What I’ve Learned From Teaching Nonviolence In Jail And Prison
Cook County Jail SAVE program nonviolence workshop.
by Henry Cervantes // Reprinted with permission from PeaceVoice.info
In my neighborhood, Little Village, in Chicago, is the largest single site jail in the United States. The Cook County Jail on 26th Street and California Avenue is notorious for many things: jail riots, guards and inmates being attacked, suicides, and shootings outside of the courthouse.
As an activist, I often wonder why there aren’t more positive stories coming out of this jail. After all, isn't it a “correctional institution"? If you, the reader, can indulge me for a moment, I want to assure you that the purpose of this article is a positive one. In my community, I’ve learned that the positive always outnumbers the negative, but the negative is what gets shares and the more likes. I want to share some positive insights that I learned from working with incarcerated young men.
For the past 3 years, I have volunteered facilitating workshops in peace and conflict studies in Divisions 6 and 9 in Cook County Jail as part of the Sheriff’s Anti-Violence Effort (SAVE) program. At our weekly sessions, we explore the power of nonviolent change with young male inmates detained for violent offenses ranging from armed robberies to gang-related violence in their own communities. I’ve also had the opportunity to teach a master level course for North Park Theological Seminary on nonviolent conflict transformation at Stateville Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison just outside of Chicago. Like most jails and prisons in America, this one is filled with predominately African-American and Latino young men. Although it should not matter, they participate in the training voluntarily. Here is a reflection of the three things I’ve learned from teaching nonviolence to the incarcerated community.
Unlearn Violence to Learn Nonviolence
My first lesson from this work is that in order to learn nonviolence, we first must unlearn violence. For individuals who have grown up where violence is the norm, this can be very difficult, but not impossible. Moreover, the incarcerated men I teach represent some of Chicago’s most violent neighborhoods. Not only that, but they represent the thousands of young people that are caught up in the cycles of systemic and local violence. Thus, It is no surprise that many of my incarcerated students have been shot or shot at multiple times and openly share their histories with the cycles of violence.
Training in such an environment is as difficult as it is rewarding, since jails and prisons place limits on the instructor and students. Additionally, some inmates may not be receptive to the message of peace, love and nonviolence or may feel that discussing these topics puts them at risk in this environment. There have been moments where I’ve been mocked, insulted, and cursed at for simply providing nonviolent education workshops. In a particular division, students are handcuffed to their seats for their own safety, as well as for the officers and mine. Nonetheless, in spite of these many barriers, the discussions are powerful and I am left struck by how the young incarcerated men have been able to unlearn violence in such a violent environment.
As a trainer, I have to be very careful of what I say and of what I do. In other divisions, where students are not shackled during workshops, we explore violence and nonviolence through interactive activities. I remember once we outlined an imaginary scale from 1 to 10 on the floor and asked men to position themselves with respect to how they’d rate the severity of striking a child with a belt, hitting a woman, and a drive-by shooting in which no one was hit. The discussion that accompanied each scenario was profound and allowed us to safely discuss our understanding of violence and how to redefine violence. For many discussions, we arrived at a conclusion that violence, more often than not, defeats its very purpose.
For some inmates, violence has become the norm and it’s not their first time in jail, nor second. For example, Devonte has been to County Jail three times and hails from the North Lawndale community. A tall thin young man with tattoos on his arms and face. When I asked how he thinks people view his community, I was in awe when he said, “My community is a great one. The only thing is that there is a shadow that is cast over the community that gives it a bad reputation. The shadow of violence is what most people in the outside world see and that is not representative of our neighborhoods.”
He has been one of the most engaged students in the workshops, so I asked him if he'd be willing to be a voice for peace back in the neighborhood, he responded, “Yes and no. Yes, because it’s a huge responsibility and no because it’s too hard for a man like myself.” Devonte admitted a belief that it might be too late for him but thinks nonviolence workshops should start with younger people. “If we want to make a difference, I’d say we need to start teaching peace and conflict as early as possible, I would say like the 6th, 7th, or 8th grades, in middle school.”
At Stateville Correctional Center, many of my students have been behind prison walls for 15, 20, or even 30 years. Nacho, a man from Little Village, is an ex-gang-member who has been involved in violence since his early youth. He shared this insight: “We are no different than those on the outside. We too have been wounded, traumatized, and have experienced deep hurt in our lives. . . . I would tell young people involved with violence today that they themselves have so much to give our society.” When asked what it would take for there to be a reduction in violence in our community, he encouraged caring adults to mentor young people who may be at risk of committing violence and take them under their wing. He responded, “We need a deep analysis of the root causes of violence, and we also need to meet one-on-one with these young people, and really hear them out and nurture them.”
For many of my students, this is the first time they’ve even heard the words like “nonviolence” or “peacebuilding.” Their backgrounds, stories, and experiences of incarceration provide a deeper meaning when discussing ideas of peace and alternatives to violent aggression.
