​Pink is a wonderful color. Pink is fresh, fun, romantic and sweet.
Pink punch, what’s not to love, it’s summer in a glass!
Last night’s birthday celebration, woohoo Ashely, was a magical summer gathering at the island happy hour hotspot, the pump. It started out innocently enough; babies, puppies and deviled eggs were passed around and the theme cocktail was served, pink punch. The last time I drank punch was at a bridal shower, it had champagne in it and was served in a crystal bowl with pink sherbet floating on top. This punch was poured from plastic gallon jugs into paper cups and came with a friendly warning, “This punch packs a punch…ha ha”. The cool pink liquid was light and refreshing and I loved it! Better yet, I couldn’t taste the alcohol. For a moment, I had flashbacks to college frat parties with lined trash cans filled with grain alcohol punch; but I couldn’t imagine grain alcohol being an island additive and more importantly, I didn’t care what was in there, it was pink, pretty and it was delicious.
Most people had a glass of punch, ate more than one deviled egg, and kept their sanity. I did not. I drank and drank. The punch never ran out; there was an endless supply of wagons loaded with coolers filled with pink jugs. The delicious deviled egg I ate was not soaking up my alcohol intake and instinctively I knew I needed to slow down and more importantly I needed to pee. Thankfully, a fellow punch lover needed to pee as well and insisted we walk to a proper restroom rather than taking me up on my brilliant idea to pee in the bushes.  Upon our return I implemented my drinking strategy, I filled my cup up with ice before pouring in the pink punch thinking the water from the ice would dilute my drink and provide hydration at the same time – if only I drank slowly enough for the ice to melt.    
​Darkness came and the punch party continued. There were others who were also jacked up on a sugar high and the unknown alcohol intake so we moved indoors. This is where things get a bit fuzzy. I think I had the wherewithal to stop drinking, but I can’t be 100% sure of that. I do remember singing and dancing to Sweet Caroline (Achilles not pleased and Neil Diamond fans horrified), then poo-pooing country music (sorry Dana), and demanding Axl Rose and ABBA music to be played (Heather thank you for your efforts). Before Dancing Queen hit the airwaves, I took myself out. I brought myself home. The saving grace, my saving grace, was the fact that the party hosts live spitting distance to my family home and I managed to make it back.
It may take me the rest of the summer to recover and I have sworn off everything pink, but my night of pink punch partying was a blast. 

​The scene: a stunning San Diego morning, home team match in Coronado, partnered with ace-lefty Jaimie at #2, one point away from securing a 4-1 lead in the first set, a short step forward to smack a forehand down the middle, then BAM! Someone cracked a baseball bat against the back of my left calf and there was a clap of thunder above; I went down hard and fast. I looked around and was shocked to see that no one had actually entered the court to assault me and that the skies were still clear… then I knew, I was injured.
My court-mates mobilized and in nanoseconds my leg was iced, elevated and getting stoned on CBD lotion. I stayed horizontal for an eternity due to insane pain and dizziness, but realized that people may actually want to use the tennis court for something other than triage. Getting me up and off the court was an act of God and yet the miracles continued when the club house produced a pair of crutches. I was able to shuffle to the outside area where I promptly sprawled across the bike lane and caused further concern that I would be run over by a speedster cyclist. I thought I could drive home, but when I couldn’t sit up for fear of passing out and then directing Jaimie to put my gear in the wrong car, it was decided that in the best interest for the safety of the good citizens of Coronado, Jaimie would drive me home. The term “Never leave your wingman” rang in my ears and the kindness of friends never ceases to amaze me.
Next up urgent care (two different ones thanks to insurance company confusion), bottles of drugs, a shot in the bum of my new best friend morphine, and instructions to rest. Rest, hmmmm. I asked the 12-year-old doctor if I would be ready in ten days for the National 50’s Tennis Tournament; he looked at me as if I had suffered a severe head injury and he was rendered speechless.
So here I am, four days out. My lovely tourney partner, Ruth, is completely chill and told me not to worry and suggested I roll on biofreeze six times a day. A teammate from Coronado offered me a free healing session. Tennis friends have suggested everything from ice to acupuncture. I am game for it all! Right now I am eating my way through the trauma which seems to be working because I am off the crutches. Step by slow step. I am thinking I can pull it together in a week…don’t mess with my denial!
 
