On Lecturing in a Prison, Where Minds Are Free

A friend brought this article to my attention. It resonated so well that I thought I'd share it.

I, too, have had experiences like Mr. Cowie. I've never taught in a prison, but I have often taught classes and engaged in conversation with people who are not formally educated and/or from low-income neighborhoods where deep, theoretical conversations are unexpected. Yet, when we start talking about books or movies or news that has a concept that affects people in these communities, I have engaged in conversations, mostly with young people (teens and college students) that would stimulate any intellectual's mind. I'll try to write about one of those conversations in a future post.

On Lecturing in a Prison, Where Minds are Free
By Jefferson Cowie
On a sweltering afternoon last August, I had the professional thrill of giving one of the kickoff lectures of Cornell's New Student Reading Project, an annual effort to knit the entire campus together in the shared intellectual experience of reading a single book. The uncomfortably hot crowd of thousands of students and faculty members assembled in the field house was the largest gathering I had ever addressed, complete with big-screen projections of the lecturers, like academic rock stars, floating over the stage.


The topic was close to my heart: my favorite character, Tom Joad, grappling with the teachings of Preacher Casey, from one of my favorite books, John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. The issues of migration and family, environment and social crisis, economic calamity and occupational justice, it seemed to me, made the book extraordinarily relevant to the problems of today.


Then in October, I gave the talk again. I shivered more from nervousness than the cool autumn air as I entered another strangely cavernous space—an almost 200-year-old maximum-security prison, Auburn Correctional Facility. Behind fortresslike walls rising above the small, historic town of Auburn, the state of New York incarcerates its murderers, thieves, and gangsters; put the first electric chair to use; and still stamps out license plates. As I worked my way through security to the prison chapel, I couldn't help recalling that the central characters of my talk had done time for murder and spent much of the book in violent scrapes with the law, much like those people I was about to address.


On the Cornell campus, every time I'd attended the huge opening of the reading project, I was struck by the students' indifference and boredom. Whether the book was by Sophocles or Garry Wills, F. Scott Fitzgerald or Jared Diamond, the students seemed incapable of engaging with the lectures. A colleague blogged: "I saw students asleep, milling about, talking on their cellphones, texting, talking and laughing with others, and what seemed to be a precious few engaged by the presentations." The students' restlessness led him to ask them, "What are you doing here at Cornell?"


The inmates who filtered into the prison chapel, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing at Auburn Correctional Facility: hard time, often for violent crimes they had committed when they were quite young. I arrived skeptical that my presentation would mean anything to them; I was motivated more by curiosity and civic obligation than grand pedagogic hopes. Clearly, these guys had bigger problems than literature and history.


The 60 inmates enrolled in the Cornell Prison Education Program were, in contrast to the Cornell students, hardly bored, restless, or indifferent. They were on fire. They sat attentively without PowerPoint photos to keep them entertained, autumn walks through the gorges to look forward to, or fancy careers to anticipate. They occasionally tossed questions to me during my talk, testing my mettle. Then, when I finished, their hands shot up. For the next hour, I got a vigorous intellectual workout—an exhausting barrage of questions any teacher would relish.


The questions came from every direction. How could Tom Joad, asked one, be the quintessential American working-class hero (as I had suggested) if Steinbeck had ignored the Asian and Mexican workers who had done most of the agricultural labor in California? Another, responding to how land got used in Oklahoma and California, asked if the constitutional system functioned in a way that enforced inequality. When I showed how Okie iconography was used in advertising and television in the postwar era, another asked if advertising and consumption were designed to prevent popular revolts. An inmate even asked whether the dollar was grounded in human labor, and whether human labor can be considered a commodity like any other.


One prisoner asked a multipart question that I did not fully grasp. I dismissed part of it and moved on, but his hand went back up. Though it was rough around the edges, in academic parlance his question was this: Was the type of civil society that Preacher Casey struggled for ("Maybe all men got one big soul everybody's a part of") possible, given the social atomization brought about by computers and technology?


I turned my head to the program's director, Jim Schechter, with an incredulous look—was this for real?


Before the night was over, the inmates' questions had me delving into constitutional theory, Lockean property rights, spirituality, political dissent, the tensions between civil rights and economic rights, and the use of state power. Granted, there were a lot of grandstanding, polemics, and semiarticulated ideas floating around, but these guys were serious about what they were doing. At one point, carried away with the moment, I even delivered a spontaneous mini-lecture on Antonio Gramsci's Prison Notebooks, which had been scrawled on scraps of paper while he was imprisoned in Fascist Italy. Gramsci tried to figure out, I told the prisoners, how market culture creates a common sense that ensures the consent of the governed. They murmured. They nodded. They got it. Rarely had I felt so alive as a teacher.


