Barbed wire, pat-downs, and a renewed purpose

Nov 18, 2024

Last month, I gave what will likely go down as my most memorable book talk of the year. It did not occur at a bookstore, or a university, or a fancy hall. It took place in the modest library of a men’s prison here in Miami that I used to teach at back in 2018.

I was an MFA student at the time, nearing graduation, in the midst of getting married and realizing I wouldn’t make the stupid goal I set for myself to publish a book by age 27. (Thank God, in hindsight.)

I’ve been cursed for most of my life with survivor’s guilt. But at the time I was even more torn up than usual.

A cousin of mine who had bounced in and out of jail for years had just died. While staring at him in a casket and bawling, I realized I’d never supported him as much as I probably could have when he was alive. Not long after his funeral, I went home to the Bronx and ran into an old friend at a bus stop, a kid I’d grown up sleeping over at his house, playing pranks, and watching wrestling. Now, he was nodding off on a bench, homeless and high.

I was old enough to no longer believe these two fates were necessarily my fault. But I still felt like a fraud for attending a fancy MFA program, reading fancy literature, discussing it around nice conference tables, and writing my little stories.

What did all that mean when people were going through real shit? What, at the end of the day, was all my schooling and reading amounting to?

When I got wind of an opportunity to teach writing at a prison through an excellent non-profit here in Miami called Exchange for Change (more on them later), it felt like a sign.

I was assigned a class to teach on Wednesdays, which was, coincidentally, the same day I taught an undergrad Intro to Creative Writing course at the University of Miami, where I was working on my MFA.

In the morning, I’d go to my picturesque and ridiculously expensive campus to have class with my undergrads: a nice group of kids that cared very little about writing or appreciating good writing. I didn’t blame them. They were young, carefree, and many had the added blessing of being rich. After class, they waved at me from their Porsches and Mercedes as they pulled out of the parking lot.

I, meanwhile, jumped into my Honda and drove out to the Everglades.

The dissonance between the University of Miami’s campus and the prison I taught at was shocking, but also weirdly comforting. It reminded me of the dissonance I felt as a kid riding the train downtown from the Bronx and emerging in nice parts of Manhattan.

At the entrance of the prison each afternoon, I went through a prolonged routine that involved taking off my shoes, emptying my pockets, getting patted down, and standing for a long period of time before a heavy door, waiting to hear a guttural buzz and then the heaviest locks imaginable slide open.

Despite all of this, I felt oddly comfortable inside. I realized the beige walls, the milky blue floor, the bars on the windows, and the narrow hallways were sadly reminiscent of the public schools I grew up attending.

I found the guys I taught familiar, too. Although I was given a body alarm to wear, and a button to press if I ever felt like I was in danger, I never felt scared being locked in a classroom with 30 men who had committed everything from armed robbery to murder. When I saw them, I didn’t see prisoners. I saw my cousin, I saw my best friend, and many others in my life who had been through the system. I saw people who had done what they’d done, and were where they were.

I also realized pretty quickly that even if the guys I taught didn’t learn a whole lot from me, they were happy just having somebody before them for an hour and a half who did not treat them like prisoners and refer to them by a number, but who treated them like students and referred to them by their names.

Over the course of two years I taught sections of Intro to Creative Writing to these men. Often, I’d use the same materials I used with my undergrads, and would tell them so, too. Although my class was full of men with wide-ranging educational pasts—everyone from a Columbia University graduate to a middle school dropout—they all followed along, contributed, and, more importantly, were eager to contribute.

Whenever I asked a question a flurry of hands shot up. Whenever I asked for someone to read aloud or share their work, I’d end up needing to create a waiting list. The work itself was often moving, reflective, and sometimes downright brilliant. All of them had rich stories to tell, and it seemed all they really needed was a prompt by someone to tell it.

It was, without a doubt, one of the best educational experience of my life.

I don’t know how great of a teacher I was, to be honest. I can tell you that I never really felt all that confident standing up there. I was 27 and 28 and most of my students were long-time inmates who were decades older than I was. Although I’d written a bunch, I didn’t feel all that qualified to teach anybody about anything. But I kept showing up each week and trying my best.

