William Carlos Williams’ poem on Pieter Brueghel the Elder’s painting – Landscape with the fall of Icarus:
On visiting a particular prison for the first time to conduct an art workshop with the prisoners, I averted the inevitable invitation of seeing the prison’s Bob Ross mural – that mural painted by a prisoner in the style of the famous public television personality who taught the world – and prisons – the joy of painting.
“Before you show me the Bob Ross mural, I got to tell you, I don’t like Bob Ross nor am I a fan of his teaching.” The prisoners were surprised I knew of the prison’s mural. More surprising was that I didn’t like Bob Ross’s art, “You mean, you don’t like him?” Most surprising was being direct in saying so. But teaching in various prisons in several states and having a through-the-mail art project with 700 prisons throughout the United States, I’ve learned that many prisons have such a mural, that Bob Ross has become the Godfather of art in prison, and that in teaching, it is best to be supportive but direct.
Unfortunately, in prison there is little art experience beyond Bob. (My complaint about Bob is that he taught art as formulaic and encouraged the world to paint the sky through his eyes and not the individual’s. This lack of visual autonomy supports the incarceration status.) So when Wendy Jason, the site manager of Prison Arts Coalition suggested creating a network of artist-to-artist correspondence, developing a dialogue on art between artists on the outside and artists on the inside via a conversation through mail, I was enthusiastic. I hesitate to speak of it as a pen-pal service. Pen-pal suggests other things. Instead, this correspondence has the potential of offering a dialogue focused on art knowledge, experience, discussing mediums and techniques, and art philosophy. Since by definition a conversation goes both ways, the art experience of both parties can be expanded.
Most artists from the outside will probably not go to prison – there are all sorts of restrictions: time, distance, and so on. But the United States postal service offers another avenue. Developing a relationship focused on art eliminates some of the potential problems of pen-pal correspondence; over dependence upon the person outside, unintended romantic and other potential confusion when the correspondence has no specific focus.
Over the past eight years as volunteer art director of Prisoner Express, a distant learning program, I’ve had numerous writing relationships to prisoners. There are 4500 prisoners in the program and because it is a distant learning program, all prisoners are required to write into the program. We offer numerous projects in which the prisoner can participate. But many prisoners write additional personal letters and inquiries. Many of these inquiries are about art.
Most prison libraries do not have art books. Apparently, they are the first books to get stolen from the library. Beyond Bob Ross, few artists are familiar to prisoners; Michelangelo, Picasso, Van Gogh. Frida has her day in prison, as does M.C. Escher. But other artists, even Rembrandt, are often not understood; as one art student in my prison class suggested, “I wouldn’t give 5 cents for a Rembrandt.” While it isn’t important this prisoner agrees Rembrandt is great, this prisoner’s experience of art might be expanded in understanding why some artists come to the front and some don’t; how art functions within a society beyond aesthetics taste; how art speaks for – or against – a particular race, generation, or class; and how art has influenced the beliefs of society. Art is much more than pretty pictures and self-expression.
I personally receive lots of letters from prisoners and tried through the years to write back to most – a hard task with 4500 prisoners. Sometimes they write after their art was published in the general newsletter, “I’ve been walking on clouds ever since I saw my drawing in the newsletter.” Sometimes the prisoner has a question about one of the art curriculums. Some letters and prisoners stand out.
Raymond first wrote to me six years ago when he was working on a drawing curriculum I sent prisoners who signed up for the course. Raymond seemed excited to work on the different assignments in the curriculum; light and shadow, perspective and other drawing exercises. However, he was concerned that he wouldn’t be able to do a successful job because he was currently in solitary confinement and his drawing materials were limited to the single interior cylinder of a pen that is permitted to prisoners in solitary. Pencils are not allowed in the hole. Regardless, he sent me several drawings. From this work, I thought Raymond might be interested in the work of Piranesi, Georges De La Tour and Courbet; sending him photocopies of these artists’ art in my reply letter.
