WL: Here’s how Nancy Birkla’s essay came to be in the book. While chatting on the phone with her brother John, I mentioned my work at the prison, and the book that was just then evolving from it. He said, quite casually, “Hey, you should talk to my sister about her experiences in the slammer.” At that point, Nancy had been out of prison for about ten years. She and I had enjoyed each other’s company as kids but had not been much in touch over the decades of our adult lives. A few years earlier, however, Nancy had sent me some samples of her writing: vivid accounts of her childhood visits back home to Connecticut, from which I could see she had talent, voice, and good “writerly” instincts. One of my frustrations with the York writing group was that we kept losing writers whose crimes were related to drug addiction. Like many people suffering from addiction, these writers would get off to a good start, work hard on promising drafts, and then at some midway point, give up on themselves and drop out of the group. The majority of female inmates are in prison for drug-related crimes, but as the women’s book was being realized, I saw that this population was going to go unrepresented. I contacted Nancy, who said she’d kept journals during her time of incarceration but that she’d moved on and was ambivalent about “going back there” to that very difficult time of her life. She said, however, that she’d give it a try. Whatever it cost her to do so, a few months later I received the first draft of an essay that I found moving, brutally honest, and filled with potential.

Nancy’s text ebbed and flowed from there. I’d mark up her draft with inquiries and suggestions about where to expand, clarify, and provide detail. I’d mail it back to her. She’d send back the new draft with many of those suggestions incorporated and I’d say, “Okay, now it’s too big” and suggest that she cut. Nancy invested wholeheartedly in and was patient with the process of writing: the step by step way in which an early rough draft becomes a polished and publishable one. Nancy took criticism gracefully and spoke up when my editorial suggestions seemed off base. She never gave up on herself or her essay and the result, I think, is powerful work.

The writing and the book’s publication have served as a reuniting vehicle for us. Nancy’s become one of the family members I’m closest to and I’m enormously proud of my cousin’s courage, her generosity, and her strength of self.

WL: It was just about a year ago, the week before Christmas of 2002, when I handed an inscribed galley copy to the woman I’d seen at the Crystal Mall. To date, she’s not communicated with me about the book, so I’m not sure if she ever read it and, if she did, how she reacted. I don’t stand in judgment. I only hope that if and when she reads the book, it will become an invitation to her to consider that issues related to our incarcerated brothers and sisters are complex and multi-faceted and that “us versus them” thinking may be part of the problem.

WL: At year’s end, some of the released writers and I have done approximately two dozen readings, q & a’s, radio and TV interviews, etc. Although we expected to, we did not run into any negative reaction to the book while “on the road.” But there was negative reaction from two sources at the time of the book’s release last January: the State of Connecticut (more on that later) and a very vocal spokesperson for a group called Survivors of Homicide, who sharply criticized my efforts in a couple of newspaper articles, saying I should be running a writer’s group for victims of crime, not criminals. Again, there’s that “us vs. them” thinking. If I’ve learned anything these past five years, it’s that these two groups are not mutually exclusive. For so many, crime becomes a regrettable response to having been victimized. I understand that victims’ rights groups are comprised of members who are in terrible pain because of their heartbreaking losses, and I understand, too, that anger is one of the ways that people survive their grief and begin to reconnect with the world. However, if incarcerated writers reflect upon their lives and seek their truths, the better to understand themselves and prevent repeating past mistakes, this does not dishonor the victims of crime or their families. One of our contributors, Tabatha Rowley, is a case in point because she’s seen the view from both sides of the issue. Shortly after she regained her freedom, Tabbi attended the sentencing of a man who had shot and killed her brother in a drug deal that had gone bad. Before he was taken away to prison, Tabatha had a chance to address this man. Rather than berate him and wish him harm or death, she instead looked him in the eye and issued him a challenge: Use your time wisely, she said. Figure out why you’re doing time and work on becoming a better person. Through her own writing, Tabatha had done just that.

WL: If you added up all the exchanges between the writers and me, the writers with one another and Dale Griffith, and my final edit of each piece, I’d estimate it took hundreds and hundreds—maybe thousands—of hours. I’m at least a year or two behind on my new novel (otherwise known as my paying job!) because of this project, but if I had to do it over again, I’d do it the same because I feel the book’s message—that prisoners are not throwaway lives--is an important and useful one. My life as an educator and my life as a writer are always pulling at each other, robbing time from each other, but each of these vocations feeds the other, too.

