 Graduates of the Bard Prison Initiative in cap and gown |
But on this sunny winter morning in January, a group of 200 well-dressed people chatters excitedly as a brass quartet performs Elgar. The doors in the back of this drab, aging auditorium open, and 11 men, clad in mortarboard and gown, enter the hall. Camera bulbs flash and the applause swells as they walk in single file down the sloping aisles. The ritual, by all appearances, is standard-issue. But the graduates are not. This is Eastern Correctional Facility, a maximum-security facility in Napanoch which is the setting for the first commencement of the Bard Prison Initiative.
BPI was founded in 1999 by Bard student Max Kenner, who belonged to a college club determined to bring creative writing workshops to local prisons. Kenner stayed on after graduation to expand the mission to provide a college education and degree program for inmates. For months, Kenner telephoned every correctional facility in the Hudson Valley, asking wardens if they would allow Bard professors to come and teach their prisoners a curriculum which included civil rights, anthropology, civics, sociology, and expository writing. One by one, they declined. "It wasn't easy getting in," Kenner, now 26, said.
Only two institutions were willing to consider Kenner's gambit. One was Eastern, where Superintendent David Miller and Sheryl Butler, Deputy Superintendent of Programs, "were willing to believe" according to Kenner. Private donors to Bard agreed to finance the initiative, which began in the fall of 2001, offering graduates an associate of arts, equivalent to a two-year college degree.
 Bard president Leon Botstein addressing the BPI graduates at Eastern Correctional Facility on January 26. |
The second BPI host is Woodbourne, a medium security prison in Sullivan County. BPI joins two other private programs currently operating at Bedford Hills and Sing Sing. A few others are scattered across the country. But three decades ago, the scene was vastly different. Beginning in the mid-1970s, scores of American prisons offered federally-funded college-equivalency courses. (Here in New York, Governor Hugh Carey had proposed such a program in 1972.) Prison programs were an effective use of taxpayer money; several studies confirmed they significantly reduced recidivism among released inmates.
"Higher education was a component of criminal justice for almost a generation," Kenner said.
But in 1995, President Clinton's crime bill ushered in a new era, making prisoners ineligible for the Pell grants which facilitated such programs. Congress approved the bill and prison programs were shuttered overnight. The reason was not only budgetary, said John Gordon, Senior Director of Education for the Fortune Society, an acclaimed post-prison program based in New York City. "There was a punitive notion to it."
Starting with President Nixon's drug wars, the country shifted from rehabilitating criminals to demonizing them. The closing of prison education programs was the nadir of America's "tough on crime" stance, Kenner said. Any beneficial programs were seen as coddling. Being tough on crime morphed into being tough on inmates, a sensibility which found favor with lawmakers.
 Bard VP Dimitri Papadimitriou |
Since 1995, only a handful of modest prison education programs have been developed, relying on private funding. The first in the country was at Bedford Hills in Westchester, notable since it is a maximum security prison for women. Kenner suggested that its proximity to affluent suburbs has guaranteed its ongoing financial viability. Another successful model program operates at California's San Quentin.
Eastern officials and Bard coordinators have worked hard to make today a cause for celebration. But even with the brass quartet and complimentary pastries, it's hard to shake the reality of submitting to a security check and walking through several electronically locking gates to reach the auditorium. When a worker accidentally drops a garbage pail, the unspoken tension becomes obvious: the noise jolts a few people from their seats.
BPI's first graduating class makes a ritualistic procession around the room. The graduates accurately reflect the racial make-up of American prisoners: nine of the eleven are men of color. Suddenly, deep-throated whoops of support echo from the back of the auditorium. The well-wishers are a group of 60 fellow inmates, seated apart from the others and each wearing forest-green prison workpants. Their faces bear witness to their difficult lives: some hardened, some feral, some utterly blank.
They offer a stark contrast to the composed and thoughtful faces of the graduates.
Since college classes don't fall within the cellblock code of macho ethics, are BPI students a target for derision by fellow prisoners? Kenner dismissed the notion. "This program has created more of a community among students in the yard, in the block, in the mess hall. The same group of guys are moving around together." Several BPI students had already distinguished themselves as leaders among fellow prisoners, heading ethnic or religious groups. They now serve as mentors, sharing the lessons gleaned from classes.
 Botstein, through the looking glass |
To be accepted for PBI, inmates must have a high school diploma or GED. There were 15 spots available at Eastern, but 10 times that number were turned away. The same situation occurred at Woodbourne. To avoid prejudice, Kenner and his colleagues are not informed of the nature of inmates' crimes. A writing examination and screening interview are administered. Whether an inmate is here for homicide or drug possession, admission is ultimately based on aptitude and behavior. "If the department [of corrections] deems an inmate to be safe and eligible, and not a danger to faculty or volunteers," Kenner said, "then they are welcome to apply."
Many prisoners applied, Kenner said, as a way to make amends with their children. Criminal statistics suggest that a child is likely to follow a parent's path, no matter how errant. By opting for graduate studies, the BPI students said they hope to break the pattern. "There is no better predictor for whether your child goes to college than a parent's education," Kenner said.
The auditorium stage is now occupied by a dozen Bard officials, dressed in the arcane robes and colorful medals of their academic fraternity. In contrast to the graduates, most of the Bard personnel are white.
Among the first to speak is Eastern's David Miller. A veteran of four decades in prison work, he remains committed to the power of prison education. He has seen it succeed. He recalled one specific prison graduation before the programs were scrapped a decade ago. A prisoner known for his legendary surliness was awaiting his turn at commencement exercises. Suddenly, his young daughter leapt from her seat in the audience and ran towards the man. Guards tensed up, but Miller motioned for them to stay cool. The girl settled proudly in her father's lap and Miller saw the prisoner smile.
Following Miller are several Bard officials offering high-minded speeches on freedom, space, and time. Then four graduates ascend the stage to make personal remarks. Justice Walston is the first to speak. It is not a rough-hewn, street-smart rap, but a thoughtful piece of oratory about misjudgment, repentance, and the transformation from prisoner to citizen of the world. "What you have given us is sustenance," Walston said. "Many of you have believed in our potential even more than we have."
 A BPI graduate with his diploma |
The commencement ceremony will be repeated next year for Woodbourne inmates. Meanwhile, Kenner continues to build on Eastern's success. This fall, a BPI degree program will open at Bayview, a medium-security in Manhattan. The scheme that most prisons first turned away now boasts a track record. "It's the one thing that can be offered inside where the prisoner has the agency to accomplish something for himself," Kenner said.
But other challenges remain. Many New York inmates may want to take advantage of such programs, according to the Fortune Society's John Gordon. But three-quarters of this state's prison population lack a high school diploma. Nonetheless, this leaves 15,000 New York state inmates whose lives could be enriched by BPI—or other college prison programs, if only they existed.