One evening in May, as I returned from one of my college classes, I picked up a piece of paper from the floor in front of my gate. I sat on the thin mattress in my cell and examined it, hoping that it bore some kind of good news.
It was a memorandum from New York’s corrections commissioner, Daniel Martuscello III, asking the state’s incarcerated people to observe seven days of peace in honor of the 50th anniversary of the Alternatives to Violence (ATV) program. This now-international effort began in New York’s Green Haven Correctional Facility in the aftermath of the 1971 Attica rebellion.
ATV offers modules such as conflict resolution, anger management and trauma resilience. It’s a voluntary alternative to programs such as Aggression Replacement Training, which the corrections department mandates for some people convicted of violent crimes.
As I read through the memo, I thought about how difficult it would be for some to follow. Nonviolence doesn’t just happen. Brutality is etched into prison culture, and many see violence as a necessary tool of survival. And for people like me, who actively practice nonviolence, the path to a relatively peaceful life is full of harrowing steps that no prison-mandated program can prepare you for.
My path to nonviolence actually began at Attica. I was sent there in May 2018 to serve 19 years to life for a murder I committed as a teenager. My time in county jails had been dangerous, but this maximum security prison in Western New York was different. The officers stood guard in hallways with batons at the ready. The solidarity between prisoners that existed during the rebellion was long gone. In the yard, prisoners remained segregated at concrete tables by race, religion, hometown or gang affiliation.
Within my first couple of days, tensions boiled over. As I lay staring at the ceiling, I heard the distinct ring of an alarm and then a voice booming over a loudspeaker in the yard: “Everybody on the wall! Stop fighting and get on the ground!”
I jumped out of bed, and through my window facing the yard, I watched a man pummel another prisoner on the ground. The average professional boxing round is three minutes. Dozens of punches are thrown and severe injury can occur. This fight lasted for what felt like five minutes.
Finally, officers walked slowly toward the conflict, screamed for the attacker to stop and hauled him off in handcuffs. I’d seen countless fights in my life and had been a part of more than I could remember. Still, this was the longest beating I had ever witnessed.
I was at Attica for a little over 3 1/2 years, and violent situations were the norm. Sometimes it was an all-out brawl between different factions. Other times it was slashings and stabbings. While I hadn’t been involved in a physical conflict in years, I began to feel numb to the chaos around me.
In April 2021, I regressed to my old, destructive ways. At the time, I was a porter on my unit, and my duties included sweeping, mopping and passing out hot water since the cells only had a cold-water faucet. Occasionally, I would also deliver food trays to men who were sentenced to keeplock — meaning they were confined to their cells for a disciplinary infraction.
A fellow porter was talking on the phone and asked if I could deliver the trays. Begrudgingly, I said yes. As I made my way down a long corridor with cells on both sides, a man with whom I had daily, nonconfrontational interactions stopped me. We disagreed about something — I can’t remember what — and within seconds, it escalated into a tense exchange of words. Suddenly, he swung through the small opening of his cell gate and struck me. Moments later, oblivious to the confrontation, an officer opened his cell door and we were trading blows on the tier.
This fight wasn’t as long as the first one I’d seen at Attica, but it felt like it. The bout ended with the familiar ring of the alarm and the footsteps of officers rushing toward the unit. Once they arrived, they ordered us on the floor and — thankfully — we both obliged.
I was placed in my cell on keeplock for 10 days, until it was time to go to a disciplinary hearing. I remember emailing my girlfriend at the time and dreading her response. She told my mother about the fight and they were both immensely hurt and disappointed.
I felt ashamed. I felt like an animal. I was 28 years old and had been behind bars for nearly 4 1/2 years, only for this fight to take me back to a time when I expressed troubled emotions through violence.
When I was young, I never had an outlet to express my feelings. My family was around, but I felt like they were too busy with work and other responsibilities. Instead of seeking their support, I turned to the streets of Queens, New York. Years before I could grow facial hair or obtain a driver’s permit, I was resorting to acts of force.
In November of 2008, a few months after I turned 16, I took an even darker turn. While hanging out with a friend, I completely lost control over my emotions. Without thinking about how my actions would affect so many lives, I murdered her. Using DNA evidence, police found and arrested me in 2016. I was convicted two years later and landed in Attica.
Before my fight, I didn’t address my past the way I should have. Although I had been staying out of trouble up until that point, I wasn’t doing enough. When you grow up in a culture of violence, that doesn’t just disappear. We, as prisoners, have to take active steps toward rehabilitation.
So while I was awaiting my disciplinary hearing, I reflected on the people I had hurt through my actions. I made an oath never to commit violence again unless it was in self-defense. I would take time to think about the consequences whenever I was faced with a heated situation. My Muslim faith echoed this message and helped me to fully commit to nonviolence. I also began journaling to help me discover the root cause of my anger.
At my disciplinary hearing, I was notified that my infraction would be tossed out on some technicality. A few days later, while I was working in the mess hall for Ramadan, officers escorted me back to my cell without explanation. And about a week later, after returning to keeplock for refusing to sign in to protective custody, I was moved to involuntary protective custody. That meant my departure from Attica was imminent.
During the time I was secluded from the rest of the general population, I couldn’t stop thinking about my friend’s family and the grief that they had to endure because of me. Although I made a statement when I was sentenced, I felt like my words lacked real emotion. In order to move forward with my own rehabilitation, I needed to sincerely apologize for my actions. I sat for hours on my bed and drafted a letter. No words could ever absolve me, but I wanted her family to know that I took full responsibility for taking their loved one away from them. I am not sure if they ever received it.
Since leaving Attica in December 2021, I’ve seen much less violence. In Sullivan, a maximum security prison that was closed last year, I saw very rare instances of aggression. I remained there for nearly three years until I was transferred to my current facility, Shawangunk, in September 2024. I’ve yet to see any violent altercations.
More importantly, I’ve kept my oath of nonviolence. Every day, I think back to the person that I used to be and strive for something better. I cannot change my past but with continued work, I can forge a better future. I owe it to the people I’ve hurt. I owe it to the people who love me. I owe it to myself.
Rashon Venable is a published poet and essayist. He is currently incarcerated at Shawangunk Correctional Facility in Ulster County, New York. At Sullivan Correctional Facility, which closed in 2024, Venable was a leader in the Muslim community and he served as a coordinator for Prisoners for AIDS Counseling and Education.
The New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision’s Public Information Office was unable to confirm the disciplinary action — namely the duration of his keeplock and outcome of his disciplinary hearing — resulting from the altercation Venable describes in April 2021. The office stated that information needed to be obtained through a Freedom of Information Law request, which was filed but remains pending at publication time.
