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If not art, then what?

Sunday, September 30, 2001

By Tim Menees, Post-Gazette Editorial Cartoonist

Post-Gazette cartoonist Tim Menees spent several days inside penitentiaries in Pennsylvania, California and New York, three states that provide arts programs for their inmates. Today, Menees focuses on prisoners' art and writing. In the Daily Magazine on Tuesday, he brings us music and theater.


Deep within the state penitentiary, behind the high walls and black iron gates, past the gun towers and prisoners being patted down, the tough guy finishes reading his poem, and no one speaks. He had been imprisoned, was released, violated parole and is back doing time. He has hurt his family and his friends. He swallows hard and then does what at one time would have put a target on his back: He dabs away a tear.

The arts program "adds color to this drab place" says Lt. Tom Ayers, a corrections officer at Folsom State Prison. (Tim Menees, Post-Gazette)

But times have changed, even hard time.

Tears may not erase the pain felt by a family or a victim. He, like others locked up for crimes from the truly horrific to the horribly commonplace, is trying to come to grips with himself and society through a most fragile commodity inside prison: Art.

In the auditorium at State Correctional Institution Pittsburgh -- a k a Western Pen, the hulking old prison on the banks of the Ohio --Alston Woods sits at his easel as still as a mannequin, dressed in prison browns splattered with paint.

A handful of other inmates are copying drawings of cabbages and conch shells. His new glasses haven't come in yet, so he wears two pairs clipped together as he works on a portrait of a correctional officer and his girlfriend from a photograph. The piece, commissioned by the officer, will bring him a few bucks, with 10 percent going to Western Pen.

On the stage, a few prisoners are practicing with mostly horns, their riffs and honks making a racket.

Inmate paintings are displayed along the wall, showing a wide range of themes and skill. Prisoners are learning that making art, besides helping them do their time, might lead to a new way of seeing the world -- something to turn to in their spare time besides crime.

 
 

For more on
prison music and theater programs

   
 

Woods, 41, is in for drugs. He has bad eyes, hepatitis, emphysema and asthma. "I'm still a young man, but I keep it real. It's hard to get a job when you get out. I'm black, a convict, I'm from the city. The public's image is, all blacks are drug dealers. I'm proud to shine. I'm not proud to be in the penitentiary."

Allyson Holtz teaches art at the prison three days a week and does the best she can with the space it allots her. She has at least 30 students and keeps her supplies inside a wire cage at the back of the auditorium. Still, while some prisons have snazzy art rooms, others have none, and the prisoners paint in their cells.

"This," she says, "represents an oasis."

Art keeps the inmates busy, says Ed Howe, the activities manager at the prison. "It also keeps us safe. If prisoners have idle time, they find their own recreation."

In a creative writing class at San Quentin, instructor Zoe Mullery tells the inmates, "I hope that writing becomes more a part of your lives." (Tim Menees, Post-Gazette)

Behind the walls, there can be a surprising amount of cooperation. Woods says, "Guys see my art under my arm, and say, 'I do magic markers.' I get them involved." He's on his knees, finishing up his portrait. "In prison, art will always survive."

Another inmate, R.J., chimes in. "I've only been here six years. I came in young, and now I'm searching for what I'm good at. I want to know that before I die."

Holtz gets the men supplies and videos and art books, then points them toward a subject. "They just enjoy the process of making art. They work at different levels. There's a lot of frustration in here."

The inmates are eager to show off their artworks. John sets up his pastels on a table, portraits and figures and one painting titled "Eyes," with cartoonish faces in vibrant colors. George has a work in progress of a knifing, a gun and a lightning bolt: "We all end up in the same place." Roy holds up a painting, "The Good Party," a family reunion with angels joining in.

In prison, all art can be therapy, and it has a much different meaning from art on the streets. Walk through the iron gates and everything changes. You are never sure what you are seeing. Everyone has an agenda, and rage simmers below the surface.

For just this reason, many wardens and staff think the arts have a place inside the walls. Says Lt. Ido Nienhuis at California's San Quentin Prison, "We'd be nuts to run this place without programs."

Carol Pinkins, who just retired as warden of the Northern California Women's Facility, stares when asked why her inmates should get art. "Because they're people! They're just like me and you! They're like my kids -- I want them to grow!"

