monsoonmartin

“Good writer. Bring him over and I’ll show him the other side of corrections.”

So read the cryptic entirety of Larry Chandler’s reply to Curt, who had sent him my "Monsoon Goes To Prison – Part One" posting and mentioned my impending visit.

Larry Chandler, now warden of the Kentucky State Reformatory (KSR), was warden at Luther Luckett Correctional Complex (LLCC) in the documentary film and a loyal friend to the program. He is known to be a progressive but firm warden; in the film he questions the efficacy of the prison system in and of itself (“Do you feel safer?” he asks) and expresses unwavering support for the Shakespeare Behind Bars (SBB) program.

KSR, built in 1936, now overflows with nearly 2,000 prisoners and is part of the same sprawling corrections network in La Grange, Kentucky as LLCC; like LLCC, it is a medium-security prison. And we had a one o’clock Tuesday appointment there with Chandler.

On Monday as we made our way into and through LLCC, Curt gleefully recited the contents of Chandler’s ominous email to the SBB guys, to the chaplain, to Matt Wallace, to his wife—and each time he did so, I got another little butterfly in my stomach about just what “other side of corrections” meant.

We arrived at the prison and as we ascended the steps to enter the ground floor of the “tower” (which houses the administrative offices), the atmosphere immediately felt different. Do you remember when I said I almost felt as though I was in an “office park” rather than a prison when I was visiting LLCC? Well, son of a bitch if this didn’t feel exactly like a goddamned prison: a large, wrought-iron gate had to be unlocked for us to enter, and clanged shut loudly behind us. There were similar metal detectors, but this time we were in a vast atrium with a three-story-high ceiling above us. This is some Shawshank Redemption-type shit right here, I thought, well and truly intimidated by my surroundings.

Making our way through a network of gates and then upstairs on the elevator, we arrived finally at the warden’s office and waited for him in the hall. Curt—who seems to know everyone who works in these prisons—was warmly greeted by a staff member, who sat down and had a friendly chat with us while we waited. In a few short minutes, Chandler came out to greet us—another “character” from the documentary come to life.

Curt and Chandler spent some time in the warden’s office discussing a former LLCC inmate (and longtime SBB participant) who had been transferred to KSR and was now in the “hole” and potentially in a world of trouble. There was even the suggestion that the investigation into this inmate’s wrongdoing may cast an unflattering light on the SBB program due to his prior involvement with it. Though Curt was clearly saddened by this, he expressed his support for the inmate, saying this did not seem like something the man would do; Chandler insisted that if nothing is proven, the inmate will be in the clear and still on track for his parole hearing in 14 months. (Curt asked if we could meet with this inmate, but prisoners in the “hole” may not receive any visitors.)

After this rather sobering conversation, Chandler led us on a thorough, informative, hour-plus-long tour of the entire prison facility. We began in the hospital wing, where Chandler explained that the state government is increasingly phasing out state hospitals for the criminally insane, and that these individuals are now being housed, evaluated and treated at KSR.

We arrived in a heavily-gated, two-story area where the most dangerous psychologically disturbed inmates are kept in solitary confinement behind large doors, each with only a small window into the cell. On each door, signs are posted with such alarming descriptions as “15-minute watch,” “5-minute watch,” and “violent.” As we talked to the staff psychologist and a case worker, inmates—some of whom peered out the small windows in their cell doors, some of whom could not be seen—could be heard banging on the doors and crying out periodically. Inmate volunteers kept watch through the windows in some of the cells, and the staff members carried on about their business calmly. I found the whole scene unsettling—the fact that these individuals are so disturbed, and the fact that the prisons are being so overburdened in this way. My sister-in-law is studying to be an art therapist and has had several internships in mental hospitals with sometimes-dangerously disturbed patients; this experience gave me a small glimpse (and a deeper appreciation) of the challenges she faces in that capacity.

Warden Chandler said that the inmate in the first cell to the left had recently been let out of cell momentarily when he broke free, climbed up a large, chain-link gate reaching to the second-story ceiling, hung upside down, grinned at the onlookers, and dropped headfirst onto the concrete below. Anticipating my question, Chandler said, “and he’s alright.”

So this was the “other side of corrections.” Lest I think that all of prison life consists of agreeable, seemingly well-adjusted men performing Shakespeare, the warden seemed to be saying by bringing me here, take a look at this.

