Last year, as part of the Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program, students from colleges around Michigan came to G. Robert Cotton Correctional Facility to take courses with students who were incarcerated there. These classrooms created an outlet for us to talk to one another on equal ground, workshop ideas, and share our points of view on political issues.
There were also classes focused on communication available, but they were a joke to me. After all, I’d de-escalated heated arguments between inmates and convinced rooms full of prisoners to agree on important issues. I was also known to be the one who orchestrated days full of activities, like Spades games and basketball tournaments. In short, my communication skills were on point, and I couldn’t wait to test drive the gab I claimed to be gifted with on the outside students.
After about a week of a workshop where we were discussing how America punishes its criminals, an outsider said Michigan needed to create more prisons and train prosecutors to be more aggressive in the courts.
The inside students got revved up, citing multiple points that went against her claim. We, the incarcerated, explained how conditions inside were shaped by racial bias and, therefore, not corrective. I went as far as comparing prison to slavery. The young woman started crying so hard she had to excuse herself from class. And she never came back.
I didn’t give much more thought to what she’d said because it went against my beliefs. But I began to notice that, in all my classes, my outlook was limited to living behind a wall.
In an eight-man cube, I sat on my bunk, wondering how I would make meaningful connections in other areas of my life. In prison, most of my interactions were intense. I said little but talked with my eyes and hands. I knew that others understood what I was implying by how I stood up to be next in line for the phone or microwave. I thought this added up to being a good communicator. But I was beginning to realize that I was wrong.
Later that week, in the school building, a good friend who had done 23 years showed me a flyer on the bulletin board. It was for a self-help communications course from the Chance For Life organization.
As we exited the building and walked back to the housing unit, we heard other incarcerated folks talking about the outside student getting upset and leaving. My friend, who I’ll call G., brought up Chance For Life again.
“I’m not taking no prison program,” I said. “I’m straight on that.”
“It’ll help,” he replied. “I want to get out of this prison mindstate, and you should want that, too.”
In that moment, I just didn’t have the strength to do any more soul-searching. I didn’t see an issue that needed to be fixed. Some people just don’t get along, and I could deal with that.
But then G. reminded me that we would need tools to fix and build new relationships when we got home — wife, kid and co-worker relationships. I gave the class more thought.
That night, I dropped my request in the mailbox and hoped for the best. The Chance For Life class was in high demand because students get certificates at the end, and that has value with the parole board.
I was accepted a few days later, but I was still skeptical. I began preparing myself for six months of prison staff and officials telling me how I should act around people who didn’t share my viewpoints.
The class started on a Saturday this January. About 30 incarcerated folks sat in rows facing a whiteboard. I knew most of the men from other prisons, and many were on their way home. I gave a couple of nods, sat next to G, and looked around to see which member of the administration would be running the course. He or she was late for class.
Then I saw five incarcerated men standing off to the side. They were focused on one guy at the whiteboard, and it got quiet before he spoke.
“Welcome to the Chance For Life,” he said. “‘Be transformed by the renewing of your mind’ — this is our model.”
Suddenly, I realized that our teachers were prisoners! It caught me by surprise, and I leaned forward to catch every word they said. Each facilitator had a life bid and a unique story that resonated with the group — and with me. We clapped our hands after each introductory speech, then applauded the whole group for choosing to be facilitators. While they had no way out, they were trying to get us ready for the world.
One facilitator, a big, bold guy, had been teaching the class for 15 years. The others had been involved for three years to a decade. This meant they had experience in dealing with others and building meaningful connections. That was what I wanted for myself.
The lead facilitator went on to tell us that the class was a safe space; we could talk about anything without judgement. Confidentiality was required. If anyone talked about what we said in the class with other prisoners, he would be immediately terminated. This was serious business.
Back in my cube, I started my first worksheet. The topic was one- and two-way conversations, and it asked which type of communicator you were.
I thought for a second and realized I was a one-way communicator. It was one-way over the phone with loved ones, one-way with my peers inside and one-way with the administration. I didn’t necessarily see that as a bad thing, and I was eager to discuss this in the next class.
The following Saturday, I was the first person to “pop tall,” to stand up and speak loudly so everyone could hear.
One of the facilitators challenged me: “Buckley, you’ve been all over Michigan prisons, and with staff it’s mostly a one-way conversation: ‘Get on your bunk!’ ‘Go to chow! It’s a patdown because, if you refuse their request, it’s trouble. You’re only doing what’s been given to you over the course of your stay. You are here to break out of your 16 years of one-way.”
What he said stung. After class, I didn’t stand around talking like I usually did. I just left. Back in my cube, I thought, I’m becoming what I dislike. Then I lay on my bunk and fell asleep. At 3:00 in the morning, I got up and started my next worksheet.
Every Saturday for the next five and a half months, I attended that class and learned all that I could about communications. I applied those skills, and people around me saw my progress.
Two years prior, I had taken a VPP (Violence Prevention Program) class that I needed to complete if I wanted to be released on my earliest out-date. Chance For Life taught some of the same things, but the message didn’t stick. We didn’t communicate about real issues, and the teacher was a CO. Maybe it was that the incarcerated taught the Chance For Life class, and our shared experience that opened me up to a better perspective.
I recently asked my homegirl K.H. what she thought about programming in prisons. She told me that we must learn the difference between compliance and surrender. “Sometimes you must comply to survive, but never surrender your inner self,” she said.
I received every word.
Demetrius “Meech” Buckley has earned multiple writing honors, including a 2024 Editor’s Choice Award in CRAFT literary magazine’s Memoir Excerpt & Essay Contest and the 2021 Toi Derricotte & Cornelius Eady Chapbook prize. He was a finalist for the 2024 Rattle Poetry Prize. Buckley’s work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Yale Review, The Boulevard, The Rumpus, PRISM, The Progressive and ResentencingNow, among other outlets. He has performed his work at the Brooklyn Museum. Buckley is also an editor for Apogee literary magazine’s Freedom Meridian, and he works with Look2Justice and Empowerment Avenue. He is serving a 20- to 30-year sentence for second-degree murder.
