Lessons from Behind Bars

During the economic chill of the early 1970s, searching for an extra paycheck in the second year of my teaching career, I taught an extension course at an adult, maximum-security penitentiary in Illinois. Behind those prison walls, within a small, claustrophobic classroom wedged into the upper floor of Cellblock #4, I acquired some needed, unforgettable lessons about teaching and learning. At the end of fifteen weeks teaching a three-hour, once-a-week, general education history course, I could not guarantee, of course, that any of my students would be, in the language of prison authorities, a “non-recidivist.” However, I could say with great conviction that I would not easily lapse into old teaching patterns—particularly with regard to general education and the humanities.

On the first day of class—seconds after I had unpacked my briefcase and assumed a professorial stance behind the lectern—a member of the class asked me, “What’s all this (explicative deleted) about ‘the educated person’ and ‘the humanities’ in your school’s catalog? When I get out of here, I need a job, professor-man.”

The rest of the class peppered me with similar questions and comments. They caught me unaware.  Students back on campus never asked such questions; professors had more important things to discuss (. . . apparently). In desperation, I resorted to a time-tested teacher’s dodge. “You’ve raised a very interesting question,” I said. “Let’s keep it in mind as we move through this course.”

Nice try; but no soap.

The students pressed me to acknowledge their questions. Fortunately, as I sputtered (and considered an early exit), one student came to my rescue. “Let’s bring in written questions we can discuss at the next class meeting,” he suggested. Since the student towered over everyone in the room and had sculpted a substantial physique in the prison weight room, no one raised further objections. I certainly found no cause for protest.

We had our discussion the following week, and it provided a stimulating subtext for the remaining weeks of class. Often we interrupted our scheduled topics to consider connections to our initial thoughts about the educated person and study in the humanities. By the time the course ended, we may not have covered as much territory as expected within the original curricular landscape, but we seemed to have traveled far towards a larger perspective. The students and I had a better understanding of the educated person, how study of the humanities fit with that ideal, and why study in traditional disciplines such as history, philosophy, literature made sense in the context of individual lives, public policy, and careers. Many in the class felt they could now continue their undergraduate education with a better understanding of the requirements and with considerably more enthusiasm for doing so. Beyond learning valuable lessons about good teaching, my students had given me an educational goal I have pursued since: to engage students in substantive and practical conversations about the educated person and the humanities before they entered too deeply into the curriculum.

Based on my own college experience and impressionistic evidence as a faculty member, I knew that higher education rarely allowed students in on the philosophical foundations of general education requirements (What is an educated person?) and why those requirements included study in the humanities.  Thanks to my experience teaching at the prison, I thought that if students had an opportunity to discuss and learn about the educated person question and the humanities in advance of taking their required courses, they would enhance their undergraduate educations. Students likely would  (1) approach study in the humanities more intelligently and enthusiastically, and (2) make better decisions within the overall undergraduate curriculum -- especially with regard to valuing the potential rewards (understandings, skills, and values) gained from a liberal education.

The assumption that so many undergraduates made about the irrelevance of the humanities, encapsulated in the muttered statement of one advisee (“I won’t be spouting off about Shakespeare and history stuff at a management meeting, will I?”) provided me with a worthy goal. At my highest level of idealism, I could imagine students making connections between the humanities and their professions. I also thought they might perform better, learn more, and ready themselves for a lifetime of learning if they had some background and understandings about the humanities before stepping into the classroom. At my next academic career stop, I had no choice but to try out my assumptions. 

To be continued . . .