From there we toured the hospital wing, which was dominated by amputees and prisoners who seemed to be near the end of their lives, shuffling through the hallways and lying frailly in darkened rooms. “You ever hear of people dying in prison?” Chandler drawled. “Well, here it is.” An old man in a hospital gown used a walker to move with painstaking deliberation down the hallway with the help of a physical therapist. We visited a man who seemed little more than a skeletal figure in a room crowded with three beds, into which two inch-wide slivers of brilliant sunshine penetrated.

“It’s a gorgeous day out there,” Curt said. “Is it?” the patient asked, absently.

Chandler had told us outside the room that he’d finally relented and recommended the terminally ill inmate be released, as sometimes is done in such cases, but the parole board denied the request.

When we had left the man’s bedside, Chandler told us that they had lost two men over the weekend, who had died of terminal illnesses. “In those cases, do you make considerations for these terminally ill patients, in terms of family visitations?” I asked. He said that he often clashes with other staff and officials in the prison due to his liberal policy of allowing extended visitations to the hospice ward, located in the center of the prison complex. “One of the guys I just told you about, his family was pretty much camped here all weekend with him,” he said. Such acts of mercy are rare, and help to distinguish Chandler as a progressive warden.

After this sobering tour through the hospice and psych wards, we made our way around the rest of the prison complex, thankfully taking in some uplifting sights along the way. We saw three SBB alumni—including Richard, who is featured briefly in the film—now incarcerated at KSR, whom Curt embraced and introduced to me. I was struck by how pleased they all were to see Curt, and he them—and how desperately each one of them wanted to begin a Shakespeare program at KSR. After catching up and advising each inmate on how to proceed, we moved on.

Warden Chandler, who is retiring next year, shared with us some of his proudest accomplishments since coming to a chaotic KSR several years ago. First, the facility is now 100% non-smoking, which is no small feat in a culture where cigarettes have traditionally been used as currency. He showed us the television studio, which has roughly $250,000 worth of equipment and a full studio. I asked how he was able to find room in the prison’s tight budget for such expenditures, especially given the relative closed-mindedness with which taxpayers tend to view prison programs. He explained that all of the funds for the studio come from moneys made on the commissary, from which the prison takes a percentage of the annual profit.

But perhaps his most fulfilling accomplishment will be the Distance Learning Center (DLC), which has survived two years of planning and red tape and is slated to open later this year. This center—the first in any prison in the United States—will enable inmates to take classes at their own pace and ensure that they will avoid lapses in their education when they move from prison to prison. Educational opportunities are embraced by many prisoners at KSR, and the director of the DLC told us that one of his goals was to make these opportunities meaningful and impactful. “Some prisons throw G.E.D.s at their inmates for the sake of statistics,” he said. What he’s interested in doing is something more.

After touring the educational wing—with law library, traditional library, and several classrooms—we were out on the yard.

[In the above photograph, Warden Chandler (in blue shirt, pointing) leads some Kentucky government bigwigs, including the Lieutenant Governor, on a tour of KSR. Here they’re in the yard; in the distance behind them is the rear of the tower, where the administrative offices are housed.]

The “yard,” for the uninitiated, is a common area that allows for inmate recreation and socialization at certain times of the day; our visit coincided with the time of day during which all prisoners not confined to “the hole” or otherwise engaged in studies or work details were allowed to mill about in the yard. To envision the yard, picture a large municipal park (complete with benches, athletic fields and courts, and small pavilions) where everyone is dressed the same, and (at this prison, at least) everyone is male. Oh, and there is a double perimeter of razor wire-topped fences encircling the park.

Some of the men sat on benches and chatted quietly; another played his guitar softly and sang; a group of men played handball on a regulation court; a significant number lifted weights over at the Iron-Pumping Pavilion; still others seemed to be making their way from building to building (i.e., from their jobs to the library) as college students might make their way across a small campus.

There were no guards to be seen, and even the guards present inside the prison did not carry guns or weapons of any kind. (The warden explained that in an “unrestricted movement” prison like KSR or LLCC, it would be dangerous for guards on the ground to be armed, since an inmate could take such a weapon and cause some serious problems.) But one could see armed sharpshooters at the ready in any number of towers, constantly surveying the activity below them. Somehow, even with hundreds of eyes following us across the yard, I felt relatively safe. I was with the warden, after all.

Seeing a long line snaking into a pavilion attached to a small building in the yard, the warden called out to us, identifying what was happening: “Pill call.” According to Chandler, more than 85% of the inmates are on medication of some sort. When I asked him how many are on anti-depressants or the like, he answered, “800 of our inmates are taking psychotropic drugs.” Out of a population around 2,000, that’s 40%. He added, “is it any surprise that 74% of mentally ill prisoners self-medicate?” hinting at a persistent illegal narcotics problem that is all too prevalent at many prisons.

