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17 incarcerated dads in tuxedos danced with daughters at San Quentin’s 'Parenting Prom'

“Some have waited for decades.”

Credit: @drumarjojodinero (TikTok)

It's the rehabilitation center's very first Parenting Prom.

On a beautiful Saturday afternoon in April 2025, something extraordinary happened at California's most famous prison, San Quentin Rehabilitation Center (SQRC). The prison's chapel was transformed into a gorgeous ballroom: music filled the air, an illuminated dance floor beckoned, the scent of fresh flowers wafted through the room, and twinkling lights sparkled overhead. Outside, guests arrived on a ruby red carpet. Girls wore beautiful gowns and dresses; their fathers, in sharp tuxedos, held corsages ready to be tied onto their daughters' wrists. This wasn't a prom in the usual high school Never Been Kissed sense. Instead, it was a magical evening where 17 incarcerated fathers got the chance to do something many of us take for granted: simply dance with their daughters and make them feel special.

Twenty-five daughters, ages 7 to 27, walked down that red carpet to reunite with their beloved fathers—some hadn't seen each other in years, others in over a decade. On the sidelines, “correctional officers, guardians, mothers, and volunteers cheered as each reunion took place. Some people were in tears, writes,” Localnewsmatters. SQRC's “Parenting Prom” was planned and hosted by The People in Blue (TPIB), a coalition of innovative incarcerated individuals working to reimagine California's prisons from the inside. This night in April was never meant to be a singular, one-off event—this is what rehabilitation can look like at its best: healing families and individuals, rather than warehousing people who have made mistakes.



 
@drumarjojodinero

16 incarcerated fathers got to reunite with their daughters for a Daddy Daughter Dance in San Quentin Prison. They have waited years for this moment. Some have waited decades. These kind of moments are sacred to many parents who deeply appreciate, care about, and love their children. Most men are incarcerated don’t even get this opportunity. Let alone get a phone call/a visit/even a letter.. This is what rehabilitation should look like. This what restoration should look like ‼️🥹 Such a beautiful event. For just a few hours, these men got to experience something different. For just a few hours, this didn’t feel like prison. #healing #happyfathersday #fatherdaughter #sanquentin #fyp #daddydaugtherdance #massincarceration

 

If you think prison is just about punishment, you’re missing the bigger picture

 

This is what healing looks like in action.

“We want to promote healing,” said Arthur Jackson, The People in Blue’s president. “We want to promote healing for everybody, victims of crime, families, communities, and incarcerated individuals. We believe families are critical to rehabilitation and healing, and we want to normalize these reunions as much as possible.”

Members of TPIB worked as ushers and servers, ensuring everyone in attendance—mothers, guardians, daughters, and fathers—were well cared for and enjoying themselves. The idea for the Parenting Prom began in 2023, when someone noticed Louis Sale (a TPIB member and the night's emcee) dancing with his daughter, Matalena, at the SQRC Hawaiian Makahiki celebration. The inspiration grew when residents at SQRC watched the documentary Daughters in 2024, which showcases a similar father-daughter dance in a Washington, D.C. jail. It resonated deeply. “We knew we had to make it happen,” says Sale.


 father, daughter, dance, hugging, reuniting "We knew we needed to make it happen," said the emcee, Louis Sale. Credit: @drumarjojodinero (TikTok)

San Quentin, California's oldest and most well-known prison, is undergoing a major transformation into a rehabilitation-focused facility. Inspired by Scandinavian models, the new San Quentin Rehabilitation Center prioritizes education, therapy, job training, and family connection while moving away from traditional punishment approaches. The goal? To reduce recidivism—the relapse into criminal behavior after release—and prepare incarcerated individuals for successful reentry into society. This revolutionary change has the prison now housing approximately 3,900 individuals, with a focus on lower-risk individuals who can benefit most from rehabilitation programs.


“I can't stop crying”

Each incarcerated father was required to complete and graduate from an eight-week family communication workshop. The workshop was created by Tam Nguyen, a TPIB member who has been incarcerated for 22 years and has prior training from the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation's Offender Mentor Certification Program and the Youthful Offender Program.

