William Burr, born and raised in Claremont, N.H., smiled at me and rubbed his forehead. "It was nice to see you guys come in and really care about us. It was like wow, people from the outside actually wanted to see people on the inside," he said. This isn't Bill's first time in jail.
I spend a couple of hours with Bill and other inmates every Tuesday afternoon at the Sullivan County Department of Corrections. I started to go to the facility this term, for the women and gender studies class, "Telling Stories for Social Change." Students spend one day a week collaborating with prisoners while studying nuances of invisibility and incarceration. At the end of the term, the inmates and students collaborate to create a theatrical production.
Intriguing enough, right? I kept reminding myself of that fact when I nervously walked through the prison's metal detector for the first time. I must admit, I was originally terrified. Everything from the media to general social perceptions told me that prison was a frightening place. In that initial moment, I really had no idea why I was in the class. Suddenly, we were surrounded by a sea of blue uniforms as the male prisoners entered. I feel ashamed to say that, at the moment, the blue sweatshirts obscured the men's humanity.
But through this class, these men have become my friends. Not just collaborators, not just participants in an assignment, but human beings.
"Everyone thinks we're horrible," Bill said. "This outside perception just messes with your mind, I sometimes just feel like an outsider. Invisible. The embarrassment factor is always there. You build up that wall, and I feel it coming down already." Bill really believes that the long-term program will help make the difference he needs to change the direction of his life. "I want to be there for Alyssa [his nine-year-old daughter]. She needs me and I need to be there for her."
The "Telling My Story" panel on Tuesday night featured ex-inmates who had graduated from the program and were gathered to speak about their experience. Charlotte, one of the women, attributes her emotional growth to the program. "I was scared," she said. "I wanted to get out of myself though, and it was one of the best things I ever did. It wasn't just about me being a teen mother, a drug addict and my criminal record it was about the fact I was working hard to move beyond that and be myself."
Kim, another ex-inmate, explained, "No one wanted anything to do with me. I lost my family, my everything. The program helped me make better choices and it felt like I could finally be honest. This program takes you out of your comfort zone, it makes you get out there."
It was initially difficult to overcome the image of prisoners that had constantly been impressed upon me. During the conversation with Bill at the center, our professor, activist and actor Pati Hernandez, astutely commented, "We are all full of assumptions. The system is present, and the intense challenge of empowering people within the system to liberate themselves always exists."
Many of the inmates, including Bill, Charlotte and Kim, whom "Telling My Story" works with are imprisoned for drug crimes, scores of which are as mild as you would find on any college campus. This fact illustrates how mainstream assumptions about the humanity of prisoners or lack thereof often mask socioeconomic underpinnings of the criminal system, which disproportionately incarcerates the underprivileged.
Jane Copland, program director of the facility, couldn't be more ecstatic about the project. "Pati's program touched me," she said. "During the final performance [over the summer], you forgot you were in jail. I am so proud and so amazed at how courageous everyone was to expose themselves. We need to pay it forward, we need to challenge folks in jails and prisons to get out of their comfortable skin and really examine themselves. It's just incredible."
"Telling My Story" facilitates legitimate dialogue and change, all the while highlighting the fact that people are more alike than different. It's easy to forget that these personal stories exist, that we as a society categorize and label everyone without thinking about the person within the walls. Inmates are reduced to nothing but caricatures of rebellious children, instead of human beings with problems, hopes and fears. We need to look beyond generalizations and take the time to understand the need to move beyond affiliations and preconceived notions. Let's work to break down the walls we all tend to build and try to look at people as what they truly are people.
