When people hear me teaching sociology in a maximum security prison, they often ask me if I’m afraid. Then, they assume I went into prison, shared knowledge and changed the incarcerated students. That’s not the story I told. The real transformation is not theirs. This is mine.
For more than a decade, I have promoted the prison program and worked with individuals affected by the justice system. Over the past three years, I have been on an hour-long drive through barbed wire fences, through metal detectors, and lead an accompanying journey to the Department of Education at the Connecticut Prison to teach university-level sociology.
I long to work with people in prison to respect those who protect me, allow me to survive, thrive and give back something. I grew up in Harlem during the crack cocaine epidemic. Public housing is my home. The foul smell of urine in the elevator, the hunger-induced aroma of candy foods emanated from the corridors, the constant sound of sirens and the fear of youth all shape my early days. However, in these challenges, I also experienced love and protection.
Many older people on my neighborhood are deeply involved in street life. But, they saw my stuff. They never tried to pull me into their activities. Instead, they made sure I left. They often say, “No, you’re smart. What will you do for your life.” This protection and love doesn’t appear in statistics or stories about the hood, but it saves me.
I didn’t do that because I was excellent. I do this because people believe me. They helped me imagine different lives. I carried their love with me as I walked into that prison classroom. What I teach is because I owe debts, not in a way that burdens me, but to walk in line with my own purposes and to see people experience the possibilities that allow me to achieve my dreams.
Getting into prison every week requires mental preparation. I had multiple safety checks before the course started. The door buzzed open and locked behind me. Even if I knew I would leave at the end of class, I would never be happy with the experience. I often describe prison teaching as a wonderful experience. It’s beautiful due to the energy and connection of the classroom. It’s sad because many of my students may never see life outside the gate.
These people have been ready for decades and they are ready to participate. We break down the theories of race, class, power, socialization, patriarchy and other related concepts. We analyze films, problem systems and ask hypotheses. But what I keep most is the unscripted moments, like someone linking sociological theories to their own stories and saying, “It sounds like something happened to me.”
One of the most memorable moments was during a group debate mission. I divided the classes into groups and asked them to analyze the text using different sociological theories. I took a step back and observed briefly. I saw a group of 15 people serving their sentences who enthusiastically debated the theory of structural stress, social learning theory or Marxist conflict as the best analytical lens. These are not superficial dialogues. They are sharp, layered, and theoretically strict. At that moment, I told them, “This is what the world cannot see.”
People make assumptions about incarcerated individuals and their abilities. But they can’t see these people breaking theories, challenging each other and showing the glory of their intelligence. We can’t record it in prison, so moments like this are still limited to the rooms. But they are real. They are important.
Another day, I asked the students to reflect on the last time they cried or heard someone say, “I love you.” One student replied, “I don’t cry. Nothing will change anything.” A week later, after completing the task of writing a letter to a young self, the same student began to read aloud his 8-year-old self aloud and shed tears. No one laughed. No one turned around. Other men gave him attention, encouragement and support. In that room, we created a space where his vulnerability was taken care of even within the walls of the prison.
These experiences forced me to face my goals. I no longer see myself as a professor or administrator. I reflect on the meaning of serving and appearing for people pushed to the margins of society. I began to question the boundaries we put forward between campus and community. Universities, especially those with the most resources, are not just learning institutions for those who are lucky enough to be accepted. We were asked to do more.
Throughout my career, I have been working hard to make sure that I have an impact beyond the edge of campus. I use my position to build bridges by connecting faculty and students to the reentry program, supporting formerly incarcerated scholars, and creating opportunities for others to teach in. Teaching in prison has brought me more roots. As a sociologist, I am keenly aware that few of my students make their paths easily with my life and with my paths.
The United States leads the world with incarceration, and although it accounts for less than 5% of the world’s population, it has more than 20% of the world’s prisoners. According to the Prison Policy Initiative and the ACLU, many incarcerated people come from overly, underwater-deficient communities, such as the one I grew up on.
Yet, even with this reality, some believe that people in prison should not be educated – providing college courses to incarcerated people is an abuse of resources. I heard these arguments and I rejected them. Prison education is not a special treatment. This is the dignity of mankind. It is recognized that people can and can indeed change when they are given tools to reflect, grow and imagine life beyond the permanent existence of life in a mode of survival.
If higher education is serious about equity and access, we will not be able to limit classrooms to students with perfect transcripts and traditional resumes. The men I teach don’t need to save. They need space to grow, question and contribute. Our institutions need them because any university that claims to care about justice, resilience, or humanity cannot ignore the people of our country being locked.
Every day, I think of my achievements that have not happened in isolation. I’m considering what it means to pay off debts that cannot be put into US dollars. I want to respect those who believe in me before I believe in myself. I stand on the shoulders of someone who has never had a chance. I put their investments into every space I enter, especially those who are forgotten.
One of the lessons I have learned is: The gifts we have are not reserved for us. They are to be shared. Teaching in prison is my way of respecting this truth.