Despite the odds, art keeps surfacing inside. How can a prisoner get past basic ground-level survival to paint a watercolor? An inmate in California says, "The highest creativity [occurs when you're] under oppression."

Critics ask why criminals should have any frills. But California, for one, figuring that art is not frivolous, started its Arts In Corrections program 20 years ago. Each prison has AIC, at an average cost of $44,000 per prison.

Pennsylvania's prisons also have art programs but get no state tax money. Each is financed from the Inmate General Welfare Fund, which makes its money from sources such as the prisons' pay phones and vending machines.

AIC's Gail Gutierrez McDermid says Sacramento spends $23,000 per inmate per year, and she figures if two parolees from any given prison make it on the outside, its program has paid for itself. Adds an instructor, "If a guy has propensity toward not coming back, shouldn't we help?"



Folsom State Prison opened in 1880, and its setting amid the trees and rolling meadows of Represa, Calif., belies a tough history that culminated in 1991 in beatings, stabbings and killings. Now medium-security, it still houses some 740 lifers among the 3,800 in general population living behind its granite walls.

Alston Woods struggles to work with broken eyeglasses. "I'm proud to shine," he says. (Tim Menees, Post-Gazette)

It's spitting rain, and Lt. Tom Ayers moves around under an umbrella as prisoners in denim, some wearing yellow slickers, walk the yard's track. Ayers sports a mustache and a shock of brown hair and is dressed in a soft brown sports coat and khakis.

Ayers, an ex-Marine who majored in criminal justice and now is going to law school, jokes with the inmates and clearly likes working at Folsom. Art, he says, "adds color to this drab place." Folsom even has outdoors "Art Alley," where, on nice days, inmates who buy their own supplies and paint as a hobby may sell their work.

Building I holds 1,214 men on five tiers, two to each small cell, and although the cells are jammed, there is only quiet, low conversation. Building V is the oldest, dark and gloomy, with painted granite walls and black iron cell doors with holes for air. Lester's cubbyhole is brightly lit and has a TV and even a counter with a sink. He demonstrates how, in the bad old days, he would edge out of his cell, his back to the wall. Wary. "You didn't know who was around the corner."

Twenty years ago, men would turn up at Bill Petersen's art class, sporadically bulked up by stuffing their shirts with National Geographics for protection. Petersen lost students to stabbings.

Folsom's art room is quiet. It looks onto the yard and the cellblock. A couple of easels and some work are on display -- a sunset, a landscape, golf balls on a course. Shelves hold art books and encyclopedias.

Muffled music thumps away from AIC's small, gray second-floor music room. Inmate Skee Whip and his posse are playing the blues. Skee Whip -- Folsom's Jimi Hendrix -- launches into "Red House," while downstairs five inmates draw oil pastels from photos. There's a multihued portrait and a woman's face in bright colors.

An inmate in a white baseball cap says prisons -- even the guards -- don't need any more negative publicity. "Everyone thinks they're sadistic bastards."

Ayers does a sitcom double-take: "We're not?"

In the '30s, a convict named Ralph Pekor painted "The Last Supper" in the prison chapel, and Ayers pulls back the curtains to show it. The warden loved the fresco until he realized the convict had painted him as Jesus, the inmates on condemned row as the disciples, and, for good measure, tucked himself in underneath the table.

Now that's prison art.



The prisoner sits locked away in his cell with his notebooks on a shelf, on a chair beside his bunk, his drawing board resting on a blanket, and works on another striking watercolor of his cellmate lying on his bunk, or his mother, or a Hopper-like rural scene. The artist is tall and good-looking, superbly talented and well-spoken and remorseful. He admits he has hurt a lot of people. He wants attention paid to his art, not himself, which is understandable. He is a convicted rapist.

At the State Correctional Institution in Pittsburgh, the auditorium serves as an art and music room for inmates. Despite the makeshift facilities, instructor Allyson Holtz says, "This represents an oasis." (Tim Menees, Post-Gazette)

His words:

"Not until prison did I start to push myself, to do things I should have done in college. People have skewed perception of prison, that we sit in our cells running tin cups along the bars.

"I paint what I want because in here I don't have to chase money.

"I'm watching chunks of my life slipping away. I'm unable to have a family. I'm unable to do so many things. It's not unjust, but I am being fully punished. There is so much pain in here, but if I hadn't come to jail, I would never have turned inward. I would have nothing to say. I want to tell a story with my drawings.

