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Rights + Justice

Outside In

A class in creative writing at BC's Matsqui Prison offers an inside view of Canadian prison reform.

A. E. Hoff 25 Feb 2012TheTyee.ca

A.E. Hoff is a freelance writer, illustrator and filmmaker living in Vancouver. Her writing on social housing is included in the book Future Social, edited by Matthew Soules, published with Simply Read Books. Hoff's non-fiction comics have appeared in Broken Pencil, Display Canadian Design Magazine, and This Great Society.

On a frozen morning last November, I watched the sun rise over the razor wire topped perimeter fence at Matsqui Prison. A patrolling guard in his four-wheel drive stopped to ask me what I was doing. "I'm with the writers," I said, pointing to the cluster of people exhaling breath into the winter air. There was an automatic rifle on the seat next to him.

The night before, I hadn't been so sure I wanted to take part in this retreat. I sat at home and asked myself what had prompted me to volunteer for this two-day writers' workshop. I flipped through the collection of work we would be discussing during the weekend: The Insider Outsider Anthology, Writing Time, I had received in the mail earlier in the week. The insiders were the nine inmates at Matsqui and the outsiders were us -- 12 writers from the Greater Vancouver Area. Of the 12, I was the only newcomer.

The anthology included a collection of evocative poems in German with accompanying English translations, a witty piece of rhetoric on song construction, and free verse on topics such as chess, cats, spiders, solitude, and love. It was often hard to tell if the writer was an insider or an outsider. At times, the voice was identifiable. One piece I had already read caught hold of me again. The writer's name was Dillan.

Hope comes less and less, one by one, life is a mess and we all look the same.

Our stomachs hunger for freedom, our tongues salivating for uncaged air to breathe.

I thought about the line "we all look the same." It was true; I wasn't thinking of the writers I was about to meet as individuals. I was thinking of them as inmates and criminals.

I glanced back to the group. They were boisterous and friendly as they gathered around Ed Griffin, the leader of the retreat. I headed over to meet them. From his website, I already knew that Ed was a novelist, playwright, and an ex-priest; he is 75 years old and passionate about his work with the prison writing program. He welcomed me with an infectious smile and a warm handshake, and asked if I could help him carry in the donuts.

We entered the prison through the full body scanners and double locking security doors of the main entrance. We clipped on our red prison passes and proceeded with only pens, paper, our anthologies, two plastic bottles of water, and the donuts. There was an intimidating room for more in-depth searches that we passed on our way in.

We were guided down a series of passageways, the echoing click of security gates locking behind us, to a brightly painted, sunlit common room deep within the prison. We gathered chairs into a large circle and waited.

The men were brought in, led by guards, and the introductions commenced. There was an obvious camaraderie amongst the inmates and the returning writers. Everyone was eager to get started.

By the midday break, I had listened to the author of the German poetry read eloquently from his work in English and German. An insider named Luther. He was First Nations, in his mid-20s, with thick black hair tied back in a neat ponytail and multiple facial piercings, who had recently taught himself German. Shawn, another insider with the charisma of a natural born entertainer, guided us through the dynamics of song construction and its metaphoric applications to life.

Kenny, a man in his 40s with a large lightening-bolt tattooed on his face, described a chair his great-grandmother used to sit on while she told him stories, and his fascination, as a child, with tropical fish. His description of the room that housed a giant fish tank transported us to a world inhabited by red shag carpets, curiosity, and the innocence of childhood. I also learned a couple of stellar chess moves from Peter, another insider whose writing and demeanor reflected the precision of a master chess champion.

We each read from our own work too, discussed technical aspects of writing and tactics to overcome writer's block, and as the writing led us into it, we talked about life. What is the one thing you guys would like to have happen here, aside from throwing open the doors to the prison? A multiple of voices answered: more writing programs, art programs, music classes, history classes, Internet access. We're just being warehoused here, they said.

By lunch break on the second day, we'd spent writing time with the majority of the inmates. We'd read and discussed their reflections on their crimes, their childhoods, their fears and their hopes for the future. There was a raw honesty amongst the writers, both insiders and outsiders, that encouraged courage and trust.

I sat next to Dillan, the young man whose poetry had first caught my attention the night before the retreat. He was 22 years old, with boyish features and large brown eyes. A deep red scar ran the length of his left cheek. He was incarcerated at the age of 18. His parole hearing was coming up in two weeks, and he was hopeful. He described what he envisioned for his life outside of prison. He was interested in yoga and becoming a personal trainer; he intended to take part in Ed's community writing program, and wanted to enroll in college.

There were many things he would have to get used to on the outside, he told me. "Like having this big scar," he said, pointing to his face, "and dating girls. I've spent most of my prime dating years so far in prison." He smiled at this last comment. What he missed most about the outside world was physical human contact. "The guys in here are like my brothers, they've become like family. But we don't hug each other. No one touches. There's this invisible barrier -- you don't get into each other's space." One of the rules for the volunteers was that we would have no physical contact with offenders beyond a handshake.

At the end of the weekend, we gathered again into our circle of chairs and went around the room for parting comments. Unanimously we shared our expressions of gratitude. "Thank you for coming this weekend," one insider stood up and said. "I don't know why you guys do it, but we can't thank you enough. Thank you for making us feel like men again, even if it's only for these two days." The room burst into applause.