While his drawings were compelling, it was his questions that evoked my interest. The questions suggested a person searching for greater understanding of both art and who he was in relationship to art.There are those letters from prisoners who are not interested in learning. These letters suggest a need for an affirmation of their existing skills; “I’m the greatest artist in prison,” writes Donald. While trying to be as supportive as possible, I am drawn to those artists who are willing to expand and challenge what they are already doing. Of course, the self can be challenged and battered in prison, and re-affirmation is important. But I understand my relationship to the prisoners is not as their counselor. Instead I am a person to whom they can talk about art. It just so happens that in pushing the parameters of art, people learn about themselves and gain strength from this knowledge.
Raymond’s questions seemed to reach beneath the surface exploring a deeper meaning in art. In response to the images of Courbet and De La Tour, Raymond asked, “What is the difference between Courbet and De La Tour?” On a superficial level, it is easily recognized they are both painters of people with the obvious difference of being from different eras. But I realized Raymond was picking up something more fundamental. Assessing their difference, I realized that Raymond was discerning the artists’ use of figures in their painting reflecting the sea change in how art functioned within society. Courbet developed social commentary through social realism while De La Tour focused on an internal symbolism leaving the immediacy of the world.
Raymond’s thoughtful questions were even more surprising in that he had little formal education outside prison. Raymond was incarcerated at 17 years of age and has been in prison for 20 years. He received his high school GED in prison. With no supportive family, he learned through his own means. Perhaps education has little impact on people’s capacity to understand the depth of art. I’ve heard friends with college education speak in superficial terms about a painting, reminding me of Woody Allen’s joke that after he sped read War and Peace, concluded, ”It was about Russia.”
I often focus on paintings/sculpture of early Renaissance when I send art to prisoners – perhaps a little archaic for today’s inclusiveness. But I understand that the prisoners with whom I write and meet in prison are often interested in classical drawing, and although some will argue, no one seems to draw as well – either before or after – as the white boys of the Renaissance. (When Renaissance women and minorities, overlooked by history, are found, they will greatly contribute to this learning.) I am particularly drawn to the paintings of the artists who were struggling to understand form. Raphael gets too perfect for my taste. My painting instructor called him divine because Raphael could draw a perfect circle. But as I wrote to Raymond, “Why draw a perfect circle? – I’m more interested in seeing beyond to where that circle collapses under the burden of being perfect. Hence, I send Raymond, Hans Memling’s diptych of a woman on one panel and a horse with a monkey on the other. Raymond concludes his assessment, “This strange painting is inspiring,” after discussing its awkward-other-worldliness.
Inga Kimberly Brown, another artist writing to prisoners from the PE membership, takes a different approach and sends the prisoners Michael and Manuel more contemporary art. When Manuel sent in art in the style of a silhouette – not knowing of Kara Walker’s work – Inga sent him a packet of her work including the legacy of the silhouette in the history of the American Black and slavery.
Some prisoners only send me their art with no added correspondence. I have enough art from Leroy to have a solo exhibition of his work. While I don’t have intense verbal correspondence with Leroy – often only receiving multiple drawings without a letter – his words on the drawings are humorous. Leroy reaches for the funny side of incarceration in surviving prison. His work has an attractive design quality and I recently learned that Leroy spent much of his childhood accompanying his mother to quilt shows.
Clarence is another prisoner with whom I correspond – although it is mostly Clarence corresponding with me. I receive about five letters a week from him. Clarence is incarcerated in the mental health unit of a maximum-security prison. There is a frenetic quality to his letters and I have boxes and boxes of his letters. I’m not sure when, but at some point of our correspondence, Clarence made me high priestess of a religion he developed. I write this not in disrespect of Clarence or of mental illness. I actually am fond of Clarence’s thinking – he understands things other people find a bit obtuse. Because I can’t always follow his letters, I engage with his letters on a visual plane – finding the marks upon the paper fascinating. Clarence recently sent me a string-bound notebook filled with pages in which every surface is covered with marks on worn paper shredded at the edges – a mysterious artifact. Clarence asks that I keep it safe and so I will.