"As an artist, I want conditions to be extreme. I have my own little camera."

And if the state took away his art?

"I'd still have an artistic outlet with a 15-cent pen."



Ido Nienhuis, the San Quentin lieutenant who doubles as a community resources manager, knows all about the 1983 California's Brewster Study showing that inmates participating in AIC at two state prisons had fewer disciplinary problems. And a 1987 AIC study claims the rate of return for parolees who did art was cut by 51 percent.

Perhaps those prisoners were simply more apt to go straight.

"Who knows how long they'd stay out?" Nienhuis counters. And, he says, if they come back, it might be for a less violent crime than they would have otherwise committed.



The sun is out and the wind is up. The California State Prison at Solano sits against the hills, low, gray concrete buildings with slits for windows and blue gun towers. It looks deserted and sinister. Almost 6,000 inmates live in two-tiered concrete housing units. Men play cards. A bald man strums a guitar. A PA blares something unintelligible.

One open cell has battered walls, a stainless-steel toilet, narrow window, metal table with stool, string for clothesline, TV, calendar, coffee pot, blue shirts hanging up, guitar case. There's an apple and a tiny sign: "Instant Human/Just add coffee."

The inmates in the common area are sitting or kneeling down. An alarm has gone off somewhere in the prison, and if they're not down, they are officially "considered part of the incident." They wait. The alarm is false.

In a nearby building, 20 inmates are in the art room, a fraction of the 300 in Solano's AIC program. The room is spacious, with long tables, lockers, easels, drawings of hippos, a color chart, a desk with a computer and an etching press.

David Flury, now an artist in Los Angeles, did time here. His work, still displayed at Solano, is a mix of acrylics and pastels, bright colors and heavy lines with, says art teacher Armando Cid, "a graffiti style out of L.A." They are bold, a mix of Diego Rivera and Fernand Leger.

Cid grew up in the barrio. "Art changed me from going in one direction," he says.

Why should they have art in prison? We can express violence, they answer. It's something different from out on the yard. Later, when a guy goes on the outside, it might keep him occupied -- prison doesn't offer jobs -- and "one day, we might move next door to you."

Ken is prematurely gray at 42, and has a portfolio of watercolor "renderings." He's an architect from a family of professionals. He's the first of his family to land in prison. "Who do you want as a neighbor?" he asks. "Someone who's been locked in a cell and is bitter, or someone who is creative?"

Prison is often harshly self-segregating, but here, as in other programs, whites, blacks and Hispanics sit next to each other drawing, reading their prose and playing in the same band.

"I'd like people to know," one prisoner says emphatically, "art helps people to grow. It changes people -- white, black, brown. We're the same people on the yard, and we have to readjust. We want to change."



SCI Graterford is surrounded by concrete walls and gun towers, built on low rise in the farmland northwest of Philadelphia in Montgomery County. The fields smell of spring planting.

It is Pennsylvania's biggest prison, housing 3,100 men. A corridor stretches from the main entrance past the pale green cellblocks, each with long double-tiers and skylights. The cells are concrete and have sliding green metal doors. Blue picnic tables and green radiators sit on the main deck. A few inmates wander from their cells to the shower room.

Had there been no art program, says one inmate, "I'd still have an artistic outlet with a 15-cent pen." (Tim Menees, Post-Gazette)

This is where the prisoners draw and paint. They have no art room.

John Caputo is standing outside his cell. His cubicle is neat, with a TV and rag rugs. He's a nice-looking kid from Penn Hills with short dark hair and a goatee. He got his 15 minutes of fame twice: in 1991, he was leaving a hearing on charges of theft and receiving stolen property when he escaped by knocking over a constable. He was recaptured, and again, in 1993, when he was loose for two hours after jumping from a constable's car on the way to a hearing.

Caputo says, "My mom's glad I'm in a safer place."

He started doing origami while locked in the hole. An older inmate lent him a how-to book. Now, like Woods, he has a backlog of orders for delicate paper birds and animals.

Two cellblocks over, Zafir paints in oils from midnight to 5 a.m., when the prison is quieter. He cuts them with baby oil because he can't have flammable turpentine. He is 44 and a lifer. He started sketching on the block and describes his current artwork as "almost biblical." It shows people leaving a garden for the city. "People see my work, and they enjoy it. That's self-gratification."



