My first assignment as a peer specialist in my prison was to run a bingo game on weekend afternoons in the behavioral modification unit, where people with the most difficult behaviors and mental health challenges are housed. 

This wasn’t your grandmother’s bingo. Each person — only four could play at a time — was placed in a single-man cage in a room the size of a public bathroom. Once the guys were secured in the cages, I entered the room and handed each of them their bingo boards.

I sat at a table opposite so the guys could see me turn the bingo wheel and extract a number. Beside me was a small assortment of prizes: candy, coffee and chips, all supplied by the officers. 

Providing these men with this activity was supposedly helping to improve their mental wellness, but I felt more like a jailor than a certified peer specialist. The men were never allowed out of their cells without shackles. They were transferred from their cells to the cages, from the cages to other cages, and eventually back to their cells. 

It was something to watch. The officers orchestrated this complex ordeal, transferring each person one at a time. The whole procedure took some 20 minutes. Once everyone was inside a cage, I greeted the men, who were usually happy to see me — and not because of my winning personality, but because I had the snacks. 

During one game of bingo, a habitual object swallower was playing. In general, if it could fit in his mouth, he was going to swallow it. Because of this, I could never give him a pen or pencil; he had to dictate a message to me whenever he needed to send a request to staff or write a letter. He was a nice kid in his early 30s. 

Then there was this very young, frail kid who would have spirited conversations with his invisible companion. Most of the time these discussions would turn into violent arguments. When he got too loud, I would catch his attention and bring him back to the game. 

A good portion of my job is listening to these guys vent their frustrations. The theory is that if they can vent their frustrations in a safe way, they won’t do something destructive. 

There was one older man who was a conspiracy theorist. The majority of his conversations centered around some government plot or scheme to subjugate him and other people. I would just let him vent.

Sometimes I have to take a more hands-on approach. Once, after returning to my cellblock, I noticed an older gentleman sitting by himself looking like he was about to step into destruction. I started talking to him and, sure enough, he was about to confront the guard, which would have led him to the restricted housing unit or worse. I learned that he was dealing with some real bad stuff back home and was about to take it out on the staff. 

Some of the powerful moments occur in the various mental health and emotional support groups that I facilitate.

In the cancer support group, I told the guys that I was there to support them and wanted to provide a space where they could express their fears and triumphs without judgment. I did not have cancer, but I told them about my experience working with a cancer patient who eventually passed on. 

When the staff member who co-facilitated the group with me left the prison, the chaplain agreed to step in. At my prison, a peer specialist cannot facilitate a group on his own. He has to have a staff member present.

The chaplain educated us about cancer research and treatment, bringing us new information every week. When I came up with the idea for a run-a-thon fundraiser to benefit cancer research, I asked her to be the staff liaison. We called the race St. Jude-a-Thon, and the money we raised went to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. We sold T-shirts and food and raised nearly $4,000. We also raised $6,000 from outside donors. 

We have plans to do this every year. Hopefully we can raise even more money next time.