I’m reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

EF 4.3 / Chapter Four: 1990-1992 Months 37-57

*******

I’m excited to see Bruce, my mentor. He’s a bear of a man, big in every way, and through our correspondence we’ve built a friendship that has deepened. I look forward to our weekly exchange of mail and quarterly visits. He now lives in Chicago, having recently retired as a professor. He continues to use his immense talents, and he gives of his wisdom generously with hopes of making societal contributions through his teachings.

Bruce introduced me to his wife, Carolyn, who sometimes accompanies him on visits, and through correspondence I’ve met his daughter and sons. The bad decisions of my past don’t matter to him. My efforts to become a good citizen define me in his eyes. He strives to round out my cultural education by exposing me to art, opera, and theater, and he often stresses the importance of fully investing oneself in the community. Although Windward and other prisoners here don’t understand the motivations of a man like Bruce, I see joy in his expressions as he describes the experience of helping others reach their potential.

After the guards at the desk clear me, I walk down the stairs and through the aisles toward where Bruce sits. An aging athlete, he stands to embrace me and I notice his white hair is a little thinner than the last time we met, though his eyes still shine a brilliant blue. He played as an offensive lineman in college football and it’s easy to see how his size and strength would’ve powered open huge holes for his running backs.

“How’ve you been?” I ask.

“I’m well,” he tells me, then says that he heard from Mark. “He told me to send you his regards,” Bruce says, embracing me.

“What’s he doing?”

Mark was released from prison through parole. With the restrictions that prohibit felons from communicating with each other, I’m losing touch with him except for periodic updates from Bruce.

“He’s working for a friend who owns retail clothing stores, doing well. A guy with his moxie always has a place in sales.”

“No more school for him then? He’s not going to finish his degree?”

“I don’t think so. He’s putting his life back together and his plans probably don’t include much more classroom time.”

“That’s all I’m doing, putting in classroom time, and I’m grateful for every minute of it.”

Bruce reaches over the table to tap my arms. “You’re steady at the gym I see. How much are you benching now?”

I beam with pride. “I’m hitting 315 for triple reps, feeling stronger.” I tell Bruce about my schedule, how I’m now working out twice a day, once before breakfast and a second time during the lunch hour.

“When are you eating?”

“I eat at work,” I explain. “Avoiding the chow hall is still a priority for me. That’s where the chaos in here begins, with the racial segregation and the politics, meaning which power group sits in which section. My parents and sisters send me money for commissary, so I buy packs of tuna, soups, other foods that I eat at work.  Besides that, I can barter my writing or typing skills for sandwiches from guys who work in the kitchen. Great culinary experiences aren’t my priority now.”

Bruce nods his head and smiles. “What did you think of the Monet prints?”

To teach me about art Bruce sends postcards and magazine articles. He describes the great museums of the world and writes that he looks forward to walking through the Prado with me in Madrid, the Louvre in Paris, and the Art Institute of Chicago. He buys me subscriptions to The New Yorker and Smithsonian.

“When you get out I’ve got a whole world to show you. You can visit the Stratford Festival with Carolyn and me in Canada. We’re there twice a year to celebrate the performances of Shakespeare plays.”

“That’s what I need to talk with you about. Getting out.” My time in the visiting room is limited so I feel compelled to turn our conversation to something of more immediate importance. “I’ve got to be thinking about what I’m going to do after I graduate next year.”

“How can I help?”

“Well, a lot’s been on my mind, but I need other people to make things work. I can’t succeed without your help.”

“What’s on your mind?”

I explain to Bruce why and how I need to build a coalition of support.

“Do you want help raising money to hire a lawyer?”

Bruce misses my point so I try to elaborate. “The people who become a part of my network must join me because they believe in me, like you. I’m not interested in buying support by hiring lawyers. What I need to think about is earning support, building new friendships and relationships with people who will support my efforts to earn freedom. I’m not trying to get out now, but I’m trying to position myself for 1997, when I’ll have 10 years in.”

“How should we start?”

“Well, one thing I need is support from someone inside the Bureau of Prisons.”

I explain my relationship with Ms. Stephens and the ways that she has intervened for me on a local level to smooth out complications with her colleagues who block me from receiving library books and other resources I need for my education.

“What I need is the same kind of help from people who have national influence in the system. The obstacle is that I don’t have any direct contact with them. The leaders of the BOP are all in Washington and to them I’m just another prisoner, a number. Ms. Stephens cares because she sees how hard I work, and she goes the extra mile to help me succeed. She believes in me, just as you do.”

“How can someone in the BOP help you?”

“I’m not going to be able to make the progress I need from this prison. There’s way too much violence here and it’s getting worse.  We’re on lockdown at least once each week. I want to stay here until I earn my degree, but at some point after graduation I need to transfer, and I need to transfer to the best spot in the BOP for continuing my education. I’ll need help to identify where that place is and then I’ll need help getting transferred there when the time is right.”

“So what’re you thinking?”

