I spent the first week of my
Christmas vacation in Big Bend National Park. I had dreamed of returning to
this beautifully desolate region during my time in prison, so I immediately felt
at home in the park. While in prison, memories of past trips comforted me
during the countless moments of sadness. I’d also imagine future trips, planting the
details in my mind to give texture and definition to uncertain hopes.
I had learned that planning for
the future brought the future into the present. A friendly chaplaincy volunteer
visited me twice a month, and we talked at length about my plans for the
future. All of these plans were dependent on me being granted parole, and
parole was far from certain; so my mentor suggested that I ask instead,
“What am I doing today that will lead me to my desired goal?”
I embraced the exercise with
enthusiasm. I imagined the type of life I wanted to lead when given my freedom.
I knew that I wanted to be free from addiction, so I participated in every program
available to me in order to practice the principles of recovery. Soon, I found myself mentoring others who
were drawn to my positive outlook. Recovery stopped being a future goal, and
instead became my daily reality.
I also knew that I wanted to rebuild
the career I had destroyed. During my downward slide into
addiction, I had succumbed to a paralyzing apathy that made me a liability to
employers. In prison, I shook off the apathy. I worked diligently as a clerk in
a mechanical shop, and brought even greater determination to my volunteer
position as a Peer Educator. For the
first time in many years, I received praise from bosses and coworkers alike. I
am often shocked when I hear people suggest that individuals coming out of
prison aren’t ready to become productive members of the workforce, as if this were
a general rule.
It occurred to me as I hiked the desert trails that my dreams in prison had created a path to freedom, and the vast December sky amplified the liberty. I stopped to look into the blue sky, and grabbed some bottled water from my pack. Big Bend is so dry that visitors must bring their own water; yet it
teems with life. Peregrine falcons
darted playfully above me as I hiked through a canyon, and I could see signs of
black bear along the mountain trails. Purple cacti and thorny bushes with
indigo-colored leaves charmed me on my desert hikes. It surprised me that such an unforgiving environment could produce such living beauty, but it does.
I found such living beauty while
in prison, people who guided me on my path to freedom. I’ll never forget my
friend Michael. In prison, he had envisioned the life he was supposed to lead.
He had an intelligence and discipline that would have led most people to Ivy
League schools. In the mechanical shop, he found a book on how to program
databases and network computers. With no help other than the book, he programmed
a sophisticated database and networked five separate shops together. He became
the de-facto IT manager, almost indispensable.
People in prison aren’t destined
from birth to lead a life of crime, regardless of what some third-rate
criminologists might suggest. Someone had hopes for their future, but something
went terribly wrong along the way. Michael had endured such loveless abuse from
his own father, that a dark core of rage lay hidden beneath his warm exterior.
He was also a Vietnam War veteran, and the psychological scars of battle
entwined with the rage to bring out a shocking violence. By the time I had met
him, he was in his 60s and had spent the better part of his adult life in
prison.
Yet, he had imagined a future
where he could be the loving and gentle father he never experienced. He
practiced this daily, imperfectly at first. He had to apologize countless
times, especially when the rage invaded his eyes and words. Over time, the
gentleness on the exterior permeated the angry core within him, and he no
longer had to restrain the rage. Fatherless men started calling him “Dad.” His
dreams for the future became his present reality. Michael is now a free man. He
is the IT manager for a family-owned business, and volunteers with men as they
make the difficult transition from prison back to the community.
Thoughts of Michael and others
like him arose in my mind during my lonely hikes. The unfriendly land does not
nourish life. I walked along the dry cracked dirt, yet I could see life all
around me. The plants and animals had developed spines and claws to protect themselves, but their determination to survive had given them resilience.
This is what happens sometimes in
prison. The community willfully ignores the painful trauma and neglect that had
taken beautiful lives off track, and they discard and label these wounded
souls: offender, convict, criminal. Prison is one of the harshest places on the
planet; yet, the men and women who live there continue to dream. It’s as if the
dreams someone had for their lives when they were born are seeds that only need
a little water to grow.
Even in the desert, it rains sometimes.
I wake up daily with enormous gratitude
for the life I get to live today. Years ago, I strayed off course; yet, the
gentle rain from volunteers and men like Michael helped me to heal. Eventually,
I found a path that led back to the life I was supposed to live. When I think
of people in prison, I think of the resilient men who changed my life.
People who attempt to describe prisoners while failing to see these beautiful souls reclaiming their lost dreams are like those who walk through the desert and see only cracked dry ground instead of brilliant purple cacti.