Prison Reform: Humanity First

"But love your enemies, do good, and lend hoping for nothing in return; and your reward will be great." Luke 6:35

There comes a time in one's career when "purpose" becomes clear ... or at least clearer. That time arrived for me recently in a prison built of concrete, impenetrable glass, and razor wire. Surrounded by convicted felons, some of whom had committed crimes most of us cannot fathom, it occurred to me: When did I begin to assign value to human lives?

As a youngster, my mother’s message about love and kindness was instilled daily. She encouraged her children to look beyond the surface and accept everyone, a lesson that began a trend to befriend awkward, ignored, and bullied classmates; castaways stranded on an institutional island of cruelty, prejudice, and hatred. As a young adult, my father began a journey of self-discovery, modeling what it meant to dive deep into one’s soul to uncover a place of grace and unconditional love.

I hesitated to jump on board; rather, I observed from the sidelines for a few decades, gathering bits and pieces from the great philosophers, spiritual leaders, and, of course, my dad.

The foundation had been set, nonetheless, and my heart softened over the years. While my contemporaries worked hard to establish themselves in the physical realm, I devoted much of my time developing a strong character, the core of which was filled with love and compassion for everyone … almost.

You see, “unconditional,” while a simple concept, is a difficult practice. For me anyway. My ego took hold long ago, convincing me that maintaining an 80% unconditional lifestyle is fine, just fine. In fact, the remaining 20% conditional, it suggested, is a good thing; keeps you on guard and ensures safety – physical, emotional, and psychological.

As counterintuitive as it may seem, managing 20% of my character consumed the majority of my mental activity. In retrospect, it’s easy to understand why: Conditional love and compassion contradicted everything I had been taught and shown by my parents, and later, influential teachers and mentors. Every time a judgment escaped my mind (or mouth), I felt a twinge of pain, as though my mother and father were with me, expressing their deep sadness in my choice.

It’s pretty simple if you break it down mathematically:

• 100% = Unconditional
•  >100% = Conditional

But then, I was never very good at math.

At this point, you might be thinking, “what and who occupied the 20%?” Why, monsters, of course. People who have committed atrocities: despots, autocrats, zealots, warring tribes, drug lords … and criminals.

I am a nature lover. I am enamored by the ocean, rivers, and lakes. I cherish the mountains and their endlessly diverse trees, shrubs, and flowers. Strangely, even the desert speaks to me. Since childhood, I desperately wanted a spot in the animal kingdom, alongside dogs and horses (my favorites) with elephants and dolphins still in reach. I hate people who harm animals. In this regard, I am a proud, card-carrying hater.

I adore children, particularly my own, and their children. If anything were to happen to any of them, I don’t know what I would do. If you were to multiply the hate I feel for animal abusers by a factor of, let’s say, a million, that is the level of hate I would feel for anyone causing harm to my family, particularly children.

So, you see, unconditional love and compassion can’t be afforded to those who harm other people and animals. It just can’t.

• That, my friends, is Step 1 in the process of dehumanizing people: assign the status of “them” and not “us.”
• Step 2: Cast judgment – a thorny, heavy net woven with cords of suspicion, opinion, superiority, and hatred.
• Next, enroll others in your judgment. Step 3 is all about momentum. Get everyone on board to ensure that your sense of right is, well … right.
• Step 4: Adjudicate and sentence. Thankfully, we have systems for this; not sure how fair I’d be.
• Finally, and most critically, punish the hell out of them! Make them an example! Step 5 provides closure, bringing about a sense of satisfaction, ultimately leading to peace – not Mahatma Gandhi’s kind of peace, more like Julius Caesar’s.

Closing out my fifth decade, I’d grown confident with my character. Maintaining a steady 80/20 unconditional/conditional practice had become easy, almost rote. In fact, I was pretty darn proud of my stats! Heck, I observed others hovering at 50/50, or less – poor souls.

At this stage in my life, I’d also perfected the Hater Matrix, a schedule of sorts that identified good haters, bad haters, and all those in between. As you can imagine, I felt very strongly about this subject; after all, I was an expert.

