I walked right out of prison today. Suddenly there was a power outage, and now! now was the time—this was it! Blending in at first with a group of prisoners, I shuffled past locked cells. I had spent some weeks securing the cooperation of a few guards, and it paid off as the gates opened one after another to let me pass through. No one suspected a thing, not even the administrators, who thought it was business as usual when I nonchalantly strolled past their offices. When the last gate rolled open, I breathed the sweet air of freedom and thought, “What a brilliant plan!”
Supported by a local faith-based organization, I volunteer with several friends to facilitate a weekly workshop for a small group of prisoners who gather to strengthen self-knowledge, to build personal accountability, to change unproductive thinking, to learn from past mistakes, to develop present solutions and to cultivate future successes. We also meditate a little, which participants value as a way to maintain self-control, wise action and personal safety in an environment crowded with unstable people of all stripes. As we left today’s workshop, one of our students pulled me aside and asked, “Do you tell people about us out there?” That seemed like a mandate, so let me tell you a little of what happened today.
At first, it seemed like we were going to have a disappointingly small workshop. Students elect to come voluntarily, and maybe today’s turnout was small because they were no longer seeing the value in our work together. But then we learned that one of the work shifts was held up, and the workshop filled as students came trickling in, apologetic for their unavoidable tardiness. One wanted to shower first to present himself well; another missed his dinner shift because the workshop was more important. “I think I am becoming attached,” a third explained (sheepishly, because we work on subduing attachment), “but I don’t know how I would get through the week without this workshop.” A quick glance around the room at thoroughly completed worksheets showed that nobody had slacked off on their homework. Clearly, these students still valued the work we were doing together.
We have learned that our workshops are most successful when the students do the talking, so our brilliant plan was to ask them to lead the discussions, with volunteers taking a back seat. Because we had become comfortable in our role prodding discussions and sharing “wisdom,” we were a little nervous at first but, as sometimes happens with a leap into the unknown, things went better than we could have hoped. We saw some pretty hard men give each other respect as they conducted the discussion. In their lives before prison, they demanded respect and conflated it with fear—they only showed respect to those they feared, and to give it voluntarily was a sign of weakness. Here, each leader controlled an orderly discussion in turn, and participants listened, yielding that control. The nature of today’s discussion elicited some admissions of fault, being wrong, making mistakes, so it was heartening to see prisoners pumping each other up right after they had the courage to take a risk and expose their vulnerability. This change did not come about because these men find themselves in prison, an environment where respect is still confused with fear and control is taken, not given. It came about because these few individuals have the opportunity to change themselves for the better and are determined to do the difficult work to make that happen.
In the workshop, these imprisoned instructors taught some important life lessons, which we on the outside would also do well to learn.
1. Face your reality courageously.
Robert kicked off the discussion with an examination of prisoners’ circumstances: “I know there are some innocent people in here; I know that a lot of people say they are innocent and aren’t, but some people really are innocent—I can tell by what they say.” Looking out for Robert, Sergio plunged in, saying, “Wait a minute: deception is a survival tool in here—be careful believing what people tell you.” Then Victor pointed out, “It all depends on how you define innocent. Maybe I wasn’t guilty of what they sentenced me for, but I was guilty of some other things that they didn’t sentence me for. I put myself in this situation.” This left me reflecting that yes, we clearly have a large number of innocent men in prison, some on death row. The Innocence Project has demonstrated this repeatedly. The misguided war on drugs has led our free nation to produce the world’s highest incarceration rate, with minorities disproportionately leading the population count. Although the United States has provided an easy way for inmates to justify their imprisonment as beyond their control, our students did not try to portray themselves as victimized minorities or casualties of the War on Drugs. They instead focused on themselves, asking am I really innocent? Imagine this sort of unflinching accountability voluntarily applied in our business or political spheres.
2. Blaming others for your reality is useless.
Our students know that, in order to change their circumstances, they have to change themselves. Jim explained how it started for him: “I did 4 years in solitary, and I really got to know myself—if you learn nothing else in solitary, you learn to know yourself—or at least part of yourself.” This quiet self-examination in solitude is the basis for Jim’s determination to change, and his participation in our workshops is one of the ways he follows through on that determination. John continued:
People have been in here twenty years, and they still blame the cops who caught them, the DA who prosecuted them, the judge who sentenced them and the system that imprisoned them. They still haven’t come to terms with themselves and what they did. They have to get angry at themselves, understand how they created their own fate and get through that.