“I started this workshop to help bring families closer together,” said Nguyen. “If we don’t have strong family ties when we go back to our communities, it increases the recidivism rate.”

One of those graduates was Steven Embrey, who danced with his three daughters, Ase (7), Anna (9), and Tiara (28). “This workshop helped me be more understanding. I listen more, and we talk about reasonable and unreasonable expectations,” he said.


 father, daughter, dance, hugging, reuniting Some of the fathers hadn't seen their daughters in years. Credit: @drumarjojodinero (TikTok)

The emotional impact of the night was immediate and profound. Carrington Russelle, another incarcerated father who graduated from the class, reunited with his 12- and 14-year-old daughters, Jazlyn and Jayla, who had traveled all the way from Georgia to see him.

“It's the first time I saw them in person in more than a decade,” said Russelle. “I can't stop crying.”

One of the most powerful moments came during the slow dance to Luther Vandross' “Dance with My Father.” There wasn't a dry eye in the room as correctional officers, volunteers, and family members watched fathers—some who hadn't seen their daughters in decades—embrace and share that special song together.

“I have been at San Quentin over 20 years. I have probably witnessed hundreds of events, but nothing like this,” said acting chief deputy warden Eric Patao. “I have three daughters. I understand a father's love. We have a common bond today.”


 father, daughter, dance, hugging, reuniting The Parenting Prom was a community event, cultivated with love. Credit: @drumarjojodinero (TikTok)

Another beautiful aspect? The evening was truly a community effort: some daughters received free flights and hotel accommodations to see their fathers, thanks to God Behind Bars. Other organizations and individuals provided a DJ, decorations, and food. At the end of the night, daughters received flowers, goodie bags, and t-shirts reading “I Danced with My Father.”

The Parenting Prom at San Quentin represents something much bigger than one beautiful evening. It's a glimpse into what our justice system could look like if we prioritized healing over punishment, connection over isolation, and hope over despair. Steven Warren, who danced with his 8-year-old daughter Wynter, captured this perfectly: “We did this to build long-lasting healthy relationships with our daughters. This is a memory that will last a lifetime.”

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Nobody gave these kids a chance — until one young former inmate followed his dream.

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The CW Black Lightning

David Lee Windecher didn’t exactly have the kind of start in life that sets a person up for success.

He grew up poor after moving to the United States from Argentina in the 1970s, and, he says, "poverty led to my first arrest out of desperation."

"It opened the door to the darkest years of my life."

At 13, David witnessed his first murder, and the trauma of that moment led to more trouble — joining a gang for protection. He also dropped out of high school, and experienced abuse from police officers and the criminal justice system.

At one point, David had been arrested 13 times, and spent 8 months in jail — and this was all while he was still a juvenile.

David looks at a photo of himself in his youth. All images via Upworthy.

After his last arrest in 1997, David knew he needed to change.

And it was a vision of himself as a criminal defense attorney that helped drive him to do just that.

“I would always dream about standing in front of a judge with a client standing next to me, and I would win,” he says. This dream came to him while he was incarcerated — and he took that as a sign for where he was destined to be.

“This isn’t home for you,” he told himself as he sat in a jail cell.

So, he set out to find a life that felt like home — a life of supporting incarcerated youth.

He earned his GED, graduated from college, then set his sights on law school. Out of the 50 law schools he applied to, only one gave him a chance — but that one chance was all he needed.

Today, David’s a criminal defense attorney and executive director of RED Inc., a nonprofit organization he founded in 2015.

RED stands for Rehabilitation Enables Dreams, and the organization aims to engineer rehabilitation programs so that youth don't have to fall into the cycle of going in and out of prison for the rest of their lives.

RED founder David Windecher walks through a courthouse.

There are a lot of  factors that set formerly incarcerated youth up for failure, again and again. “I spent enough time behind bars to realize that the judicial system was wronging people because of their status,” David explains. “Whether they were poor, whether they had a substance abuse issue, a mental health disorder, an academic deficiency.”

“They were limited in resource, they were in a volatile environment — how did you expect them to flourish? It’s impossible.”