 

Time to get this show on the road.
Watch out world, Jim and I are at it again!!!
Ten years ago, my friend Jim and I embarked on a journey to create a tv show about painting; and what a journey it was! We worked incredibly hard and proudly produced Painting with Prudence, a half-hour reality/art/travel TV show. The official overview read “a free-spirited artist with an eye for adventure takes you on a hip, funky tour of her favorite painting spots around the globe. You’ll meet quirky characters and have inside access to artist’s studios, galleries and events -- with informal lessons and inspiration to grab your own brush!”
What not to love? Jim was the genius of writing, marketing and producing; and I was the talent who led the whack-a-doodle life. In fact there was a lot of love, but it was not directed at us. The Kardashians owned the airways. Art was a tough sell. We came close, so very close, but we never sealed the deal.
Funny how some ideas and dreams never die.
During the stillness of covid I had the unexpected gift of extended studio time and completely focusing on my art. I was not alone; there was an artistic buzz happening all over.  Friends who had never picked up a paintbrush were calling and asking whether to start with oils or acrylics, on-line drawing classes were selling out, sewing and knitting supplies were on back order – the arts not only came to life, they exploded…which got me to thinking…and then I got a call from Jim who had also been thinking…and WE ARE BACK AT IT! Now is the time! The Kardashians, thanks to Kanya West going rouge, are no longer front and center, and it is our time to get this show going!!
Ten years later we are all the wiser. Individually we have more confidence in our skill sets. I have been teaching at community colleges, museums and prisons and my speaking skills have skyrocketed! And Jim has worked on projects from Detroit to Mexico, he can market and sell anything. Together we know what needs to be done and we are all in. We will rename, rebrand and redesign our show, but the premise remains the same – adventures and art!
Standby and wish us luck. We are busting with excitement! Early May we are shooting a new sizzle reel, and in June Jim is heading virtually to the Banff World Media Festival.  
In the meantime, share in this journey - revisit or view our first attempt by reading the Reader article and watching our sizzle reel.
​
https://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2012/jan/11/cover-sizzle-reel/
 
https://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2012/jan/11/cover-sizzle-reel/
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

​I am a hypocrite. Traveling during covid, not recommended and yet once again I hopped on a flight in order to spend the holidays with my mother, Reggie, and the slim hope to see more family. Thankfully due to a JetBlue credit, the dreaded-Dallas-American-Airline-covid-infested-airport-connection was avoided and I had a non-stop from an 80-degree sunny San Diego to a 32-degree snow infested Boston. Party on.
The flight itself was a non-event; however, initially I thought there could be a situation - I had a window seat and an empty row until an excessively chatty good-ole-boy from Walpole parked next to me and immediately began looking up insanely scary hunting knives on his phone. Thankfully Davy Crockett moved to the aisle seat. It wasn’t until we landed and were stuck on the tarmac while the ramp to the plane got de-iced that he started talking again as he explained that he was flying back following a road trip with his buddy who lives in San Diego, this friend wants him to move out there – hmmmm, “tough call” I said as the Arctic winds ripped through the aircraft.
Landing anywhere north of San Diego at 11pm is a challenge to my senses, but I forged on and Brian my ace Lyft driver – (ok maybe not so ace since in the Callahan Tunnel I had to ask him to close the car windows before I got frostbite) - delivered me to the boon-docks of Harvard, MA just before midnight. But overall, going from point A to point B during a pandemic was pretty smooth and I was happy to be back.
Harvard Mass - the perfect little town with the kindest of unsung heroes who deliver food, take pooping challenged Reggie to the vet, bake cookies, and go on packy runs for rum. Covid has taxed the best of us; however, there are added challenges from being older and isolated with some physical issues. My mom has a team of people who consistently reach out, show up, and ask what they can do to help in any way, and they help. Kindness and thoughtfulness can never be overstated.
And once again, we thank the heavens above for our hero Zac - the young man who possesses commitment and ethics which scream greatness. He continues to show up at 3:00pm and our favorite cracked out muffin of love, Reggie, waltzes out the door for their daily walk.  My mom often calls to tell me, “It’s a long day with Reggie” and she sits waiting to hear the back door open and Zac’s footsteps. Now that I am home, I realize that it is a long day and I am also looking at the clock and listening for his steps – cheers for our teenage savior!
Otherwise, life in Harvard is pretty quiet…we take drives through the orchards, we have the occasional happy hour in the stairwell with neighbors, we discuss meals, and we play scrabble. The highlight so far has been a picnic outing with my sister and her family – my mom stayed in the heated car while the rest of us huddled around a picnic table holding hot tea’s – a tad bit chilly but great seeing everyone.
How long am I here for? I don’t know. I came east with the intent to stay for a few weeks. I promised my bf that I would not repeat the 3 ½ months that I was away for this past summer and with hope avoiding the “re-entry” relationship challenges. I figure roughly 3 weeks is an ok healthy time apart…but I am no relationship guru so we shall see….
I dread the flight back. Covid is rampant in California – and I don’t like leaving – but I will do it at some point soon. With the New Year comes new beginnings, I vow to have a good attitude, and I will be kind to strangers, even the chatty ones – we are all nervous wrecks.

