By Yumi Wilson

“Has anyone ever escaped from Alcatraz?”

That was the question my 13-year-old nephew, Eric, asked me a few weeks ago while watching the 1979 Clint Eastwood movie, “Escape from Alcatraz.”

In one of the more gripping scenes, the warden tells new inmate Frank Morris (Eastwood): “Alcatraz was built to keep all the rotten eggs in one basket, and I was specially chosen to make sure that the stink from the basket does not escape.”

“Isn’t Alcatraz near here?” my nephew asked me as he fluttered his long lashes (cue that my precious nephew wants something frome me).

“It’s just a boat ride away San Francisco,” I said, excited that Eric was taking an interest in something of historic and cultural importance to San Francisco, something, I might add, other than MTV, MySpace or YouTube. “You should see the size of the cells,” I told Eric. “They’re so small it makes you feel like you’re suffocating when you stand inside them.”

I, of course, was exaggerating. But I got excited, thinking about how Alcatraz would be the perfect place to stress the importance of staying out of trouble.  I had given the same spiel to my 13-year-old son, Kimo, when I took him to Alcatraz earlier in the year. I was also certain that Eric would enjoy the part about how Native Americans took over the island in 1969 for 19 months, a place they once called home before the federal prison was ever built.

Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.

On the breezy ride over to Alcatraz under a clear blue sky, Eric and Kimo ran off to have fun on their own. I was about to tell the boys to come back, but my boyfriend, Chad, told me not to be such a worry. “Their both 13,” he reminded me. “They’ll be fine.” I knew Chad was right. Besides, I could start to get into my “Why you never want to end up in a place like Alcatraz” speech once we got to The Rock. Of course, I didn’t share this thinking with Chad, because I knew he would once again tell me to chill.

Once inside the jail, I was sure that Eric would be taken in by the voices of the prison guards and prisoners, certain he would want to know more of what happened with the look my son gave me. But Eric walked ahead, just as he did on the boat. Was his audio-tour player not working? Wasn’t it telling him to stop at the black-and-white photos of the wardens and inmates just ahead?

I rushed to catch up with Eric, to see his fear and surprise when he walked into a dark, cold cell. “Grab the camera,” I told Chad.

Eric and Kimo walked inside a cell and put their faces against the bars. Chad snapped a shot or two. I inhaled, waiting for Eric to say something profound. But Eric came out of the room as he had never been in. He kept walking up ahead, away from me, from us. I told myself not to worry, that Eric still had plenty to see. Within the walls of the former federal penitentiary were the stories of guards who were shot to death, wardens who handed out privileges like gold coins, and inmates who managed to escape off what was once known as The Rock. And we had yet to see the infamous cell that housed Al Capone and The Birdman.

I thought Chad would be equally excited. Though he has lived in San Francisco for years, he — like many residents — had not taken the time to see Alcatraz. But he too seemed to be a bit antsy and bored.

“Hey Eric,” I shouted. “Did you see how the dummy heads?”

Eric had passed right by them. Quickly, he walked back to the cell with the fake heads used by the prisoners who escaped, looked inside and then walked away without saying a word.

My lips curled, the way my father’s lips curled when he was angry. I felt like I wanted to cry or scream. How could Eric and Chad and everybody else not see the amazement in paper-mache heads?

Needless to say, we never finished the tour at Alcatraz that day.

Within 20 minutes, my nephew had removed his headsets and began wandering around aimlessly. Too upset to see that my hope for imparting wisdom would never come to fruition, I snarled to the group, “Let’s just go.”

After Eric, Chad and Kimo asked me why I seemed so upset, we made the decision to give back our headphones and depart the building. We never even took a look inside the other buildings on The Rock.

All was lost, I felt. Nothing I wanted to share with my nephew, who would be going home to San Antonio in a few days, would be learned on our “big” day of sight-seeing. There was no way to show Eric something meaningful and good about San Francisco.

It was about that time that Eric stopped behind some people watching some street performers. Chad and Kimo, who were clearly ready to get away from “just another tourist trap,”  kept walking. But I stopped, curious about what had gotten my nephew’s interest.

Inside the crowded circle stood a young group of male dancers. They were African American, and some were moonwalking and breaking to Michael Jackson, a man I once adored. On some cardboard taped to the ground, a young boy, his face painted in silver, strutted across the makeshift stage, reminding me of the young Michael. Eric kept watching the boys and young men as minutes ticked away. His eyes sparkled, the way I had imagined they would when we had been inside the prison.

“Those guys are pretty good,” Eric said.

“You’re right,” I said. “They are pretty cool.”

We didn’t talk much more after that, but I did feel much happier about our trip to Alcatraz

Some great shots of various street performers at Fisherman’s Wharf can be found here.

Here are some other movies that spotlight Alcatraz.
1. The Rock (1996)
2. Birdman of Alcatraz (1962)
3. Escape from Alcatraz (1979)
4. Murder in the First (1995)

Do you have fun stories about Fisherman’s Wharf, or about any tourist attraction in the Bay Area? Send them our way and we might feature it.