WL: In my book travels, I’ve had a chance to talk to many European journalists, most of whom believe that our nation’s employment of capital punishment is barbaric and vengeful rather than constructive for society. Personally, I oppose the eye-for-an-eye justice that the death penalty accomplishes on spiritual grounds. How can we do better? I think we should a.) reinstate rehabilitation as a primary objective of imprisonment and rethink the pendulum’s swing toward a more punitive model, b.) invest more in alternative-to-incarceration programs (which are less costly and which reduce recidivism), c.) reckon with the reality that addiction is a disease and respond accordingly and d.) stop using our prisons as dumping grounds for the mentally ill. That’s just for starters!

WL: The following CKITM contributors remain incarcerated: Brenda Medina, Michelle Jessamy, Bonnie Foreshaw, Barbara Lane. Keeping in mind that inmate mail can be confiscated, read, and censored, you are free to write to these women at the following address: York Correctional Institution, 201 West Main Street, Niantic, CT 06357. The women have received many letters from readers of the book—Bonnie Foreshaw got a post from Norway!—and they enjoy them very much and usually try to write back. Letters from readers validate their efforts.

Having volunteered at York prison for four and a half years, I can’t at this point unsee what I’ve seen or unhear what I’ve heard. I’ve become more of an activist for prisoners’ rights, I guess; editing and speaking about the book has been, for me, a form of that activism. I’d also have to say that my experiences with the workshop have affected my creative work. My new novel in progress explores three generations of a single family that are linked not only by blood but also by their connection to a local prison. While this fiction is not a political diatribe—far from it—it is informed by the lessons the women of York have taught me, and the wider understanding they’ve given me.

WL: I gather the “infamous case” to which you refer is the one in which writer Norman Mailer served as mentor to prisoner/writer Jack Abbott, who’d been convicted of homicide. As I remember, Mailer advocated successfully for Abbott’s early release and then, when he was free, Abbott killed again. Embedded in your question seems to be the supposition that Jack Abbott’s actions represent those of many prisoners and that we might all be better off if professional writers minded their own business, stayed away from prisons, and left well enough alone. Sorry, I don’t buy that reasoning; Abbott’s actions and failures were only his actions and failures. That said, I don’t think writing talent should be a basis for early release; I think solid proof of rehabilitation should be. I don’t campaign for the early release of the writers with whom I work, despite the fact that I think some of their lengthy sentences are grossly unfair and stem from a justice system that’s racist and biased against the poor. (Justice may be blindfolded, but she has to be peeking at skin tone.) I don’t “monitor” the released prisoners with whom I’ve worked; parole officers and halfway-house workers do that, taking urine samples, etc. I do keep in touch with these women on a regular basis, checking in from time to time to see how they’re doing, answering their letters, phone calls and emails, offering advice if they seek it, and praising their positive accomplishments. What constitutes rehabilitation? I’d say it’s successful reintegration into society as a contributing and sustaining member. Unfortunately, convicted felons who have done their time and attempt to rejoin the work force face many biases and institutionalized roadblocks to reintegration. That’s one of the reasons why recidivism is at 60-70%. Can you imagine some CEO in private business accepting a failure rate like that? Yet we as a society ignore it and allow it.

WL: I feel the individual members of a book club or class discussing a literary work should feel free to take the discussion wherever they want to, and that critical and analytical responses are every bit as valid and useful as personal applications and emotional reactions to the work. The great thing about classes and discussion groups is that its members teach and learn from one another. Given that, why would you want to adapt rules that allow one type of reader to speak while another type must wear a gag? That limits the many facets of a discussion. I’ve always told my students—high school, university, and incarcerated—that a discussion class is like a pot luck dinner. Bring whatever you have to the table. Don’t come empty-handed and expect to eat for free. Together, we make a feast!

WL: I find creating fiction from scratch to be much more humbling and difficult than editing my own or others’ work. Much, much, much, much, much more!