​I belong to one of these fancy-pantsy boutique gyms downtown, it is out of my league on every level but I am a sucker for a steam room. The steam room brings back memories of a weekend coed steam room at a high-end gym in Vienna where I spent a semester way back in the day.  The concept sounded racy; however, this was Vienna and it was a prelude to Stanley Kubrick’s movie Eyes Wide Shut, lots of naked bodies but nothing sexual going on.
The last day I set foot in my current gym was March 10th, 2020 – a last gasp of normalcy before we all got locked in and locked down, eight - long - months ago. During this time, I survived on an impressive diet of cookies, chocolate, and boxed wine – it worked for me and in all honesty I didn’t miss the gym. Furthermore, I was pretty determined that my gym days were a thing of the past; but hats off to great marketing peeps who sent a barraged of encouraging emails – “Safe to come back”, “Classes outside”, “Appointments only”, so I weighed my options – end up in a diabetic coma in rehab, or get off my tush – I wrote an $85 check for a one month commitment.
In preparation, I bought new sneakers and detoxed for ten hours for fear of smelling like a winery. My excitement was building. I envisioned the wind blowing and the sun shining as I briskly walked on a state-of-the-art treadmill while looking out on the bay and being alone on the open rooftop space.
Reality is a bitch and marketing people are liars.
I signed in early for my 7am appointed time slot. After a successful temperature check I made my way to the outside roof top where I saw the line of empty cardio equipment, I was thrilled. I was happily sauntering on a machine, contemplating life, when the flood gates opened, the boot campers arrived. What is up with boot campers and boot camp for that matter??  These people gather three times a week but from the way they greeted each other you would have thought they were all returning from a 3-year deployment; they yelled, they cheered and they touched each other. And these nutters were not wearing masks. My serenity was further blown away when the bootcamp boom box started shaking my treadmill. As much as I tried to focus on my walking skills, there were far too many distractions and further questions to be asked - where were the EMT’s because the man with the keg belly was surely going to go into cardiac arrest as he dragged huge round weights across the floor?  Why was the scarily skinny woman not home eating donuts? And why were they sharing mats? These enthusiasts were spewing sweat, spit and snot on their mat, then moving onto the next – petri dishes of disgustingness and a COVID-19 nightmare.  As I was pondering these questions a boot camper got onto a machine next to me, one that was not 6 feet away. I mustered every ounce of polite etiquette I could and yelled, “WOOOO WOOOO WOOOO, too close”. Thankfully this kind soul moved away. I had pee’d on my territory, no one came close for the remainder of my visit but I was on high alert.
Two days later I was back at it – and so were the boot campers. I was mentally prepared this go around and decided to get into the grove of their “motivational” music, why fight it. I was strutting along when disaster hit, a new camper came too close. This time I was calmer and asked her to go to another machine – she refused! I couldn’t believe it, she said NO! Who says no when asking for more physical space during a pandemic? A BOOT CAMP NUTTER that’s who! I jumped off my machine and stood far away until she finished her 60 second round – and during this minute I had an epiphany - the gym was stressing me out, being around people was stressing me out, worried about keeping my personal space on a treadmill was stressing me out – so I quietly left.
Some day when the virus is a thing of the past, and the stream room is back in action, and the boot campers are back in their own designated area or a new athletic trend renders them obsolete, I will return to my gym. Until then, I will keep my own personal space and hang with my winning combination of cookies, chocolates and wine. 

