I have always been terrified of not being good enough. School, friendships, relationships, family, clubs, internships — all are areas I desperately try to latch onto and not let go for fear of falling behind, or worse, being left behind purposefully. I struggle with being vulnerable in front of others and mourn moments of self-perceived weakness. Yet the wonderful thing about this world is its ability to fully transform perspectives at the opening of a door.
Last November, I entered a prison for the first time. A prison is one of those things that, until I saw and felt it, was hard for me to conceptualize its existence in the world where I also live. That mindset came from a place of privilege: To not need to linger or worry over the mere existence of our brutalizing justice system is a gift that none of us deserve.
I owe my self-realization and visit to Burruss Correctional Training Center to “Shakespeare and Law,” an experiential learning course I took last semester. Taught by Assistant Professor of English Sarah Higinbotham, the course balanced reading and analyzing a few of Shakespeare’s iconic works with realizing and combatting injustices in our own communities. My peers and I received the chance to volunteer at a 5K fundraiser for children with incarcerated parents, attend courtroom hearings, listen and speak with formerly incarcerated people and visit Higinbotham’s other class — one made up of scholars at Burruss.
I was nervous before entering the prison. It was a fear of the unknown and inexperience; I had no idea how a classroom behind bars would function in comparison to my previous classroom experiences. However, instead of finding a place befit to the barbed wire flanking its gates, I found a group of individuals more open to learning, open expression, honesty and vulnerability than any I have ever met.
I was greeted by gentle handshakes, small smiles and polite, but eager, questions about myself.
“What are you studying?” a now-friend of mine first asked.
At my response, he grinned and indicated his own interest in English. He explained his love for previous English, philosophy and law courses taught by professors who volunteer with Higinbotham’s nonprofit, Common Good Atlanta.
We later delved into the first act of “Hamlet.” We did not simply read and discuss — oh, no. Our task was to conceptualize and recreate, via acting, the first scene. If an officer were to walk into that classroom that night, they would have seen unfound creativity and passion erupt from everyone present.
Surrounded by laughing, deep thinking and intellectual prowess, I undeniably had the best learning experience of my life at Burruss that November evening. Lines from “Hamlet” echoed across the bare cinder-block walls and evoked warm smiles from all the students in the room. It was a fellowship of the purest sort: intellectual, meaningful and kind. Every person in that class was nervous, but we did not let it hinder our eagerness to participate.
Thankfully, November was not my last encounter with the men at Burruss. I was lucky to become involved with an initiative dedicated to founding a writing program at Burruss in early January of this year. Since then, a few other peers and I have returned with Higinbotham to host writing workshops, supporting the scholars’ academic and individual pursuits in writing.
Walking back into Burruss, I instantly remembered that feeling of joyful vulnerability. No longer was this prison unknown to me; I was able to chat and smile and learn with familiar faces and laughs. I received updates on one man’s research paper and on another’s musical symphonies.
Community is rich at Burruss, just as it is at Emory University. I often boast to my friends that the scholars at Burruss are unimaginably talented, kind and, most importantly to me, vulnerable.
“Learning about all these writing things makes me wish I could go back and fix things in my case,” a scholar offhandedly mentioned to me during a writing workshop a few weeks ago.
His ability to discuss topics like his incarceration that are, understandably, difficult to reckon with awed me. I am always inspired by the inmates’ willingness to share — being generous with their words and stories — and their ability to listen and learn.
I am a different person since visiting Burruss for the first time, not due to any dramatic or life-altering transformation but rather because of what the scholars have reminded me: to value and enjoy life, treasure opportunity, learn enthusiastically and wholeheartedly and, of course, be vulnerable.
It devastates me that I can open the door of Burruss on a hypothetical whim and the scholars there cannot. I burst the Emory bubble with every trip to Burruss, but the inmates must stay, unable to leave the prison. I describe their learning community with heaps of praise, but it is still a prison within an unjust criminal justice system.
Often, I say I work in a prison, but more accurately, I work with people. People whose minds and hearts and dreams expand past the barbed wire gates of Burruss. I hope it doesn’t miff my professors, but I have learned more there about dedication and purpose than I have in any of my classes at this elite university. Ultimately, I am trying not to romanticize their experience in prison — it is neither desirable nor pretty. Nevertheless, the stunning resilience and growth of their personhood is admirable, and it inspires me.
Now, I feel less hounded by my own ego; instead, I am humbled by my experiences and reminded of the values I strive to carry from Burruss to Emory and back again. Who cares if my statistics skills are not on par with those of my peers? I do not find myself feigning the ease of academic success or losing sleep over my resume content because I am happy and healthy, and most importantly, I am trying. Just as the men at Burruss spend hours on their research papers, class readings, musical skills, beekeeping tactics or symphonies, I will continue to pour myself in what I love — not fortify my cracks.
Last time I was at the prison, I asked the scholars if they thought of themselves as writers.
“I think I could be, and that’s what counts,” a friend of mine responded.
How perfectly does that sentiment suit all of us? A nod to what is to come, even from behind bars.
Being at Emory does not do much to quell anxiety, imposter syndrome and the like. Conversely, spending time at Burruss in that cinder-block room has wrung me dry of apprehension about inadequacy and imbued me with even more openness and hope. Fittingly, it continuously proves to me that vulnerability can mean so much more than failure — it can mean community, trust and joy for what is to come — for me and for the men at Burruss.
Ellie Fivas (24Ox) is from Cleveland.