“I read an article in an academic journal by Sylvia McCollum,” I explain to Bruce. “She’s the Director of Education for the entire Bureau of Prisons. Her article describes how she created a new policy that makes it mandatory for all federal prisoners who don’t have a high school equivalency to participate in GED classes. I want to build a relationship with her, to get her support. But I can’t just write her a letter because to her I’m simply another drug dealer in prison.”

“That’s not true,” Bruce counters. He always sees the good in everyone and dislikes my cynicism. “She’s going to see the record you’ve been building, your progress in college.”

I shake my head, disagreeing. “It’s not enough. The culture in this organization is one that trains staff members to consider prisoners as something less than human beings. She’ll only see me as a prisoner, a drug dealer, scum. I need to do something more, something to distinguish myself. I was thinking that we could write an article, a response to her article from the perspective of a prisoner and his mentor. It should describe how the GED is one step toward preparing for release, but it’s hardly sufficient.  Men who leave prison should emerge with values, skills, and resources that will truly translate into success, and a GED isn’t enough.  The Bureau of Prisons should use incentives that will encourage more prisoners to continue their education with college or vocational training.”

“And what’re we going to do with the article? Send it to her?”

“That’s how I need your help. Not only will we have to write the article, I need you to arrange publication. It would be one thing for me as a prisoner to write an article and send it to her. Big deal. On the other hand, if I were to write an article together with you and send it to her, that would carry more weight, more influence because not many prisoners cultivate mentorships with distinguished professors. But the best approach, I think, would be to write an article that we publish together, as the professor and the prisoner. That’s one way I would stand out, one way that she would remember my name, see that I’m different.”

Bruce nods his head and agrees to help. When he returns to Chicago, he promises to make inquiries at the various peer-reviewed academic journals to see what steps we must take to submit an article for publishing consideration. It’s a process that will take several months, which suits my schedule well, as I need that time to finish my undergraduate work.

“What I also need,” I tell Bruce before he leaves, “is a list of all the law schools in the United States. I need to start writing letters to see if any of the schools will allow me to earn a law degree through correspondence.”

“So you’re still set on law school?”

“I’m set on earning an advanced degree, something, anything more than a bachelor’s. I’m going to need unimpeachable credentials that people respect, like yours.”

Bruce is a role model and I’m eager to follow his leadership, to emulate his commitment to society. He told me how he and Carolyn were volunteering their time on weekends to help homeless people in a Chicago shelter write résumés that would facilitate their prospects for employment. Bruce and Carolyn give of themselves, without expectation for return or desire for recognition. Success for Bruce comes when his efforts lead to another person’s independence or happiness. I’m determined to prove myself worthy of his generosity, of the trust and the investment he’s making in me.

*******

This hard plank of steel I’m lying on influences my thought process. I’m locked in this small room with another man who uses the toilet and flushes a few feet to the right of my head. What Bruce and Carolyn do to make life better for so many people gives me a different perspective on humanity.  I know that my motivations lack the purity of Bruce’s, as I’m so much more pragmatic. I want out, so there’s always a selfish component to my actions, and that somehow cheapens them in my mind. I contemplate Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, a concept I learned about in sociology. Until a man satisfies his most basic needs he can’t evolve. My primary need is liberty, and decades may pass before I leave these walls. Everything I do up until then must prepare me for freedom. Perhaps when I’m free from concrete and steel I’ll be able to emulate Bruce more completely. I want to live as that type of a good, kind man. But I don’t know how to reconcile this desire to live with the kindness and generosity of spirit that Bruce exemplifies with the need for survival in a predatory environment.

My philosophy courses have broadened my perceptions, explaining man’s purpose, his relationship to society, his quest for personal fulfillment and enlightenment. I’ve embraced lessons from Aristotle and Sun Tzu among others. Aristotle advises those who follow him “to know thyself,” while Sun Tzu emphasizes that it is equally important “to know thy enemy.”

Know thyself and know thy enemy. I wrestle with these thoughts. I know I must thoroughly understand my strengths and weaknesses. I must use every resource God has given me to become stronger and to grow. Likewise, I must understand my enemies. In my case, the enemies are a corrupting environment, demeaning perceptions, and ugly prejudices I will encounter in the decades ahead, perhaps for the rest of my life. Responsibility to triumph over a system that is designed to extinguish hope and to perpetuate cycles of failure rests with me. Solely.

*******

I’m grateful that Bruce takes the time to visit the American Bar Association in Chicago. He sends me a package of information that includes addresses to every ABA accredited law school in the nation. All of the schools I’ve written to have responded with disappointing news that the ABA prohibits law schools from allowing students to earn law degrees through correspondence. But there’s a sliver of hope that comes in a letter from Dr. Al Cohn, a professor at Hofstra University’s graduate school.

Dr. Cohn wrote that my letter impressed the Dean of Hofstra’s law school, and the dean forwarded the letter to him. Although Hofstra can’t allow me to earn a law degree without attending school there, Dr. Cohn’s letter indicates that he might consider waiving the residency requirement if I pursue a graduate degree. Hofstra has never admitted a prisoner before, he admits, but he admires my determination to educate myself. If I earn my undergraduate degree with an acceptable grade point average, propose an acceptable area of study in which I can specialize, and complete a probationary period of conditional admittance, he will waive the requirements of taking the Graduate Records Examination and on-campus residency. Wow! Dr. Cohn tells me that Hofstra will allow me to earn a master’s degree if I meet those requirements.

