Inside the Surprising Classroom Rehabilitating Some of America’s Most Dangerous Prisoners: ‘Weird, but a Good Weird’

Mark Taylor was eight years into a life sentence for a gang-related murder when, one afternoon in 2005, he experienced what he describes as a moment of grace in his cell.

During a lockdown at California’s Ironwood State Prison, he noticed a counselor from a local community college — offering classes to inmates — walking through his housing unit.

Taylor had already known about the program that allowed inmates to earn associate degrees and had even mentioned it to his mother, Patricia Scarfone, during their phone calls.

“Every time I would call her, she’d ask, ‘Are you in college yet?’” recalls Taylor, who had convinced himself he wasn’t “smart enough” for higher education. That afternoon, thinking of his mom, he called out to the counselor: “Hey man, can I take a class?”

That single question became a turning point. Taylor ultimately earned six associate degrees while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. Today, his story is helping to reshape lives at California’s Pelican Bay State Prison, a facility often described as housing “the worst of the worst.”

After his parole in 2018, following 21 years behind bars, Taylor helped develop a new higher education program through Cal Poly Humboldt, allowing violent and hardened inmates at Pelican Bay to pursue bachelor’s degrees.

“Without education, I’d still be an alcoholic, drug-addicted, angry, violent street gang member — and in prison,” says Taylor, now 54. He views his work as a way of “making amends” for the pain he caused.

“I want to see people come home healthy and whole and not hurt people. And I think college is one way to do that,” he adds.

Taylor emphasizes that education is also economically sensible. Statistics show that fewer than 3% of former inmates with bachelor’s degrees return to prison within three years of release, compared to a 66–68% recidivism rate for those without degrees, according to the Council for Criminal Justice.

“Fiscally speaking, it just makes sense, especially when you consider that it costs approximately $132,000 to keep one person in prison for a year in California,” says Taylor, who now works with the Anti-Recidivism Coalition.

Pelican Bay’s educational program is the first of its kind at a maximum-security California prison, helping reduce recidivism and increase employment opportunities for parolees. More importantly, it equips inmates with critical thinking skills that encourage accountability and improve safety inside the prison.

“It’s just better for the prison, for the incarcerated and for the staff,” says Pelican Bay Warden Stephen Smith.

“So many incarcerated people feel lost and have nothing to lose. But when they see that they can achieve something and be successful, their mindset starts changing bit by bit,” Smith adds.

For Antonio Barajas — who dropped out in ninth grade and was convicted of murder in 2022 — studying alongside inmates who once could not safely share the same basketball court has been transformative.

“I’ve seen a change in the whole institution here,” says Barajas, 40, who earned his GED and associate degree while in prison. “People are going to college now. They’re hitting the right path. It’s been nothing but positive.”

Pelican Bay, a supermax prison opened in 1989 in remote northwest California, has housed some of the state’s most notorious criminals. Its history includes controversy over long-term solitary confinement, such as the 2013 hunger strike led by four alleged gang leaders.

In 2015, the prison began offering two-year community college degrees through the College of the Redwoods. Taylor’s new program, launched in April 2024, allows graduates to continue toward a bachelor’s degree in communication, funded largely by the Second Chance Pell Grant program — which is tentatively set to expire in 2026 due to an executive order signed by President Donald Trump.

For inmates like Salvador Jacobo, serving a life sentence for a gang-related killing, the program offers a fresh start. In a 900-square-foot classroom lined with computers, Jacobo wakes at four each morning to prepare for class and dedicates six hours a day to schoolwork.

“I always want to go to class prepared and be able to discuss things,” Jacobo says, calling the program “meaningful.” After earning his bachelor’s degree, he hopes to pursue another in psychology.

“It’s selfish,” Jacobo admits, “but I want to understand why I ended up the way I did, why I was susceptible to criminal thinking, and the things that ruined my life, my family’s life, and the life of my victim.”

Taylor’s program, now serving 28 students, has become so popular that some inmates refuse transfers to lower-security facilities just to continue their studies.

“For many of these guys, Pelican Bay is so far from family that visits are rare. But when offered a transfer, they say, ‘No. Leave me here. This is where the education’s at,’” Taylor explains.

For Barajas — aiming to complete his bachelor’s before his parole hearing in late 2026 — the program is about more than economics. It is changing the prison culture.

“The whole mood of this place has changed. You walk the yard and guys are talking about class assignments, what they’ve learned, and encouraging others to study. That never happened before. It’s weird, but it’s a good weird,” Barajas says.