In his continued letters, Raymond pondered the photocopies of art I sent him with comments and questions about different artists. I sent him Caspar David Friedrich and in response to the painting, Monk on the Sea, Raymond writes:
“First off, the ‘The monk by the Sea’ was considered Friedrich’s most radical composition because he didn’t concern himself with creating an illusion of depth….. This lack of depth gives the piece a flat abstract quality. So my question would be, what separates “abstract” in a painting from just being incomplete.” A legitimate question for someone who has never encountered abstraction in a painting.
Raymond seemed intrigued with the concept of chiaroscuro – those patterns of light and shadows – and drew light as it changed throughout the day in his cell. Light, no matter how little or how much, is always present; even in prison. It becomes an available subject for prisoners to draw.
Exploring light extended to non-artists as when Daniel Perkins became interested in his cellmate’s drawing assignment on light and shadow. Consequently, Daniel spent a month measuring the changing sunrays coming through the window of his cell as the sun moved across the sky:
Later, Raymond asked about that phenomenon artists refer to as lost and found – elements in painting disappearing or becoming more evident; he asked about the difference between an illustration and fine art. In one letter, Raymond asked if art needs to explain itself and to what extent a painting/artist is accountable for being understandable. Even if I have no answers for these questions, they offered the opportunity for a thoughtful correspondence.
Sometimes, I get questionable requests from prisoners. I had been writing to Jimmy for a year or two when he asked if I send him pictures of children in swimsuits. He also asked for images of Sally Mann’s photographs, the photographer who took images of her children in the nude. I have no idea whether Jimmy is in prison for sexual predatory behaviors, but the request seemed wrong.
Perhaps, it was an innocent request. In teaching at a men’s maximum-security prison, I brought several books on paintings; including those of Raphael. In viewing the paintings of Raphael’s baby Jesus, I realized the inappropriateness for prison. I told my class that while I was not directing my concerns to them, there were, in fact, individuals in prison who were confused about their sexuality in relationship to children. Therefore, the rule was made that even little baby Jesus had to wear a diaper in prison.
I’m surprised the prison guards allowed the Raphael painting book into prison. It’s hard to believe that the postal mailrooms in prisons are more diligent than the front gate in the search for contraband. Regardless, rules are constant. Some mail rules are obvious with obvious reasons; no nude children, no frontal nudes; no women in chains; no guns. Then there are some not so obvious rules: no blank writing or drawing paper; no stickers (even stickers on the envelops with the return address); no hardbound books; and so on.
Most prisoners, particularly the above Jimmy who has been in prison for more than 20 years, know what is acceptable and what is not. When I find a prisoner making such a request, I experience it as disrespectful. Reiterating my relationship to Jimmy as not his therapist and it wasn’t my desire to point out the inappropriateness of his request, I stopped writing to him. There are so many other individuals with whom to correspond.
When a recent law was enacted in California stating anyone incarcerated at 17 years of age or younger would automatically be scheduled for the parole board, Raymond asked if I would write a letter of recommendation for his hearing. In his letter, Raymond told me why he was in prison – a 17 year old involved in a gang activity. While the other members of the gang were not incarcerated, Raymond was. He felt it was his lack of legal representation.
The question of a prisoner’s crime is one that people often asked – should the prison volunteer know what the prisoner did? I know what most the prisoners have done. As a realist, I’d rather be confronted with the contradiction of my feelings in order to understand them and move on. What I have discovered is that my feelings towards a prisoner are based upon what the prisoner currently brings to the relationship and not on the crime.
Raymond was denied parole. The board was impressed with him, but thought he was too smart, seeing his intelligence as a threat. I wondered if my letter had been a hindrance. For a second hearing, scheduled in the following year, I again wrote a letter of recommendation. In this letter I describe Raymond’s humility as I saw it through his ability to learn which reflected his ability not to know – that state of being vulnerable in allowing oneself not to know.
