Originally published in Heron Dance, Issue 8, April 1996
Florence McNeil and Rose-Marie Sheehan offer Alternatives
to Violence workshops in prisons in central New York state. The workshops
provide inmates with a safe environment in which to open up and confront the
issues of their lives. In late 1995, I spent three days in the Woodbourne Correctional
Facility, a high/medium security prison, with Florence and Rose-Marie. This
is the story of what I experienced and portions of the interview that took place
one day at lunch.
Woodbourne is a huge, sprawling prison surrounded by twenty-foot chain link
fences, topped by razor wire. Our classroom was in the center of the complex.
After our hand baggage was inspected, a guard guided us through security gates,
hallways and a courtyard. Everyone wears uniforms—the guards one color,
the inmates another. This is a different world—a world of dingy hallways,
of white guards and black inmates.
As we walked the prison, we came across inmates mopping the floor; generally,
they would smile and say, “Good morning.” The guards would nod stern-faced
in response. In the classroom, twenty prisoners were waiting for us, dressed
in freshly pressed, green work uniforms. The chairs were arranged in a circle.
I chose a chair and waited while the workshop leaders conferred. The young man
beside me confided, “Oh, man, I am so nervous.” I asked him why.
He said he had never done anything like this before. He asked if I was nervous.
I told him, “Not yet.” When I looked around the room I noticed the
scars. Faces marred by bullets, scars around eyes, on hands, on necks, fingers
missing. The eyes: hurt, kindness, blankness, fear. Over the next three days
of being together in the same room, many of those expression were changed as
we relaxed and friendships took form.
Of the inmates, five had done the course before, in a couple of cases many times
before. They are “facilitators” and helped run the exercises. Florence
McNeil and Rose-Marie Sheehan are the lead facilitators. Both were around sixty
years old. Their white hair and diminutive size stood out among the inmates,
many of whom were large and muscular. Also attending the class was a young woman—a
guest from the outside. During the class, she would confide that she too was
dealing with issues in her life and wondering what role the Alternatives to
Violence Program (AVP) might play in that process.
We started with introductions. Each of us spoke for a minute or so about why
we were taking the course. “I want to deal with my tendency toward violence.”
“Prison has given me an opportunity to explore the issues of my life.”
Then, one of the inmates mentioned that he was in for a violent crime. From
that point on each person said why he was there: “violent crime”;
“violent crime”; “manslaughter”; “double murder”;
“violent crime”; “armed robbery”; “violent crime”;
“violent crime—to protect my family—and I would do it again,
but I am here to find out if I can learn to open up to people.” That established
the tone for the weekend. Once someone said to me: “Everyone in prison
will tell you that they are innocent.” That is not what happened. By-and-large,
these men were taking responsibility for what they had done and wanted to address
their lives. “I want to change my ways.” “I want to stop being
a violent person.” “I want to be a good father for my kids.”
These may or may not reflect the sentiments of the general prison population.
I don’t know. One suspects, though, that the inmates who register for
the class are most often those open to new directions.
After introductions, we each chose a positive adjective to accompany our names
for the rest of the course. We went around the room. Dave might be Dedicated
Dave. I was Writin’ Rod. Florence McNeil was Free Flo, Rose-Marie Sheehan
was Real Ro. Each person, before selecting his or her name, has to go around
the entire room, repeating all prior names. The last person has twenty-four
names to remember; but we helped each other, both remember names and pick names.
By that time people had begun to relax. During the next exercise, we each talked
about ourselves for three minutes—the good things about ourselves. People
kept saying that the opportunity to open up, to say positive things was so unusual.
The process helps people become aware that they have good things to focus on,
to build their lives around. Other AVP exercises do the same thing; for instance,
telling a story of the transforming power of love or how you helped defuse a
violent situation with kindness.
In the process of doing these exercises, it surprised me how little these men
knew each other, even each other’s name. Prison tends to be isolating.
I noticed one inmate who sat erectly, an emotionless but intent look on his
face. He did not talk often but always seemed to be listening. Earlier, he had
told me that he avoided friendships because in prison friendships led to problems.