'Art purges the soul'

On Dec. 5, 2011 the federal government passed a final reading of the Safe Streets And Communities Act (Bill C-10) in the House of Commons, moving it on to Senate. Bill C-10 is an omnibus reform of nine major pieces of legislation, including extending sentencing for certain crimes, and reducing the ability for judges to order conditional sentences or house arrest.

When I met up with Ed after the retreat, he spoke disconsolately about the reforms. "It will simply pack the prisons with more inmates," he said. "It's just another step in warehousing these guys. Over the past 18 years, I've watched all the creative and educational programs be dismantled at the prisons.

"In 1991, Simon Fraser University used to have a degree program at Matsqui. The program was great. When I first came to Canada and asked if I could teach in the prison, they didn't need me. Then in 1993 the program was cancelled -- the public didn't like the idea of these bad guys getting a free education -- so I approached the prison again."

He shrugged. "When I started teaching at Matsqui, I got paid. It was just for two hours a week, but it was something. Two years in, the funding was cut. Since then, I've been volunteering. One by one the federal government has cut all the funding for these guys to have creative outlets on the inside. They have anger management classes and substance abuse programs, but they never ask the guys, what would you like to do? What do you think will help in your rehabilitation?

"Instead you know what happens -- if a guy misbehaves they don't let him come to the writing class. When has withholding education ever been an acceptable form of punishment?"

I asked about Dillan. "Did he get his parole?" Ed's shoulders drooped. "No," he replied. "Even though his parole officer supported it. She testified that Dillan had learned all he could in prison." He shook his head. "It's so frustrating. I was at the hearing as his mentor and told them I'd be in close contact with him on the outside. We even arranged for him to come to my writing class. I wish I could have done more."

I handed Ed a stack of pages I'd printed out from the Internet for another writer named Damien -- notes on a film we had discussed and a bunch of tips on developing the anti-hero as the protagonist in a story he's writing.

Damien had been transferred to the minimum security prison, Ed told me. "That's a good thing. He's on his way out. I just hope he can stay out. He's such a leader. I told him what I tell all the guys -- the best way to get back at the system is to not wind up back inside -- to live a successful life and stay outside of prison."

The inmates don't have access to the Internet, an aspect of prison life that Ed considers nonsensical. "There are guys in here who, when they're released, will have no idea how the Internet works, let alone how to use it to find jobs. They're completely cut off from these tools that could help them succeed on the outside. Internet access has been successfully brought into U.S. prisons. Why not try it here?"

"You have to remember," Ed said, "These guys are not a cross section of the prison population. These are 10 to 12 guys in a prison of 200. These guys are the ones who signed up for the class -- they want to learn writing, they want to explore themselves through artistic expression, they're all leaders. I've seen what art can do, and I believe in it. There's a quote from Aristotle that I love: Art releases unconscious tensions and purges the soul."

We discussed my experience at the writers' retreat. I told Ed that at first I was afraid to attend, and now I'm looking forward to the next one. "You know what they call us?" he asked me with a smirk. "Con-bitches. All of us who do the writers' workshops." Who calls us this? I asked. "Everyone who thinks these guys are a useless cause. It's a name I wear with pride."

I smiled at this too, thinking it was hard to hear the ex-priest in his words. Though it was Ed's involvement in the American civil rights movement, specifically his participation in the march at Selma with Doctor Martin Luther King, which led him, in 1968, to leave the Roman Catholic Church.

He still remains motivated by the "good stuff" he took from the church, however. "Take care of the poor. Take care of the least of the brethren. These guys are the least of the brethren. They are hated by society. My life should be what I believe: caring, loving, volunteering. That's why I do it."

"But, what could change?" I asked him. "How could the system improve?" He grinned. "I'm writing a book about that. In the future people will look back on how we dealt with criminals and ask -- did they really put people in cages?"

Retreats' ending

On Jan. 14, 2012, I received a memo, originally sent to Ed from the Matsqui Prison administration, announcing an imminent review of the writers' retreat. It expressed concerns about the event, citing examples of where rules had been broken. An inmate and a volunteer had been seen embracing during a class. A volunteer had presented an inmate with a book (a book on Russian history, that Ed had given to Dillan). The organizer (Ed) had given certain inmates his personal cell phone number (which the memo admitted wasn't against the rules, but was considered cause for concern). The memo listed other similar violations.

As a result, the next retreat, scheduled for April 2012, appeared headed for cancellation. "Not literally a cancellation," Ed explained. "But the administration has made it so difficult to run the retreat we can't possibly do it. They have insisted that we hold the retreat in the Visitor's Room so that all conversations can be recorded with video cameras and microphones.

"We would have no freedom to speak openly, or break into small groups. Last time we had a retreat there, the inmates were strip searched afterwards. And they've restricted us to two weekdays, which basically means all the volunteers who work during the week (which is everyone) will not be able to attend."

On Jan. 19, 2012, I received an email informing me that the April Writers' Retreat at Matsqui Medium Security Prison has been officially cancelled.

Two months ago this news would not have affected me. But at this moment, it does. Deeply.

[Editor's note: On Jan. 25, 2012, writer A.E. Hoff emailed Stephanie Millar, programs manager at Matsqui Prison, for the administration's comment on the cancellation of the writers' retreat. Just over a week later, Hoff received an email response from Scott E. Verwold, assistant warden/ management services at Matsqui, saying: "I reviewed the request and have no comment."]  [Tyee]

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