Seriously? Now I have to worry about getting eaten by a shark? Specifically, great whites? In Maine? The pandemic isn’t enough to contend with, now sharks?
I am not being a wussy; some poor woman down the coast lost her life while taking an idle swim with her daughter. I was always a bit jealous of the wetsuit swimmers, they seem so content not being threatened by hypothermia - you pee once in the wet suit and you are set – but - there is the misfortune of being mistaken for a seal, and this wetsuit victim had bad luck. This shocking tragedy rocked the rest of us who venture into the Atlantic. Shark attacks in South Africa sound exotic. Shark attacks in mid-coast Maine…not so much.
The stress has been enhanced by multiple sightings of fins off the little cove I swim at on this little island. Granted, there has been some debate as to if the fins are large sunfishes or sharks, but a fin is a fin.
My sister, who consistently gives sage advice, emphatically told me, “Don’t go into the sharks house!”.  I really need to listen better – but with the heat wave, and being summer and all, I like to swim. I have, however, taken several solid precautions – don’t ask me for data, but it is a well-known fact that sharks shy away from bright colors, so I wear a Mexican themed bathing suit. I enter the water slowly and make sure not to create a large disturbance or attract any attention to my area. I swim on high alert and diligently scan for any signs of jumping fish. And most importantly, I have a solid line of defense, I swim with Charlie. Every day I position myself with Charlie on the outside as I hug the rocks; effectively he is running block. Charlie does not wear bright colors and he is larger than I am so any smart shark will go for him first while I channel Michael Phelps and swim to safety.
I am trying not to be a complete headcase about taking a casual swim – but seriously, nature is really overrated. 

​Hats off to Zach – who is Zach? I will proudly tell you – he is a fabulous young man who showed up and kept showing up.
My mother lives alone with her cracked-out loyal companion Reggie, the most fantastic and spoiled cocker-poo on the planet. Tough winter, tough knee’s – and then this life-shattering virus hit, tough spring.
My mom resides in this utopian little town where people live to help other people; however, during this insane pandemic my siblings and I were crazy protective and wouldn’t let anyone near her. But, the dog group (people who actually may be sainted) came forward to pick up little Reggie for runs. Then the son of one of these saints stepped up to walk Reggie. Every day, seven days a week Zach  showed up. My mom repeatedly told him not to feel obligated, that he didn’t have to come every day, this kid replied, “Reggie needs to walk.” At 2:30, regardless of the New England weather, with his mask on, Zach would come bounding up the stairs and Reggie would go charging out the door to greet him. Don’t think he was in it for the money, I think my mother was paying him minimum wage from her teenage days, and this wonderful young man kept showing up.
A while back a misguided friend criticized the youth of today. I was quick and perhaps a bit too aggressive (note to self – refresh Dale Carnegie notes) in jumping down his throat in defense of the youth. I took offense. As an educator and a fan of all my friend’s kids, I have the utmost confidence in our youth. We are in good hands. The youth will lead the way.
Look, we have Zach!

​Don’t do it. Words of wisdom I should have listened to myself – but my brain cells have been seriously depleted due to my attempts to drink my way through this unfortunate and epic time, so I traveled.
San Diego to Boston. Two flights and probably 10 years taken off my life from the stress of it all.
It began with a rough 6am wake up call after a night of hydrating with bottled wine and solving the worlds problems with Leah.  Next was an even rougher ride to the airport with my bf who I had been fighting with for 2 days and was leaving indefinitely to head east– a solid and silent start.
On the positive side, no traffic, no crowds, security smooth and the shops were open – I do some of my best shopping in airports and I was not disappointed, scarves, lotions and hats secured. My wine haze was still with me but I refrained from getting a tea for fear I’d have to pee mid-flight, actually this truth is that the Starbucks line was too long.
Then I heard my name announced on the speaker and as I walked to the gate I was thinking I was going to be offered $1,000 to be bumped from the flight and I would take it and go back to my bf and be nice and fly first class another day…no – I had dropped my wallet and a good Samaritan handed it in – with everything in it. Thank you kind person.
Alrighty. I pulled myself together and got on the plane. All was looking good, really good, middle seat empty, plane not crowded, everyone in masks - but ever so subtly people kept coming down the aisle – and not just people, 2 dogs and 10 babies. I was texting my sister describing the scene to which she kept asking, “Who travels with babies during a pandemic?”, I didn’t want to find out. I usually love sitting next to babies, great distractions when flying, but I prayed no mask-less baby stopped in my row.  My nerves were getting fried with each new person walking down the aisle. When this poor woman in a state-of-the-art multi-filtered mask came to take the middle seat next to me I mindlessly asked, “What happened to the empty middle seats?” She didn’t speak, she didn’t touch anything, and she didn’t move for 2 and a half hours, and I mean did not move, it was impressive.
We all deplaned in Dallas where I ran to pee which stressed me out because I was planning on not peeing all the way across country and I got so flustered I managed to get on the tram heading in the wrong direction. This brought back PTS from a childhood trip to Disney World when I urgently needed the bathroom and we got on the wrong monorail. That didn’t end so well. I did make it to the gate in time – but … I had lost my boarding pass and had to get in a line to get a reissued one.
This flight was also choker block full however miraculously the one seat open was the middle seat next to me and a hipster dressed in camouflage, which for whatever reason I found comforting. As I was positioning my bags and tennis racket, the stewardess appeared and questioned “Prudence Horne?” – again, I am thinking $1,000 and first class! No, she handed me my passport. Thank you to another kind person.
I like to think of myself as a seasoned traveler…not so much during a pandemic.