After each of the big panels at Cornell, a small handful of the several thousand students would come up to ask the panelists follow-up questions. In fact, the open-mike question period of previous years had been eliminated because the bulk of students used the opportunity to make a quick exit. After the prison talk, in contrast, the men filed up to introduce themselves, thank me for coming, and ask if I'd teach a class in the program. Most simply looked me in the eye with affirmation, shook my hand, and headed back to their cells. Their humility was humbling.


I wondered if it was simply the boredom and constraint of prison life that had the prison students so motivated; the well-prepped Cornell kids, of course, had every media device and distraction imaginable to draw them away from us droning professors. Maybe the Cornell students had worked so hard to get in that they now felt complacent, having made the grade. Maybe the Cornell kids were indifferent because the reading project was not a graded assignment.


Yet the prisoners had also studied hard to get into the prison-education program. They were not simply looking for ways to pass time. They had other things to distract them if they chose, and they attended graded classes as well. My lecture had been purely voluntary for them.


The experience at Auburn got me thinking about entitlement, motivation, and the life of the mind. It forced me to ask troubling questions about status and reward in our academic system. It made me wonder what I was doing with my life and my career, now in midpassage. The contrast between the free minds of the imprisoned bodies at Auburn and the imprisoned minds of the free bodies among some of the nation's most gifted college students could not have been more stark.


Marcus Rediker, a visiting scholar at Cornell last year, also gave a lecture at Auburn, on slave ships. I heard that he rocked the house (the inmates do, after all, call Auburn the "slave ship"). Summing up his experience, he reported: "Most of all, I was impressed by the intelligence, the thoughtfulness, the engagement, the curiosity—in short, by the life of the mind—that I found among the people inside Auburn Prison. That mind, I am pleased to report, cannot be imprisoned."


I wondered what the bars were made of that seemed to imprison my Cornell students, and what it would take for them to begin emancipating themselves.

Jefferson Cowie is an associate professor of history at Cornell University. His latest book, Stayin' Alive: The 1970s and the Last Days of the Working Class, is due out from the New Press in September.

What we don't know can hurt us

Above is the controversial image. A monkey is shot by police as they talk about finding someone else to write the stimulus package.

When I saw the cartoon, my first reaction wasn't as strong as my African-American friends. Because I am White, the image and the association did not and does not affect me like it does a person who is African-American. I don't have the context to understand or have the pain associated with being called a monkey in the most derogatory way. When I was a kid, if we were called monkeys, it was because we were acting silly.

So, with my background and context, I could try to deny that the monkey has anything to do with President Obama. But the monkey in the picture has nothing to do with clowning around...and it has nothing to do with an attack on someone (as some people are trying to connect it with the recent chimp "pet" who turned violent and attacked a woman). The cartoon is very specific in it's comments about about a stimulus bill. The word bubble and the chimp together in a cartoon don't allow us to disconnect the two.

I believe many of us who are White try desperately to deny and refuse to acknowledge our history. The reality is that White people have connected Black people with monkeys for a long time. If we don't believe that, we need to look into our history. As Kyra Phillips (CNN) found out, our history and the connecting of Black people to monkeys is all too real. You can see the of the dialogue with Kyra Phillips, Al Sharpton, and Jeff Johnson of BET here. She found the information in an article written by Rev. Buckner Payne in 1867 called, "The Negro: What is his Ethnological Status?"

We take up the monkey, and trace him...through his upward and advancing orders--baboon, ourang-outang and gorilla, up to the negro, another noble animal, that noblest of the beast creation. The difference between these higher orders of the monkey and the negro is very slight...and consists mainly of this one thing: the negro can utter sounds that can be imitated; hence, he could talk wtih Adam and Eve, for they could imitate his sounds.

I think it's important that we hear what people say. When Black people are telling us it's a racist cartoon, why are we so offended by that? Where does the defensiveness come from? Why not acknowledge their comments and their feelings and seek understanding so that even if we may not understand it, we can at least become more sensitive?

I am very impressed with Attorney General Eric Holder's response toward the cartoon. Yes, he called us a "Nation of Cowards" (which is the soundbyte that has triggered so much emotion) but he also challenged us to start a new conversation.

If we're going to make progress, we have to have the guts...we have to have the determination to be honest with each other.