A friend can get into trouble with the guards and you, because you are sometimes
seen with him, will also be considered suspicious. I asked another inmate about
the quiet man, and he said, “Yes, he is alone a lot, but I do see him
with others—in the computer room or elsewhere—with people doing
positive things with their time.” Thinking on that contributed to the
following comments in the December 1995 issue: “I met a couple of inmates
whose dignity and discipline made a deep impression on me. In prison, the difference
between living a disciplined, positive life, and a life of self-destruction
seems razor sharp.” That example—living a positive life, living
a disciplined life—helps me address issues in my own life.
During those three days, some of the things I learned supported my biases and
some contradicted them. I learned that for the most part, prison is dingy—no
matter how well-lit or clean or well-painted. The central courtyard with its
lawn and flowers and benches, a place of peace and beauty, is off-limits to
inmates, except those who care for it. I also learned that prisons truly are
places of suffering—suffering over mistakes made, years lost, families
missed, as well as desperation caused by the conditions inside. So many talk
of their children: not being able to see them grow up; desperately wanting to
help them avoid the same mistakes they made; wanting to be there to protect
their kids in a hostile environment. You see pain often on the inmates’
faces and in their eyes.
Also, I learned that there are good people in prison. I learned that no matter
what a human being experiences, no matter how much deprivation and abuse and
hatred and violence, the human spirit is still capable of good. As I told the
workshop, I know people who have had every advantage in life and who are mean-spirited.
Many of the people in that prison had grown up in the projects, had lived through
the unimaginable, yet are still capable of and daily exhibit kindness and caring.
Yes, there are inmates who justify, even advocate violence (“I’d
rather be judged by twelve than carried by six”), but there are also men
who are HIV-positive and face the prospect of dying in prison, who devote their
lives to helping their fellow prisoners—positive, disciplined, gentle
people, even if a little resentful.
During one of the exercises, we divided into groups and designed skits of what
life would be like after parole or release. It was difficult for inmates to
imagine a positive outcome. Most come from New York City where the cost of living
is high. The women in their lives are orientated toward money. The choice most
face is working for $6 an hour driving a truck, or $1,000 a day selling drugs.
Most of these men lack education. Due to their culture—dress, speech,
hairstyle—their road is difficult, whether inside or outside the drug
economy. For someone of intelligence and ability, the temptation to do just
one deal is huge.
Many inmates see their lack of competitive skills as elements in a conspiracy
of oppression. The white guard/black inmate ratio is viewed as part of that
structure. When the prison system withdraws funding for college courses, as
it recently did in New York state, inmates see a system that wants them to fail
so it can re-incarcerate them. One inmate, a powerful orator, described the
similarity between the projects and prisons and rat cages: “They experiment
on us just like they experiment on rats.” Many inmates see AIDS and cancer
as diseases deliberately fostered by governments. They talk of how the guards
love it when prisoners kill each other. The parole board is considered irrational,
politically motivated, an integral part of an oppressive system.
Nevertheless, in New York state the statistics indicate that men released after
spending twenty years or more in prison have only a 2% recidivism rate. Florence
McNeil tells me that the men who have endured the really long sentences seem
to come out with a resourcefulness and a will to succeed that allows them to
overcome all obstacles. Prison is like sandpaper—it rubs off rough edges.
The inmates I met, with fifteen or more years of incarceration behind them,
had a tendency toward inner peace and discipline. That is a contradiction, or
paradox, I know. Our penal system is brutal, encourages violence and recidivism;
but you notice a difference, in general, between inmates who have been incarcerated
for a year or two and those who have been in for ten years. I saw an even more
pronounced difference in the man I talked to for a couple of hours who had been
in for twenty-five years.
I am not arguing for stiffer sentences. We do not stop the cycle of violence
with injustice. As even police officers will tell you, more prisons and more
cops will not stop the violence. The answers are much more likely to lie in
inner city youth projects run by former convicts who have turned their lives
around. They lie in teaching inmates marketable skills so they can make a decent
living when they are released. The answers lie in compassion and caring—the
same qualities we want released prisoners to exhibit.
