A Life Lived in Prison

 

I have been incarcerated for a little over sixteen years. During this time, I have changed a lot. Mostly in positive ways; at least I hope this to be so.

 

These changes are the result of being taken from my comfort zone and placed into what is a true melting pot of society: prison. This place is not an easy environment to adapt to, for anyone. To be honest, I am not sure that anyone ever truly does.

 

It does not help that once you’re stuck here, you’re here until you’re not. Adapting is the only way to survive. Some might take this to mean learning to become a cutthroat, self-concerned, and duplicitous individual, a trope that we see on television and in movies more often than not. There are people that take this route to adapt; it is sad, but an unfortunate part of reality. What is even more sad is that many more will take this route in days to come, as prison continues to be our society’s solution to many problems, but it is not the only way to adapt to and survive prison life.

 

Many people turn to religion as a means of coping, whether they are returning to an old faith that they strayed from or searching out a new path to travel. While there is nothing wrong with this, there are many other ways to adapt to new surroundings when one is removed from society.

 

Some choose to keep their heads down and do their best to vanish, while others turn to television and magazines in an attempt to live vicariously through celebrities and fictional characters. Some do whatever they can to sleep their time away, often turning to medication to do so. None of these worked for me.

 

The cutthroat option was never a choice for me. I am just not wired for it; besides, I would make a terrible bully. I don’t like swatting at flies or stepping on spiders, let alone people. Religion was not an option either, at least not for me. This is not to say that I have an issue with it, but I was never a religious person prior to my incarceration. I know that there are forces in this world greater than those we see with our physical eyes. I can’t really articulate it; I just know it. But religious, me?

 

No. There was a time when I tried to change my beliefs. I thought it might be best, but I felt I was being disrespectful to those who truly do adhere to religious beliefs. I was not being genuine with myself or others. No matter how badly I wanted to make it true (or at least thought I did), it just wasn’t.

 

I tried the couch potato approach, drowning myself in television and pop culture magazines. That got old very fast. Nor was it healthy. Sleeping the time away seemed like an option for a brief moment, and in theory it was. In practice, however, not so much.

 

What was a prisoner to do? I realized that I only had one option.

 

It was right there the whole time; I just could not see it. I had to live. I had to find a way to actually live in prison, because what I had been doing was not living; it was existing.

 

I needed to find a way to live in prison that worked for me and kept me a person that I could see in the mirror every day without feeing ashamed while I navigated the chaotic maze of prison life. There are many different types of people in the prison system, and they are all dealing with the same problem: coping in an unnatural environment. I had to learn to live among them. I had to develop a sense of community with them because this was where I was. This was where they were and had been. Most of the guys I was locked in with had been there for a long time, and they already had that sense of community. I just had to make myself a part of it.

 

I began to read about different cultures and belief systems, especially those most represented in the prison system, including various sects and denominations of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, as well as Hebrew Israelite, to name a few, not to mention people of different cultural and ethnic backgrounds. The prison I started off in had a diverse cross section of people. I’ve met people from India, Pakistan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, China, Thailand, Korea, Mongolia, Palestine, Poland, and Bosnia.

 

I would spend as much time in the recreation yard as I could (something I previously avoided). I forced myself to be more social, albeit cautiously, and would engage people in conversation. I began to see a difference in people than I was used to in a correctional setting, which up to that point had been a county jail.

 

Like everyone else, when I was first locked up, I spent time in a county jail. This was a culture shock for me and shaped some of my feelings and views at the time. I found myself in a place surrounded by people the likes of whom I had never associated with. Some were true-to-life hardened criminals, others were people who had just made mistakes, and some were people like me, who found themselves caught up in an unexpected whirlwind.

 

It turns out that you can’t tell who is who just by looking at them. We were all in there, and we all wore the same uniform. County jail is a place where everyone is supposed to be innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, but nobody, not even the other prisoners, see it that way. Everyone is suspicious of one another: it is an environment of individuals, a total lack of community.

 

I had some rough times. I survived, although I developed an antipeople worldview. I did not like or trust anyone: every time I did, it always turned out bad. It got to the point where I would not give anyone a chance. Why bother? They would not be around long, and anyway I had my own problems to worry about. I certainly wasn’t like everyone else. Or was I?

