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Through the 198os, only a few correctional educators across the country offered parenting and family classes to incarcerated dads, a fact I saw as a commentary on the American family and where we were in our sociological development. The men who became my students in an experimental parenting class at MICC saw it as "effed up."
Pierce College, the education provider at MICC, signed off on a basic two credit course one night a week for the eleven week summer quarter.
In summer, men are allowed to stay outdoors until nine o'clock recall for count. Yard time is prized for fresh air and exegeses and the opportunity to talk without being overheard no small thing in prison.
They did enroll, the maximum twenty five, all interested in the material or curious about the instructor. If a couple of them hoped I'd carry messages back to the women's prison, where taught days, they abandoned the notion in the first few minutes.
"Do you know Jane ... Audrey ... Connie ...
I shook my head.
Descriptions followed. I kept shaking my head and tried to stop the grin tugging at my face muscles. I'd advised those women not to play dress up and spend their photo chits on Polaroids for male inmate pen pals they found through an incarcerated friend.
"Do you know what they do with those pictures?" I asked those women. "Do you want to be some inmate's fantasy? You can do better."
"She thinks they use our pictures to jerk off," one woman said.
"So?" said another. Some women didn't care. They were looking for attention, someone who could write a stimulating letter; and who could blame them? Days are long and nights lonely in prison. They bought photo chits, a dollar per photo in those days; fussed with hair and makeup; and did things with their clothes to make them look good, sexy. I'd seen dozens of such pictures before they were sent off.
Now I looked at twenty five men, all dressed in khaki, all clean and combed. Nice looking men, not much older than my sons. When they entered the classroom and took seats, they became my students, and I'd treat them with the same concern and respect I gave the women.
"No," I told those men, "I don't know any of those women."
One man snorted. "She knows them, but she's too smart to give anything up."
I walked to where he sat, dead center in the room. He'd been slumped in his seat, eyes down, when I took attendance, but he sat straight now. He had light brown hair, sad brown eyes, and little resemblance to his badge photo. "You're right," I said, "personal information remains private. I don't carry their names to the streets, as they say, and I won't abuse yours either."
He smiled, and some sadness left his eyes. Ted (all inmate names have been changed for their privacy) enrolled in the class because something troubled him, and he hoped I could help. I have a knack for reading need in faces and posture, in simple gestures and words. Those men were all there for a reason, but some hurt more than others.
We met in an ugly old classroom (there's now a modern Inmate Services Building) with battered chair desks, a blackboard still dusty from haphazard erasing, evening sun baking dirt on windows that didn't open enough to air out cigarette smoke. Stained acoustical tiles drooped from the ceiling; faded institution yellow paint covered the walls, except where plaster chunks had chipped off. A scarred and bulky instructor's desk, gunmetal grey, stood front and center. I pushed against it with hip and thigh to get it out of my way. Men Jumped to help and shoved it into a far corner. Testosterone and male chivalry, I learned, often worked to a female teacher's benefit.
I wove through the narrow spaces created by those chair desks lined up in rows, five across, five deep, and cramped. "Spread out if you like. I'm going to wander around and get acquainted, put names with faces. Tell me about your children. Gender, ages. No names unless you choose. I know it's risky to say too much inside."
The air in the room changed as men relaxed. We spent the first hour in informal discussions of children and course content. By period movement at seven o'clock, I had a good sense of their needs and could begin to do my work on patterns in families. During the ten minute break I wrote on the dusty chalkboard, "About 75 percent of our parenting methods are those we unconsciously adopted from our parents or caregivers." Those who hadn't left the room for break watched me. Some itched to get their hands on the photocopied materials I'd stacked on the shoved aside teacher's desk, but they waited. They were more polite and patient than most of my women students, but that may have been because we were on trial in a sense. They would determine whether parenting and family classes would be added to the education schedule.
After break I distributed the photocopied material that would serve as their text, along with a syllabus and notebook paper. Precious notebook paper, carefully guarded by education office staff. (I tended to give out far more paper than authorized and supplemented the supplies with my own when necessary, knowing a certain amount would be used for nonschool purposes such as writing letters to incarcerated women.)
We looked through the material, which was traditional positive parenting information I'd adapted from texts written for parents who lived with their children. I packaged it in ten chapters or units to fit the ten week study/one week final format the community college followed.
I explained that Positive Parenting was a lecture/discussion course and told them that the more they discussed, the less I lectured, and that the ten assignments, one due each week, were homework, not to be completed during class time.
Much of the education program at MICC was of necessity self paced in a learning lab environment. A night class in which everyone worked on the same topic at the same time, exchanged opinions and stories, talked out loud, and even laughed was a departure from the norm. The men thrived on the format. (In the years after my departure, lecture classes were increasingly eliminated, replaced by self paced education, in an attempt to reduce education costs.)
