www.montereycountyweekly.com january 19-25, 2023 MONTEREY COUNTY WEEKLY 21 Sergio Zarazua is 37 now, and he has been locked up since he was 15. He keeps his head and face clean-shaven, which makes his already large eyes look even bigger and deeper. When asked to write down his name, he adds his prison number. He wants to be helpful. It was a second-degree murder and attempted voluntary manslaughter conviction in Sacramento over two decades ago. Then another conviction arrived, for the same incident—shooting at an occupied vehicle and after, some years later, it was confirmed the crime was gang-related. The first story he shares in the circle—just a few chairs, some inmates, some civilians—is about getting to where he is at the moment, the Facility’s B Level II Sensitive Needs Yard in the Correctional Training Facility, Soledad. Before that transfer five years ago, he spent 10 years in other prisons, including adjacent Salinas Valley State Prison. “The sergeant asked me about my name,” Zarazua says, glowing with every sentence even though the smiling is done mostly with his eyes. “She asked me: ‘What’s your name?’” he says. “And I told her. And she said: ‘No, your first name. What is your first name?’” Zarazua says he was speechless: “She asked for it as if it was a normal thing, you know?” For a few seconds, he didn’t know what to answer, he says. At that moment, he realized that his actual first name was not in use for the last 10 years. And then, when the name arrived in his memory, should he say it in Spanish or English? Zarazua says he went with the American pronunciation. He also says that that moment five years ago was crucial in his own healing process. “It was the first time I felt I’m not a number,” he says. Other inmates in the circle are nodding. There are close to 7,000 incarcerated males in the Correctional Training Facility, commonly referred to as CTF or Soledad State Prison. When a small group of civilians—mostly college students, led by Hartnell College Adjunct Sociology Professor Megan McDrew and her team, breathing instructor Spencer Smith and former inmate Carlos Aceves—cross the big yard surrounded by Pentagon-like walls, a few inmates on the way to make a phone call stop and ask how they can join. They likely saw a poster for Exercises in Empathy: A Transformative Justice Initiative on the wall and maybe ignored it. Only now it occurs to them that sitting down with a bunch of civilians can be a reality, and something they would be interested in. McDrew turns to tell them that while only 80 inmates can participate in the eight-week program at once, her team will be back in January 2023, with another iteration. She has to keep strands of her long hair in her hands and is squinting in the big sunshine of an open, windy space. Then she turns back to the group of “civilians” she leads and shares that she would like the program to spill from the university environment into the broader community. “I would like more people to come, not only students,” she says, adding that one or two sessions would be sufficient to open people’s minds and hearts. Probably most Monterey County residents have passed Exit 306 on Highway 101 between Gonzales and Soledad. But unless you have business with CTF, the exit could as well lead to another dimension. Program participants from the outside commit to two hours weekly, for eight weeks. Most of them know only that they will be talking about empathy …and other exercises in empathy from the local prison in Soledad. By Agata Pop˛eda Photos by Daniel Dreifuss Micah Harris, a former college football player who was training for track for the Olympics when he was sentenced to prison. After he is released, he would like to open his own sports facility and train others.
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