For all the time I spent on the inside, I never understood why so many guys so often came back to prison. It truly boggled my mind. Like virtually everyone who has never experienced incarceration, I felt tremendous contempt for dudes with more than one "number." (A "number" connotes a separate instance of imprisonment. A prisoner gets a new number, most of the time, when he returns to prison with a fresh case. I say "most of the time" because sometimes the returned prisoner failed to complete the terms of his release on his previous case and he reenters prison on his old number.) Of course, I didn't go out of my way to make that contempt known. The last thing I needed was a throwdown--or worse--with a dude who felt he really had nothing to lose. Still, the longer I stayed inside, the greater my contempt became for those returnees. In my mind, I continued to languish in prison, to a real degree, because of those "idiots". That is, whenever I came up for release consideration, that consideration was inevitably colored by news reports of some former prisoners who went on to commit new and often heinous crimes after their release from prison. Indeed, societal backlash against repeat offenders led to the "Truth in Sentencing" measures of the late '80's and early '90's, which included the elimination of parole in many jurisdictions, and longer prison sentences in most. Consequently, I served 30 years for behavior--admittedly very serious--that I would have served half that time for, if my offense had occurred but a few years sooner So, the longer I remained in prison, the less reluctant I became to give voice to that contempt, if provoked.
While I remain quite at odds with the notion of anyone returning to prison after the good fortune of regaining freedom, I have learned, through my reentry experience, to withhold judgment concerning most repeat offenders. I know, so well, the unavoidable difficulties of reentry for most of us. I understand that, just as every man who enters prison will necessarily come to a reckoning with his sense of self, his truest character--his manhood--most every released prisoner will, likewise, inevitably find himself under siege by his conflicting and all-too-human emotional reactions to the firmly entrenched societal obstacles to his successful reentry that lie in wait for him, primed to pounce upon him, at any moment, to choke whatever desire and determination he may have to walk the straight and narrow right out of him.
Consider that life inside most--if not all--prisons entails an endless parade of dehumanizing and spirit-destroying experiences. For sure, the bulk of the dysfunctional behavior witnessed inside prison flows directly out of the feeling of entrapment in what one infamous former prisoner referred to as "the belly of the beast." The real struggle for survival inside prison is the struggle for the survival of the prisoner's humanity. Most prisoners don't fully realize this, and most don't care. It is enough to get through each day. The emotional weight of confinement, the feeling of being surrounded by an infinite variety of sociopaths, magnified by the all-too-often over the top behavior of prison guards and other staff persons combine to form a sort of perfect storm that wreaks havoc upon the psyche of many prisoners and leaves an indelible dark spot upon the soul of all.
Yes, I've been to some really dark places, inside of me; places that I had no idea existed. Indeed, the greatest fear I felt in prison didn't pertain to anything outside of me. My greatest fear, and my greatest motivation, lay in the perpetual threat of the annihilation of my sense of humanity. So, I determined early in my prison sojourn that I would not allow myself to become the embodiment of the thoroughly distorted and dysfunctional thinking and behavior that everything and everyone around me seemed to expect--no, demand--of me.
The utter truth is that my personal struggle to preserve my sense of humanity was a lonely one. Most of those around me grew to respect me for my studiousness, and my "solid" prison reputation. Moreover, many of my fellow prisoners admired me because I represented a hope that they seemed to have long since relinquished: the hope in the possibility of surviving the emotional terrorism of prison with a yet humane heart, an enlightened mind, and a spiritual sensitivity to the good and true. Of course, most of them couldn't express it like that--and wouldn't if they could. It remains an accurate assessment, just the same.
The point here is this: today I know why most of those who return to prison do so, and it has nothing to do with their incorrigibility, lack of intelligence, unwillingness to change, or anything of that sort. It has to do, totally, with a lost sense of possibility for any real and socially-accepted measure of success. In essence, our prisons turn out seriously damaged human beings, emotionally speaking, and our society adds the icing to that post-traumatic-shock-syndrome-like condition in its refusal to seriously and effectively address their basic needs and residual human aspirations.
I believe that we can do better than that. I have to.
While I remain quite at odds with the notion of anyone returning to prison after the good fortune of regaining freedom, I have learned, through my reentry experience, to withhold judgment concerning most repeat offenders. I know, so well, the unavoidable difficulties of reentry for most of us. I understand that, just as every man who enters prison will necessarily come to a reckoning with his sense of self, his truest character--his manhood--most every released prisoner will, likewise, inevitably find himself under siege by his conflicting and all-too-human emotional reactions to the firmly entrenched societal obstacles to his successful reentry that lie in wait for him, primed to pounce upon him, at any moment, to choke whatever desire and determination he may have to walk the straight and narrow right out of him.
Consider that life inside most--if not all--prisons entails an endless parade of dehumanizing and spirit-destroying experiences. For sure, the bulk of the dysfunctional behavior witnessed inside prison flows directly out of the feeling of entrapment in what one infamous former prisoner referred to as "the belly of the beast." The real struggle for survival inside prison is the struggle for the survival of the prisoner's humanity. Most prisoners don't fully realize this, and most don't care. It is enough to get through each day. The emotional weight of confinement, the feeling of being surrounded by an infinite variety of sociopaths, magnified by the all-too-often over the top behavior of prison guards and other staff persons combine to form a sort of perfect storm that wreaks havoc upon the psyche of many prisoners and leaves an indelible dark spot upon the soul of all.
Yes, I've been to some really dark places, inside of me; places that I had no idea existed. Indeed, the greatest fear I felt in prison didn't pertain to anything outside of me. My greatest fear, and my greatest motivation, lay in the perpetual threat of the annihilation of my sense of humanity. So, I determined early in my prison sojourn that I would not allow myself to become the embodiment of the thoroughly distorted and dysfunctional thinking and behavior that everything and everyone around me seemed to expect--no, demand--of me.
The utter truth is that my personal struggle to preserve my sense of humanity was a lonely one. Most of those around me grew to respect me for my studiousness, and my "solid" prison reputation. Moreover, many of my fellow prisoners admired me because I represented a hope that they seemed to have long since relinquished: the hope in the possibility of surviving the emotional terrorism of prison with a yet humane heart, an enlightened mind, and a spiritual sensitivity to the good and true. Of course, most of them couldn't express it like that--and wouldn't if they could. It remains an accurate assessment, just the same.
The point here is this: today I know why most of those who return to prison do so, and it has nothing to do with their incorrigibility, lack of intelligence, unwillingness to change, or anything of that sort. It has to do, totally, with a lost sense of possibility for any real and socially-accepted measure of success. In essence, our prisons turn out seriously damaged human beings, emotionally speaking, and our society adds the icing to that post-traumatic-shock-syndrome-like condition in its refusal to seriously and effectively address their basic needs and residual human aspirations.
I believe that we can do better than that. I have to.
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