Mr. Holder wants to make sure the Department of Justice and the Civil Rights division does its job. To do that, he plans to start with his own employees. Mr. Holder thinks it's important...

to not only commemorate Black History, but also to foster a period of dialogue between the races. Our history has demonstrated that the vast majority of Americans are uncomfortable with and would like to not have to deal with racial matters...

View Eric Holder's words (not just his sound bytes) below. I think it's important to hear it from him. He challenges us all to a new level:



As Holder implies, we are scared to have the conversation. We don't want to be charged with racism and we don't want to be indicted as racists. Mr. Holder is not accusing us of either. He is simply challenging us to seek a deeper conversation so that we can move forward with each other.

Our cowardice shows. As I read CNN's The Cafferty File blog, I recognized how our cowardic plays out. He asks:

Here’s my question to you: Do you agree with Attorney General Eric Holder that the U.S. is a “nation of cowards” when it comes to race?

I'm sure he doesn't realize that his question is a cowardly question. But I believe the bolder position Mr. Holder is calling us to is to acknowledge the comments...acknowledge the racism in the cartoon...and begin a deeper conversation. Asking us to side for or against Mr. Holder continues to pit us against one another. A better question would be,

"How have we been a 'nation of cowards' and how can we move beyond that?"

Instead of denying that there's anything wrong, let's open ourselves to ask, "What *is* wrong...with what I just said...with what I just did...with what I just drew?" It's a vulnerable position and the answer may be painful, but I find that people who offer these open-ended conversations aren't trying to hurt us; they are trying to help us see and understand what we can't.

As I watch Eric Holder and observe how President Obama handle different situations I began to notice something. To this point, what we've come to be proud of is when we have shades of brown in high level positions. And there's nothing wrong with that. It's a start. But what I see happening now is a true diversity. President Obama chose people of diverse skin tones, but he has also created a freedom in our country that starts from the top--a freedom to speak and a freedom to challenge what hasn't been spoken about and challenged in the past.

This new dialogue has the potential to challenge us to hear voices that we haven't heard before. It has the potential to challenge all of us to see things differently.

I am looking forward to this new day.

Community conversations

As I dropped Checo off at his house yesterday, he commented, "Janet, we have the best conversations!" I had to smile. All the way to his house we had discussed the reasons behind recycling, how it affects the environment, and why more people don't recycle.

Checo is not unusual in his interest in issue-driven conversations. Johnas, a 20-year old, began a conversation with me about the NPR commentary that I was listening to in the car one day. Teenagers used to come to my home to watch documentaries from the civil rights era and would discuss and relate it to their lives today. Monique, a 22-year old, and I always have deep conversations about race and community issues.

I find that many people in our urban communities, teens and adults alike, become passionate when engaging about issues. I wonder if people and programs who come into the community to evangelize, provide parenting classes, do community clean ups, etc., did more to engage people about the issues, maybe people wouldn't have to be bribed with food and prizes to come to the meetings. Maybe people in the community would feel like partners instead of passive recipients and would begin initiating their own programs and projects based around their own needs using the assets they have within the community.

Last week, during our staff development meeting for the After-School Academy, we had a session where the group made observations and discussed what they would want for their ideal community. I found the discussion very insightful. Despite the negatives, there is a sense of community.

Wyshina: I moved from down here two weeks ago. And just not being able to walk out my door, walk over to Sylvia’s house, and ask her what she’s cooking today, see Lori walking to the store and say, “Hey, what’cha’all got going on?” I just miss the community. Not the negative things. Of course not the negative things. But I miss being in the community. I mean, I still work here and I’ll still be able to see the people because I know the parents who are still going to have their kids in the program but then I don’t get to see this girl who lives on the corner, “Hey! You still working at the After-School Program?” I won’t be able to see her. I miss that conversation.

Carla: I think it also shows that people who may live in poverty don’t have poverty lives.

Keilani: Even though it’s a lot of negative stuff going around…I think the friendships you have here and the bonding here outweigh the negative. I think that’s what we put in our drawings. That’s why Sylvia put the bar-b-que grill. You know, put some meat on the grill and have some neighbors come over and talk.

As the staff discussed and drew what they wanted in their community, they came up with things that are very basic, yet many of which don't exist in our urban communities:

What do we want for our community?

• Library

• Park

• Community Center

• School

• Crosswalk

• Police Department

• Access Gate

• Assigned Parking

• Greenery

• Houses

• Kids are outside

• Community gatherings

• Manicured lawns

• Security patrols

We want UNITY...SAFETY...CLEAN AREAS...GREENERY...TREES

Is that too much to ask?