The brick walls of our huge classroom are painted a cheery yellow. And we work hard to create a wholesome, pleasant atmosphere. But there are no windows. I teach at the Arizona State Prison Complex in Tucson, Arizona. My students are male felons ranging in age from 18 to 72, serving sentences of 1 to 45 years, with academic skills levels from pre-1st to 10th grade. In our school, the student uniform is blue jeans, a blue shirt, and regulation shoes.
Arizona requires inmates assessed below 8th grade levels in reading, language, or mathematics to attend school. Not surprisingly, many mandatory students arrive in my classroom with attitudes. Usually within two weeks, students drop their defenses and become aware of the nourishing classroom climate in which they work for an optimal three hours each day—unless we're locked down. And in time, inmates abandon their pessimism regarding the attendance requirement and discover a new academic sense of self.
Typically, I have two classes of 15 students each day. Three to six teaching assistants, inmates working at college levels in the major academic areas, help out. Our classroom configuration is constantly changing. Inmates leave without notice, transferring to other yards or prisons. Likewise, new students from the long waiting list arrive to replace the old. And the new guys are thrown into school after absences of 2, 10, and even 30 years.
Incarceration, mandatory education, and the freedom to learn present confounding and novel realities for the inmates. These men are not exactly happy on their first days of school. I often observe what I call "the two-week thing" with new students. Mr. S, a 52-year-old executive chef, father to several and grandfather to more, clearly puzzled, sat with his mouth open, blurting questions during his first two weeks. He later admitted that he believed everyone thought inmates were stupid, and he hated that.
Mr. G, 38, a second-time inmate, father of three incarcerated children, grandfather of two, and husband of an inmate at the women's unit in Tucson, seethed during his initial two weeks. Later he said that he felt vulnerable, like an open sore, stupid at first, defensive, and embarrassed to be in school. After all, he had earned his GED a few years back. He admitted that it was scary at first and that he was angry that he had no choice about being in school.
Mr. Y, a 19-year-old kid with two children in another state, said that the walls make him go crazy, that at first he had nightmares, and that he thought he was going "wacko" in prison. Mr. Y had no recognition that school could be a safe haven where he had the freedom to grow.
Walls of Inspiration
On the north side of our classroom is our "Wall of Inspiration," covered with original writing and artwork by inmates and named by a teaching assistant long gone to another prison. Tables and chairs are arranged in groups, with a teaching assistant leading four or five students each session. A book cart holds dictionaries and thesauri, reference books, and flash cards. Student work is displayed all over the room—outstanding math papers in "Einstein's Corner," book reports on the "Dudes' Book Club" wall. Sporadic inspiration moves students to clip newspaper articles for the current events bulletin board. These classroom amenities help students embrace a sense of personal involvement.
During a discussion, my students share their beliefs about education. Mr. R, a talented teaching assistant, feels that learning should be enjoyable and that teachers need to inspire their students. The consensus is that it does count when teachers are compassionate and respectful of students. According to Mr. G, "If a teacher isn't respected, they have nothing coming." I realize that this attitude typifies the inmate mentality of holding others accountable—and I allow that viewpoint to prevail for the greater good.
Mr. F, a 25-year-old with dyslexia and a 22-year sentence, believes that a nurturing classroom atmosphere provides a chance for men of various races, religions, and ethnic backgrounds to communicate effectively. Mr. R, 55, a Vietnam vet with organic brain damage and a will to learn like that of no other student in my classes, says that he appreciates teachers who share experiences, knowledge, and different approaches to teaching. According to my students, my willingness to share bits of my life with them allows reality to enter the surreal phenomenon of being incarcerated.
A Second Chance
I remind students whose attitudes slide and whose faith dwindles that education is a golden opportunity. As Mr. F noted, this is a second chance. Invariably, my students had chosen not to complete their public educations the first time around. Most inmates are now willing to receive the attention that they had refused in their earlier years. They work at their own pace, encouraged daily to reach previously unfathomable goals—to learn to read, to learn their multiplication tables, to write essays, to master long division, and to graduate from Fundamental Literacy to the coveted GED class across the hall.
It is truly inspiring to witness these men discover the joy of academics. I get goose bumps when Mr. A, 19, helps Mr. McD, 57, read The Cat in the Hat. Another student, Mr. Y, learned to read books! In six months, his reading scores jumped from the 3rd to almost the 6th grade level. Mr. G says that prison is one big school, and that unlike other prison locations, class is a neutral zone where students can prove that they have self-control. Part of the enlightenment that occurs within the confines of our classroom walls is that this neutral zone is where, as Mr. F points out, inmates become friends. It's a different level of friendship within the classroom, Mr. G attests. And with the warmth, the light-heartedness, and the acceptance, a tremendous amount of scholastic learning takes place.
A profound transition occurs when incarcerated men choose to succeed in school. The elusive spirit of education is tempered by an awareness that learning is a complicated process that takes effort. As students begin to accept their limitations and assume responsibility to achieve realistic goals, they manifest change. Sullen students smile. Silent students ask questions. Angry students offer to help others. Messy papers become legible. Our classroom, in this institutional environment, becomes the place where inmates thrive. We take it day by day, being profoundly thankful when the strength of change takes grip. At last, self-reliance and confidence are able to spark.
When Education Becomes a Gift
Then comes the heavy part. When inmate students become truly appreciative of the spiritual aspects of learning, their education becomes a gift. Our conversations reveal their awareness of the value of learning. Mr. T writes letters—now legible and sensible—to friends and family and actually receives responses. I am gratified to see the students' faces as they are awarded certificates of completion. Achieving perfect attendance, completing books and workbooks with a minimum of 85 percent proficiency, and learning math tables have proved to be motivational for them.
Teaching inmates is as spiritual an experience for me as learning is for them. Here, we manage to achieve a oneness in our quest for academic skills, respect for ourselves, and tolerance for one another.
What is at the heart of a meaningful education? Mr. S put it succinctly when he wrote, "When you think it's not going good, just keep on going. Then you know your heart and soul are in it." The men I teach demonstrate daily the courage to persevere, the willingness to make mistakes, and the desire to achieve what many of them once believed had been lost during their embattled youths. This is last-resort education, and I am wholly dedicated to it. I continue to learn each day in my large, colorful classroom from men dressed in blue.
