For over two decades, I tried and failed to get formally educated at my New Mexico prison.
Like many people inside looking to turn their life around, I had high ambitions for myself when I became incarcerated. I wanted to get educated. I knew that some semblance of academic distinction would help me rise above the labels placed on me by prison. It would help silence my shame and provide me with a sense of dignity.
But my repeated efforts at enrolling in education and self-improvement programs — from general education courses to substance abuse programs — were rebuffed again and again.
That is, until I wrote this article.
I am what’s known inside as a “lifer,” a prisoner serving a life sentence. Lifers like me are too often denied education opportunities. The logic is simple: What’s the point if they’ll never get out?
But some do get out.
For an offender to persuade a parole board of his fitness for release, the completion of vocational or educational programs is an important consideration. This is used as a measuring stick to demonstrate rehabilitation and maturity.
In addition, New Mexico state law dictates that the department of corrections “shall encourage and promote the rehabilitation, education, employment and reintegration into society of persons adjudicated delinquents or convicted of a crime and sentenced to a corrections facility.”
But local statute currently hinders access to education for inmates with long sentences.
The regulations on inmate literacy state that the DOC may “defer educational requirements for inmates with sentences longer than ten years.” Priority is provided to people likely to leave prison within five years of completing a given education program.
Inmates who fall outside this sphere but want to educate themselves remain in a perpetual state of limbo.
It’s a frustrating purgatory. Each denial begins to feel like a line is being drawn — you vs. the jailer. After over a dozen rejections, often with little explanation other than canned bureaucratic speak — “As per CD-policy, you are not eligible for education enrollment” — rage took hold of me. But I knew I couldn’t give in to that primal instinct. Instead I chose to channel the repeated indignations into intellectual rage, into intellectual resistance. I buried myself in books. To hell with their credentials.
Over the years I studied history, sociology and the law. I fought to overturn my conviction with handwritten appeals, and I supported fellow prisoners burdened with unfair institutional infractions in their own fights against the system. But intellectual resistance has its limits inside. Some people, who are not willing to lose privileges, give up the fight. It’s hard to blame them. But I persist because resistance is the only way to assert what’s left of my humanity.
In my pod of 60 men, there are at least three lifers in my situation. When I have asked prison staff why we are denied chances to enroll in education programs, I am told there is no space available.
The DOC says those who are denied will be placed on a waiting list for certain academic opportunities. But, as far as I can tell, these waiting lists don’t appear to exist. And I have found no evidence that the department keeps track of a person’s eligibility for education opportunities. (The New Mexico Department of Corrections did not respond to questions provided by Prison Journalism Project.)
Ahead of writing this article, I looked into the space issue myself, asking staff and participants about their classes. The current enrollment appears to be much lower than the maximum capacity these classes are supposed to hold, about 25 students. According to people I spoke to, the number of seats available range from 15 to 20, with only seven to 10 inmates in each class.
So why the need for a wait list?
Throughout my incarceration. I have appealed to both the DOC and the governor’s office — in the form of complaints, grievances and letters — to resolve this issue of deferred education opportunities for lifers. I never received any responses.
Earlier this year, I was denied another educational opportunity because I did not “meet the requirements” for entry, a common and deliberately vague justification.
Because of this and years of previous denials, I decided to write this article. I was inspired by a book of prison writings published by PEN America called “The Sentences That Create Us: Crafting A Writer’s Life in Prison.” When I finished drafting my piece, I asked some of the teachers who help out with a volunteer writing program to make a few copies for me. I intended to share the drafts with various venues for incarcerated writers, including Prison Journalism Project.
I did not intend for anyone inside the prison to read the piece. But not long after I shared my draft for copying, I learned I had been enrolled in the program for which I had been denied weeks prior. I have not been able to confirm for certain what happened, but it seems to me that the teachers who reviewed my piece must have advocated for my enrollment.
After two decades of denials I was suddenly enrolled, and only one thing had changed: I had written my story about fighting for education and threatened to publish it.
Education should be attainable for everybody. No one wins when people remain uneducated. How can lifers better themselves while incarcerated when academic achievement remains out of reach? Do we want them to get better?
Do we?
