Prison Education Series

Installment #1

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Last Spring I taught an introductory English course in a maximum security prison. I initially did this for two reasons. First, I was afraid, terrified to go into that space, and I hoped to confront this fear directly—it didn’t help that the facility, one the oldest buildings in the city, could have easily been chosen for the filming of The Shawshank Redemption. Second, as a college professor serving as an administrator (a Dean) for five years at that point, I could feel a growing distance between me and potential students, as well as between me and the idea that, historically, the teaching profession involves risk. For example, teaching certain kinds of people to read (say, slaves) would bring severe penalties. And let’s face it, a bullet-infected America has fixated on schools, and just showing up for work as a teacher on any given day counts as an act of bravery. Ironically, as I would come to learn, I was safer teaching in a prison than in almost all other schools in the nation.

The prison I walked into was experiencing severe staff shortages—remember, this is during “the great resignation,” or a time when every employer seemed to be hiring or claiming to be short staffed. This meant two things were in play regarding the students I met on the first day: they were frequently on “lock down” not because of incidents, but because there simply weren’t enough staff to oversee them. Second, because of the previous, their privilege of “going into the yard” had been suspended for a long time, stretching back into Covid. Put another way, many of the students hadn’t been outdoors for anywhere between six months and a year. Such conditions have significant negative effects on people not in prison, so what would it mean for these men who had signed up for a writing class?

Midjourney’s rendition of the prompt “Prison Education.”

I needn’t have worried. The course enrolled six students—the prison kept the class small because of the staffing issue—and, by default, I was the highlight of their week (the class met once a week for three hours). I also, in my ignorance, underestimated these men. They were hungry to read, write, and learn, and many had already consumed vast amounts of the prison library. I knew on that first day that I would need to be, from that point on, always on my intellectual toes, far more so than with traditional undergraduate students, who have their other classes, concerns, part-time jobs, technology, and their youth. My incarcerated students were older, had this single class (the first the prison had offered), full restrictions on any technology, a single course reader, and me. Spoiler alert: they were the most singularly focused and dedicated students with whom I have ever worked. Yes, there are reasons for this and a lot of irony at play, but I will save that for future postings.

Who were the students? All non-white. As is the case with many facilities, non-whites compose a disproportionate part of the prison population. Were they readers? Here is where I most underestimated them (implicit bias?) and stood thoroughly surprised. I asked them to name their favorite writers. First response: Arthur Schopenhauer (I have never read Schopenhauer!). Next: Agatha Christie, a staple in the prison’s library. James Baldwin, who proved to be a shared passion with one student, as one of my prized possessions is a book signed by James Baldwin. In one class, I made an off-handed crack about Charles Dickens. I was trying to be funny, but in this small room in a maximum security facility, the six students, all non-white, took immediate offense and boisterously rushed to Mr. Dickens’s defense. What!? Nobody develops characters like him! The man makes whole worlds you can see and feel. He talks about the streets. You are crazy! Have you not read Oliver Twist or Bleak House? 

I ask you, what more could a teacher ask for?

The bare classroom, with its few windows facing a neighboring building, offered some natural light. Bookshelves lined the back of the room. I forget why, but I mentioned the Oxford English Dictionary and how it exists as a sacred text for me. To my utter surprise, one of the students said, “You mean this right here?” And there it sat in a neat row. A physical collection of the volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary. We spent time that first day looking at the historical evolution of the words “penitent” and “penitentiary.” A priest appointed to administer or delegate penitence. A prison. A person who repents. Sorrow for sin or offence committed, together with the desire for and intention of amendment. 

This last definition in particular points to education as a path for such intention. It takes a fully committed, understanding, and selfless instructor to nurture such intention. I had not been regularly teaching for several years, so I needed to be ready. I needed to be great. Would I be up to it? To meeting the needs who students who revealed themselves on day one to be ravenous for knowledge, engagement, and learning? We’ll see in the upcoming posts.

At the end of class I distributed their first writing assignment: to write their autobiographies as writers. Who were they as writers? When and why did they write? Who did they write for? 

I told them that writing was a way to achieve power and independence, which they valued highly. I vowed to show them how. They all went silent and understood. Then class ended and I left, through a serious of ancient looking iron gates and security checks, out into the sun and a beautiful front lawn, empty of people, but filled with old-growth oaks and maples.