To take on these obstacles, RED pursues their mission in three parts: increasing literacy, reducing poverty, and stopping youth recidivism (which means relapse into criminal behavior).

When a first-time, nonviolent, youthful offender gets incarcerated, David says, RED’s goal is “to help them get on the straight and narrow before it’s too late.”

“Without them, I wouldn’t have a second chance,” says Brian, one of the young people in the program. 

RED mentee Andree describes his rehabilitation experience.

But David takes that a step further. “Most people don’t understand, it’s not their second chance. It’s their first chance — they never even had a first chance.”

The U.S. has the highest documented incarceration rates in the world — and three quarters of released prisoners go back to jail within 5 years. In Georgia, where RED operates, the incarceration rate is 32% higher than the national average.

That's why to improve this grim picture, RED runs workshops on topics like creative writing, money management, and civil rights. They also have events to bring communities together, like flag football games, and they host guest speakers to inspire the youth.

“Some of the speakers, it was like they were talking about what I was going through,” says Brian. “If they can do it ... I can do it.”

Many young people are skeptical when they first join RED – but over time, their doubts transform into hope.

“By the end of the year, they’re all saying, wait, it’s over?” David says.

As long as he’s making a difference in these young people’s lives, David knows he’s making a difference in the larger world. High rates of incarceration and recidivism negatively influence our employment rates, economy, and community safety.

Graduates of RED’s programs pose for a photo with David on graduation day.

That means that with every young person he gives hope to, David gives the rest of us some hope, too. 

He began with only a limited chance for success in life. Now, with his help, youth with the same limited opportunities can make positive contributions to our world.

“We all have a purpose,” he says. “If we don’t carry out our purpose, no one else can.”

“No one is beyond redemption or hope.”

Watch David's story, and RED Inc. in action:

The CW: Black Lightning RED

He spent his youth in and out of jail for gang related crimes. Now he wants to stop that cycle for other at-risk kids.For more stories about community heroes, tune in to the series premiere of "Black Lightning" on Jan. 16 at 9/8c only on The CW.

Posted by Upworthy on Thursday, January 11, 2018
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Why a small-town radio show gets call-ins from across the country every Monday night.

The best of hip-hop and the sounds of home, straight through prison walls.

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Dave's Killer Bread

William Griffin was a teenager when he had his first run-in with the law. Now in his mid-40s, he's been in prison for a quarter-century.

Michelle Hudson was a childhood friend of Griffin's, but the pair lost touch when her father's military job relocated her family. Returning to Virginia decades later, she learned about the mistakes that landed Griffin in prison.

"It was just street life, hanging out, doing the wrong thing," says Hudson, describing the unfortunate events that led Griffin from "street life" to "sentenced to life."

Photo via iStock.

Griffin's crimes weren't the fatal ones we typically associate with a life sentence, but he'd made one too many mistakes for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Between the state's three strikes law and an unsympathetic judge on the bench, he was ordered the maximum punishment.

For Hudson, a casual inquiry about an old friend became a mission to help him. What she didn't predict was that mission blossoming into mutual love and eventually an engagement — despite the challenges and uncertainty his life in prison presented.

In the beginning, Griffin and Hudson reconnected with help from "Calls From Home," a radio show broadcasting out of the small mountain town of Whitesburg, Kentucky.

Every Monday night after their nightly hip-hop program, WMMT-FM invites audiences to record messages of encouragement for their listeners in over a dozen prisons throughout Central Appalachia.  The station records calls from 7-9 p.m. local time to be aired during the one-hour show at 9 p.m.‌‌

Though Whitesburg is small enough that you may be reading about it for the first time, believe it or not, the radio station never has a shortage of calls. In fact, former co-host Sylvia Ryerson wrote, as more prisoners tuned in, they started receiving calls from all over the country. Here's why:

The majority of U.S. prisons are built in remote regions like eastern Kentucky or upstate New York, which makes visitation a challenge for many families.

Griffin, for example, spent the first 23 years of his sentence at Wallens Ridge State Prison in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, an hour south of Whitesburg and hundreds of miles from Hudson and the rest of his family.