Boston was a welcomed sight.

 
 
 
 
 
 

My art opening cancelled, ​Tom Brady leaving New England, standing in line outside Trader Joe’s only to discover that they were sold out of boxed wine, having to learn how to teach online – the stress broke me. I went to Leah’s house where we sat 6ft apart in the fresh air in her back yard and tried to solve all the problems in the world and drank all the wine in San Diego, yup, impressive.
A shout out to Lyft drive for safely depositing me at my door.
This morning I walked the 4 miles to retrieve my car; this is when I made the colossal mistake of turning on the radio – I didn’t throw up from a hangover but I gaged and nearly barfed when I heard donald’s voice.
Now I am on radio silence.

​I lost my pencil in prison. Granted it was my first day – I was SO nervous.
I had never been to a prison before, I had never thought about going to prison, suffice it to say prison was not on my radar. Yet, there I was, in prison with no pencil.
Richard J Donovan State Prison.  A men’s high security correctional facility.
I was a new employee of Project Paint (a non-profit which brings art to prisoners).
After passing a background check, my first task was to attend four hours of paid prison training. On a sunny Saturday morning, instead of heading to the tennis courts in La Jolla, I drove south to the border then banged a hard left and drove to the middle of nowhere.  When I first spotted the facility, it looked like an oasis on the horizon, the mountains glowed in the background, it was pretty.
I am going to cut to the chase, prison training was a huge disappointment. Of the fifty people who slowly filtered into the room roughly 45 of them were men, most of whom were carrying bibles. I am going to be generous when I say that the training went for about an hour, an hour and a half if you include the welcomed donut break. What did I learn? What were the skills and knowledge I acquired?  Well, there was one lesson, one message repeated over and over again – and that was - do not have sex with the prisoners.
Every time this was repeated, I couldn’t help myself, my head would whip around scanning the room to see if this was some sort of inside prison joke and then looking to see if anyone else was as shocked as I was – no – no one reacted. Apparently, this is a problem. And then I started wondering which bible carrying person was having sex with a prisoner.
A few days later I was back to teach my first weekly drawing class. As I approached the area this time around there was no glowing aura or oasis. My working partner and I went through 3 check points, a large dark empty space of land, and huge gates until we arrived at the yard where we waited for guards who were to let us into the gym where the class was to be held. Throughout this rather unnerving journey of getting into the inside of a high security men’s prison, I kept looking around wondering where the bible carrying people were having sex.
Most prisons are numbered 1 to 4. 1 being the lowest level of security, 4 the highest. I was in a level 3. On my first night in the yard, a man in prison blues approached, introduced himself and tried to shake my hand – I froze and was unable to speak. My partner spoke up and said “No touching”. He backed away, pointed at me and casually said, “newbie”.  If being scared as hell in a desolate wasteland of wandering unknown men in blue meant that I was a newbie, then yes, he would be correct. He walked away and we walked to the gym.
The gym is a large dark, drafty, dreary and empty room with the exception of exposed urinals against the side wall. The guards unlocked the gym and the cabinet where the art supplies are kept and then they left. The prisoners, my students, came in and set up tables and chairs. Before I knew it, I was sitting ever so silently and small in front of 25 men wearing blue staring at me.
My partner went about her business of checking in the students, collecting id cards, and keeping track of everyone and everything. She bustled about with ease, chit chatting, and checking out the supplies - every pencil and ruler is numbered, every eraser is accounted for because heaven forbid someone instigates an escape with a one inch rubber eraser… I sat there. She checked out my supplies and handed me a numbered pencil and a piece of paper since I was actually supposed to teach the class and I was slated to give a drawing demonstration.
