Outreach
Recently, I joined a group of volunteers who write to immigrant detainees in Otay Mesa Detention Center. A quiet kind of connection that forms when I write to someone I may never meet—someone whose world has been reduced to walls, routines, and long stretches of waiting. Writing to detainees is, on the surface, a small act: putting pen to paper, choosing words carefully, sealing an envelope. Yet within that simplicity lies something deeply human and unexpectedly powerful.
This understanding is not abstract for me. I was incarcerated for nearly four decades. I know firsthand how time can stretch, how isolation can settle in, and how easily a person can begin to feel invisible. In that environment, even the smallest gesture from the outside world can carry immense weight. A letter is never just only a letter—it is a lifeline. It interrupts the monotony. It reminds detainees that they are still seen, still heard, still part of a broader human community. When I was incarcerated and heard from a stranger, I was comforted to know that anyone outside my family cared. When I received a photo, I eagerly examined it for details from the free world. That’s why I send pictures with my letters.
The first person I wrote to in Otay was a young African woman. I celebrated when she was freed earlier this year on a habeas petition after six weeks of confinement. Now, I’m sending letters to young man from eastern Europe. I feel close to him because I have grandsons his age.
When I write to him and other detainees, I sit with the reality of another person’s circumstances and try to meet them, however briefly, with kindness and respect. I receive no immediate reward, no guarantee of a response, and often no clear sense of the letter’s impact. And yet, that is part of what makes it meaningful to me. It is an act of giving without expectation.
In a world that often emphasizes grand gestures and visible outcomes, writing to detainees reminds me that small, consistent acts of care matter. A single letter may not change a system, but it can change a moment. It can offer comfort on a difficult day, provide a sense of dignity, or simply break the silence. These are not insignificant things. They weren’t for me.
Writing a letter does not erase injustice or undo hardship but it does affirm our common bond. It says, in essence, “You are not alone.” Therefore, I am not alone, either. It becomes less about “helping” in a conventional sense and more about connection—about showing up, consistently and sincerely, in whatever way I can. Presence, even in the form of words on a page, has value.
As I prepare to write to the young man from eastern Europe again, I think of when my kids were young. We hosted foreign exchange students to show that people are more alike than different. Having lived through years of incarceration, I understand the profound impact that even a single act of kindness can have. That knowledge makes each letter I write feel purposeful. It is not just outreach—it is a way of giving back something that once meant everything to me. A single letter becomes something much larger: a bridge between lives, a gesture of shared humanity, and a reminder that even the smallest acts of kindness can ripple outward in meaningful ways.
Patty Prewitt spent nearly 40 years incarcerated for a crime she did not commit. She was released in December 2024 and has published two memoirs and a children’s book. She lives near Kansas City and advocates for prisoners’ rights. Her story “Killing Me” appeared in our Winter 2025 Issue on Incarceration & Family. Linktree https://linktr.ee/pattyprewitt
