My actual visit to the Shakopee Women’s Correctional Facility was not what I expected. Upon entering, I had to give up everything: my cell phone, my backpack, my driver’s license, and the pen in my pocket. I was frisked by a metal-detecting wand and then followed a yellow line through a heavily locked door that led the way down two hallways and then into a gymnasium. Although a little unnerving, all this was within the range of my expectation.
I didn’t expect to be mistaken. There were two writers, not one, who penned the numerous letters I received all those years ago. Kellie and Karol walked toward me, gaze cast downward, carrying a copy of the blog I had written the night before. They both firmly shook my hand and we chatted briefly. At first, they deferred and didn’t make eye contact. They needed unsaid permission to meet the warmth in my eyes. Once my gaze caught theirs, they drank this simple humanity like water. (The posted photograph is of the three of us. We were not allowed to touch while posing for the picture.)
The rest of the inmates began to enter dressed in grey sweatshirts and grey sweatpants. They seemed so ordinary. I think I expected the hardened edge of criminals, like the images on TV. Instead, I saw what looked like my neighbor, the woman I see at the grocery story, my friend’s aunt, that woman that works at the hospital. I began to wonder about the violence, the deeds, the broken lives that resulted in their grey sweat suits. This dark undercurrent came not from my actual experience among them but from my conditioned imagination.
Accidentally, a receiving line started forming. About half of the ninety inmates lined up to shake my hand, to thank me for my willingness to set my personal belongings aside and follow the yellow line into their midst. Almost every handshake began firm and determined but then softened as our gazes connected and the world stopped between us just for an instant.
I started my talk with a quote from Hemmingway, “The world breaks everyone. Some people are just stronger in the broken places.” I talked to them about not being afraid to feel despite having a painful life, about choices and the true source of strength. I told them that “life” hears them, that they need to take the risk of reaching out, like what Kelly and Karol did in writing me me. The world does hear, even if it doesn’t respond, let alone in a timely fashion. Most importantly, I told this audience full of nods, tears, and surprised stares that we – society – want them back. We want them to rejoin us ‘outside’ of this place. We want them to return to the stream of collective living.
The receiving line formed again. This time more quickly because they had only a few minutes to put their chairs away and get back to a life I cannot imagine. This time their eyes immediately touched behind mine. We shared this mutual light willingly and we were all the better for it.
