Daniel Peralta opens this stunning memoir with his first day working as a teacher and healer at Wahiawa Prison in Hawaii.

I drive along the winding road lined with hundreds of silk trees. I notice the chartreuse color of the trees against the blue sky. I’ve never been down this road before; I didn’t even know it existed. They tell me pig hunters search for wild pigs here.

They say I might see a truck with hunting dogs and a dead pig or two tied to the vehicle. But there’s no sign of life – no cars, no people, no buildings. Just the big, black boar with white tusks off in the distance. I say a little prayer.

The light of God surrounds me.

The power of God protects me.

I am safe.

All is well. And so it is.

I come to a fenced gate. A man in a uniform steps out of a small security shack and glares at me. He unlocks the gate and motions me to pass through and pull over. I roll the window down.

“Driver’s license and registration.”

I reach into the glove box and grab the registration. He watches me reach into my Louis Vuitton bag and pull out a Louis Vuitton wallet. People like me don’t come to places like this. I like pretty things and beautiful people. I carry designer bags, wear Gucci belts and expensive clothes. I don’t belong in this place.

“Please step out of the car and open your trunk.”

He searches the car and points to a large book sitting on a podium inside the security building and tells me to sign in.

“Why are you here and where are you headed?”

“I’m here to see the supervisor of the Education Unit.”

With my I.D. in hand, he flips through a stack of papers. The floor of the hut is stained with red dirt. The desk is covered with dust. I see a small room with a toilet and sink. I wonder when the last time the bathroom was cleaned. I find myself wishing I had my own pen to sign the log-book. Instead, I’m left to use the pen that’s there and again begin to wonder how many people have touched the pen.

“Drive up the road and park along the chain link fence,” he says.

I get back in the car. I pass the sign on my right, ‘Wahiawa Correctional Facility,’ Oahu’s minimum-security prison.

I drive up the road and suddenly the pavement ends. Are you kidding? I watch in the rear view mirror the trail of dust I leave behind.

Red dirt flies in the air and covers my car as the wheels spin on the unpaved road. The road is strewn with rocks and I do my best to avoid every hole in the ground. I just leased this brand new VW Jetta.

Where the hell is that chain link fence? Where the hell am I supposed to park?

I find a chain link fence but there are no lines in the pavement to delineate parking spaces because there is no pavement. After pulling into a space, I turn the car off. I pull the key out of the ignition. Where the hell is the education unit?

As I gather my things, I hear voices. I see a line of men. Rugged men. Masculine men. Muscular, tattooed brutes walking out of what they call the chow hall. They’re inmates, prisoners filing out of the cafeteria after lunch.

No way am I getting out of this car.