In my 58tth year, I was invited to facilitate a life skills course for female inmates inside a state prison. The experience was so novel, I categorized it as, “fascinating” – like you would a tour through an exhibit offering insights into a foreign civilization about which you know nothing.

I wrote and spoke of this experience from a segregated perspective. Mentally, I drew a line around the women, an invisible barrier that would keep my character free and clear from theirs, which were tainted with criminal activity, thoughts, and behaviors.

Nine months later, I was invited back. This time, I was asked to spend three days in prison – men’s and women’s alike. Feeling like I’d contributed to the Greater Good the trip before, I accepted. After all, my work is all about helping people.

Our first stop was a men’s facility, one where “good” inmates trained police department horses and assistance dogs rescued from kill shelters. (Oh, the irony!) I’d hoped this knowledge would mitigate the anxiety brewing over the thought of being in a facility full of drug addicts and dealers, rapists, murders, and child abusers. However, the series of gates, doors, scanners, and pat downs only exacerbated it.

I was not alone, thank God. On one side stood my colleague whom I’ll call Tom, with four years’ experience teaching in several state prisons, and on the other, the Director of the re-entry program whom I’ll call Alice, a woman profoundly devoted to helping men and women prepare for their transition from “inside” to “outside.” Her compassion is beyond measure.

By 9:00 a.m., I had my game face on and was rearing to go. I’d built a comfortable emotional wall separating me from 48 convicted male felons. I wasn’t scheduled to facilitate for several hours, so I busied myself with collating handouts, speaking to a female guard who had to have been close to 70 years old, and fine-tuning my PowerPoint presentation.

During one break, a man in white walked over. Sporting an institutional buzz cut, I noticed his hunched-over posture, and, as he came closer, I saw significant gaps where teeth should have been.

“Can I talk to you, maybe later?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Turning to go back to his table, he muttered, “Thank you.”

If that was the extent of the contact with these men, I’d be okay, I thought to myself.

When the class was called back, I began to observe. I mean really observe. I watched the men as they listened, asked questions, laughed, squirmed, and dozed. I noticed facial expressions, postures, attitudes, and emotions. Hairstyles, tattoos, evidence of piercings, and the way their whites were worn came into view. Intonation, pitch, volume, and quality of speech piqued my interest.

Interestingly, my observations quelled my anxiety. I felt my shoulders relax and I took a few deep breaths. Looking back at the sea of faces, I began to see human beings, not inmates. I saw fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, friends, and neighbors.

My concentration was broken with the sound of chuckling coming from the men. Apparently, Tom had hit a home run with a joke, and I wondered how often the men laughed, I mean really laughed. As the effect of the joke waned, smiles quickly faded, faces locked back into form – resignation, hopelessness, anger, and sadness taking hold.

Before I knew it, lunchtime had arrived and I was thrilled to step away, but not before a line of men formed at the table where I sat.

“Are you going to teach us?” a small, heavily tattooed man asked.

“It’s up to the man in charge!” I quipped awkwardly, still unsure of my ability to reach this group.

No one else spoke up. Instead, I think they were just curious about me and what I could possibly say to them, even though I’d been introduced hours before. 

The re-entry program under which we worked had a next-to-nothing budget, so Alice went to the market and brought back simple salad fixings for lunch – a kind gesture because she knew I am a vegetarian. The inmates had been called to “chow,” consuming food most of us wouldn’t feed our pets.

Anxiety festered as I choked down iceberg lettuce and a few strawberries. My gut began to remind me, in a very unpleasant way, that my session was right around the corner, and I began mentally running through my slides.

When the men were ushered back in, Tom invited me to the front of the room, where he handed me the mic and clicker, tools of the trade I welcomed like a toddler would a pacifier.

As I glanced out into the room, all I could see were faces; eager, sad, hopeful, lonely, excited, resigned, and a few angry ones. I took a few seconds to let it all sink in. A split second later, I realized I was looking at a room full of people. That’s it. Another split second passed, and a wash of peace overcame me. These people were here to learn something; no different from any other group of course participants I’d taught.

