Oregon Humanities Fall/Winter 2007

Cover of Oregon Humanities Fall/Winter 2007
Kathleen Holt
EDITOR
Jennifer Viviano
GRAPHIC DESIGN
Leigh van der Werff
PUBLICATIONS ASSISTANT
Allison Dubinsky
COPY EDITOR
Editorial Advisory Board
Tom Booth
Brian Doyle
Debra Gwartney
Julia Heydon
Marianne Keddington-Lang
Guy Maynard
Win McCormack
Camela Raymond
Kate Sage
Linny Stovall
Rich Wandschneider
Curt Yehnert

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Fifty Square Feet Called Home

What Domesticity Means in Prison

by Michelle Inderbitzin

It is difficult for most of us to imagine what it would be like to spend day after day, month after month, year after year, confined to the same small space, unable to spend a night alone with a loved one, take a much-needed vacation, or see the stars and moon glistening in the night. In such circumstances, what does a concept like domesticity really mean? How would you go about creating a life and a home for yourself that still held promise, a life that still offered some sense of meaning, comfort, purpose, and fulfillment?

I posed this question to men serving life sentences in the Oregon State Penitentiary. These men had been my students in Inside-Out classes, a program that brings university students into prisons to learn in collaboration with inmates. Our sociology classes focused on issues of crime, justice, and public policy, and we had many fascinating discussions. I knew they could and would give me honest accounts of what it takes to build new lives after they are confined and isolated from their families, friends, and the world outside.

Some of my "inside" students had served more than twenty years in prisons and they spoke knowledgeably and frankly about changes they had witnessed behind the walls and changes they had authored within themselves. Each of them had figured out a way to best serve their time and to build a meaningful life while serving the years in the institution. When asked, they had clear ideas about what domesticity meant to them. As Philip explains, "Coming to prison with a life sentence means that you look at things somewhat differently than someone who is doing only a few years; this is your home. As such, you naturally want to make the best of it. Comfort, security (both physical and financial), and happiness are all desirable--even in prison."

The Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem is the only maximum-security correctional facility in the state, housing approximately 2,100 inmates. Most of the men live double-bunked in small cells of less than fifty square feet. With years of good behavior they can earn the privilege of a single cell or a spot in the Honors Unit, where inmates have keys to lock their own cell doors and also have access to phones and showers. Good behavior can also lead to enrollment in Inside-Out classes.

The sociologist Erving Goffman describes prisons as "total institutions," closed systems that dictate all forms of interaction among their residents. While physical escape from today's prisons is virtually impossible, neither can inmates escape the close watch of the staff or the constant gaze of their fellow inmates. Privacy and quiet times are a memory from the past, not a feature of the present or a realistic hope for the future. How to create a safe haven in a place that lacks privacy or peace?

Nearly fifty years ago, Gresham Sykes wrote what may still be the definitive book on prison culture, The Society of Captives, in which he defines the "pains of imprisonment," breaking them down into five major categories: deprivation of liberty, deprivation of goods and services, deprivation of heterosexual relationships, deprivation of autonomy, and deprivation of security. Whether prisoners deserve such deprivations as part of the punishment for their crimes is open to debate; what is clear is that nearly all inmates experience such deprivations and must find a way to build lives and meaning for themselves within the institution's walls.

The inmates in my classes have taken responsibility for their actions--both the actions that initially brought them to prison and the choices they made within the walls. They also recognize the importance of individual choice in the way that each individual serves his time. James, who entered prison as a teenager and a first-time offender, explains, "I accept responsibility that, because of my actions, this is the life and environment I must now call home. The tier noises, the nonstop yelling and screaming, and the slamming of metal doors upon metal frames is what replaced mom's good cooking, roughhousing with my little brother, and the car engine shutting off when dad's finally home from work."

It is each man's decision whether he will work to better himself, or simply let the time pass, growing older but not necessarily wiser. As Bob says, "You have the ability to make this place ... easier or more difficult, the choice is yours. The time moves on no matter what you do. It's up to you to decide what you do with it." A common sentiment among the inmates is that many are unable to mature beyond the time when they entered prison--the claustrophobic environment of the penitentiary is a difficult place in which to grow.

John Irwin, a "convict criminologist" who became a college professor after his own time in prison, believes that there are three general ways in which inmates approach their lives in prison: "doing time," "gleaning," and "jailing." Those doing time view prison as a temporary break from their outside lives; they try to make their time as easy as possible, avoiding conflict and looking forward to their return home. This is a relatively common view for those with shorter sentences in which the end remains in hopeful sight. In contrast, those serving life sentences understand that they may never have the opportunity to return to the outside community.

In gleaning, inmates try to better themselves by taking part in educational and rehabilitative programs while in prison. My small group of Inside-Out students could certainly be categorized as gleaners, but funding for programs in prisons was dramatically slashed in the 1980s and '90s (both nationally and in Oregon), and opportunities for gleaning have become much more rare and are often reserved for the individuals considered most worthy by prison officials.

Jailing, as Irwin describes it, is what happens when inmates create a distinct world for themselves within the prison. This adaptation seems to best fit the circumstances of those men serving life sentences or very long sentences. Without any hope of release in the near future, these men focus on cultivating comfort, safety, companionship, and purpose. "For many, it's easier to forget about life outside these walls," my student Philip explains. "Time passes quickly when you don't have to think about friends, family, or what will happen when or if you do get released." The world outside narrows and may eventually slip away, but inside the walls inmates create new versions of families, make loyal friends, find meaningful work and hobbies, and may eventually learn to forgive themselves for the acts that landed them in prison and destroyed their lives in the outside world.