I spent an hour alone with an inmate who had been in prison for almost twenty-five
years. He possessed a rare combination of inner peace and self-confidence. He
had come to terms with a life of brutal limits. Small and wiry, he had spent
many of his prison years teaching school and coaching and refereeing various
athletic programs, in particular boxing. He started out, he said, fighting everybody—other
prisoners, guards. The road to peace was long.
A few years after incarceration, another inmate, a long-termer, told him, “If
you don’t get your act together, the guards will kill you. They have killed
lots of others.” One senses that this is a man who survived by never letting
fear control him. He had a problem with one officer, a guard who operated the
cell doors on his block. The friend suggested that instead of “Open my
cell,” he say, “Would you open my cell, please?” One day he
tried it, and the guard thought he was crazy. A verbal exchange took place.
The inmate was put in solitary lock-up. Later, the friend said, “Say it
again, but this time without venom. I wouldn’t open the door for you either.”
Four or five months later, he tried it again, and this time the guard addressed
him as “Mr.———” and opened his cell door. Gradually,
he started introducing “please” and “thank you” into
his regular conversation. A short while later, he started teaching other prisoners
to read. That changed his life.
He summed up his personal journey this way: “At first I thought I wouldn’t
spend twenty-five years in prison. I was sure I would get released through appeal
or on parole. But as the years went on, I gradually began to wonder if I would
die in prison. I decided that if I was going to die in prison, I was going to
do the best I could. Prisons are about hopelessness. The only way you develop
hope in here is by helping others, and doing it with sincerity. It softens you
no matter how tough you are.”
The role of service in personal transformation was also a primary element in
my interview with Florence McNeil. She said:
I never quite fit in. Before AVP, I had always felt half a bubble off of plumb.
Part of that was my belief in non-violence. Whenever I would say something about
this belief, people would respond, “Yes, but . . . .” In AVP, I
found other people who said, “Yeah, well . . . so . . . what are you doing
about it?” They were working in prisons. I too wanted to do something
positive with my beliefs.
At the time I attended my first workshop, my life was unmanageable. I had been
married three times, twice to alcoholics, and I had raised six kids. We were
constantly moving: the geographical cure. I had made some really bad choices.
When my third husband left, I felt like a germ—like my entire existence
was an annoyance to the planet. There seemed no way out. My life seemed over.
When I say at the beginning of the workshop that AVP gave me back my life, it
did better than that. It gave me back a much richer life than I had ever lived
before. It gave me something to do with my beliefs. It gave me skills in terms
of handling feelings and communicating with people. When I was growing up, the
family motto was, “If it is important, don’t talk about it.”
How do you get past that? For me, work in prison has been a path on which many
of the lessons have to do with opening up.
Before AVP, I assumed that the police rounded up as many of the bad guys as
they could and put them in prison. I had this image of a gang of bad people.
That changed the first time I walked into a workshop. Inmates quickly became
individuals. Many were working on new dreams. I had lost the ability to dream.
I wanted it back again. Some of these men had made bad choices—really
bad mistakes—and so had I. But they were working with what they had. I
began to feel that if they could build new dreams and follow them, so could
I. If these dudes that have been in for fifteen or twenty years are open to
the possibility of things getting better, and are willing to work and walk in
that direction, if they can do it, so can I. Now you see the result: I love
what I am doing, and I feel wonderful. That is what I mean by “Giving
back my life.”
As Florence’s life became increasingly oriented around
Alternatives to Violence, she began spending time each morning in prayer
and meditation.
My dad was an Episcopal priest and my mother was a bishop’s daughter,
so there was a great deal of formal ritual in my religious background. At first,
I had a specific list of things that God should attend to. I had the outcomes
figured out, so He didn’t have to worry. I would remind Him of items on
the list. “This person needs Your attention. I want to say thank you for
this and this.”
Her approach to prayer gradually changed when Florence began attending Quaker
meeting.
Meeting helped me recognize the difference between feeling driven and being
led. Gradually, my quiet time came to be about: “What can I do to help?”
Now, I wait for that sense of being led. I had felt urgency for most of my life.
The shift to a sense of following made my life so much more peaceful and, I
think, more effective.
