Teaching sociology in a maximum-security correctional facility is often met with surprise and concern. Many people wonder if I feel fear in such an environment. However, the narrative I wish to share is not about the transformation of my students; it is about my own journey and growth through this experience.
For over ten years, I have been involved in educational programs within the prison system, working closely with individuals affected by the criminal justice system. For the last three years, I have made the weekly journey to a Connecticut state prison, navigating through security measures and entering the education wing to teach college-level sociology.
My motivation to teach in prison stems from a deep respect for those who have supported me throughout my life, enabling me to thrive and give back to the community. Growing up in Harlem during the crack epidemic, I faced numerous challenges, including living in public housing surrounded by violence and despair. Yet, amidst these hardships, I was also enveloped in love and protection.
The older individuals in my neighborhood, many of whom were entrenched in street life, recognized my potential and actively steered me away from their lifestyle. They would often say, “You’re smart; you’re destined for something greater.” This kind of guidance and care is often overlooked in narratives about urban life, but it played a crucial role in my success.
I did not escape my circumstances due to any extraordinary talent; rather, I was fortunate to have people who believed in me and helped me envision a brighter future. I carry their support with me into the prison classroom, teaching not out of obligation but as a way to fulfill my purpose and to inspire others to see the possibilities that life can offer.
Each week, entering the prison requires mental fortitude. The multiple security checks and the sound of doors locking behind me serve as constant reminders of the environment I am in. Despite knowing I will leave after class, I find the experience to be a complex blend of beauty and sadness. The beauty lies in the connections formed in the classroom, while the sadness stems from the reality that many of my students may never experience life outside the prison walls.
My students, some of whom have spent decades incarcerated, arrive eager to engage in discussions. We delve into topics such as race, class, power dynamics, and social structures. We analyze films and challenge societal norms. However, it is the spontaneous moments that resonate with me the most, such as when a student relates a sociological concept to their own life experiences, exclaiming, “This reflects my reality.”
One particularly memorable instance occurred during a group debate. I divided the class into small teams to analyze a text through various sociological lenses. As I observed, I witnessed a passionate discussion among 15 men, each serving lengthy sentences, as they debated the merits of different theories. Their conversations were profound and intellectually stimulating, showcasing a depth of understanding that often goes unnoticed. I remarked to them, “This is the brilliance the world fails to see.”
Society often harbors misconceptions about incarcerated individuals and their capabilities. Yet, in that classroom, I witness these men engaging with complex theories and challenging each other’s perspectives. Although we cannot document these moments, they are significant and deserve recognition.
On another occasion, I asked my students to reflect on their emotional experiences. One student initially stated, “I don’t cry; it doesn’t change anything.” However, after completing an assignment where he wrote a letter to his younger self, he read it aloud and broke down in tears. The room fell silent, and instead of ridicule, he received support and understanding from his peers. In that moment, we cultivated an environment where vulnerability was met with compassion, even within the confines of a prison.
These experiences have compelled me to reevaluate my role. I no longer see myself merely as an educator or administrator; I have come to understand the importance of serving those marginalized by society. I have begun to question the barriers we create between academic institutions and the communities surrounding them. Universities, especially those with ample resources, must extend their reach beyond traditional students.
Throughout my career, I have worked to ensure that my influence reaches beyond the campus boundaries. I have sought to connect faculty and students with re-entry programs, support formerly incarcerated scholars, and create opportunities for others to teach in correctional facilities. My time teaching in prison has grounded me, highlighting the thin line that separates my life from that of my students, reminding me that my path could have easily mirrored theirs.
The United States has the highest incarceration rate globally, housing a significant percentage of the world’s prisoners despite being a small fraction of the global population. Many individuals in prison come from communities that are over-policed and under-resourced, similar to the environment in which I was raised.
Despite this reality, some argue against providing education to incarcerated individuals, claiming it misallocates resources. I firmly disagree. Education in prison is not a privilege; it is a matter of human dignity. It acknowledges that individuals can change when given the opportunity to reflect, grow, and envision a life beyond mere survival.
If higher education is genuinely committed to equity and access, we cannot restrict our classrooms to those with flawless academic records. The men I teach do not require saving; they need a platform to grow, question, and contribute. Our institutions must recognize their value, as any university that professes to care about justice and humanity cannot overlook those who have been cast aside.
Every day, I am reminded that my achievements are not solely my own. I reflect on what it means to repay a debt that cannot be quantified. I honor those who believed in me before I had faith in myself. I stand on the shoulders of individuals who lacked the opportunities I was afforded, and I carry their legacy into every space I occupy, especially those where others have been forgotten.
One vital lesson I have learned is that our gifts are not meant to be hoarded; they are meant to be shared. Teaching in prison is my way of honoring this truth.