As we walked across the yard, many of the men greeted the warden as he walked past; well aware that some of these cordial greetings were disingenuous, Chandler would mutter a comment to that effect for our benefit now and again. At least ten different prisoners, when they spotted Chandler, called after him plaintively to speak with him about some urgent piece of business—a problem with a job assignment, a requested transfer, a letter that was never answered. Chandler would shout “Well, catch up!” without slowing down even a half-step, patiently listen to the inmate’s request, offer a solution, and continue his conversation with Curt and me.

Having barely caught our breath from the comprehensive tour with Larry Chandler, Curt and I dashed over to LLCC for the rehearsal. As we were making our way to our seats, Ron said, “Wassup, big man?” while he made his way past me and shook my hand firmly. It was great to once again be recognized, to again be welcomed into this tight-knit family.

Curt began today’s meeting by discussing the case of the SBB alum in the hole at KSR, about which he had just learned from Chandler. Curt could not share all the details of the case, which is still under investigation, but the men—especially the veterans of the group—were clearly disappointed and concerned to hear this, since the inmate in question had gotten married last summer to his high-school sweetheart and was looking forward to potential parole in 14 months.

Since we arrived late, SBB dispensed with the warm-ups and dove right into the final scene of Julius Caesar. Twenty men were present in the chapel today—four African American and 16 white. (This was three fewer than yesterday, and I was surprised that at least some of these no-shows may simply have “blown off” today’s rehearsal.) Nonetheless, I was impressed again by the fact that men who would otherwise seldom associate on the yard regard one another as family here.

As the players geared up to stage the scene, it was taking a while to focus some of the group members on the task at hand. The assistant director smiled exasperatedly and called out to me, as if in apology, “it takes us a minute to burn off the excess energy of the day.”

Finally, the troupe was ready to tackle Act 5, scene 5—the last in the play. In it, Brutus and his soldiers enter the stage, stopping to rest in their desperate retreat. Brutus realizes his life will soon come to an end, and that he would prefer to end it himself, so he asks three of the soldiers—Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius—to hold his sword while he runs on it. All three refuse, but finally Strato agrees to help Brutus commit suicide. Antony arrives on the scene to discover Brutus dead and proclaims him “the noblest Roman of them all.”

As was the case yesterday, there are heated discussions about the choreography and staging of this scene, particularly the three refusals to Brutus’ request. Stephen, who plays Clitus, is a smallish man with thick glasses whose thick drawl and lack of self-assurance as an actor make it difficult for him to infuse his lines with the emotion they require. Several inmates offer tips to Stephen, as does Curt, explaining the passion and outrage he must convey. When he runs onstage and tells Brutus (Big G) that Statilius “is or ta’en or slain” (has either been captured or killed), he needs to do so with the utmost alarm. When he refuses Brutus’ request by saying, “What I, my lord? No, not for all the world. … I’d rather kill myself,” he needs to communicate his character’s indignation, his sadness, and his overriding respect for Brutus.

Looking around at the men engaged in the vociferous exchange of ideas, perfecting their performances, it is almost possible to forget one is inside a prison—that is, until one looks out the window at the razor wire-topped fences gleaming in the bright sun, standing quietly against the bright blue sky.

The rehearsal continues with constant conversation about how to carry out a scene. Here and there, inmates will come over and chat with me: one recounts the time he visited Altoona, Pennsylvania with his friend who did the lighting for the Shrine Circus, then went to Hershey and the toured the chocolate factory, then saw Disney On Ice at Hersheypark Arena; Vaughn comes over and runs some ideas by me for the closing sequence; Stephen asks about my classes and laments the trouble he’s having with the lines. They want to hear about my job, where I live—anything or anywhere else than here, and I realize how suffocating it must be to have such a limited geographic sphere of experience.

During all this, Curt plays his carefully cultivated role: at times he refuses to intervene, making brief comments only to gently facilitate, insisting that the inmates figure out the scene for themselves; other times he takes complete control, offering notes, blocking, and elaborating on stage directions.