We went over the course syllabus. One man said, "You serious? Twenty five percent of the grade's based on class participation?"
"Absolutely. That's as much as Pierce College would permit. This is a college course, so they get to call some shots. I hope it's one of the most important life courses you ever take. It's about your children." I returned to the board, pointed at the statement there. "It's about what you can do to change any negative parenting behaviors you picked up from those who reared you so your children don't use them when they're parents."
It's almost frightening how much an experienced teacher senses in her students. I could see all of them remembered unpleasant moments in their childhoods, and how they felt years later when they'd done the same thing to a child in their care. I spoke of something from my own experience. Self disclosure, so important in teaching parenting and family classes, was imperative with this group. There was a strong possibility I'd been oversold to them. We needed common ground on which to connect as adults equal in humanity though distanced in so many other ways.
"We're not here to blame our parents for what we've become," I said. "We're here to learn about positive parenting. I believe parents do the best they can in their given circumstances. It's a difficult task most of us undertake without any formal training. We're here to remedy that."
Twenty five men nodded. Ted was the first to trust me enough to disclose his personal struggles as a dad in prison. He spoke with pride and love of his two sons. Then his face changed, his chin dropped, and he slid down in his seat.
"Their mother changed their last name. She let some asshole move in with her. Told the boys he's their new dad, I'm a convict."
"Were you ever married to their mother?" I'd grown accustomed to marriage as the rare exception over the years I'd taught incarcerated women.
"Still am,", Ted said. "She wants a divorce, but she's waiting until I get out so I can pay for it. Says the guy's adopting the boys."
The man in front of Ted turned around. "She's your legal old lady and she's got some other dude living with her? That's cold, man.
"Living with her, calling my boys his, living on support I send through my mom. I always supported my kids, I got money set aside, my mom helps some."
And so began the discussion part of the course, which veered from basic positive parenting skills to legalities. By then I had some fame in correctional education as the author of a nontraditional parenting book, Parenting from a Distance: Your Rights and Responsibilities, which focuses especially on issues of incarcerated parents. But that wasn't the course Pierce College approved, and it was not what I'd contracted to teach.
I concluded neither Ted nor his wife understood much about family law. Ted slumped deeper. "She's their mother, she takes care of them and all, she needs the money. It's not about the money; it's about my name."
The room went quiet. The men watched to see how I'd react. Would I shrug it off as many in the system did? Inmates often heard, "Sounds like a personal problem to me," or "Shoulda thought of that before you did the crime."
I went into lecture mode. Or perhaps I preached a fault, I confess. "First, unless your parental rights have been legally terminated, your sons cannot be adopted." Ted's eyes showed he knew that at some level, but fear blurs awareness. "Second, most schools require children's birth certificates to enroll them and use the last name on their birth certificate, though teachers will sometimes bend to a parent's request."
Ted sat up a little. "I'm on their birth certificate. I was there when they were born." A hint of smile touched his sad brown eyes. "Doctor let me catch the younger one."
Such first touch bonding is considered powerful, a strong deterrent to future child abuse, a strong tie for parents of the child. What had happened between Ted and his wife? Was she using the children as pawns now for her own gain? Rather than ask in class, I went with what I knew.
"You have several positives going for you. If you don't have a court order preventing you from contacting the children, you can check with the school about the names they're using. If you do . . .
A man at the back of the room growled, "Oh, yeah, sure, he can just call them up, say "Hey, Dude, what name my kids go by?"' All calls from Washington state prison inmates are made collect, and the recipient is advised the caller is in prison.
"I don't have any orders against me," Ted said. "I never hurt those boys."
Except by going to prison, but I didn't say so then. We would get to that reality soon enough.
Ted's eyes, and the eyes of every man in the room, were on me.
" I wouldn't recommend calling. I'd suggest a letter an honest letter introducing yourself, your situation, your questions about their school progress. You have a right to do so."
Ted slumped again. "My wife says I gave up all my rights when I fell."
"Unless you signed a paper voluntarily giving up your parental rights, they're still intact, and so are your responsibilities, which include financial and emotional support."
Ted was shaking his head. He hadn't signed any such documents. At least twenty men were talking at once, building a raft of questions and floating it my way.
"Hey, guys, the course I've been hired to teach is Positive Parenting. If we get too far off task, you'll have more homework to do. I expect you to become familiar enough with the course material to spout sections of it to the MICC education counselor. I'm a contract employee; I walk a narrow line."
"We'll handle it, we'll handle everything you can give us."
"Man, It's about time somebody other than some old con said we had some rights."
"Anybody gives you any flack about this class, you let us know."
And so began parent education at McNeil Island Corrections Center. Twenty five men completed the course with high grades. Many of them took several other courses with me through ensuing quarters. Ted, whose crimes were drug related, took every class I taught, some more than once.