She gave me an incredibly enthusiastic introduction – what she failed to notice was that I was in a catatonic state. After an eternity, and I can say that time in prison is an eternity, I stood up and slowly started rambling and giving away way too much private information about myself – I was getting strange looks from quite honestly some scary looking dudes with impressive facial tattoos, so I picked up speed and was speed rambling, I told them about my mother’s dog Reggie and my love for Tom Brady and that I like box wine.  In an attempt to slow down this train wreck my partner stepped in and suggested I give the demo. Good idea. I had my paper but I couldn’t quite put my finger on my pencil. Surely it was in on me somewhere, in one of my pockets. I had four layers of black on, black pants, black shirt, black sweater, black jacket…In front of 25 prisoners I started feeling myself up and down and all over while still maintaining a constant flood of words. Now the prisoners were in shock. And then I saw it…right in front of me….one of the guys had his hand cupped on the table. I looked at him and softly chirped, “You have my pencil.” He might as well of flipped me off, instead he smirked and said, “I was holding it for you.”
So began my first class.
A class soon after, I got into the gym without incident and was getting supplies when I notice a half-naked man in a cage.  A man in a cage. Obviously during my first class and my heightened state of extreme fear, I failed to notice the two telephone booth size cages which I learned were used for men who were not being good prison citizens. They were held in a cage until they were moved no doubt to another cage. The only other time I have seen a live person in a cage was in the 90’s in a trendy bar in Greenwich Village – there, two hot, bikini clad female go-go dancers were in cages hanging down from the ceiling over the bar and gyrating to Baby D’s Let Me Be Your Fantasy - it was sexy as hell. But there was no imaging sex in this cage in the gym. I whisper to my partner, “Hey, there is a scantily dressed man in a cage.” She shrugged and said, “Ya, that happens sometimes”. So I quickly weighed my options, stay in the gym with the naked caged man or stand-alone out in the dreaded yard and wait for the guards to come to remove the man - the yard was a known entity to me, the man in the cage, not so much, I chose the yard.  
For weeks and weeks, after each class, I drove home in tears. I would weep and weep. I was a mess.  Everyone asked - “hey how’s the job going?” and my standard answer was, “It’s daunting on all levels.”  The fact was that I couldn’t wrap my head around any of it. We were not allowed to trust a person with a pencil sharpener. I cried for how we treat human beings, I cried for the crimes they committed, I cried for the victims, I cried for everyone’s families, I cried for humanity.
My mom kept urging me to quit, just stop – but I kept showing up. As for their art, there was a wide discrepancy of ability – some students had never drawn before, and some were accomplished artists. I encouraged them to really personalize their work - this backfired a few times – one student drew disturbingly over sexualized drawings of nude women in war-zone settings and he was a little too eager to see my reactions to his creations. He creeped me out, but I kept my game face and would give him inane compositional suggestions. I never asked, but yes, many told me their stories – not surprisingly the major themes were youth, gangs, drugs and bad decisions.  One particular assignment I gave was to draw “the landscape of my life” – this was a heart breaker. A baby faced student divided his paper in two halves, on the right half he drew his childhood home, toys on the yard, his dog sitting on the front steps, and his four family looking out the windows – on the left-hand side he drew a very small tomb stone with only his name on it, sitting alone in a vacant space. When I asked about his drawing, he looked at me in a kind of pleadingly way and said, “I was just in the car; I didn’t pull trigger.”
I am now at a second prison, Centinela - a 2 hour drive straight down the 8 to scenic Imperial Valley. Shockingly, this prison is more intense than Donovan. Centinela is gang driven and gang controlled and these gansters are my new level 4 students
People ask me, “Do you feel safe?” – At Donovan yes, Centinela, hmmm, “sort of”. Some of these men I would invite over for dinner – ok maybe not dinner but I would sit down to a tea – in a very public space like a crowded Starbucks - and others – there are a few I never want to see leave an enclosed space.
Inevitably the students ask me to be their advocate, to help them try to get a new sentence or trial. I say no pretty fast but I do tell them that I am there to help them become the best artist they can be so that they can have their own voice and to be their own advocate.
I have now been teaching at men’s correctional facilities for over two years. I still weep for all involved and I still get flustered and lose pencils.