I’ve read that roughly 30 percent of American adults have earned university degrees, but fewer than 15 percent have graduate or professional degrees. My aspirations are not to become a lawyer, necessarily, but to earn credentials that others respect. I’m certain that the higher my level of achievement, the more I’ll be able to build a support network, one that will help me transition from prisoner to citizen.

As I contemplate Dr. Cohn’s letter I can’t help but think of Mick Jagger, the rock-and-roll legend. He sings that you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. I may not earn a law degree, but with the opportunity extended by Hofstra University I know that nothing is going to stop me from earning a master’s degree.

*******

I pass my fifth Christmas in prison. It’s now 1992, I’m 28, and in only a few months Mercer University will award my undergraduate degree. This is a big deal for me. Out of more than 2,500 men locked inside USP Atlanta’s walls, I’m the only one to receive a degree. In fact, Mercer hasn’t awarded a degree to any prisoner since I’ve been in Atlanta.

I’m inspired by other men who used their knowledge and prison experience to make significant contributions, like Alexander Solzhenitsyn whose eight years in a Russian prison was followed by three years in exile. His hardship awoke his muse, resulting in such classics as A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and his opus, The Gulag Archipelago, exposing readers from around the world to Russia’s oppressive prison life.

Eight years, whether in Russian prison camps or the United States penitentiaries, is a long time. Through his literature Solzhenitsyn made monumental contributions to society and earned a Nobel Prize, and he inspires me. As crazy as it sounds, a seed is taking root, and I feel the bud of this thought that maybe, through hard work, I can transform the decades I’ll serve in here into something positive.  I’ve begun to accept that I may serve my entire sentence, and I need more examples like Solzhenitsyn’s. Not knowing what I can do for 21 more years, I continue reading about other men who served long sentences.

One such prisoner was Nelson Mandela, the black South African activist locked in prison for 27 years by white authorities between 1962 and 1990. That length of time is comparable to what I may serve, and I take heart that multiple decades did not destroy Mandela. On the contrary, it strengthened his resolve, evidenced by his influence in ending the oppressive policies of Apartheid, and by the position he now holds as a world leader, revered throughout the international community.

*******

I don’t know what it means to be an intellectual like Solzhenitsyn or a leader like Mandela, but I know what it means to face decades in prison. I also know what it means to be a man, and recently I’ve met a woman who’s reminded me of all I’ve been living without.

Her name is Sarah, and she’s a lawyer. We met by chance two months ago when we were in the visiting room at the same time. My father had flown in just before Christmas to spend a weekend with me. Sarah was visiting another prisoner I knew. Under the pretense that I might need some legal advice I asked Sarah for her business card. Yet having lived for so long in an abnormal community of only men, I wanted a woman in my life more than I wanted to know anything about the law.

The dance of seduction begins when I write to her, initiating an exchange of letters. She writes back. At first the correspondence is bland, tame, harmless. Soon the letters between us grow in frequency and in complexity. They’re handwritten now, not typed. I learn that she earned her degrees from NYU, that she contemplates starting her own law firm, and that she’s 30. I also know that she named her cat Snuggles, that she rollerblades, loves aerobics, and is recovering from a broken heart. She’s vulnerable. Through our exchange of letters, I’m coming to know Sarah the woman, and in my world, any connection with a woman is a gift.

Desire creeps into me, threatens me. I’ve been successful in repressing or ignoring these urges that have been dormant for so long, but now they keep me awake. I remind myself where I am, what I went through with Lisa, and the goals I’m working so feverishly to complete.

But another fever takes hold. Every day I ache for a letter from her, for something, any kind of sign that lets me know where this is going, how much I can escalate the heat. I don’t remember what I wrote in the letter she should’ve received today, and like a teenager, I wonder whether I went too far, revealed too much. She must know what’s going on with this exchange of letters, that I want her.

It’s mail call and the guard just flicked her letter beneath my door. I see her stationary, her handwriting, and I pick up the envelope. She wrote her words yesterday, making it an exchange of three letters this week. I’m on her mind.  In the words she chooses I catch some suggestive double meanings. My confidence grows. We’re flirting and we both know it, and I want to see her again. I’m a man in the desert and she’s my oasis.

I graduate next month. Mercer University is honoring me with a ceremony. I can’t travel to the campus, so my commencement will take place inside USP Atlanta, in the chapel. A hundred other prisoners will participate, receiving GED certificates or certificates for completion of basic education classes. Even though I’m a class of one, I’m invited to speak as valedictorian. Mr. Chandler authorized me to invite two visitors, and I’m choosing my sister Julie and Sarah. If Sarah accepts it may be the sign I’m looking for, confirmation that the desire I’m feeling is mutual.