Those twenty five dads or step dads had more than fifty children waiting for them to come home. I've forgotten the exact number, though it's noted somewhere in my old records. In one positive parenting class a few years later, seventeen dads had seventy six children with whom they corresponded. At the end of the century, over 1.5 million children nationwide had a parent in prison.
The MICC employee who misspelled parenting on my badge, and many like him, continued to discount the value of parent education and sneered at the books and curriculum I created, though there was never any evidence any of them read my work. So be it. They were wrong about children being better off with a parent in prison and uninformed about laws regarding parental rights.
The state must have clear and cogent reasons to file for termination of parental rights, and the parent must be given due process legal representation and a court hearing. Though incarceration can be declared child abandonment, which is considered clear and cogent, that approach is rarely used. Most inmate parents go home to their families, their children. And therein lies my strongest argument for teaching parenting inside prison fences. It benefits the children.
As for Ted, he had legal and emotional rights to the benefits of a relationship with his sons, but the relationship was defined by his incarceration. He needed his wife's cooperation, or a court order, to so much as talk to them on the phone. Ted, like many incarcerated parents (fathers more often than mothers), had given in to a sense of powerlessness. His children suffered for it. With his new understanding of parental rights and responsibilities, he took the risk of contacting his sons' school.
Getting information about children's school records and performance can be a long and humbling process, but many inmate parents have undertaken it with satisfactory results. There were those in the general populace outside prison who didn't think inmates should have such rights and criticized me for teaching and writing guidelines for contacting school officials. Many teachers have thanked me. Most school administrators and teachers want to hear from incarcerated parents, if the parents contact them in an appropriate manner. They understand the emotional and scholastic impact an incarcerated parent has on a child, and they welcome an open and honest relationship with the parent. Still, schools must err on the side of caution when information is requested by anyone. Parents have to show proof of the relationship. Those incarcerated generally have to get a notarized affidavit about their crime and sentence from the prison administration.
The principal of the school Ted's sons attended was pleased to hear from him. Ted's wife wasn't so pleased, but it did precipitate more open communication between them. She sent Ted a letter ordering him to call her. He wrote down things he wanted to say to her. He told her it hurt him when she threw out the letters he wrote the boys. Then he said, "They'll find out. Someday they'll find out."
He told me later he knew it was a threat, and it bothered him. On the scale of threats from prison, that one wouldn't cause a ping.
Before the quarter ended, Ted's wife started giving their boys the letters Ted wrote and agreed they could accompany their grandmother (Ted's mother) on visits. The boys wrote back. The first grader printed his name and drew a picture of himself. The third grader said he played T ball and wanted his dad to come home to help him.
Ted and the other experimental class students gained information they had a right and responsibility to know. For the remainder of his incarceration, Ted wrote to his sons every week and sent them things he made: cards, small puzzles, simple crafts all part of parenting course work. He left MICC once for work release and got sent back for a dirty urinalysis. According to him, he'd smoked one joint. He was housed at the MICC Annex, then an honor camp, which gave some credibility to his claim. He worked construction there during the day and came inside the main institution for whatever class I taught at night. Annex students were subjected to strip searches before coming inside. "If they want to look at me naked, let 'em," Ted said, "if it means I get to keep being a dad."
Teachers often don't know if they've made an impact on students. Ted said he'd keep me informed when he got out and called when he was back in court over child custody. He was divorced by then. Yes, he paid the court costs.
"Me and my ex are still duking it out over child custody and visitation," he said. (Remember, I taught parenting, not English.) "The boys like spending time with me, which pisses her off. The court wants verification of my parenting classes and grades, even though I gave my attorney everything. He says he needs a deposition."
Ted had given his attorney course syllabi, graded papers, official college transcripts, and a record of when he sent cards and letters to his sons. His attorney called me, said it looked good, and took a statement. Then the judge called, swore me in on the phone, and listened to my testimony.
Ted called a few days later. A got shared custody and liberal visitation rights, and the boys keep their names." He laughed, sniffed a couple times, laughed again.
I sniffed too.
Ted's story is a nice one for a prison teacher to be able to tell. It was an easy case. Ted was legally married to the boys' mother when they were born. He'd financially supported the family until he went to jail, and during most of the time he was incarcerated. His crimes, all drug related, were low on the seriousness level of the state's criminal code. He bad a supportive mother. All in all, Ted was a decent sort who got into drugs and learned a hard lesson.
Many stories aren't so nice. I hope to relate them with honesty and compassion, explain how each affected me, and demonstrate why the information might matter to others.
One last note on the experimental class: Someone at Pierce College questioned me about the official grade sheet. Where was the curve? How could every student do superior work?
What could I say? Parenting and family courses are not filled with absolutes problems in which there's only one correct answer. I didn't deduct points for spelling, punctuation, or grammar. They were outstanding students, all twenty five of them, including those who'd received pictures of my women students and used school notebook paper to write sexy letters. They earned their grades; I just recorded them.
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