For the next two and a half hours, I facilitated one of the most meaningful sessions in my career. We covered dreams, goals, mentorship, work ethic, challenges, and what it takes to live “outside.” They worked in pairs and small groups, discussing their experiences, desires, and fears. I led them through a few exercises, one in particular baited a few laughs.

During a break, the man who had asked if he could speak with me approached. I never got his name, but I remember his crime: child sexual abuse. I mustered what I could to keep my judgment at bay and listen to his question, which was a tough one.

“How will I ever find a job or have a life when the world hates me for what I am and what I’ve done?”

Before answering, I asked myself in the quiet of my own mind, how can I possibly answer that question?

I chose the truth, “I don’t know. I wish I had an answer, but I don’t.”

He looked at me, dropped his head, and looked back up, “Okay. But what can I do?”

Desperation flowed from this man. I not only felt inadequate as a facilitator, but hopeless as a human being. I didn’t plan on working with such a marginalized demographic. I hadn’t developed the skills or acquired the tools to be effective. I wasn’t prepared for this!

In a flash, I realized I had one skill, something that had gotten me into a lot of hot water throughout my career: Direct (some say blunt) communication; the ability to “say what I mean and mean what I say.”

Like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes, I began, "I can’t tell you what you can do. I really don’t know. But I know this: every day you spend in programs like this, doing the kind of work we are doing here today, provides the raw material to begin to build a life for yourself; a unique life that will suit you. Think about it this way: Imagine if a load of building materials was dropped off at five different places. The materials are identical, but the people at the different locations are unique. They come from different experiences, have different beliefs. Most likely, each project would take on its own personality, ending with unique characteristics and uses. So, use the material from this program, apply it to your life, and build a future for yourself. Just don’t stop the work."

The man looked at me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He didn’t move. He looked at me, tears welling, and said, “Thank you.” And then he walked back to his seat. I’m not sure what his takeaway was (or if there even was one), but I believe the few authentic minutes we shared were the first he’d had in a very long time.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I know I was effective; the evaluations say so. But all I can remember is the man with few teeth who had harmed children. What I felt for him was not hatred or loathing. Instead, I felt sadness for a life so broken, and the broken lives for which he was responsible. Then I felt a twinge of hope – for what, I really don’t know.

We completed the day without a hitch, then drove for several hours to a small town a few miles from the women’s facility in which we would be working the following day. We pulled into the motel where I had stayed nine months before, glad to see a familiar place.

Bone tired, I dropped onto the sheets like a felled oak.

I woke with a sense of anticipation. This time, I’d be working with women. Though convicted felons, I felt a comradeship I hadn’t the day before.

A grey, windy morning ushered us into the women’s facility. I no longer gasped at the lethal edges of the razor wire, nor did shock overwhelm me as I walked through multiple gates, 12 feet high and built of much stronger materials than a typical residential chain link fence like mine.

Was I growing comfortable with these surroundings? Is this part of the process prison employees go through that leads to the indifference (often caustic attitudes and behaviors) I’d observed? Is this a survival mechanism that human beings employ to get to a place where they can justify the dehumanizing environment in which they work?

I brushed those thoughts aside and followed the group through a set of heavy metal doors where we’d go through a very thorough security check. Something I’d worn set the alarm off, and I was patted down by a somber female guard. Scowling, she said it was probably my underwire bra. I wasn’t wearing one, so I concluded it was my bra’s tiny hooks. I’m surprised my dental fillings didn’t set the darn thing off.

Before we got to the training room, we ran into an inmate who’d been coordinating the program for several years. I’ll call her Mandy. Working alongside Alice, she hustled with the kind of efficiency and enthusiasm employers could only hope for these days.

I’d gotten to know Mandy the last time I visited, having spent close to an hour talking one-on-one. Her story is the kind that, once told, incites people to whisper, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” We’d formed a bond the time before and I was thrilled to see her again. Physical contact is prohibited in this facility – heck, in most – so we feigned hugs and kisses.

Small in stature, she scurried to help set up the room, distribute handouts, and make sure Tom and I had everything we needed, including coffee. The room began to fill up with women wearing prison whites, accentuating their physical differences. I recognized a few faces, but most of the women who attended this course last year weren’t permitted a second go ‘round.