In 2016, he was transferred to a prison closer to home, where after decades of isolation he finally enjoys weekly visitation. But during his time "in the mountains," Griffin says he was lucky to see a family member once a month.

‌"He said it was like 'dialing to his heart,'" Hudson said about Griffin's reaction to her first "Call From Home" in 2012. Photo via Michelle Hudson, used with permission.‌

"Over time, we start to think we don't even exist, that nobody cares what we're going through or the change we're trying to make," he says. "I deserved corrections. I deserved punishment. But I didn't deserve to lose my life."

For prisoners like Griffin, the inflated outgoing call rates, prospect of mail interception, and restrictive visitation rules are barriers enough. But the distance courts create by sending them to far-off facilities present often insurmountable financial hurdles for their families to visit.

Regular visitation between prisoners and their families can help reduce the likelihood of criminal offenses after they are released.  

A 2011 study by the Minnesota Department of Corrections found that "visitation in general significantly decreased the risk of recidivism."

And according to the Centre for Justice and Reconciliation, more "visitor-friendly" policies could be a boon to public safety by establishing for offenders "a continuum of social support from prison to the community."

‌Photo via iStock.‌

But since existing policies don't make regular visitation easy, "Calls From Home" has helped fill that void for 17 years, becoming a lifeline of sorts for its incarcerated listeners.

"I'm always amazed at the persistence and love that comes in every Monday night," says co-host Elizabeth Sanders. "Some days are harder than others. Sometimes you end up crying. Sometimes you laugh with them. But everyone is just so thankful for the chance to shout out to their loved ones."

Fan mail for WMMT from an area prison. Listeners know Sanders as "DJ Izzy Lizzy." Ryerson's fans knew her as "DJ Sly Rye." Image via WMMT/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

Though the messages they record are usually directed at specific individuals on the inside, Ryerson believes sharing their families' stories can help change public perceptions about people with criminal backgrounds.

Sylvia Ryerson. Image via Field Studio/WMMT/Vimeo.

"When you air voices from their children, their grandmothers, their church pastors, it allows them to be seen as whole human beings that have families and communities that love them and want them to come home."

Ryerson has expanded on "Calls From Home" with a new project called "Restorative Radio: Audio Postcards."

In this longer-form radio series, she collaborates with family members to create immersive audio experiences that transport prisoners into their families' lives while also revealing to audiences the fundamental humanity beneath their criminal records.

Hudson was one of Ryerson's first participants, recording over 10 hours of her life and interactions — cooking, chatting with family and friends, visiting the local swimming pool with her kids, attending her daughter's dance recital — that ultimately became a one-hour "postcard" to Griffin.

Restorative Radio participants Lessie Gardner (left) and Louise Goode arrive for visitation at Red Onion State Prison in Virginia. Photo by Raymond Thompson/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

"These are not the love sounds he gets to hear every day," says Hudson. "He hears chains, prison guards, and prison doors slamming shut, which can make a person very cold. We wanted to warm his heart, bring that humanity back to him, because they try so hard to take that away from them."

Hudson explained how making the postcard became a form of healing not just for Griffin, but also for the people she recorded. "It brought him closer to his family and his family closer to him," she says, noting how it reunited him with his brother and even the son he never knew.

Griffin's story shows how even in the direst circumstances, a little bit of family contact can go a long way toward prisoner rehabilitation.

"I believe something good is going to happen for me. The show helped my wife come into my life and open the door for me to believe in myself again. Now I want to help other people," he says, adding that he hopes to one day be a guide for at-risk youth. "I have a testimony, and I want to bring it to people who want to do better."

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Why there's much ado about inmates doing Shakespeare behind bars.

Lights! Camera! Second chances!

The stage is set. The actors put the final touches on their costumes and wait nervously in the wings. The audience is ushered in by an armed guard or two. It's showtime.

This is not an ordinary production of Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar."  This is Shakespeare at San Quentin State Prison.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Since 2003, actors and staff from the Marin Shakespeare Company have taught classes at San Quentin, the state prison just a few miles away.