Ron, who is playing Messala, again takes a leadership role in the production because of his longtime involvement in SBB. He addresses the group and every eye and ear is focused on his words: “Anybody who’s in any scene, you have a purpose—even if you’re not sayin’ nothin’.” During the performances—particularly those for which the actors’ family and friends may be in the audience—it is vital to resist the urge to wave hello. “You are in character the moment you are seen.” The end of the play, Ron explained, is the “culmination of the long, extended intensity of the whole play. Don’t fuck around and ruin it.”

A brief aside here: those of you who know me well understand that I am a connoisseur of profanity—I believe it enriches our communication (rather than debasing it, as some would suggest), and I believe that there are certain sentiments that cannot but be expressed with oaths and swearing. In SBB rehearsals, “dirty” words are tossed around the room with glorious abandon by Curt and the inmates alike. Shakespeare, of course, was a virtuoso of the blasphemous—God’s bodkins, ‘Sblood, Zwounds, I could go on. Since one of the touchstones of the SBB program (and of my own humble existence) is the power of words—to transform, to heal, to reveal, to astound—allow me to share some of my favorite instances of profanity during my visit:

• “He’s safe, motherfucker.” – Curt’s acting note to Lucilius in Act 5, scene 4 
• “Don’t be fuckin’ around with it.” – admonition against using the “swords” for excessive tomfoolery
• “…or some shit like ‘at.” – regional tic of Kentucky dialect, used often in place of “or whatever,” “and so forth,” etc.
• “A whole shitload of guys just waitin’ to kill ‘em…” – explanation of the final scene’s urgency by Curt
• “Son of a bitch, the torch is out!” – Curt’s acting note to Clitus, on his Act 5, scene 5 motivations
• “I have a mouthful of fuckin’ Novocain, did you forget that?” – Big G to another troupe member who had questioned why Brutus’ delivery was muffled, reminding the gentleman that G had undergone oral surgery earlier in the day. (Vaughn’s comment, following G’s outburst: “And still he showed up.”)

The rehearsal wrapped up around 5:15 as some of the troupe members began to drift away to dinner again. As we made our way out of the chapel and into one of the open walkways in the prison complex, I chatted with Stephen Marshall, the inmate portraying Antony, for a while. He asked about the classes I teach and confessed that unlike many of the other participants in the program, he is not a voracious reader: “I can’t stand reading. But performing it is a whole nother thing.” In this final comment, the inmate provided another potent reason why Shakespeare is perfect for a program like this: not only do his plays connect with the heights and depths of the human condition, but they also allow an additional avenue of access—performance.

As we parted company, the troupe members were disappointed to learn that I would not be able to attend any of their performances this year, but I promised to return next year—when they will be performing “that Scottish play” (as Hal noted that superstitious actors often refer to Macbeth).

On the long drive back to Pennsylvania, I thought about what charges could be leveled against this program by its critics. Some might argue that tax funds should not be dedicated to such an activity, and must only be spent on increased security. I’m reminded of Warden Norton’s response when Andy Dufresne asks permission to petition the state legislature for more library funds: “ Far as they’re concerned, there’s only three ways to spend the taxpayers’ hard-earned money when it come to prisons: More walls. More bars. More guards.” And yet it is only this year and next that taxpayer money will be used to fund the aforementioned tangential outgrowths of SBB; still, none of the NEA grant has been or will be used for SBB.

Maybe it’s a question of what we want our correctional facilities to accomplish. Do they exist simply to segregate that portion of our population adjudged violent or criminal, without any privileges or opportunities? In that case, I suppose I can understand the impulse to “let ‘em rot” behind bars for the crimes they’ve committed, the lives they’ve ruined, the victims they’ve left behind.

But what sort of human beings will emerge when their sentences are up and the corrections system heaves them back into our midst? It would seem to me that we’ll get the same ill-adjusted, volatile individuals—only angrier and more desperate because of the idle, festering time they have served.

And finally, it comes down to a choice I have discussed with Curt and with my students about justice: should it be restorative or retributive? That is, should we focus on punishment or on rehabilitation when designing and populating our ever-expanding corrections system?

Programs like the ones I saw in La Grange, Kentucky—Shakespeare Behind Bars, college courses, Distance Learning, and the like, as well as counseling services—are concerned with the restoration of humanity, the cultivation of the individual. These are the transition services Ron was talking about on the first day, and they are creating better-adjusted, healthier human beings who can handle their everyday problems when they are released. The long-term success of Curt’s program—35 SBB participants released from prison and not a single instance of recidivism—bears this argument out.

It is in our best interest as a society to ensure that those incarcerated are offered the benefits of education, treatment, and opportunity, so that they may ultimately be well, and do well.

END.