 

I carried this attitude with me to prison after being convicted and sentenced. I was sent to a maximum security prison first. Things were different there, and I was not prepared for that. People were a lot more calm. I did not trust it. County jail was still too fresh in my mind. However, it did not take long before I realized that everyone there had one thing in common: we had all been judged by the state and sentenced to long, in some cases indefinite, terms of imprisonment.

 

This was where I began to see the different ways people adapted to doing time.

 

Of course there were still your basic jerks, who tried every angle to exploit others, the weight lifters, jailhouse lawyers, and the guys who took TV Guide as a sort of bible. Not to mention the religious groups. People mostly got along pretty well, even the jerks. People were not nearly as abrasive in prison when compared with county jails. I figured that this was because in prison you do not have the looming cloud of uncertainty hovering above, as you do in county jails. Everyone in prison has been handed their fate; there was no stress over pending court dates or trials. Many people were waiting to hear back from appeals and such, but once you have thirty, forty, fifty years, or more to do so, waiting for the word on an appeal isn’t so stressful.

 

As I started to meet new people, I began asking questions. I would ask them about their heritage, culture, beliefs, and backgrounds, at least when it was appropriate. I  did this in an effort to learn about the individuals I was to be around for the foreseeable future, for better or for worse.

 

Not everyone was receptive to my questions. Those who were certainly had some questions for me, which was fair enough, of course. I learned how to relate to people on an individual as well as a group level (at least in comparison to my prior level of social skills). In short, I was learning not only to see the community but to be a part of it. As different as we all are in this world, there is a core commonality that we all share. It took going to prison for me to learn this, and that was a huge milestone for me.

 

I was never very social in my free life, and I became even less so after being locked up, so much so that I had no idea how walled off I actually was. I was discussing this with a friend one day (yes, friends do exist in prison, and I had actually made a few!), and he mentioned that he had discovered Theosophy. I did not know what Theosophy was; I had not even heard the word before. He gave me some reading material.

 

Not long after that, I became a member of the Theosophical Society in America and was also an active participant in its Prison Program. Through this program, I was paired with a great mentor and began correspondence courses on a variety of subjects.

 

Having a mentor was and is still a big help, not just for the courses, but in life. My mentors have introduced me to ideas and concepts that I previously had never thought about. This has helped me refine my own ethics and principles, which have kept me steady through these years.

 

The nondogmatic nature of Theosophy really spoke to me as a prisoner. I responded well to the idea that I was free to interpret the knowledge and teachings being shared with me as I may. I was free to be myself while being part of something bigger than myself or my immediate surroundings, without strict religious binding or instruction.

 

Suddenly, I had a resource for learning about a number of different areas of study that interested me, and nobody was going to look over my shoulder to tell me how wrong I was. They would, however, offer other viewpoints or ask, “What if you look at it this way?”

 

This academic freedom has only served to help me be more—well, me. I’ve gained insights that have enabled me to see the common threads that hold life itself together more clearly than I had ever before. This has strengthened my compassion and understanding for others, even in situations that would have once caused me confusion, frustration, or anger.

 

Seeing the connection between everything and everyone gave me the resolve to work toward showing others how much one can live in this environment. This is something I do by just being myself, by being the best example that I can to those around me, as well as being open to examples set by others. This is not always easy, and I do not always do a great job of it. Though I do try. I will not stop trying, either.

 

Prison is still prison, and not everyone feels the same way about living here. Some people are content to just exist; others are just stuck in existence. This holds true of both inmates and prison staff. Sometimes we are tested for what seems to be no good reason at all, at least none that we can see. Some people take kindness for weakness to be exploited, while others just don’t like to see a person with a worse prospect than themselves actually living. The former is something I have succumbed to myself a time or two. I wish I could say differently, but I can’t.

 

As my self-education about people and my Theosophical studies progressed, I found myself asking more and more questions about why different people adapt in different ways. What leads anyone anywhere? I found that trying to understand people was more productive than not doing so; it was also a lot easier than just holding everybody in contempt. In retrospect, that was actually a lot of work!

 

As I continued my work with the Prison Program correspondence courses, as well as my own studies and reading, I found that life was not as bad as I used to think it was. On some level I think that I had wanted it to be difficult, as if I were obligated to be a sour person just because I was locked up. It turned out to easy to turn it around. It just took time and effort.

