When Joseph Close got out of prison earlier this year, he hoped his probation officer would be there to help him. The support he received from the state came in the form of two $10 Target gift cards.
Close’s release was sudden, to a city in Southern California where he knew no one. If it wasn’t for his connections with nonprofit organizations assisting people getting out of prison, he might have been on the street. “I had nothing but clothes on my back, a bar of soap, and deodorant,” he said. “I had no support.”
Earlier this spring, Close shared his story at a reentry simulation at San Francisco State University. The event was organized by Project Rebound, a support program for formerly incarcerated students. The goal was to educate students and the public about the challenges people like Close face when rebuilding their lives after prison.
Those challenges range from housing, employment, and day-to-day tasks like using an ATM to navigating the bureaucracy of probation and parole. But this wasn’t just a theoretical exercise — it was part of the program’s efforts to reshape how the community thinks about the criminal justice system.
Project Rebound was founded at San Francisco State in 1967 by John Irwin, a formerly incarcerated sociology professor. It now operates at 20 California State University campuses, becoming a model for other states. The program serves as a hub for formerly incarcerated students as well as those who have family members involved in the system. It helps these students to navigate the university, connects them to student services, and even offers housing support.
The program also plays a role in educating the campus and community on how to better support formerly incarcerated students, said Jason Bell, Project Rebound director.
Educating the community
The 70 participants in the event, which was open to the public, included San Francisco State students, recent law school graduates, people who have incarcerated family members, and even prison officials. The diversity reflected the event’s goal of educating those who had little — or only a theoretical understanding — of what reentry actually entails.
As they entered the room, participants received packets containing character assignments, fake money and a laundry list of requirements that included tasks such as obtaining IDs and attending court-mandated treatment — everything they’d need to do over four simulated weeks. Tables lining the edge of the room were staffed by volunteers assuming roles such as “probation officer” and “career counselor.” A large hand-written “Jail” sign was taped up on one wall — representing the more than 60% of people released from jail or prison who eventually go back.
A facilitator explained the process and purpose to an attentive audience. “This simulation is not a game. It’s a reflection of very real barriers, frustration, and emotional toll that people face every single day when trying to rebuild their lives after prison,” she said.
The rules were unforgiving: participants needed transportation tickets costing $1 for every move between stations. They had to show multiple IDs at each stop. They started with $200 in fake bills — the same amount of “gate money” California gives people upon release. Every week in the simulation also brought new requirements: check in with probation, take drug tests, find housing, get a job. To secure full-time employment, participants needed to complete a crossword puzzle.
The longest lines formed at the ID and transportation stations — without those two things, participants couldn’t complete any of their other tasks. Kianna Brabow, a chemistry major at San Francisco State who tagged along with a friend, quickly found herself struggling with both the logistics and the language of the process. When told she needed to take a UA test, she asked what that meant. “Urine analysis,” someone explained. “Pee test.”
By her second simulated week, Brabow was experiencing the system’s financial pressures firsthand. After getting food, she went to take her drug test and tested positive. “I gotta go see my probation officer, and hopefully I don’t go to jail,” she said nervously.
Meanwhile, Shayla Harris, a recent law school graduate, discovered how quickly the system can re-ensnare someone. When she went to the probation station and the officer tried to charge her $40 instead of the required $30, she refused to pay the extra amount and found herself in simulation jail.
“I went to jail for refusing to bend to corruption,” she said as she stood against the wall waiting for the 15-minute “week” to end.
Harris was eventually released but soon found herself standing against the wall again for being “disruptive” during a court-mandated session. “It’s getting in trouble for making honest mistakes,” she reflected. “You have no control over that.”
As she considers what area of law she might want to focus on, Harris said she was interested in the simulation to learn more about what her prospective clients might face during reentry.
Systematic barriers at every turn
The simulation revealed systemic barriers at every turn. For example, participants had to pay for required probation visits and drug tests — mandated by the court but not covered by the state.
Natalia Gomez, a San Francisco State student who has an incarcerated uncle, was surprised about the fees that formerly incarcerated people have to pay. “You have to pay to go to probation, which is something you’re required to do,” she said. “Why are you paying to go there?”
As participants struggled, they began helping each other — sharing money, transportation tickets, and information about which stations had shorter lines. The event facilitator noted that this kind of networking was crucial to survival: “It’s important to reach out to other individuals that have navigated those services before you.”
The volunteer staffing the food bank station said he was surprised at how few people had asked for clothes — reflecting how many formerly incarcerated people aren’t able to connect with available resources and services simply due to lack of information.
The plasma center, where participants could sell blood for $25, drew a steady stream of desperate people. The volunteer running the station stayed in character, giving participants a hard time, reflecting the stigma many face.
During a break at the end of the third simulated week, the session facilitator asked the crowd: “Who’s frustrated yet?”
Most of the hands in the room shot up.
That’s the point, Bell said.
Bell, who spent 10 years behind bars, wanted to host a reentry simulation at San Francisco State after participating in one at Cal State Poly Humboldt a few years ago. “In my haste to move myself far beyond [my own reentry] experience, I never thought of how informative the experience could be for a potential parole office, educator, DMV employee, or an HR department,” he said.
He accomplished that goal. The simulation attracted Nicole Avila, the acting chief deputy warden at the nearby San Quentin Rehabilitation Center. She wanted to experience what the men she works with face when they get out. She reflected on her 22 years in corrections, remembering how earlier in her career she didn’t understand the inadequacy of the $200 the state hands out to people upon release.
“$200 can’t get you anywhere. And now we’re giving them an ATM card. And I remember one guy was like, ‘How do you use this?’” she said.
Avila hopes to apply what she learned at San Quentin. “I’m trying to figure out how I can bring something back to the institution to better help these guys,” she said. “We offer so much. I mean, you have guys with college degrees in there, that’s more higher education than I ever had. But that doesn’t do any good without the basics.”