Teaching race theory and critical theory in a prison is indeed a rare experience.
The New York Eastern Correctional facility is a maximum-security state prison located in Ulster County, New York and, surprisingly, it is widely known for its talented and accomplished Debate Team; yes, debate team! In 2015, debaters from the prison defeated both the Harvard University and the United State’s Military Academy at West Point’s debate team. So when I received an invitation to lecture there, my apprehension and excitement coalesced into a desire to be instrumental in the cognitive development of citizens who are otherwise considered dubious.
According to a RAND study, recidivism rates decrease for prisoners who participate in educational programs while incarcerated. On a humid night in April of 2018, I observed that much more is at stake—the limits of intellectual imagination.
I learned about the Bard Prison Initiative (BPI) from many of my colleagues at West Point who also occasionally teach there. BPI educates qualifying inmates and awards Associate and Baccalaureate degrees to those prisoners who complete a rigorous and comprehensive curriculum. Upon invitation to teach there, I reflected on the moment of tension given the events in Charlottesville, VA. I titled my lecture “The Implications of Iconography and Confederate Memorialization.”
My goal being to explain and facilitate a conversation about the agency in historic markers and monuments, and, perhaps, arrive at a deeper understanding of the power we derive from them. I also wanted to address the question of the value of memorialization or preservation of history? I also wanted to address Ta-Nehisi Coates’ provocative memoir Between the World and Me, to ultimately establish the significance of perspective and empathy—the inmates left me shook!
Imagine my nervousness at the thought of entering the fortress at the base of the Catskill Mountains in full dress uniform—the grey gothic-like structure demands respect from any interlocutor and resemble an ancient medieval castle. And never in my wildest dreams did I think that, in the United Sates Army, I’d find myself preparing to teach inmates in a state prison.
Last summer, cadets and I walked the cold corridors of Death Row at the Louisiana State Penitentiary (Angola), in military uniforms I might add, as part of an annual Civil Rights Staff Ride. I remember feeling like a curious onlooker at a zoo, or maybe it seemed more like a dog kennel. I couldn’t even lock eyes with the inmates sitting in those desolate cells and I remember thinking how animalistic they may have felt as we all gazed at their condition, albeit many deserved to be there. So prior to my entry into the prison, I sat in my car in the parking lot of the correctional facility wondering just how to spend two hours of lecture time. I tried hard to block out Angola and many of my assumptions about prison life.
As I entered the prison, almost hypnotized by the clanging of the bars, the hard cloudy glass, and the cracked and glossy concrete pavement, the topic of my lecture changed. The place conjured a strange sense of resemblance; it smelled like my old elementary school, but also looked very similar to the corridors of Thayer Hall at West Point itself. One of the prison instructors told me that the yard was quite pleasant, as it offered a great view of the Catskill Mountains in the spring. A paradox indeed, how can a prison yard be pleasant, perhaps to free men. Upon viewing the yard, it resembled a large animal pen, despite the flowers in spring.”
I must admit, preparing to teach that night was nerve wrecking and somewhat nostalgic. My guess is that the fortress-like structure must have resembled many of the prisons in movies that I’d watch growing up—The Hurricane, Malcolm X, Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, and more.
The inmates wore green outfits and carried net bags; their demeanor indicated men who wanted to lie down after a long day of laborious work. Walking to my classroom, my question to my fellow instructor seemed surprising: “What is the racial demographic of the jail?” Turning to another colleague, she replied, “I’ll let you answer this one.”... Another colleague explained approximately “60% African American, 30% Hispanic/Latino, and about 10% White.” After hearing this, my assumption was right, that my classes at West Point are a microcosm of this demographic, by extension, a microcosm of society; sadly, I was right.
Walking down the general population hall, many of the black inmates seemed proud to see me in my dress uniform. I knew that I would be a spectacle and the comedic salutes and “Yes sir’s!” I received on the way to my assigned classroom resembled the same taunts I received while wearing my JROTC uniform in high school.
I wasn’t surprised though; I figured that my reception would spark a varied response. Entering the classroom, the inmates sat up and gave me their full attention. I shook everyone’s hand and introduced myself. The demographic was as expected—17 African American, 2 White, and 1 Hispanic male. I chose to focus heavily on race theory and not only iconography and Confederate memorialization. The germ of these issues lies in the implications of Coates’ work and the history of the institution of American slavery.
As I began to speak, I marveled at the childlike wonder in their eyes. I could only imagine what they might have done to be in a place like this; although, and I admit it, it didn’t matter much to me at this point. I knew very well that given particular circumstances, I, at one point, could have been on the opposite end of this lecture. But somehow, they seemed at peace with the discourse; the camaraderie of the room was obvious. The pensive stares, the attentive nature of the class, and the obvious concentration to the material all functioned to transform this classroom from a place of bondage, to a seminar of free thought, independent ideas, and civil discourse.
I began to talk about power, class, race, ideology, consciousness, integrity, organizing, and education. I conjured Franz Fanon, James Baldwin, Ralph Emerson, Ralph Ellison, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Toni Morrison, and even Plato; they knew ALL of it! They even knew the great philosophers, poets, and scholars that the aforementioned thinkers read. For nearly two hours, I experienced the capability of a circumscribed body. The wonderment in their eyes must have been validation of their long hours studying and pontificating about the contents of the books they fought so hard to attain, the very sources of information many people neglect.
I certainly didn’t tell them anything new, they understood and elaborated on all of the material, and in a moment while expressing the implications of a Hegelian Master/Slave Dialectic, it hit me: I’ve seen more people of color in this prison than I have at West Point in the last two years of my teaching here. Upon this realization I became angry and redirected my comments toward the subject of fear. This in part to discern how and why so many of them sat in this place at all. Although I never addressed it, nor inquired, I found myself curious of the day-to-day routine in that place, and more, the actions that must be taken in the name of survival. I tried hard, and succeeded, to not equivocate the cadets’ disposition at West Point to that of the inmate in prison, but we concluded that the cadets occupy space in a similar Plutonic cave. The nature of control seems similar, only the cadet cave is a lot more accommodating and noble. We spent some time differentiating the governing spaces that Plato outlines in in Book 8 of The Republic, the transitioning of spaces was of most value here.
As we negotiated the complex theory, I found it hard not to address that the disposition of the inmates in my room is the very example of slavery, and the statistic that spells out the disproportionate rate of imprisoned minorities has much to do with the residual effects of our nation’s shame. I am fortunate that the Army underwrites initiatives such as these: the continuation of the important discussion about the nature of racial politics in our country.
As I prepared to close my lecture, an inmate raised his hand and offered the most sincere proclamation of thanks: “thanks for being an advocate for education” and “thanks for being a change agent.” Those words, spoken by an inmate, validate my inquisitive spirit. Afterwards, while shaking hands, another inmate, bald and black like me expressed a compliment with great pride, “I see so much of myself in you.” This proclamation coupled with the desire for me to return to speak again.
And so I left the prison sad and simultaneously grateful. The idea that men in a place like that ponder about ideas that transcend their physical state seems seductive; and sadly in places of darkness, a little light may enable the greatest of sight for these inmates. The level of thought, feedback, perspective, and engagement was amazing to witness and learn from myself, only the paradox lies in the fact that the bars that hold those men also inform the rich perspectives they shared. Perhaps one day we might benefit from the minds of the men I spoke to tonight. Until then, I’ll keep teaching!
Comments