It was easier for me to connect with this group. Looking into the eyes of these women – young, old, black, white, brown, tattooed, pierced, disabled, thin, large, smiling, not smiling, alcoholics, drug addicts, religious, atheist, violent, passive, hopeful, and hopeless – caused me to wonder If I would ever find such diversity in my work outside of prison.

Just before we got started, Alice walked over and asked if I would work with a group of women who didn’t make it into this class.

“Of course!” I said, Tom already waving goodbye because he knew I loved this kind of opportunity to “ad-lib.”

The year before, Tom asked me to facilitate a morning module. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be a problem, but he’d asked me the night before it was scheduled, giving me just a few hours to prepare. Making matters worse, the module was scheduled in the gymnasium, a space with horrible acoustics, among other things. I knew a lecture or discussion format was out of the question, so I accessed the right side of my brain and sketched out an activity. In retrospect, I am certain he gave me this module precisely because of this logistical glitch. The module was a hit and women talked about it for the rest of the day.

I am well versed in my craft and have many tools in my mental toolbox, so I took on the challenge of putting a meaningful short course together in 15 minutes with gusto; this prep time, indeed, was the shortest I’d ever been given. I was told I could do anything, which is like giving a child open access to Disneyland for a day. Having just concluded a strategic planning retreat back home, I decided to walk the women through a personal mission, vision, and values exercise.

While the work was quite rewarding for the women (myself included), the sidebars were even more so. I was inundated with questions not typically asked by course participants.

A diminutive woman spoke as she raised her hand, her eagerness taking hold, “How will I know how to act when I get outside?”

I had learned the previous year not to mince words; clear and direct communication was valued by inmates who were used to highly nuanced conversations by prison staff, lawyers, and the occasional visitor. And, when I needed clarity, I asked questions.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, here, I know whom to avoid and who to be friends with. It’s about protecting yourself inside.”

Teaching moments are what people like me live for. Over the course of the morning, I observed behaviors and heard stories that supported her comment about living defensively 24/7/365. Wanting to help shift their mindset, I addressed them in a way I hoped would incite hope and possibility,

There is this place in your journey that will require a great leap; a transition from one state of mind to another. In here, you live on the defensive, and that serves you. It’s a very instinctual place, almost primitive. However, it most likely leaves you emotionally, psychologically, physically, and spiritually depleted, leaving little energy for anything else. On the outside, while very real threats exist, they are few in comparison to inside. Instead, out there you’ll find opportunities; for some, they may seem endless! You’ll begin to see yourself shift from feeling closed off to feeling wide open! The mindset you’ll need will require wonder, imagination, curiosity, hope, and trust. So, the work for you here and now is how you manage that transition – how you move from a state of defensiveness to openness.

“But how do you do that?” asked a woman painted in sadness.

“You do exactly what you are doing now. You ask questions. Have meaningful and challenging conversations. Take classes like this. Read books filled with hope, inspiration, and love. Also, read practical books about career readiness and life skills. Just don’t stop the work.”

For a few moments, frowns and scowls faded, replaced by smiles and brighter eyes. I wondered if any of it would stick…

The conversations that ensued inspired me beyond measure. We talked about their fears, challenges, doubts, and dreams. We laughed, we cried, we listened to one another. I found myself connecting with women who otherwise I would never have met. Geographic, social, and economic lines would have kept us apart, but here I stood, wanting to hug them, blanket them with reassurance, and let them know there is hope.

At one point, I stopped and asked the group to describe where they were in their lives using one word. I jotted them down on a whiteboard, the list comprising words like Journey, Kids, Lonely, Hopeless, Family, Scared, Bleak, and Possibilities.

There is very little one can say when observing the varied places these women stood. Wisdom has afforded me the gift of silence, so I just sat with them, sharing a space filled with authentic vulnerability.

The room grew quite hot, so I took my light sweater off, but not before I was warned to put it back on once I leave the room. Sleeveless blouses, apparently, are not permitted inside. I was constantly reminded of how rigid prison rules were – for inmates, employees, and visitors.

