As I rush in, late always, for my second visit to the Plainfield Correctional Facility, I’m amused that the majority of my nervousness is related to the security check-in. It’s a little unnerving, like figuring out the ordering process at Chipotle on my first visit. I dart around wondering where to set my bag for inspection, rubbing my wrists and neck for jewelry that I never wear, and expressing silent gratitude to God that I remembered to wear socks with my shoes this time. I start/stop several times outside the metal detector, remembering the procedure from my first visit but still anxious that I’ll get it wrong and make a scene. The guards have the same friendly, amused expression as Chipotle staff as they guide me through the process and motion answers to my fragmented questions. Finally through the ritual of it, I’m in. I can breathe again as we wait for the students to come in.
They come into the visiting room from different directions, depending on where they reside. Some arrive in small groups, some in pairs, and a single late arrival apologizes. They remember me from before and I relax a little. We review some agenda items, the word of the day and some reading examples, before splitting off into smaller groups so I can get some experience leading a discussion after our first writing prompt. It’s hard to focus at first from the noise of the fans-no air conditioning makes them a necessity, but the heavy humming makes it sound like we’re in a small airplane and trying to casually converse over the mechanical buzz.
I worry a little that the prompts I chose are too heavy, but they rise to the occasion. The men share their stories around the circle, discussing music, relationships, school, and memories from inside and outside. They laugh and encourage each other. I share my own story from one of the prompts and they empathize and encourage me. It strikes me how similar the whole procedure is to other writing classes I’ve taken, except most of those classes are made up of a much older and more female student body. As with the first visit, I am deeply impressed with their writing skills. They have all tried to incorporate elements of Debra’s sample readings, which focus on setting. When the groups join back together and they ask me to read my piece again, I am embarrassed but appreciative of the praise. I don’t take compliments well but I smile and read it again, making an effort to keep my voice steady in front of the larger group.
The time passes quickly and I’m thankful again for all they’ve shared. I don’t know when I’ll be back since I will soon start leading my own group at the Indiana Women’s Prison. I’m relieved by the ease with which we can make our exit from the facility, a significant contrast from entering. I’m lingering in the parking lot – already wistful for the camaraderie I feel anytime I’m part of a group of writers discussing writing – but Debra and I have families waiting so I keep my goodbye brief and head for home.
I run through the stories I heard tonight on the drive home, imagining the memories these men must cling to and I wonder how often they wish for a chance at a longer goodbye. I had expected before my first visit that trips to prison might dampen the spirit; instead I find they leave me hopeful. Seeing these men, whose trip to prison has lasted far longer than mine, bare their souls before each other and embrace the vulnerability that writing and sharing writing inevitably brings about, makes me a little buoyant. I feel lifted further by how large the sun looks tonight, fiery and swollen as it rests in the blue gray horizon, but I can’t catch all of it despite trying with every break in the trees. Finally the road rises up to the overpass I’ve been anticipating, but when I reach the peak and look over, the gauzy thin curtain of clouds has drawn itself over the orange glow. Despite the oppression, the power of its light is inevitable, and warm pink sky fills the space above the clouds.