Sometimes, in my sitting, I will say, “I believe that this is what you
want me to do. If not, you need to close some doors, because I am really going
in that direction.” Sometimes I ask for company, “Help us be aware
of Your presence, as we do this work.” It is not always easy. When I first
connected with AVP, my response was, “Oh, God, not me! Prison? What are
you talking about? Other people can do that. I can’t do that. I am sure
you are not talking to me.” But sometimes you feel a hand pushing you
from behind saying, “Come on. This is what you are going to do now.”
The Native American tradition has enriched my sense of all of this. A couple
years ago in California, my daughter and I came across a herd of antelope. I
was debating what to do with my life, and antelope teaches action. The leap
of faith. When I told my children that a herd of antelope helped me make the
decision to put my things in storage, leave my apartment and concentrate on
AVP work, it made perfect sense to them because they are used to me. I move
that way a lot.
Everything I do is volunteer—I don’t get paid for any of it. I have
said, “Okay, God, if you want me to do this, I don’t want to have
to worry about money. The rent is due, the insurance bill is here. I need some
money in the mailbox.” The response is just as clear: “So, who told
you to worry?” The money never seems to be in the mailbox immediately,
but I usually can’t find the worry either. I don’t get the answer
I want, but I get a very specific answer: “Don’t worry.” The
money eventually does show up, and the month goes on. Often I have not had the
money to keep right up with things, but that has been true for years. I’ve
stopped feeling that I need to keep up if I know I can catch up. I’ve
learned to live very simply. My Quaker meeting has put together a Released Friend
fund that gives me enough money to devote three days every month to a workshop.
I stretch that donation for three weeks. It is great for my morale to have their
support. The Released Friend fund allows people who can’t spend three
days a month in prison to participate. So I get a check from the Quaker meeting
for between $150 and $300 a month. I rely heavily on this.
Over the last six years, Florence has done about eighty-five AVP workshops,
sometimes with no one else from the outside. I asked her if she is ever frightened.
No, what I feel in that environment is pain. I feel completely
safe with these people. I know that the inmate facilitators, many of whom have
become my close friends, really care about us. I feel completely secure. I don’t
feel threatened by the other participants either. But there is a tension inside
right now. There is a lot of explosive energy.
Working with inmates who have been in for a while is often like working with
monks. They have that same contemplative wisdom and insight. In each workshop,
there are usually two or three people in their fifties or older who immediately
sense how the exercise relates to life. Their insights make the course more
available to the younger inmates. They talk about their spirituality, how it
manifests itself. How they are conducting their search, their seeking. That
is great company to be in. It is very enriching.
AVP is based on the conviction that there is good in everybody. We walk in here
and that is who we speak to—the good person inside of each of us. Most
of the time, it is the good person who responds. Our impact, as outside people,
is based on the fact that we see something good in here. You sense very quickly
how important that is to inmates. We come as volunteers; the inmates know that
and appreciate it. We hear over and over how much it means to them that we will
spend three whole days in prison, when we could be doing all kinds of other
things.
The last six years of AVP work have been a great lesson, rather than a great
drain. I’ve received much more than I have had to put out. At the same
time, there is a terrific cost in terms of bearing other people’s burdens.
Sometimes you just want to run away. Enormous pain. More than I had expected.
Mother Teresa’s phrase: “Fidelity is my business and success is
God’s business” has been a weight off my shoulders, but sometimes
even fidelity is hard. There is a price to sharing the lives of people who are
suffering. Today, one of the inmates, a good friend, left the workshop to bathe
and shave and dress a man who is dying of AIDS so that he would be ready for
a visit. The man is ninety pounds, and he may not live through the weekend.
That is a willingness to be present for suffering. Running away is easier.
Alternatives to Violence: Guides to Transforming Power
(From a card handed out at the end of the workshop)
1. Seek to resolve conflicts by reaching for common ground.
2. Reach for that which is good in others.
3. Listen before making judgements.
4. Base your position on truth.
5. Be ready to revise your position, if it is wrong.
6. Expect to experience great inward power to act.
7. Risk being creative rather than being violent.
8. Use surprise and humor.
9. Learn to trust your inner sense of when to act.
10. Be willing to suffer for what is important.
11. Be patient and persistent.
12. Build community based on honesty, respect, and caring.