Granted parole, Raymond will be released from prison this month. In his most recent letter, Raymond thanked me for what he feels to be my insight and experience in helping him become not only a better artist but also a better person. Of course, his praise is more than I deserve. Raymond success is his own.
Raymond now faces the challenges of entering a world he has very little experience of – he grew up in prison. He writes how exciting but also how frightening this all seems to him. Perhaps through social media, email or even writing, we will continue to discuss the issues of art – that elusive subject giving rise to hope and a structure for understanding.
It is Wendy’s invitation to both artists and individuals with a working interest in the arts to develop friendships with artists who are incarcerated through letter correspondence and the exchange of creative works. In the next couple of weeks, there will be a new page on the Prison Arts Coalition website inviting participation in this art correspondence, which we are calling the pARTner project. You can email Wendy at firstname.lastname@example.org if you would like more information prior to the launch of the project. We imagine that we will very quickly have a long list of artists in prison who are eager to connect with, inspire, and learn from you.
Treacy Ziegler is a regular contributor to the PAC blog, and has been an exhibiting artist for the past 23 years. She studied painting and printmaking for four years at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. As a student she was awarded a J. Henry Scheidt Traveling Scholarship. Before studying art at PAFA, Ziegler received a Master in Social Work from the University of Pennsylvania working in the area of family therapy. Ziegler has been awarded two New York State Community Art Partnership Grants in painting and in printmaking. In 2009, Ziegler began exhibiting her work in prisons and created An Open Window, a project within the project of Prisoner Express in the Center For Transformative Action affiliated with Cornell University. In this project she donates her artwork to prisons, develops in-prison art workshops, and creates through-the-mail-art curricula with a network of 2,300 prisoners throughout the United States, many who are in solitary confinement. Ziegler lives with her husband, Gary Weisman, a sculptor, in Newfield, New York.
About the writer, Logan Crannell: I’m a visual artist from Provo, UT who opted to move into my truck with my dog Jack, after I got divorced. We travelled together and ended up in Boise, ID to visit a friend. Things spiraled out of control, and I got imprisoned for 4 months, facing a ten year sentence. I got released on Oct. 5th, 2016.
From Wendy, PAC Administrator: Logan Crannell wrote to PAC seeking some support in promoting his memoir, Hands Down – a story of incarceration, which hits Amazon today. I asked him if he’d like to contribute a blog post about it, and he eagerly agreed, requesting that I provide him with a few questions to get his thoughts flowing. I did so, and the following is what he offered in return. I’m sure you’ll be as moved by his words as I am, and I ask that you share this interview, and Logan’s book, with anyone who might find them meaningful — WJ
WJ:How did the process/act of writing help you to cope with being incarcerated?
LC: Writing grounded me and kept my mind from circling in on itself. Being locked in a concrete cell for twenty-one hours a day, you get consumed by repetitive and irrational thoughts. It’s important to get them out of your system, otherwise they eat you alive.
Excerpt from Hands Down:
I rested there, despondent. Zach, walking laps along the yellow line, stopped and approached. He took a seat and put his elbows on the table.
“You’re not overthinking, are you?” he asked, leaning in.
“Yes, I am. I can’t help it.”
“Listen, bro,” he said, “You can’t think about the past and the future in here because they’re not ours. They don’t belong to us, anymore. All we get is today. You have to focus on the things you can control. It’s the little things that save you.”
It was wisdom, what he told me.
WJ: You mentioned that you have a background in filmmaking. What similarities and differences did you discover between the way you told a story in writing versus in film?
LC: Yes, I grew up in a family of professional filmmakers and photographers, so I naturally told stories that way, but I was never comfortable with words. They felt foreign to me; my interest lay with capturing images and feelings visually. When it came to dialogue, I’d bring in writers to deal with it. I didn’t care to be involved.
