Story by Matt Henriksen
I had been making art all my life when I started teaching for the Prison Story Project in 2014 and learned that art has the power to heal. Somehow I had written poems for over thirty years without acknowledging what I was after, but the incarcerated people we have worked with reminded me what art is for: we go to it because our lives depend on it—if not our physical lives then our psychological, emotional, or spiritual lives. The incarcerated writers we work with have come to art hungry for something invisible that will sustain them.
Recently, a friend of mind reminded me something her teacher, Ram Das, said: healing is the ability to be at home with change. There is no “cure” for being alive in this brutal world. We just need to be okay with being here. Teaching in the prisons showed me that there is not so much separation between those who are incarcerated and those who are not. The physical walls that serve as a boundaries between those who are incarcerated and those who are not delineates the arbitrariness at the essence of all our circumstances. There are many people on the streets who could just as easily be in prison, and many people in prison who could easily still be on the streets. The bigger boundaries—fear, uncertainty, death—unify us all.
I recently visited Marlboro College, a tiny liberal arts school in the Green Mountains of Vermont, to present the Prison Story Project’s work, at the invitation of Dr. Bronwen Tate, Professor of Literature and Writing, a fellow poet and a dear friend. Seven Marlboro College students spent several weeks studying two Prison Story Project scripts and discussing books and films dealing with mass incarceration, under the direction Dr. Tate and of Dr. Jean O’Hara, Professor of Theater and Gender Studies. The one-credit course would culminate in the students, along with some staff, presenting a performance assembled by Dr. O’Hara of the two scripts—”On the Row,” written by men on Arkansas’ death row, and “Stories from the Inside Out VI,” written by incarcerated women.
On the morning of Friday, February 15, I modeled for students and staff the methods we use in our generative workshops in the prisons. Our generative writing workshops forgo the critique process but are intended to give writers the tools and empowerment to tell their stories, perhaps in ways they had not been able to do previously. I first discussed how we engage with communities at work in the prisons and how we build temporary communities of artists between teachers and incarcerated people. I then led the group in two writing exercises that we have used in the prisons and shared interactions we’ve had with incarcerated writers through the prompts. Some participants in the Marlboro College workshop shared the results of their writing exercises, and I shared work from our incarcerated writers, while telling stories about the men and women behind the work. While it sounds fairly simple, a number of us shed tears. The creative work that incarcerated people produce and generative workshops themselves can bring up intense emotions. The sense I got from workshop was that we all felt we can bring art into our own lives and the lives of others to help heal. Art doesn’t have to be artificial. It can help us survive whatever it is that makes living hard for us.
That afternoon, I met with the class who would perform the work, had dinner with them, and then sat in for their evening rehearsal for the next evening’s performance. The Green Mountains, of course, are very snowy in February, and to protect the stage at the intimate and attractive Whittemore Theater, a semi-circular theater with elevated seating, the students rehearsed in their socks, with their snowmelt-dripping shoes left off stage. While the day’s activities showed me that the students had deeply engaged with issues of mass incarceration during and previous to the class (one student had a formerly incarcerated family member, another had been studying the workings of prison systems since he was twelve), the rehearsal showed Marlboro College’s cross-disciplinary spirit. I’m a poet, so standing in a circle with others saying tongue twisters, blowing raspberries, and playing other “loosening up” games was a new experience for me. Dr. O’Hara insisted I join their circle, and, after talking earlier in the day about the circle-building activities we do in the prisons, I didn’t feel I had the right to say no. I had fun, though I’m glad there’s no video.
Probably one of the hardest parts of working for the Prison Story Project is rehearsing the scripts. Our mission is to bridge the gap between the incarcerated and communities beyond prison walls. It’s nerve-wracking to watch actors, whether they’re trained professionals or college students, try to represent the crucial expression of people who have been silenced and need to be heard. The impossibly hard part of our work is the responsibility we take for carrying the stories beyond the prison walls, but that’s the core of our mission. However, the students poured their hearts into the script, they knew how important it was that these words be heard, and Dr. O’Hara and Dr. Tate gave so much sage advice and emphatic encouragement that I was sure the students would pull it off the next night.
However, for the public performance on Saturday, February 16, the students completely blew us away with how they carried the words of incarcerated men and women. Three men and six women presented to an audience of students, faculty, and locals. I could have heard a pin drop during the forty-five performance. Dr. O’Hara had taken two different scripts and weaved the words of incarcerated women with death row inmates, giving the audience a broad view of the differences and similarities in the experiences of incarcerated people, and the students’ engagement with every line of that script brought the audience into contact with the writers of those lines. Throughout my time with the Prison Story Project, it has been amazing to see professional actors, community volunteers, prison activists, and now students carry this work to the public, to see how many different types of people can center on the voices of the incarcerated people and make them not so silent.
Prison Story Project performances are always a shared experience between actors, incarcerated writers, and the audience. After the performance, we had a long and emotional question and answer session. The professors discussed their work, the students described their experiences with carrying the voices of the incarcerated, and I discussed the Prison Story Project’s work in further detail, along with the impact it has had on my life. It was a conversation that didn’t feel like it should end, and I received lots of individual questions, connections, and gratitude afterwards.
It’s hard to imagine that any of those who shared in the experience won’t carry some of the words from our incarcerated writers with them. I imagine several people took a little inspiration away to find their own ways to do good in the community or to find healing for themselves. At a time when we’re confused if not a bit brutalized by the world, it was amazing to spend the weekend hearing from silenced voices that we can work together toward healing and that art is a powerful tool for that, especially when we use it to hear each other.