Draper » Ruben Martinez put on a tough front when he took a job teaching prison inmates the art of baking. For one thing, he was surrounded by "all the bad people," as he puts it -- murderers, rapists, thieves -- and terrified they could sense his fear.
He was ready to quit. But then a convicted drug runner asked him to breakfast at Utah State Prison. Martinez remembers the moment.
"Why do you judge us? We've already been judged," Carlos Quintana said. "All you have to do is manage us; respect us.'
That's when Martinez got it: It was all about just talking to them.
It's been more than two decades since Martinez was hired on as a baker, and about 10 years since he became the prison's only ethnic minority resource officer. It was then that he helped organize the first talking circle, a support group of sorts that allows inmates to talk, sometimes share tears or jokes, around a fire outside the walls.
Many inmates call him "Officer Martinez." Others call him "Rube" or "Cuervo" (yes, after the brand of Mexican tequila.) And some call him a brother.
"Ruben, thank you because you treat us like human beings," said Heather Callister, 35, during a recent talking circle outside the women's facility. "That's one of the priceless things we find in here."
Martinez shrugs off any praise and reminds the inmates that their success is all up to them.
"Anyone can fall," he said. "It takes a real person to get up."
Diverse upbringing
Martinez, one of six brothers, grew up in New Mexico, picking potatoes, cutting wood and caring for the horses on his grandparents' ranch in Llano Largo.
At 5, he moved with his family to Bingham Canyon, where his father went to work at Kennecott Utah Copper. His stay-at-home mom made sure the boys knew how to cook, iron, do laundry and baby-sit.
"She taught us to do everything," Martinez said.
Sharing the playground with Japanese, Greeks and American Indians shielded him from much racial division. The bond, especially with his American-Indian classmates, continued through his years at Bingham High School.
When he graduated in 1963, his father discouraged him from mining because it was hard work in all kinds of weather.
So Martinez enrolled in night barber school. But he'd washed pots and pans at a Safeway grocery store bakery since he was 15, and, trained by German bakers, he slowly learned how to bake wedding cakes, gingerbread houses and breads.
Baking won out over barbering.
Martinez said he loved the work because he could create anything. He's most proud of a seven-tier, 50th-anniversary cake with a waterfall and fresh peach-colored roses that he made for his parents.
"I wanted to do something that was special to me for them," he said. "It was a big milestone -- 50 years."
As a department manager, he worked at Safeway stores around the Salt Lake Valley until 1986, when the company changed owners. He left to work for a few other stores, but realized his enjoyment had vanished.
Behind bars
In 1988, Martinez's brother, a prison officer, set him up on a surprise interview for a chef job at Utah State Prison in Draper.
"I told him, 'These guys are mean. What, do you think I'm crazy?' " Martinez recalled.
Still, at 43, Martinez became a vocational instructor in the prison's kitchen. Later, he earned his shield as a correction officer, escorting maximum security inmates to doctor visits and distributing their food and mail.
In 1997, he became the ethnic minority resource officer, serving as a mediator among the minority inmates and officers; a Spanish interpreter for inmates, their families and the prison; an instructor for various workshops; and a prison representative working with American Indian tribes and consulates. He also sets up interpreters for inmates who speak other languages.
About that time, Martinez and now-retired case worker Roger Williams started talking about the idea of forming "talking circles" for American Indian inmates -- a nod to their tradition of gathering around a fire to discuss important issues and share stories. (Williams declined to be interviewed for the story.)
Martinez said the then-increasing number of American Indian inmates needed an informal class where they could talk comfortably. "They needed something," he said.
About a year later, Martinez started the first talking circle with six American Indian men. At first, the fire was a candle on a table in a room; after a few months, the candle became an outdoors fire.
With no formal training on supervising circles, "I learned as I went," he said. Later, he studied the Navajo language and through the years has taken several college courses.
Over time, the size of the group grew and non-American Indian inmates were invited to join. Eventually more circles were created.
Today, some 200 of the prison's 4,000 inmates are eligible to participate in seven talking circles -- five for men and two for women -- that meet each Thursday under Martinez's supervision. Inmates must be in good standing to attend.
Some prison officers think the circles are a "total waste of time" and others believe it's a "positive thing," said Capt. Roger Burnett. Some don't care either way.
Burnett, who's been at the prison almost 30 years and was Martinez's supervisor when the talking circles began, sits in on a circle about once a month. He said he supports them because inmates often benefit from cultural activities that help them get back to their roots. Not to mention that it's a cheap program to run, he said.
"It gives them a chance to be a person again and not an inmate number," Burnett said. "It's not really costing taxpayers, but [we] are benefiting from what goes on in there."
There is no set budget for the circles and the firewood is often scraps from the prison's furniture shop, Martinez said. More importantly, it's a bit of freedom behind high walls.
"They can unload whatever they want to unload," Martinez said. "They can be themselves, and no one's there to judge them."
'No one to fill those shoes'
The reason for the circles' success is clear: It's Martinez, said some officers and prison volunteers.
He treats inmates with respect. He's full of energy and passion. He believes in them. He encourages them to be law-abiding citizens and seek an education or trade. He jokes around with everyone, even when he's having a bad day, they said.
"He's not a fool," Burnett said. "He knows they're here for a reason ... but he provides them with guidance."
Inmates also trust Martinez enough to go to him for assistance before going through the chain of command, said Correctional Officer Julie Holmes, who's worked with Martinez for 20 years.
"He doesn't step on toes, but he'll go to bat for them," she said.
But some people worry that the circles might be coming to an end.
Martinez, now 63 and eligible to retire, said he's not sure when he's leaving. Depending on his health, he said, it may be within two years. And so far, there's no one training to take his spot.
Jorge Alvarado, a social worker who's been volunteering with the circles for about as long as they've been around, said the program without Martinez would be impossible because he's a connection among everyone at the prison.
"There's no one to fill those shoes," Alvarado said. "I don't know who else can do that."
As for Martinez's future plans or family, he declined to discuss anything about his life outside.
"You never say anything about you and your family," he said. "I keep my prison and family lives separate."
For now, Martinez said he will just continue to do the job he's come to love: Working with inmates and doing whatever he can to make sure they never come back.
"They have families, kids, husbands, moms, dads," he said. "They're people. I want them to succeed."
