend some time in jail. After all, most men in their community they knew had.



Despite the challenges the prisoners still faced, I found a sense of resilience. Curious and hard working, most of them had completed their high school equivalencies in prison, and they were studying, among other courses, business, paralegal skills, creative writing, and communication skills. One man had learned to read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Another spoke of his plans to start a charity and counseling program for at-risk youth when he got out. A third man described the lawsuit he was filing in federal court to challenge what he perceived as the unconstitutional vagueness of the felony statute he had been charged under.



"Do you want to go home?" I asked the men.