Then, in jail, in court, listening to my life and reputation get dismantled, I realized that words would ultimately set me free; they were my only tool of defense. They became invaluable to me. No one seemed interested in my version of events, or claims of innocence, so documenting my words was a form of retaliation. Then, it turned into something far more personal, as I examined my life and choices leading up to my arrest, which comprises the first section of the book.
WJ:How did your surroundings influence your voice? Your perspective?
LC: It got raw. I came face-to-face with my fears, insecurities and failures, and I absolutely could not progress until I challenged them directly. I couldn’t hide behind the distractions of the outside world. I felt bare, with nothing left to lose by writing my honest observations.
As I got closer with my cellmates, my own story took a backseat, and I focused on their lives and outlooks. The book transformed into our story. Not just mine.
“How many mattresses are out there?”
It was our nightly ritual; the counting of the mats. At 10:30 pm, the deputies placed mattresses on the table by the control desk, the number of which signaled to us how many new inmates were on their way to cell block. On our Walk, we had the only cell with a vacancy. The lights went out. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then continued reading The Screwtape Letters, by C.S Lewis; a rare find from the jail library.
“Did anybody come in?” Zach asked
“Not yet,” Zeek replied
“Well, I’m going to bed. God bless, you guys!” Zach said, pulling down his headband
I’d fallen asleep when Rick Kellner made his entrance, and he came in with a bang. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I’d like Rick – he bragged of his charges with such enthusiasm, though I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that underneath his thunder, there might be a man that grew up too damn fast.
WJ: How has your experience within the criminal justice system changed the way you perceive art and/or the creative process?
LC:Art has a vital role in lockdown. It’s not disposable. I noticed inmate reactions to watching television; so many societal issues were irrelevant to them, and advertising commercials had no effect. We couldn’t have any of those things, so the broadcast registered as noise to us. I was relieved – I’d finally found a place where marketing didn’t work. I thought to myself, ‘These people are picking up on completely different signals. That’s awesome.’
It’s funny, because I got housed with inmates who lamented over how much better the conditions were in prison, as opposed to county, because they had access to art supplies. My cellmate Rick did incredible drawings, but blank, white sheets of paper were a scarce commodity. We had to be resourceful and work with our limitations. It didn’t stop us. I kept a 2-inch pen, wrapped in paper and adhesive labels to make it less pliable, safely in my sock since the jail considered it contraband.
Rick produced a work of art, while free, at a stable point in his life, on a canvas measuring roughly four-foot-by-six. He did the drawing in pencil; the image of an Elk, beside a river, on a cold morning.
He lost track of how long he spent perfecting it; each blade of grass, drop of moisture and dew, the hair of the Elk’s coat, its breath, all of it in vivid detail. He spoke of its majesty, regarding it as his finest achievement, creatively. I believe Rick thought of that drawing often, in the darkest moments, pulling strength from it, when he felt at a loss. I think it helped him see the goodness of his capabilities.
WJ:What inspired you to keep writing? Were there times you lost the motivation? If so, how did you find it again?
LC: I don’t recall losing motivation. On the contrary; my cellmates would have to pry me off my journal, bring me down to earth, and encourage me to exercise and joke around. I formed tight bonds with my cellies. We fueled one another with ideas and inspiring stories. Art kept us sane. We balanced it with spiritual practices and kept each other laughing.
Zach didn’t waiver from his routine, and his daily yoga session piqued Rick’s interest. By that point, I joined Zach a few times a week, and it improved my flexibility. The floor got cramped with three of us, so I let Rick take a lesson. Zach gradually taught him the steps and proper breathing techniques.
Rick’s body trembled, as he labored to maintain a stance.
“Zach, I can’t hold it. I’m losing balance,” Rick pleaded
“You gotta breath deep with the motion, bro. You can do it.”
Rick’s feet slid on the smooth concrete, “This is way harder than I thought.”