In the Spring of 2019, after I got a newspaper job and graduated from my MFA, I taught my last class. By that point, I was well known in the prison. I had taught many of the guys and many of them knew I was working on my novel.

I read a little excerpt to them during one of my very last classes, nervous as hell. They said they liked it. They said they’d look me up because they knew I’d publish a book soon. They said they were rooting for me.

I remembered all of this last month as I drove out to the Everglades again for the first time in nearly six years. Down the same winding road toward the outskirts of the county, out by the Indian reservation.

I was scheduled to speak to a class of about 30 or so men who’d spent the past 10 weeks reading my debut novel and discussing it with their teacher.

I parked my car to the sound of gunshots in the distance—officers taking target practice. At the entrance, I was made to take off my shoes and belt again, emptied everything out of my pockets, walked through a metal detector and patted down. I thought about all the other places I’d given talks this year, all the other venues that started off with a greeting, perhaps a green room, and at the very least a bottle of water.

When I was finally inside, I was led into the small library and greeted by a room full of men in prison blues, all holding up copies of VICTIM. What a sight. Cameras are not allowed inside, but man do I wish I had one with me.

I spent the next hour and a half answering rapid fire questions about VICTIM, my writing process, and the writing life. I was sweating by the end, but in the best way. It reminded me what I loved about teaching there in the first place—all that infectious enthusiasm to learn, to do something positive and different, in a place where moments like that don’t come too often.

Towards the end, someone asked me what I thought about my time teaching there at the prison. I mentioned that although I wasn’t sure how useful I’d been to my students, I looked back fondly on the experience. I missed them.

Then one of my former students stood up and told me that my courses had been some of the first creative writing classes ever taught at their prison (something I was previously unaware of) and that it had helped start a “writing revolution,” inspiring a handful of guys like him to continue writing and reading in the time that I’d been gone.

Another former student told me he’d gone on to receive honorable mention for a PEN America prison writing contest. Another two proudly held up copies of the prison newspaper they’d become frequent contributors to (shoutout to The Endeavor!).

I damn near almost cried in front of all those dudes.

In the end, as I walked out of the prison walls, past the tall gates wrapped in barbed wire, and listened to the deafening sound of those locks opening up and closing once more, I felt a distinct sense of purpose. I felt like I had done something valuable and meaningful.

I felt all those feelings I had been searching for back in 2018 and realized I had been searching for them yet again in 2024, in the deadening months after publishing a novel, in the midst of awards season, at a time when I’ve caught myself sitting around again and thinking: What does all of this really mean?

And what’s more, I realized that I had accomplished this despite never quite feeling qualified, and never feeling certain that I was making much of a difference in the first place.

In a time when so many of us are searching for meaning and purpose, when so many of us seem to be searching for somewhere to feel valuable and part of something bigger, I was reminded that a big part of the equation is simply putting yourself out there. Logging off. Showing up. Being present. And leaning on whatever skills you have to connect with and help others.

This week in Miami, the city comes together for something called called Give Miami Day, a window of time where we all raise money for over 1,000 nonprofits that help make the city a better place, and provide support and resources to people who desperately need it.

Exchange for Change is one of many programs calling for funds, and if you have the means, I really encourage you to consider helping them.

These days it is hard to know what programs actually do the work versus just talk about it. I promise you they are the real deal. They are changing lives and giving incarcerated men and women an opportunity to grow, learn, and develop skills they need to become better humans. They’re also changing the lives of their instructors, too.

You can donate to Exchange for Change here.

$50 covers printing materials for one class
$100 supplies classroom materials for an entire course
$500 sponsors an end-of-semester graduation ceremony
$1,000 funds an 8-week summer semester
$2,000 covers a 12-week spring or fall semester

Finally, I wanted to mention two cool things happening and upcoming.

VICTIM has been nominated for a Goodreads Choice Award in the Debut Fiction category. The winner is chosen by the people, so if you enjoyed the novel, or just want to support me, please cast your vote here by November 24th.
On Sunday, November 24th I will be part of a dope panel at the Miami Book Fair alongside novelists and friends Melissa Mogollon (OYE) and Asha Elias (PINK GLASS HOUSES). Details for our event are here, and if you are in the area or planning on attending the fair, I’d love to see you.

Peace,

Andrew