Joshua Plourd was sitting in a county jail when he read a book from cover to cover for the first time. It was a Western dime novel.
His own story could have been a novel: He was still a teenager when he was convicted of two counts of aggravated murder and given a life sentence. But in his 26 years inside Snake River Correctional Institution, in eastern Oregon, he has studied psychology, trauma-informed therapy, Buddhism and prison ecology, receiving 15 educational and vocational certificates on top of his GED.
To lock anyone in prison for the rest of their life is a way of asking: Is rehabilitation even possible? To meet Plourd in Oregon’s largest prison, where more than 350 people are serving life sentences, is to know the answer.
During his first 12 years there, Plourd lived through cycles of rage and despair. Then the healing influences of time and learning calmed him. Now he attends yoga classes three times a week and is an assistant instructor.
Educated and calm, Plourd serves his community. In 2013, he co-founded the Life Support Group, which gave weekly presentations for new arrivals, offered books and puzzles to people in solitary confinement, and provided legal services to prisoners, especially those preparing for parole hearings after lengthy terms. The group, a semi-autonomous prisoner collective that was officially recognized by the prison, also arranged working groups for people having difficulty adjusting to prison life, and created a guide for mentors called the “Empathetic Peer Manual,” written by Plourd.
But when the corrections counselor who sponsored the group left the prison, in 2016, the group ended. One reason its loss has been deeply felt is the prison’s isolation. Being close to an urban center can mean more programs, opportunities and even citizen oversight. But Snake River is remote. Volunteer classes, educational programs and even inmate-run clubs are often concentrated at the Oregon State Correctional Institution and Oregon State Penitentiary, both in the state’s capital of Salem, roughly an hour south of Portland. After the end of the Life Support Group, there have been few new clubs organized at Snake River.
Plourd thinks prisons can do more, especially for people serving life sentences. Lifers should have their own housing units, he said, and they should serve as teachers and mentors to other prisoners.
I’ve felt the impact of Plourd’s generosity and drive. We connected over our desire to study and earn advanced degrees despite our incarceration.
Lifers like him at Snake River are prevented from learning a trade, thanks to rules that say candidates for some training programs must have no more than seven to 10 years left on their sentences. Plourd argued this was an expensive waste of talent because many lifers eventually leave prison through parole or clemency.
One irony, Plourd said, is that parole boards and governors look for proof of rehabilitation.
“Certifications and related credentials are the tangible proof of remediation sought by those with the power to grant parole,” he said. “Why remove such an opportunity?”
Plourd’s last formal education was in 2000, when he earned his GED. But now there’s a new star on the horizon, for him and prisoners across the United States, thanks to the return of Pell Grants for incarcerated students in 2023.
“It allows me a path to pursue my vision,” Plourd said.
He hopes to begin his college career with an associate degree from Treasure Valley Community College, which partners with Snake River. He won’t stop there: He aspires to earn his doctorate in psychology from the University of Oregon in Eugene.