“Yoga ain’t no punk, Rick.”
WJ:What gave you hope? Who/what inspired you?
LC: Seeing my dog Jack again. He means the world to me. On the day of my arrest, I got far more concerned for his well-being than my own. When the cops allowed me ‘my one phone call’ it wasn’t to a lawyer. I wanted to verify that Jack was safe and cared for. My friends and family came through in a big way.
WJ:What advice would you give to other creative thinkers who are locked up? Or to artists and writers who teach in prisons/jails?
LC: Keep it unfiltered. Don’t get influenced by history. The art you do doesn’t have to be monumental. That’s not the point. Your goal shouldn’t be to impress others. Real art isn’t about your ego; it’s the release of ego that makes it sincere. If it doesn’t heal you, don’t expect it to help others.
While finishing the final draft of my book, page by page, I’d follow one instruction: Did I keep it real and from the heart? Then, I’d ask two questions: What am I bringing awareness to? And, am I ready to put this into the world?
To be a teacher in that environment, well, I think you have to create a circle of trust and safety, or the results won’t happen. Everyone involved has to be comfortable and meet at eye level before they open up. My cell mates were hesitant when they saw me keeping a journal, but once they trusted my intentions, they wanted to be involved and contribute to it. I’d quote ’em all day long.
July 20th – Through the windshield of the transport bus, I witnessed sidewalks busy with people, wandering, arms full of shopping bags, wanting things. I saw advertisements for phone plans, menu options at fast food restaurants, and bands wearing the latest fashion. I wasn’t missing anything; Cell 846 was my comfort zone; I’d power through the day, and go to my bunk and rest.
My gaze shifted from the windshield to a black man seated in front of me, in the maximum security section; an iron gate divided us. He reminded me of Tupac Shakur – maybe it was the nose ring.How did he get to keep his nose ring?How strange, that you can sit next to a person on a bus, and say nothing to them – and a month later, that person changes your life forever.
WJ:What gave you the confidence to publish your story? What impact do you hope it will have?
Well, I felt a sense of obligation to publish since it wasn’t simply my story. I promised those men I’d see it through.
I have a dear friend, on the outside, that read the book. Unfortunately, his long term relationship with his girlfriend had hit a rough patch, and they decided to take a break. She moved out of state. Unbeknownst to me, he would read the book to her over the phone at night, and it helped them to rediscover and be grateful for what they had built. That touched me deeply. It made my struggles worthwhile. That’s what I want for the book; to have the reader find a negative in their life and convert it into something positive. That’s the victory.
WJ: What are your goals for the future? How has the transition coming home been for you? Have you continued to write? If so, has it served a purpose during the transition?
LC: Actually, I’m studying for my degree in floral design. I’d practiced Ikebana, Japanese flower arrangement, throughout my adult life. It brought me peace. I committed to making it my new career when I got out, so I’m really concentrated on that now. The transition was rough. By the time they kicked me to the streets I’d lost my home, my car, my camera and computer equipment, both of my jobs, etc. On top of that I now had a criminal record to contend with. At least I had my dog, and solid friends. I think that’s ultimately what the book is about; true friendship.
About the guest blogger: Michael Zinkowski has taught college-credit writing classes at Oregon State Penitentiary as well as youth correctional facilities in Oregon.
Yesterday I was an audience member for a play-in-progress entirely written and performed by inmates at Oregon State Penitentiary. For the last year, I’ve taught college-credit Writing courses there and one of my students invited me, looking for my feedback on the script he’d largely written. As both inmates and members of the “general public” entered and took their seats in the Chapel room, two guitarists and a keyboardist, all inmates, jammed together. It was a soaring prog-rock instrumental that carried us into the headspace we’d need to be for the play.