Green Haven sounds picturesque but is a maximum-security prison sitting in rolling farmland below forested hills in Stormville, just north of New York City. It's long, low and gray, with round gun towers and brick cellhouses. Inside one, prisoners converse under the tall windows or bunch around a corrections officer who is writing passes. The yard is dirt, with apile of weights, TVs and picnic tables.

Paul Cecilia's art room has a high ceiling and large barred windows. He has assembled three students.

Bob Burgess has just won best of show in the state's Corrections on Canvas art show. He's 45, tall and balding with a goatee, and he paints ships. When he gets out, he wants to do "ship portraiture" of yachts in Florida. His paintings are detailed and accomplished, and one art gallery, unaware of his current residency status, gave him a one-man show. Unable to attend any wine-and-brie opening, his family said he was off scuba diving.

Although inmates in New York may use oils (they insist they never give any solvents to nonartists), Burgess prefers acrylics because they dry fast, which means they won't get smeared during a cell search.

Alejandro Lopez has been locked up 14 years and does intricate inlaid wooden jewelry boxes, one of which took second place at the recent art show. He and Burgess teach drawing and woodworking to other convicts.

Noel Rivera is 45 with gray hair and does sweeping surreal oils. "Art is part of the healing process," he says. "You want us locked up 24/7? That would make us hateful. I thought society was supposed to be modern."

Burgess says, "We have less problems with staff, less [infractions], because we have something to lose. The staff gives us a little air space."

While hauling a painting to his cell, another prisoner asked Rivera snidely if they all painted like that in Puerto Rico. "The guy shot it; I shot it back." That was the end of it. "And outside, you have to deal with comments on the street."

"Instead of getting into fights, I put it on canvas," Burgess says.

Cecilia is realistic. "We only provide direction for rehabilitation. They have to learn self-discipline. They have to learn what normal people are like."



In the airy art room at SCI Albion, up near Erie, a half-dozen inmates are working on their paintings while George Michael's "Faith" plays quietly on a boom box. Inside, the room is brightly lit; outside, the gray cement housing units are stained dark from a drizzle.

Their instructor is artist Deborah Sementelli. She moves around the room, guiding them to themes they like: old cars, farm scenes. Inmate tutors assist her. John Haffey was one until recently. Haffey achieved notoriety by faking his own death in 1992, then turning himself in a year later on Sally Jessy Raphael.

Bespectacled and 48 with gray hair, he has Parkinson's and drops his brushes, so he wraps his brushes with tape, adhesive side out, so they stick to his hand. Recently, he has been dividing his time between helping a large prisoner with an acrylic of a lake ("Use cobalt blue") and his own rural landscape watercolor.

The inmates are quick to report they give back to the community, donating quilts and other work to charities.

"I left a struggling wife with two children," Haffey says. "I can help her a little bit."

A stocky prisoner with long hair and a beard is working on a seascape.

"I was a tough guy," he says, dabbing on black. "Always brawling. Since I've started painting, I don't have the time for all that."



In the farmland, south of Stockton, Calif., women sit on the grass, some alone, some in clumps, as if having a picnic. Talking. Some laugh, some lie back and look at the sky. Most are in jeans and white and blue jerseys, some wear muumuus. A huge woman with a crewcut sits on the steps across the yard from the hair-care shop.

The Northern California Women's Facility is a low compound, with concrete and metal housing units, light towers and a chain-link fence. The housing units have washers and dryers, and a cell I poked into was neat, with standard bunks and desk, a small boom box, some food, a towel rack and Valentine cards, "For the one I love."

Ninety percent of the women are in for drugs or drug-related crimes. Warden Carol Pinkins is firm about Arts In Corrections: "I love it. It's probably one of the best programs for inmates. They were always told, 'You're stupid.' Now a person off the street can be an artist. Art makes you look at everyday things as things of beauty. It makes you analyze."

She holds up "Inside Stories," an anthology of short stories by her inmates, and raps its cover. "This is therapy. We need more of this."

Art's a chance for inmates to meet "free people," Pinkins says. If the state cut the funding, the inmates would just sit in their cells. And the prisons tie their programs to behavior. If cuts were to come, "more institutions will rock and roll!"

A handful of women sit in the art room. It is large and bright, with tables, jars of paint, locked glass-front cabinets of art books, an ivy plant, a TV and stereo, storage shelves for paper, bolts of fabric, four sewing machines, and small quilts -- one of a Japanese woman -- hanging on the wall.

