The First Time I Went to Prison: Part 1

This is part one of a series of reflections from a day I spent at Dixon Correctional Facility in Dixon, Illinois.

Close your eyes and join me for a moment in imagining a scene . . . 

Picture yourself walking down a prison hallway. You know—the one you’ve seen on TV, with steel bars and guards behind the glass in a little room where they push a button for the steel door at the end of the hall to open. As it opens, it makes a rumbling sound you can feel in your feet as it slides open. You walk for a few feet and stop . . . there is another barred gate in front of you. A buzzer sounds, and you hear the door you just walked through close with a chest-vibrating CLANK! You suddenly realize you are in an environment where the rules are different.

The was my reality recently when I was asked to join a group of other business leaders to attend a shark tank at the Dixon Illinois Correctional Facility with the organization Freedom From Within led by Cliff and Sue Parrish. The Dixon Correctional Center is a medium security adult male prison and part of the Illinois Department of Corrections. I had been so busy that I hadn’t taken the time to think about what we were doing until the morning I got into a fellow colleague’s car and he asked me if I was ready. Feeling both nervous and excited, I quickly started to reread the documents for the day given to us for prep, including a long list of rules. State ID only, nothing else—no phone, no watch, no pen, no leaving the designated areas, and the list went on.

Once in the building, I really tried to dial in and imagine what it was like to be a prisoner there. Watching the guards signal us to proceed and then radio as we crossed every checkpoint, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. As we proceeded into the yard, I looked around and saw the razor fence, the guard towers and closed gates everywhere. This was a place that was designed to keep us IN. I was eager to meet these men and hear their stories and share some wisdom . . . little did I know that I would be the student today.  

The room set up for the shark tank was bare bones—just chairs and some folding tables. It was 40, maybe 50 degrees in there. I heard a couple of the inmates say they were glad we were here today because it was so warm in here compared to the other rooms. I looked around and thought, I’m here for a reason—let’s start meeting people. I joined some of the other mentors and started to shake hands and introduce myself—first name only and some vague details if asked as the rules sheet specified. What became abundantly clear to me was the warmth I felt in that room. The desire to be seen and known by name . . . so powerful and necessary for our basic human desire to belong.

Next the mentors were split into two tables across from each other with a tattered screen, beat-up podium and a duct-taped mic in the center. In front of that was the leader’s table, where a timekeeper and Cliff, the main teacher and facilitator of the day, were sitting. Behind Cliff, approximately twenty-five inmates were filing in and sitting down, happily greeting each other and preparing to hear each other’s ideas.

After a brief introduction of who we were and our areas of experience, the presentations began. Each presenter had ten minutes, followed by ten minutes for the sharks to ask questions and give feedback.

I don’t have room in this post to recap each idea or the stories that brought me to tears, but I do want to share what I heard that shifted me. These men have worked so incredibly hard on their ideas, how they would implement them, and the presentation itself. There was so much nervousness, anxious excitement, and fear—which I could totally relate to. Some of these men presented ideas that were so good, in spite of the reality that they would never, ever leave prison. Some had been in prison for over forty years, and it was incredible what they had to go through to figure out their idea and get to this day.

You see, this presentation day was a huge day—it was basically graduation from a program that was several years in length, all done on each inmate’s own time. In prison you only have so much “free time,” and what you choose to spend it on is a big, big deal. The men I met had chosen to learn to be better humans, leaders, influencers, entrepreneurs, and intrapreneurs (a leader inside of a company who promotes innovation and development). Even those who would never get out wanted to help their fellow inmates be better in prison and prepared for life on the outside, if they were fortunate enough to be released. That was humbling and inspiring. 

It’s so easy for us to judge things we read about or those who are “different” than us. But have we taken the time to really know others, really see them, learn their name, hear their story, or affirm their dreams? When it comes to those who have been incarcerated, I certainly hadn’t. Before this experience, I hadn’t come face to face with many who had committed serious crimes, and who now acknowledged their mistake and had a desire to be better. The justice system undoubtedly needs work, but this post is not about that. It’s about the perception I had—and I bet many of us may have—of those in prison and their value and opportunity. Our chances of being born into our current family, community, or wherever we are in life is 1 in 400 trillion. We have had zero control of where we were born and into what situation.

At the end of the day, the peers in the crowd shared what they learned and commented on their favorite parts of the day. One big dude stood up and talked about how 60 percent of the people in the jail were from the same neighborhood areas of Chicago . . . 1 in 400 trillion. He said the fact that we came in and gave honest feedback and interacted with them gave him hope in humanity.

As I walked out of prison and that door clanked shut again behind me, I reflected that in how many ways I’m no different than the men I was with that day. I, too, want to be known by name, have a tribe, and feel valued—we all do. And no matter what our situation, we all have dignity and deserve that kind of affirmation.

Coming up: Part 2: "Convicted" Inspiration & Part 3: Why we need to go to "prison"