 

I did, however, hit a roadblock along the way. I was moved to a lower security prison after about thirteen years. I had kept out of trouble for so long and done so well in general that the administration decided to send me to a medium security facility. I thought I had hit the jackpot.

 

Medium security was a completely different ball game. I had left everything that I had known and was comfortable with to venture into the unknown. It was like getting locked up all over again. I was wrenched from my comfort zone and tossed into a wilderness.

 

The main difference between medium security and maximum security, at least for me, was the people. Most of the prisoners there did not have very lengthy sentences. This gave them a different perspective than I had come to be used to. They reacted to time differently, and for some, this was not even their first time in prison, or second, or third for that matter.

 

This made for a difficult adjustment on my part. I would like to say I tried at first, but that would be a lie. The truth is that I thought I was trying to adjust, but actually I expected everything would adjust to me. I slipped off of the edge a little bit, or as one of my longtime friends would later tell me, “the cheese slid off your cracker.”

 

Without realizing it, I had become the guy who stayed in the cell and did not even try to live. I existed. I had a few confrontations with staff members, which was very out of the norm for me (fortunately nothing serious). I even lost touch with my Theosophical studies. I went over eight months without doing a single lesson, picking up a single book, or writing the Prison Program. I was done, without even knowing it. I’d stopped living and moved backward into plain old existence. I could not stand to talk to people or even go to the recreation yard. I was so bothered by the attitudes of people around me that I never once did the thing I had learned to do: understand people. I never asked, “Why? Why do the people here do what they do?” I did not try to understand or relate to the people I found myself around.

 

Then I received a letter from the TSA asking why I had stopped. The writer of the letter expressed an understanding that things happen in prison and that my mentor had not given up on me. Nobody at the TSA had. Instead, I was asked if I needed help. I received another letter of concern as well. It meant a lot to me to get them, and I still keep them.

 

I wrote back explaining that I had been dealing with a lot and that at the time I could not afford membership dues. I felt like a real jerk. I had not even tried to communicate any of this to these fine people, yet they did not forget about me. I was allowed to pick up my lessons where I left off and found a renewed resolve.

 

Those letters may have seemed like small gestures to those who wrote them, but for me it was a boost. It let me know that I was not forgotten. That made a world of difference to me. How could I have let myself fall into that pit? If I could adjust to a maximum security prison, why not a medium security one? It was still a prison. It only meant a different group of people to learn about. The only thing stopping me was me.

 

I went back into my lessons and reading with enthusiasm. I read the likes of I.K. Taimni, H.P. Blavatsky, and Annie Besant (along with others). Eventually, one of my mentors introduced me to the Stoics. I began reading Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus. I had to have my eyes opened to see the inspiration that never left.

 

Things began to change. I began trying to learn about the people I was around, understanding their backgrounds and what they had been through to lead them to where they were. Again, I had to choose to be a friend myself.

 

Theosophy has been a big influence over the years, and I value it in ways I never knew I could. It helps me find understanding in difficult situations as well as the courage to look even the darkest of days in the eye and say “I’m going to live through you. Make peace with it!”

 

Knowing that I have the support of people whom I have never physically met, but who actually care, is just as important to me as the support I receive from my family, so much so that I think of my fellow Theosophists as family. I don’t think I would be in the good place, mentally and emotionally, that I am in without the support from both directions. I am so grateful to the people at the TSA who take the time out of their schedules to participate in the Prison Program. I honestly can’t find the words to thank them enough. (I find myself struggling to find a way to express this sentiment to my family as well.)

 

The Prison Program is important. I know I am not the only one who has found it to be so helpful and inspiring. I am sure that others will benefit for years to come. It is a port in the storm, a light in an environment where the lights are shut off pretty early.

 

I write these words to acknowledge the program as well as the staff who make it happen—all of them. They do more than they might think. They make me feel that I am a part of something greater than myself, something positive and good. They know I’m in prison, but they still treat me like a person. I may never meet them personally, and they may be holding a level of professional distance, but that does not diminish the positive influence I derive from this program. So to all at the TSA and those who make the Prison Program happen, I say these two simple words: thank you.

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Wallace Chadwick has been in the TSA’s Prison Program since 2015. He was born in the state of Colorado but moved to Illinois with his family in 1993. He is thirty-nine years old.