Rehabilitation Over Profit

By Megan McDrew

Growing up in the shadow of San Quentin and Alcatraz, I’ve always been drawn to prisons with
a mix of curiosity, disdain, and a healthy dose of fear. San Quentin, once one of the most
notoriously dangerous prisons in California—if not the nation—stood as a constant reminder of
the darkness that could consume a human life. Alcatraz, the retired fortress in the San Francisco
Bay, added another layer of intrigue. As a child, I often wondered who lived in these dark,
forbidding places. Who were they? What did they do? And why, as a society, do we lock people
away in secret, behind cold concrete walls, abandoned to their own deviant devices? Do they feel
alone? Do they feel love? Do they feel anything at all?

These questions consumed me as I navigated my early adolescence. Growing up in the affluent,
predominantly white suburb of Walnut Creek, California, I had the comfort of a predictable,
stable life. My father, a high-level Secret Service agent, often worked in Washington, D.C., or on
international assignments, taught me the values of ethics and caution—look both ways before
crossing the street, never talk to strangers, and always be home before dark. My mother, a
profoundly kind and compassionate woman, encouraged me to look beyond our insular world
and care for the less fortunate—those outside our bubble, including people and animals in need.

But as the 1980s and 1990s unfolded, with the war on drugs, mass incarceration, and the
construction of prisons across California, my questions about incarceration grew louder. I’ve
always believed, and continue to believe, that people are born innocent. We are all shaped by the
circumstances we face—by the love, or lack of it, we receive in our formative years. To put it
simply, violence and anger often stem from a deep absence of love, attention, and nurturing. If
this is true, then the key to healing those who have gone astray is love, support, and the tools to
rebuild.

As I drove along Highway 101 from UC Santa Barbara to home, I passed two prisons that would
become integral to my life’s work—Salinas Valley State Prison and the Correctional Training
Facility (CTF) in Soledad. I remember vividly the deep sense of sadness and disbelief that would
wash over me as I passed those institutions. What horrors were taking place within? The
isolation, the violence, the lives suspended in darkness, hidden from the world. Those drives
shaped the foundation of my future work.

After completing my MA in Sociology at Humboldt State University, I focused on community
college teaching, learning how societal inequities influenced life choices and opportunities. I
later became the first instructor to offer an Associate's Degree program at Salinas Valley State
Prison and CTF Soledad—prisons I had once driven by with a heavy heart. Over six years, I
taught hundreds of incarcerated men, learning just as much from them as I hoped they did from
me.

One of the most inspiring individuals I met was Ivan Kilgore, a man serving a Life Without
Parole (LWOP) sentence at Salinas Valley. Despite his devastating sentence, Ivan had not only
founded the United Black Family Scholarship Foundation (UBFSF) while incarcerated but also
authored Domestic Genocide, a book I’ve since used in my courses at Hartnell College, UC

Santa Cruz, and UC Merced. Together, we launched a nationwide essay writing contest for
incarcerated individuals. We asked participants to reflect on their lives, exploring how systemic
factors such as family dynamics, race, class, gender, and the criminal legal system had shaped
their journeys. Over six months, I received hundreds of essays from men and women across the
country, which my students analyzed for sociological themes. The project culminated in the
publication Social Justice Autobiographies: Inequality, Injustice & America's Incarcerated, in
which I wrote the foreword. The book features 24 of the most powerful essays from the contest
and provides a deeply human look at the lives of those behind bars.

As Ivan grew UBFSF, I developed my own nonprofit, The Transformative Justice Center (TJC),
which now offers an “Empathy in Action” program. Through this inside-out prison exchange,
university students and members of the public participate in 8-week cycles inside CTF Soledad,
engaging with incarcerated individuals to foster mutual understanding and empathy. In
November 2024, we officially opened the doors of TJC, a physical space dedicated to amplifying
the voices and experiences of incarcerated people. The center houses an exact replica of a 6×9
prison cell, allowing visitors to experience, however briefly, the confines of life behind bars. The
center serves as a place to honor those incarcerated, highlighting their talents through art,
literature, and video testimonials. It is located at 439 Tyler Street in Monterey, California.

We must work together to build bridges of empathy, healing, and insight between the
incarcerated and the public. Every individual, regardless of past decisions, deserves a chance to
be seen, heard, and understood. The current prison system, built on punishment and fear, is not
the path to healing or justice. Look to Scandinavian countries, where the focus is on
rehabilitation—where incarcerated people are given the tools they need to reintegrate into society
as healthy, productive individuals. From my decade of experience working in prisons and
meeting some of the wisest, kindest, and hardest-working individuals I know, I am convinced
that we must see prisoners not as mere criminals, but as survivors—resilient, courageous
individuals who are fighting, often against all odds, to rise above their circumstances.

We must open our hearts to those we’ve been taught to fear. We must shake hands with those we
despise. Only then can we open the gates to justice and love.