Quilting has a long waiting list, and some women have come and gone without sewing a stitch.

An inmate named Steffani discovered abstract expressionist Franz Kline, and Steffani's work evolved into large expressionistic forms in black and white.

Felicia, a former inmate, left a striking painting of a dancer in purple, which now hangs in the visitor's lobby, and another of a waterfall in greens and blues and Mark Tobey-esque squiggles.

Elyse says she was a battered wife. "I was feeling bad about myself, to the point of attempting suicide." She wrote in "Inside Stories" -- which are often less creative fiction than cries of pain -- about a lover who had just died:

"How dare he leave me! As I cursed God, my thoughts turned to suicide with hopes of joining Steve. On April 22, 1997, I found myself on suicide watch in the county jail, charged with 29 felonies. One thing I can say about myself is when I do anything, I do a first-class job, and this time was no exception."



The village of Point San Quentin, a seaside hamlet with beachy cottages and palm trees, sits by a glittery San Francisco Bay. Then a passenger ferry glides behind a cream-and-brown cellhouse with pale green bars. East Gate, which vaguely resembles a Spanish fortress, leads to the black latticework bars of the sally port and a warren of cellblocks, walls, alleys, gun towers and catwalks that make up San Quentin Prison.

The Upper Yard is a concrete marshaling area under a gray metal open-air shed and surrounded by cellblocks, the prison's neighborhoods of iron railings and black bars, two men per cell, 6,000 in residence, their lives packed in around them. A crowd in denim mills around, as others head for chow or wait to go back to their cells or catch Part Two of "The Green Mile." A large, lumpy kid with a buzz cut and heavy eyebrows is joined by two of his buddies. A one-legged man hobbles past.

The arts room is next to the chow hall, high-ceilinged, with windows over the door looking at the top of North Block. It has pencil sketches fastened on the wall, a painting of a '20s jazz scene, a chalkboard, an easel, storage for paper and an old upright piano. On this day, the agenda is creative writing.

Zoe Mullery has taught here for a year. She wears a long braid and fancy hat and looks like a writer. Her night class is supposed to start at 6:20, and she has a list of students, but this is prison and things change, and she's never sure who will turn up when. The previous week, the whole joint was locked down following an outbreak of chickenpox.

At 6:40, Carl comes in. He's a big man with a big mustache. He and Zoe chitchat.

At 6:42, Robert arrives. Robert has dark hair and a goatee. It's his birthday. Did anyone do anything? "Naw," he shrugs. "No one cares."

The others trickle in. They speak softly, as if by habit, so they won't attract attention. Mullery sits alone with her charges. She asks what two newcomers like to read. John Grisham, Raymond Chandler, Daphne du Maurier, John Steinbeck and self-help. "I hope," she tells them, "that writing becomes more a part of your lives."

Jeff asks, "Is this a college course?" It's not.

Mullery asks whether anyone has completed the last assignment. Robert takes out some papers he keeps in a Priority Mail envelope. He reminds the class they had to include one child taking another to a magical place, and a key. He reads his story, "Dance of the Forest Sprite," about two small girls, moonlight, the song of crickets, an old lady's house and pictures of fairies. One of the girls wears a key around her neck.

Robert's three daughters served as his muse, but children and prisoners are a touchy issue. He says, "That's why I read you guys the assignment first."

Carl likes the detail of the key, but Larry says, "You lost me, man. Those girls' responses were too cute, too manufactured. I don't see kids like that." Robert takes the criticism gamely.

The prisoners sit around the table like grad students as male voices rumble out in the yard. Says one of the group: "This is a creative way to vent anger."

To which Carl adds: "And no bruises on your cellie."

Zoe reads a short story she has written. The men listen, engrossed. Jeff says, "That was good. You wrote that?"

Larry wonders: "Did you know where you were going or did it just come out?"

Jeff: "Did the story veer off, or did I." Jeff's antsy. During the chickenpox scare, he didn't fill out a health form completely and was locked in his cell. "I've been so spaced out lately."

Larry reads a slice-of-life poem about his cell, "Afterwork Blues in 3N74."

"This place is so overwhelming, so condensed," Jeff says. "Some criticize just to be cruel or bad-ass."

Larry puts it more succinctly: "Legitimate criticism -- we can accept that. The other type, we'll go to another page. It'll end up back out on the yard."