John understands that blaming your predicament on others is a dead end. If John could bring this attitude to our homes, offices and organizations, where so many of us prefer blaming our spouses, colleagues and supervisors for our miserable conditions rather than working as we can to improve them, we might not spend twenty years impeding ourselves and all those compelled to interact with us.
3. Mercy, applied judiciously, benefits us all.
Jim, convinced at the direction of the conversation, nodded his head and announced, “I needed to be convicted! If I had gotten away with what I did, I would still be out there doing something worse or in here anyway with a worse sentence.” Jim has come to see clearly the law’s intervention in his destructive path as a form of mercy. Stopping him, however, from indulging his confusion does not mean preserving his life in that moment forever. We all need opportunities to discover ways to make positive change, confidence that the change will work and hope that we can apply the results—without those, there is little point in making the effort.
A measure of mercy is a powerful rehabilitative tool because it can provide such hope. Andrew is a prime example: “While awaiting trial and conviction, I spent 3 months in protective custody when a gang was talking about killing me; meanwhile, the courts were talking about a life sentence, so when I got twenty years, I was cool with it. “ This measure of mercy has motivated him to reorder his priorities and to improve his approach to the world around him—that is good for us all, inside and outside the walls. Who among us, when faced with consequences, wants justice? From the time I possibly mislaid my father’s prize crowbar to the traffic light I may have run last night, I have always appreciated mercy, not justice. We only want justice when it applies to someone else.
4. Make the most of what you have.
Even when they are not isolated, prisoners don’t have a whole lot, but these guys have learned to focus on the opportunities they do have. Dwelling on a lack of material goods or professional opportunities is a sure road to frustration, bitterness and madness. However, they have learned to view these absences as opportunities; undistracted by a drive to accumulate more, they are instead grateful for our workshops, some books and those peers interested in working with them to build a more satisfying life in prison and a more solid foundation after prison. Gratitude is an important quality, but it is fruitless if not accompanied by action. Ben has a wealth of time and knows how to spend it: “Some great minds have come out of this place! What you do in here will prepare you for life outside.” A friend is accustomed to counseling prisoners, “This is your university!” Our students are making good use of the few opportunities they have to improve themselves; when they get out, we would be kind—and well advised—to help them realize that their investment has, in fact, paid off.
5. We all need help.
Upon release, prisoners often head to a homeless shelter to make their own way. This is a bad plan. Most of them have found a measure of success before prison, before it all fell apart, but we do not want them to re-engage that life—nor do they want it for themselves. Since we on the outside share that value, it makes some sense for us to pursue it together with them. Prisoners have strikes against them that shut the doors to employment and acceptance, so their familiar sources of income, community and respect will call out strongly to them. John is lucky: he thinks he has a job waiting for him when he gets out but, he says, “I am afraid of being broke out there.” He is quick to add, “I don’t mean monetarily; I mean what I’ve built in here. As soon as I go back to my community, I am worried it will all fall apart.” Without support, it will; without a community prepared to accept them and value what they have to offer, former prisoners will make a new life where and how they can. If we on the outside are smart, we will make a little effort to support them in the ways they need.
When people learn that I volunteer in a prison, they invariably ask, “What are they like?” My answer is that they are a lot like me—and you. They are going to be your neighbors; they are going to be released. The guys who elect to come to our workshops are working hard to change themselves to achieve a better life in prison and then to be productive members of our communities afterwards so, in that sense, they are a little better than most of us.
Having executed the brilliant plan and feeling the sunshine on my back, I was happy that several inmates had access to an opportunity which gave them some hope, a path to improvement and a vision for a successful life beyond prison. My friends and I were amazed at the quality of the workshop our students led, bringing themselves to realize improved lives, but we reflected on the many that lack this rare opportunity. They are going to be released into our communities, too, still confused about their reality, blaming others for their circumstances, unfamiliar with the benefits of showing a little kindness, unable to see past the blinders of what they don’t have and, most threatening to us, without a support network. These are all assets we on the outside expect, even when we fail to use them as well as our students do. What kind of people do you want released into your community? Who do you want bumping up against you as you go to work or grocery shop in Raleigh, Greensboro or Charlotte? Wary men with confused priorities, adept at reacting with the tools of intimidation, appropriation and violence? Or thoughtful men who know themselves, understand that they are responsible for their successes and failures, understand the value of judicious mercy over blind justice, appreciate what they have and who have somewhere to turn, besides the old gang, for help? We can choose the latter.