Philip had put careful thought into the idea of domesticity and how men live out their lives in prison; he wrote about universal human needs, big and small: "Comfort can be defined in many ways. A good mattress and double-thick pillow are comfortable. A cell in the honor housing block and a good cell partner also make life more pleasant. These things are neither cheap nor easy to obtain. Just because a person is doing the rest of their life in prison doesn't mean that their existence has to be devoid of meaning. Finding a purpose gives you a reason to get up every day. Personal introspection, reading and learning new things, physical fitness, interaction with friends and loved ones are all great ways of filling your days. Hell, I love pancakes, which is a good reason to get up some mornings. The prospect of a visit with my kids is enough to keep me out of trouble; looking forward to something makes time pass."

Once in prison, many inmates put real effort into trying to stay connected to their families through phone calls, letters, and visits. Michael describes how difficult it is to hold onto one's family from within the prison: "You are told by the other long-term convicts to enjoy it while it lasts, but you tell yourself, 'That won't be my family; they will always be there for me.' As the weeks, months, and years go by, it seems just a little bit easier to miss the occasional weekend visit or forget to write a letter this week for one reason or another; this just seems to be the way it works. I really wish I could find ways to make it work better and keep the connectedness."

Tim shared a similar experience: "Family life is extremely eroded over a period of time. Due to the separation of family, the day finally came when I no longer received the mail I used to. I did receive divorce papers. Life had become devastating. I realized that it was over. I realized there's absolutely no family left to write or call. Now I am alone and scared ... with no one to rely on. Now I must achieve the goal of having to make my own family within these walls, who I can trust and depend on when I need help emotionally. Now I have more than a friend, I have an entirely new family. There are times when other people carry you through the hard times."

Tim's mentor in prison, Michael, became a father figure to him and taught him to make good choices. He encouraged Tim to do quality time, in the hopes that someday Tim would be able to help someone else make the right choices. "As our partners and teammates parole or get transferred to other institutions, we are always on the lookout for a younger generation to carry on the tradition," explains Michael. "It really doesn't get much more family than that in here, but it is guarded, very guarded relationships. I do take pride as a mentor in this aspect of the daily routine in here."

Philip says that companionship is a basic human need. "Few inmates will serve their whole sentence as a loner," he says. "Everybody likes to have someone to talk to, someone who listens and genuinely cares about your well-being. During my years of incarceration, I can truly say that I found a few friends that are far more loyal to me than any friends I had in my other life. I would be hard-pressed to find better allies."

Creating a home and a life within a prison often starts with small steps. Inmates serving long sentences may attempt to make their cells or "houses" as much their own as possible. Some clean their cells meticulously, taking pride in the space and finding their dignity in this one small place they can call their own. Barry describes the dimensions and content of his cell as follows: "Imagine entering a door which gives you access to a bed, clothing hooks, a drawer, a light, shelves, a sink, a stool, a table, a toilet, a TV shelf, and a vent. Now figure all of this fits into an area that is approximately six feet wide by eight feet long by eight and a half feet high. This is domesticity in a single cell at the Oregon State Penitentiary."

Marc shared how difficult it can be to adjust to the prospect of life in prison and to find hope and meaning with what remains: "Just the smallest scent of something can take you back to the past, to a place in time, and in that moment you feel such euphoria. But, a moment later, you feel so much pain and everything feels so hopeless. You begin to realize that everyone, no matter how different, has the same feelings of hopelessness, and that's when you come to understand that we are all the same deep down inside. [You] sort through your desperation to drive through your sadness and unwillingness to accept the things that cannot be changed and learn to forgive and love yourself for once in your life; that helps put an end to the madness in which you once lived. Only then can you accept your life as what it is and what it still can be. Most important, not just for yourself, but for whoever your life might touch in the future."

Just as it is difficult to imagine what it would be like to live a large portion of your life in prison, it is easy to forget that more than two million people are doing just that in the United States. Inmates are a hidden population, almost completely invisible to those in the outside world, but they live real lives within the walls every day. The men behind the bars are sons, fathers, husbands, and brothers, each with a history and most with an uncertain future.

Even after serving substantial sentences, some of the inmates "find it hard, still, to ever call this place home." As Bob explains, "Sure, it houses me, feeds me, lets me shower, but a home, I think not. ... This is what we try to do, make the best of what we have. To exist and eventually to exit with our debt having been paid to a life outside these bars and walls. To a place I'm needed and loved, one I would have no problem calling 'home.'"

Can individuals ever really create meaningful or satisfying homes and lives in prison? Those facing life sentences are left to make the best of the years that remain, to create their own havens of domesticity and survive as best they can. As Marc says, sometimes the answer comes from within: "No matter where you are, you can always find a safe place to call home, and you will find that place deep inside yourself."

Editor's note: Since fall 2005, the Oregon Council for the Humanities has offered Humanity in Perspective, a year-long college-credit humanities course, at the Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution in Pendleton, in addition to its public course for low-income adults in Portland. The offering of HIP is based on OCH's belief that communities benefit when all Oregonians, regardless of life history or economic circumstance, have the opportunity to explore some of the fundamental questions of human existence through great literature and ideas. Please visit www.oregonhum.org for more information about this program.

Published in the Fall/Winter 2007 issue of Oregon Humanities.

© 2007 Oregon Council for the Humanities