WL: There were many promising drafts under consideration, some by writers who lost their nerve and left the group, others by writers who were paroled and left, and some by writers who joined the group well into the book’s construction and whose work had not yet had a chance to season and mature through successive drafts written over time. The writers whose work was published were the ones who invested time and effort and patience with the process. I rejected no writer’s finished work.

WL: Hopefully, the title implies the necessity and the triumph of not only writing but of sharing, too. These writers told some very painful truths. That they then went public with them--first within our group and later to thousands of nameless, faceless strangers—is a testament to their trust in themselves and others and to their generosity. They truly want to be of service by helping others to better understand. There’s a spiritual resonance in the title, as well. The gospel lyric from which the title is taken is this: Said I wasn’t gonna tell nobody, but I couldn’t keep it to myself: what the Lord has done for me.

WL: When we first discussed the possibility of a book, I imagined it as a desktop-published, stapled-in-the-middle, photocopied pamphlet of a thing that I’d have reproduced so that the women could see and share their work in print. My publisher, Judith Regan, got a look and said the writing deserved professional publication. The women were excited about the possibility that something positive, something educational, might result from their hard work. And from the start, they wanted to “give back,” too. After much discussion, Interval House, a wonderful program that assists the victims of domestic violence, was chosen as a revenue-sharing partner.

When professional publication became a reality, I immediately contacted the Connecticut Department of Correction, informing them that a book was planned, sending them writing samples, and requesting a meeting so that we could discuss their concerns and so that I could be guided by DOC in this effort. I was met with a year-long wall of silence, as were the publisher’s lawyers when they inquired about contracts for the women. There were several calls, several requests to meet, no response. We were, therefore, surprised when, the week before publication, the women learned they were being sued by the State of Connecticut for the cost of their imprisonment. The state also sued the publisher for having paid the released women. To my way of thinking, the project was purposely ambushed.

The Son of Sam statute, which forbids convicted felons from profiting from their crimes, does not apply to this case because the women did not write about the specifics of their crimes. Instead, the state invoked its little-used “cost of incarceration” statute, which had never before been applied to released inmates. At a rate of about $117 per day, the state sued the writers for the daily cost of their incarceration. The imprisoned writers had received no money whatsoever and those who’d served their sentences and been released had received a modest book sale income of $5,600 each—otherwise known as seed money to begin their rehabilitated lives. Suddenly, they were saddled with bills of several hundred thousand dollars, sums that they cannot possibly pay and which thwart their efforts as they take their first tentative steps back into the work force. (One writer quipped, “Gee, if I’d known it was costing me $117 a day while I was in there, I would have ordered room service.) The lawsuit was particularly demoralizing to the still-incarcerated writers.

WL: Connecticut’s Attorney General, Richard Blumenthal, contends that the state deserves whatever money the writers make (and, apparently, several hundred thousand more) because the women never would have become published authors if Connecticut had not convicted and imprisoned them. In my opinion, this argument blithely dismisses the women’s writing talent and their work ethic and sends them the message that the state is more interested in retribution than rehabilitation. Why are we not sending them the message that hard, honest work brings reward?

As of now, the lawsuit is pending. Meanwhile, Connecticut’s state legislature has taken up the issue of the women’s right to be paid for their work as part of its prison reform package, which seeks to remove some of the state’s roadblocks to rehabilitation and which it is scheduled for a vote in February of 2004. Those of you who wish to send a letter in support of the York writers may address those letters to the chair of the legislature’s judiciary committee:
Representative Michael Lawlor
Legislative Office
Building, Room 2500
Hartford, Connecticut
06106-1591
Email: MLawlor99@juno.com

The more letters the better, I’m told. Thanks so much for considering this.

WL: Paid employees of the Department of Correction may not maintain contact with released inmates for a period of time—not sure what that is. Volunteers are not under the same restrictions. Released writers who participated in the book tour did so with the approval and the blessing of their parole officers, who understood the rehabilitative value of the project. Parole is not under the jurisdiction of DOC. On tour, the women were amazing—honest, direct, warm, and genuine. Tabatha, Robin, Carolyn, Nancy W., and Nancy B. all did a terrific job. Dale occasionally joined us, too, and she was great as well.