Cook County Jail SAVE program nonviolence workshop.
Systemic Violence Trickles Down to Local Violence
The second lesson I’ve learned is that many young men I’ve come across in jail and in prison share a similar and insightful perspective: they come from beautiful communities worthy of recognition and respect.
At the County Jail, Tabarie, a young man from the Englewood neighborhood, a heavyset gentleman with dreads and arm tattoos, reflected, “We are not a violent community. We are a very nice community that is family oriented. . . . It is just some circumstances that make some of our people crack under pressure.” I’ve often wondered what types of pressures he might be referring to. Is it “bad” influences or hanging out with the “wrong” people? Or are these pressures the result of something greater? Do poor schools lead to poor housing, poor jobs, poor income, poor social emotional skills, and lack of upward mobility? If we were in their shoes, how many of us would crack under such pressures?
After all, people of color in our society have historically faced violent oppression over centuries. Could the violence perpetuated in local poor communities be the manifestation of the violence our communities have received over decades? I believe there is a correlation between institutionalized violence and internalized violence. Structural violence always makes its way to the grassroots.
At Stateville, Jamal, a former gang member from the Back of the Yards community who has survived multiple shootings wrote: “The layers of oppression run deep in urban areas throughout the United States. . . . Growing up in these cities, adolescents aren’t aware of the social constructs that are fueling systemic oppression. . . . The brutal violence and its associated fear cause my friends and I to adopt an unhealthy expectation of life and premature acceptance of death. While other children in America were pretending to be their favorite superhero, my friends and I were pretending to be the roughest and toughest character we knew.” Jamal’s reflection offers insight into the fact that many young people from marginalized communities who are engaged in violence might not know that they too are systematically oppressed. The systems of oppression have, unknowingly to them, informed their worldview: one of hatred and violence towards themselves.
Jails make unique nonviolence training centers
My third lesson is that jails and prisons offer a unique opportunity to train our people. During some of our workshops we explore the violence spectrum and nonviolence spectrum. We discuss the worst and best and “aight” actions to deal with real life scenarios and social problems in day to day conflicts. We explore if peace is just a bunch of “BS” or some “real shit.”
From what I’ve learned from these young men, peace is not an easy route. Real peacemaking takes heart and nerve where violence often dominates the narrative. I’ve taught peace in elementary schools, high schools and universities, at home and abroad, and what I can tell you with utmost certainty is that behind jail and prison bars I have had my most profound and rich conversations exploring these subjects. The young men are subject matter experts in violence and in peace and are attuned to subtleties in society and social interactions which most of us are not.
At the county jail, Victor, a heavyset young gentleman, with glasses and a distinctive long haircut, expressed his views on the benefits of nonviolence training in jail. He said, “I’ve learned a lot in these training sessions, especially the history of it. Learning of the lives of Cesar Chavez and Dr. King Jr., Ella Baker, and Harriet Tubman makes me want to do something positive for the society. Come to think of it, I’ve never done anything positive for the community. Once I get out, that is something I really want to do.”
Victor’s words resonated with me because we really don’t study the lives and struggles of those who came before us and how they utilized methods, strategies, and tactics of nonviolent social change to confront violence. In formal school settings we might learn dates or events, but not the specific ways nonviolence and peace building was applied to defeat violence. Any student of peace can tell you that to stand against violence takes tremendous courage.
At Stateville, Brandon, a thin young man with tattoos across his arms and neck, shared his personal story with me of how he went from Englewood in Chicago to the Cook County Jail and ended up in Stateville. His story I will never forget. He told me, “Henry, please feel free to share my story with the young ones coming up in the neighborhood. Many things happen that lead our people here, but it doesn’t have to be that way. We have the power to change how we act out in the world in the conflicts that confront us.” The next time we teach workshops in the Englewood schools, I told him, I would be sure to include his story of struggle and transformation.
It might be difficult for the reader to understand that regardless of what violent crimes they have been accused of, they deserve respect. Black and Latino men in our society have historically been denied the rights of respect and to be heard. These men are just like any one of us. They have families, communities, feelings, emotions, and beliefs with their own perspectives on society. They can teach us their truth and something about our own lives being outside of the wall.
In conclusion, in order for nonviolence training to be effective, it must be grounded and relatable to people’s own situations, even if they are in the jail or prison tier. We have to meet the people where they are. We are not to indoctrinate them or lead them to join our campaigns, but most importantly to try to inspire them to discover their own journeys for truth and power. Because of these young men, I’ve become a better trainer. In the words of Cesar Chavez, many of us guys from the neighborhood can agree, “I am not a nonviolent man, I am a violent man trying to be nonviolent.”
Henry Cervantes is program manager for the Peace Exchange, Holy Family Ministries. Cervantes is a volunteer trainer of nonviolence at Cook County Jail in Chicago. He serves as a facilitator for the James Lawson Institute and is co-chair of the board of directors of The Crossroads Fund.