Finding freedom in the confines of prison

It was 1993, and I had been making my weekly 30-mile trek from my little cottage in the hills outside Austin, Texas to Bastrop Federal Correctional Institute for the better part of a year. Each Thursday, I worked with the male inmates in the prison drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, and afterward, I taught creative writing to any of the men who wanted to join our group.

During my drive this day I recalled my first trip to Bastrop a few years earlier. I remembered my own deep fear of stepping inside the prison walls, perhaps because of youthful offenses I’d committed that could have landed me behind bars, including the cultivation of marijuana. And I remembered my strong desire to be of service to these men that I didn’t fully understand, but that propelled me forward. Nonetheless, when I first heard the stories of transformation from my friends who had been volunteers at weekend workshops for the inmates, I avoided participating for a year or more. My entire body literally tightened up (yes, especially that part) at the imagined sound of that big metal door slamming shut behind me.

When I finally stepped forward, it didn’t take long to realize that the inmates were guys much like me, with similar abilities, dreams, passions, unexamined beliefs, blind spots, and fears. And, of course, transgressions that had been committed. I connected at a deep level with a number of the men, broke bread with them, rejoiced with them, cried with them, and supported them to grow and to make a fresh start. The compassionate Colombian attorney convicted of money laundering who served as translator for the numerous Spanish-speaking men at Bastrop. The Caucasian writer who was a model for those who wanted to quit blaming others and take responsibility for their own lives. The Native American artist who had killed in a fit of rage and would likely spend the rest of his days behind bars for it. The bond was more transient with some men. The taciturn African American, hard as a rock, who one day let a silent, solitary tear slip from behind his sunglasses.

I saw imprisoned men literally living lives of monks. I saw them adopt new ways of being, taking responsibility for their lives, cleaning up their past, learning to trust, yes, even to love. And I knew that if they could do that while incarcerated, I could no longer wallow in the prison of my mind. I could no longer make excuses and blame others for my shortcomings. I could no longer let my fear hold me back. I could no longer be a spectator. I would embrace my past and live my life fully from that point on.

With support from my friends inside and outside the prison, intensive workshops, my men’s group, and a great deal of personal discipline, I set about creating the life that I had previously only dreamed of. To reclaim my integrity and my authenticity, I committed to consistently tell the truth and keep my word, to forgive and ask for forgiveness, to atone for my misdeeds, and to seek reconciliation. Closure with former wives and lovers and acceptance of family members just as they were. Clearing up my credit card debt and my hefty bar tab left over from the Eighties. Earning my living as a writer and depositing $10,000 in savings. From time to time, I would almost collapse at the enormity of my task, but my path was clear.

If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. I heard that from more than one of the inmates at Bastrop. How many of us, I wonder, continue to do time for our real or imagined offenses—some of us behind barbed wire or concrete barriers, some of us in our mental prisons of lies, pretense, fear, guilt, or shame? During my brief stretch at Bastrop, I believe that I helped some of those guys find freedom within the confines of their prison cells. And, in turn, they helped me break free of the shackles with which I’d restrained myself.

[Note: I wrote this during my stint as an edtorial columnist for the Asheville Citizen-Times in the early 2000s. I also shared it at yesterday’s Jubilee! celebration.]