“Count” was called, and I suspended the conversation. Alice, who had been observing from the back of the room, approached and we chatted for a bit. Soon after, the women began returning and scrambled to get a chance to speak with her, seemingly their only lifeline to hope and opportunity. Within minutes, she was besieged by the desperate pleas from women who needed her help. I couldn’t and still can’t fathom the emotional toll Alice pays, day in and day out.

Like the year before, the women came up to me as I closed out the session and thanked me, emphasizing how much it meant that I would take the time to speak with them and “treat [them] like normal people.”

We take our stations in life for granted. Sure, I’ve felt “different” a good portion of my life. Crazy hair, a substantial stature, strong opinions, and sometimes a wicked sense of humor have kept me on the periphery of my social, professional, and familial circles. I’ve never questioned my normalcy with regard to my place in society, however. I was and will always be immensely grateful for the awareness of matters I’d never considered before.

It was difficult to leave these women. I wanted to stick around all afternoon, swapping stories, teasing out a few more laughs. Nevertheless, they had their routine and Alice wanted me to observe a program called, “Dance to Be Free,” where women choreograph dances to various forms of music then teach the steps to others in the program.

The gym air was hot and stale, a cloud of perspiration hanging just above our heads. An industrial fan pointed to a cluster of five women who were in the midst of their dance. Four black women and a very heavy white woman were moving in sync, oblivious to our stares.

Before the song ended, I leaned over to Alice and asked if I could dance, something I hadn’t done in years. She didn’t have to answer my question; the look on her face gave me the green light.

I joined the women, which roused the attention of others. The music began, and I was instantly struck by the tender care they each took showing me the steps. At that moment, we were all just women who loved to dance, laugh, and let go. Looking up, I saw a circle of women cheering us on, laughing, and simply having a good time.

My gesture – more selfish than selfless because I just wanted to move – demonstrated how easy it is to connect, even with people you never dreamed you’d meet, let alone dance with.

As we said our goodbyes, I looked into the eyes of the women with whom I’d shared an extraordinary moment and spoke not a word. Rather, our gratitude moved through invisible frequencies.

One more stop and the day would be complete. However, this one was not to be cherished like the last. I can’t recall the name of the ward, yet my mind’s eye clearly sees the route. Locked door after locked door, we walked past guards unfamiliar with Alice and her program, their hardened faces telling all. She had to ask for directions a few times because her work didn’t require visits to this ward. Looking back, I think it was important for Alice to take me to this place of inexplicable despair, a ward for the mentally ill. It was a way for her to show me women who have been disposed of, never again to be considered by society.

I met the staff psychologist who had just concluded a session with a stout woman whose prison whites were grey, eyes darting from one point of distraction to another. Our handshake revealed her despondency and my heart sank; not just for her, but for all the women of this ward who were wandering in circles, aimlessly wringing their hands, twirling random pieces of hair, or merely standing in an arbitrary place as if positioned by a force unseen.

Guilt immediately followed the relief I experienced leaving this place. I couldn’t find a way to reconcile these two extremes and decided to let them coexist. The lesson would manifest later, I certain.

Dinner at a local steak house followed our time inside the walls of a medium-security facility for women. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to talk politics of prison reform. I didn’t want to try and cast a better light on what I’d experienced and seen. I wanted to cry. I wanted to shed tears of sadness, anger, frustration, and bitterness for a system that is broken in too many ways to count. I wanted to cry then, and I still do.

Several weeks later, I received a packet from the prison, inside were over 20 letters from the women with whom I’d spent several hours. Reading each one rekindled the connection I’d felt. Connection, I concluded, is not about a “match” or finding similarities; rather, it’s about opening up, being willing to reveal ourselves while honoring the vulnerability of others. Gratitude filled me, and tears welled; tears of love, hope, and possibilities for normal people who had, at some point in their lives, made terrible decisions.

But, for the grace of God, go I. 

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Megan Reyes, President & CEO of ROTOR Consulting, LLC, provides leadership development and soft skills/EQ training. In addition, she works with businesses to help boost their operational and organizational performance through tailored business development programs.