I photograph family visits at San Quentin for Get On The Bus, a nonprofit that helps children visit their incarcerated parents. I can’t share photographs of the men or their families.
Yellow walls. An industrial fan. Vending machines. The rules.
It’s an ordinary room in an extraordinary place.
To get there I pass through big steel sliding doors. A guard checks my identification and all of my equipment. The doors open one by one.
I can leave whenever I want. The men I photograph don’t have that freedom.
When their families arrive, the first thing that happens is a hug. Big, long hugs. Some have waited years for this moment.
They get to be together. Not on a phone call or through bullet-proof glass. They can sit at a table, talk, laugh, and put their arms around one another.
I wish I could show you.
Everyone is polite. No one raises their voices. The men practice being fathers and sons and husbands.
That’s what it feels like.
What strikes me most is how normal it all seems. Behind the steel doors and posted rules, families come together to spend time with the people they love.
I can’t show you the hugs or the faces. But I can show you where they happen.