The company has always boasted a rich social outreach program to get Shakespeare's work out to as many people as possible. The prison population was nearby, and managing director Lesley Currie said they seemed like a logical fit for courses. So she and her team decided to give it a try.

"At first it was very poorly attended, but after a few years, we had enough men in the class to actually put on a full-length Shakespeare play in the prison chapel," Currier said in a phone interview. "And since then, it's just taken off."

LeMar Harrison (C) and Carlos Flores (R) take the stage. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

After their first full-length production, interest in the classes skyrocketed. These days, Currier sometimes manages a waitlist or two.

The sessions don't just focus on Shakespeare. Through exercises and activities, they also cover conflict resolution and positive decision making.

The classes are team taught, and local actors and directors often volunteer their time too. In addition to acting, the courses include lessons in self-reflection and teamwork. With the help of drama therapy students, the classes can also go a little deeper, allowing the inmates to work on their social skills.

"In a typical two and a half hour class, we'll often spend an hour doing all kinds of different exercises that are designed to build acting skills but also designed to build human skills," Currier said.

John Windham (L) and Richie Morris (C) rehearse lines before their performance. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

She often ends each class with what she calls, "group decision-making exercises." These creative assignments might ask participants to work as a team to turn lines from a play into a song and dance or a poem; or have them rewrite certain scenes, forcing characters to make a different choice.

According to Currier: "One of our students said, 'I've done a lot of conflict resolution work since I've gone to prison, but that kind of exercise is the best conflict resolution work I've ever done.'"

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

But as with the bard himself said, the play's the thing.

Since the early days of the program, the participants have put on more than a dozen full-length Shakespeare plays at San Quentin. The inmate actors work for months putting each show together. Memorizing lines, building sets, and getting into character is tough work, and the actors take their roles very seriously.

Because, for them, it's not just something to do, it's a point of pride and a place for self-expression.

Azraal Ford gets ready to play Julius Caesar. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

"One man said, 'I've been in prison for 12 years, I have a 12-year-old daughter, and all she's ever known about me is that I'm in prison. And today she gets to know that I'm a Shakespeare star."

The inmates' families aren't allowed into the facility to see the productions (the audience is mostly made up of other inmates), but each performance is recorded and put online so families can see their stars in action whenever they want.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Support from the state has allowed the program to expand to two more correctional facilities too.

"Three years ago the state actually started funding arts in corrections, and we were one of the first seven organizations in the state of California to get a grant," Currier said.

The grant allowed the program to expand to inmates at Solano State Prison in Vacaville, where inmates are working on "Hamlet" and "King John." And the Folsom Women's Facility, about 25 miles east of Sacramento, where they're working on "Taming of the Shrew."

The expansion gives more inmates a chance to take advantage of this powerful program.

"When you hear the men talk about why they do it and why it's important to them [the men and the women now] it just makes you realize, just more deeply what it means to be a human being on this planet," Currier said.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)

But the best part? It's really having a positive effect on the participants.

Programs like this are a win for everyone involved, and that's why California and other states continue to make the investment.

"Research has shown that structured arts programs improve inmates' problem-solving skills and self-discipline and increase their patience and their ability to work with others," said California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) Secretary Jeff Beard in a written statement. "These programs also direct inmates' energy in a positive direction, promote positive social interaction and lower tension levels, resulting in a safer environment for inmates and staff."

An inmate watches the performance. The audience is limited to inmates and select outside guests. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Most importantly, for the actors and their teachers, these programs can be life-changing.

"Most California state prisons have versions of 12-step programs ... and most have some kind of education program where you can get your GED or do college coursework, and those are really important," Currier said. "But the arts are really important as well. Being able to engage with other people through the arts — that's a different kind of social learning than you can get writing an essay."

Anthony Passer (L) and Maurice Reed (R) rehearse lines before the big show. Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

Whether it's "Hamlet," "Julius Caesar," or "Taming of the Shrew," it turns out that some of the best shows in California are behind lock and key.

They're full of heart, passion, and pride. The actors' performances transport the audience to worlds previously unimagined, even if just for a few hours. And when you're living in a restrictive environment, that's a beautiful, life-changing gift.

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images.

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