Six inmates at SCI Graterford are camped around a long table with a coffee can holding pencils, in a cinderblock room on the ground floor. On the wall is a poster, "Principles of Recovery." Some keep their work in white folders.

It is poetry therapy, led by art therapist Will Ursprung, a likable 48-year-old in black jeans, plaid shirt and tie, a beard and an opal stud earring. He asks who wants to read a poem.

Chris, a large man with a beard and boxy haircut, reads "Voices." He says he is a manic-depressive and he hears voices.

Ursprung tells them it takes courage to get their feelings out.

A late arrival sits down, swings around and extends his hand. "I'm Winfield Patterson." Patterson is a lifer and has been doing time for a quarter-century. "I finally found my voice in here," he says.

He had never done any formal writing, but now gets others into the class. "This is a medium to escape. It's mine."

"The more I write," says Chris, "the more anger dissipates."

Don reads "Pilgrimage to Prison, Part I."

Prison is where you see a lot and nothing at all,
Where you hear the suffocating sounds of insanity
Every moment of the day,
It's a dry rasping sort of hum,
Interrupted by the flushing of toilets
And the passing of bodily gases ...

"That was the soft side of it," Don says, then reads "Pilgrimage to Prison, Part II":

... That's a maxim any convict
worth his or her salt will tell you,
first rule
Always live to fight another day.

Chanin, a young inmate, says, "We've discovered something works in here. Will it work on the outside? You never can tell."

Patterson says he saw a skunk and rabbit in the grass around between Graterford's cellblocks. "Nature is oblivious to a penitentiary. There are no rules."

Yes, says Zafir the painter, "but just as important, before, you would have passed up that rabbit and skunk. You would have never seen them."



The entrance to California State Prison, Sacramento County -- "New Folsom" -- looks like a military base or a TV station: concrete, cold and sterile. The morning is windy and chilly, and the prison seems lifeless except for the cry of a seagull and two inmates doing pushups in the yard. There had been a fight in C Facility, and the unit was locked down.

That didn't matter to the five others assembled for poetry in a small room facing a breezeway just off the yard.

The poets read their works: Describing color to a blind man, a shooting at a San Diego McDonald's. Fine, but does poetry change anyone? "Of course it does!" says Big C, glaring -- think Shaq in prison blues. He wants you to know it's astounding that, in this room, "We have Crips and Bloods on the same mike!"

Marty sings "Little Boy Blue." He's young, with a trim beard and going bald. He will never get out. He plays a 12-string and sings the haunting blues in a beautiful tenor voice, eyes closed. Big C sings along quietly. Marty wrote the song in Old Folsom.

Big C and Marty work for AIC seven days a week, helping run the program, organizing classes. "I've been here 3 1/2 years. You take this away from us, we have nothing!" If a prisoner comes in with an attitude, Big C tells him, "You got a problem, you get out."

Besides writing poetry, Big C teaches a rap class to the young inmates twice a week. "I let 'em scream for half an hour. They can't say that stuff on the yard. In here you have all those adversaries, the Crips, the Bloods, making beautiful music together."

He stands and sings a gospel song, a cappella. Damon sits with his eyes closed. Tree looks at Big C, G down at his shoes, Marty at the floor.

Voices echo out in the breezeway.



Nothing ever works perfectly, especially in prison. A teacher complains about spotty help from the corrections officers; some programs cope with sparse funds; inmates miss class; a piece of a drum kit gets stolen (high-grade weapons material) and the unit is locked down. Some of the COs, concerned more with keeping convicted felons under control, consider activities a royal pain.

One teacher thinks the pendulum has swung toward security, and another had to bust an inmate for hiding contraband in his locker. An inmate tutor adds, "It's gotten physical at times."

And criticism can get testy, as in this very private discussion:

Inmate One: "Am I talking to you?"

Inmate Two: "Don't preach at me."

Inmate One: "I'm not paying you any mind."

Inmate Two won't quit and Inmate One slowly raises his hand as if holding a shank. Inmate One laughs, and it's over. Maybe it was a threat, maybe it was a joke. The two were chilling together later.

A civilian instructor says, "We are dealing with matters of the heart in a paramilitary setting."


Tuesday: Return to State Correctional Institution Pittsburgh, San Quentin and Albion to see how inmates deal with prison through music and drama.

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