It's Life; Don't Make It Weird

In spite of prison etiquette's prohibition against asking about other people's time, a lot of guys either ignore or don't know the the rule. When they ask me, I get cagey. I don't like telling people about my sentence, especially short-timers.

What I'm about to say might seem strange to you, but having life without parole (LWOP, for short) used to not be a big deal. Yes, it's the stuff of nightmares and waking existential horror; I just mean that LWOP used to be more commonplace. Everyone I met, my first week in prison, had at least a forty-year sentence. I was just one more kid coming down with a lifetime on his back.

Here in Missouri, the Department of Corrections assigns each prisoner a custody score between one and five, which determines the security level of the facility they're housed. The state's level-five institutions are Eastern Reception, Diagnostic & Correctional Center (where I'm currently confined); South Central Correctional Center; Southeastern Correctional Center; Potosi Correctional Center; Jefferson City Correctional Center; and Crossroads Correctional Center. Being confined to any of these used to mean you were surrounded by level-five inmates—"the worst of the worst," as some say.

However, sometime in the 2010s, probably as a cost-cutting maneuver, the state changed its classification system by doing away with custody level four. Call it "creative placement." The DOC reclassified every level-four inmate and transfered more than a few. Most former level-fours were bussed to maximum-security prisons, to serve time alongside lifers and death-row residents. Those of us who'd been in the system for a while felt the sea change.

Fights and other violent incidents spiked. Drug use worsened. Gang activity increased. Administrative segregation (aka, "the Hole") filled up to the point of needing expansion. The great irony of these circumstances was that it wasn't longtime level-fives causing the ruckus. The former level-fours, mostly younger people, with their comparatively minor offenses and shorter sentences, ran wild while the elder convicts shook their grizzled heads in bewilderment. Codes of conduct went out the window. Over the next ten years, Missouri prisons became the Wild West.

I work with guys who are on the verge of release. Most are within a year of the door. If they found themselves in my shoes, some prisoners say they'd have a hard time dealing with people who are preparing leave. I don't. As I blogged about before (in a post entitled "The Staggering Heartache (or Not) of Coaching Returning Citizens"), helping them actually makes me feel good.

There are awkward moments, though. For instance, during a momentary lull in our Career Exploration class last week, Adam, a quiet, easygoing guy in his mid-twenties, spoke up to ask, "Hey, Byron, how much longer before you get out?"

Our lesson was about the importance of professional networking, so his question might've come from a desire to practice shop talk. Realizing that Adam is only a few months from his release date, I wondered how to tell him without making him feel guilty for broaching a potentially touchy subject.

My reply ended up being a sly demurral, followed by a speedy return to the curriculum: "Okay, we were talking about mentors. What are some ways that we can reach out to people who can help us in our careers?"

At the end of class, everyone gathered their folders and journals and made for the door. Adam hung back. He approached me with a look of nervous contrition. "I shouldn't have asked that," he said. "Brett elbowed me in the side and whispered what was up. I'm really sorry."

So Adam's classmate answered the question for me—kind of a thoughtless move. If I wanted the length of my sentence to be a secret, someone spilling the beans could've caused serious offense. Fortunately for Brett, it's not for my own benefit that I keep my time on the down-low.

Poor Adam couldn't have predicted that he wouldn't want to know the answer. Now the disparity of our sentences loomed over our conversation. He felt bad for bringing it up. This is why I prefer that people not ask.

As much as anyone can be, I'm at peace with the truth of LWOP. What never gets easier to handle are people's startled reactions. The phrase "life without the possibility of parole" inspires pity. (The same response probably greets the phrases "stage four cancer" or "aspiring novelist.") People who hear it act differently.

If there's a lesson to be learned here, it's to check your assumptions. Even in an echo chamber, no two people are identical. Perspectives differ across infinitely variable personal dimensions. My experience is not your experience; my time is not your time.

2nd Opportunity at ERDCC

While serving a twelve-year federal prison sentence for financial crimes, Chicago native Augie Ghilarducci devised and taught a reentry program for his fellow inmates. His program became mandatory in the feds and is now taught in prisons and jails across the United States. Today, 2nd Opp (aka the 2nd Opportunity Program) seems to be his life. Augie travels around the country, functioning as an ambassador for the brand, which not only educates the incarcerated but provides support once they're out, in the form of personal mentorship and referral to much-needed reentry resources.

At Augie's in-person introduction to 2nd Opp a couple of summers ago, the topic excited his audience of ERDCC residents. That eagerness showed in the Q-and-A session that followed—as did their skepticism. When would classes start? Who was allowed to enroll? How could he assure them that classes would actually be held?

"They paid for the program," Augie replied, looking almost confused by the question. "I don't know why they wouldn't use it."

His experience in the feds must've been very different from what prisoners in this state contend with. The audience's doubt was justified. Like so many government entities, the Missouri Department of Corrections is infamous for reneging on promises. Foremost on my mind at the time was the DOC director's plan to reward prisoners' acts of exceptionally good behavior. That plan never took effect. Other people who saw Augie's presentation thought of the many features our Android tablets were supposed to have but didn't, including a means of communicating with medical staff and case managers, an interface for ordering commissary, and other useful apps. I don't have enough space here to list all the vows broken by the DOC.

Another matter is ERDCC's scarcity of structured self-improvement activities. To anyone hungry for a better life, 2nd Opp had obvious appeal: a twenty- to twenty-five-hour course that covers mental health, career exploration, financial literacy, professional development, and higher education—all to prepare students for the door. Despite its life-changing potential, the program seemed doomed to be just another carrot left dangling before our eyes.

And so it was. Two years passed without a peep about it from the prison administration. Even in a place like this, where aborted dreams are the stock in trade and the population clings to vain hopes, residents eventually forgot all about 2nd Opp. Well, most of us did.

A few weeks after I started my job in the prison's Reentry Center, I broached the subject with my boss. He expressed vague recognition of the program's name but couldn't say for sure. He furrowed his brow in thought, then grabbed his keys, abandoned his desk, and said, "Come with me."

We unearthed the 2nd Opp materials—five course DVDs, a facilitator's manual, and 500 student workbooks—from the back of a dusty storage closet. He flipped through a workbook. "This looks interesting," he said.

I pointed to Augie's photo on the back of one of the DVD cases. "Here's the guy who created the program. People got excited when he spoke about it."

"All this was locked in here before we remodeled the building! It looks like solid information. Why the hell haven't we been using it?"

That was my question all along. It took two months for the inquiry to travel up the chain of command, but bigwigs in Jefferson City eventually answered. They gave us an immediate green light to begin 2nd Opp classes here at ERDCC. My boss not only offered me the privilege of facilitating them, I even got my choice of partner to teach alongside.

I immediately chose Wade, a friendly, professional guy I brought onboard at XSTREAM last year, when I was still the team lead. I couldn't forget how well Wade and I worked together, nor how sincerely committed he is to helping people.

We had a WebX training the following week with Augie himself, certifying us to teach the class. He seemed as committed to the cause as when I first met him in the visiting room during his introductory presentation. The Path Forward, his video podcast, is available through our tablets, and its biweekly episodes put that commitment on display as he interviews people who've reentered society and found success. All around, Augie strikes me as being a nice guy. He even sent us T-shirts.

Our inaugural class started in October. We've got twelve students, all eager to learn, all highly engaged with our classroom discussions. As we move through the curriculum, Wade and I expect to touch base with Augie via WebX, as often as the Reentry Center staff can conveniently schedule meetings. Wade and I are eager to see where teaching takes us. More importantly, though, we might get to see our students lead better prepared, more hopeful lives.