I took my seat towards the back right and saw my student (we’ll call him David) perched atop the radiator in the opposite corner of the room, behind the musicians. He sat there, shoulder-length dreads and thick-framed glasses, his hand covering his mouth like The Thinker. With his own office and a thousand responsibilities on the education floor, I’m not sure I’d ever seen him so still or unmoving. In his late 30s, over 20 of which have been spent inside prison walls, he’s possibly the most positively-driven and focused person I’ve ever met, using every waking moment to spread love and compassion, to atone. As I took my journal out to take notes, he looked out through the barred window.
What I didn’t know, is that the play had essentially already begun. After a lanky, older guy wearing a transparent latex glove passed out chocolate chip cookies and cups of water to the crowd of about 30, David stood up, continued to glare at the world out the window, out over the walls of the prison, and began a boisterous, gripping monologue. It felt like a sermon.
His imagery wove everything in the cosmos together, including the “invisible population in the middle of a city.” He functioned as the spoken-word narrator of the play, speaking from the all-knowing perspective of a bird who’d flown into the hospice care room here at OSP. The play featured many vignettes and characters, including the personified voice of Cancer, surrounding the story of a dying inmate, Michael Popper, Sr. David’s wisdom-inflicted bird interjected to help tie the narrative together.
To underscore just how invisible a man becomes dying in hospice care inside a maximum security prison, no one performed the role of Michael Sr. Instead, family members, prison guards, a doctor and nurse all spoke to a voiceless piano bench. Michael Sr.’s silence and invisibility was powerful because it turned our attention to the interconnectivity of all these other characters, each one essentially speaking to themselves but about related struggles. We can put someone inside the walls of a prison but we cannot, the play suggested, no matter how hard we might try, sever the connections they have with the world.
After a “talk-back,” in which members of the audience offered praise and critique, I got up and congratulated David on his performance, on the script, on his ability to make it all work somehow. The audience clapped and cheered as loud as they could without calling too much attention to itself. We were inside a prison after all. However, by no means was this the first time I’d been impressed with him or any of the other student-inmates I’ve had. In fact, my sheer delight and excitement I felt reminded me, unfortunately, that I sometimes reinforce commonly held beliefs about the abilities, talents, and intelligence of the human beings who live inside the prison’s walls.
Without being too scientific about it, it’s probably safe to say that American culture assumes the worst about prisoners. I don’t simply mean of their ethical choices or their “criminal nature” but of their potential and their capacities. And though the last year has taught me nothing but how smart, focused, artistic, grateful, and compassionate my student-inmates can be, I’m sometimes left asking myself: why should I be so surprised over and over?
Realistically, yes, I’m allowed the smile across my face whenever a student here reads a moving, original poem or performs a gripping monologue from the perspective of a talking bird or shows me a hugely improved draft of a 20-page research essay. And, of course, I do. I’m allowed the instinct I have to say “that was amazing,” “great job,” or “I can’t wait to hear the next draft!” and so I do.
Sometimes, though, I struggle with the origins of my excitement. If I’m surprised, is it because I, too, carry with me this idea that these guys shouldn’t be as smart as they consistently prove they are? If I’m moved, is it because the level of work is higher quality than I expected? Did I have low expectations in the first place? And did I have these expectations because I, too, hold the belief that being a prisoner necessarily means one has intellectual or artistic limits?
Probably. It’s something I continually work to deconstruct. It’s probably also true, though, that the quality of their work often surpasses that of my students at “regular” community colleges and that the odds are often very stacked against them and have been before they even got here. Can I not feel, then, that the high quality of work they produce, creatively or academically, is indeed a triumph?
My student-inmates know the world thinks the least of them. Sometimes their families do. Sometimes they, themselves, are burdened by these expectations. Is it in spite of those attitudes that these men excel, or because of them?
Right now I don’t have a solid answer. I’m sure haven’t even asked all the right questions or listed all the variables at play. So I don’t think I need a solid answer yet, but I’d like to use this blog to explore some of the questions I’ve already asked and share stories to complicate our ideas about prisoners, about their potential, and how when we talk about “their” potential we really mean our potential.