criminal, then nothing has been gained and plenty has been lost. In fact, we are all the losers.
Behind every criminal face is a human who once was a bouncing baby, gu r gling with glee, and aching to be loved. Then, something happened. Each story is different, provocative, sad, and disturbing. Needs were denied or not met, the env i ronment was violent or cruel or indifferent, and feelings with no healthy outlets were expressed in u n speakable acts. I learned this when I volunteered for six years in a juvenile detention facility, and I spent time with some baby-faced serious o f fenders who were shockingly young and others who had already logged years in a life of crime and were on their way to chronic crim i nality and incarceration.
Beneath the machismo, the drugs, the gangs, there are human b e ings who—although they no longer gurgle with glee—are often still capable of love, passion, pain, remorse, and creative output. In the d e tention facility I met frightening thugs who wrote tender, sensitive p o ems and created imaginative, highly expressive art.
Courts, judges, juries, and innocent victims are much more capable than I of dealing with issues of guilt, judgment, and sentencing. What interests me is getting a glimpse into a criminal’s heart and fin d ing a place, however tiny, where there is authentic feeling and sensitivity. To my mind, this is where hope for healing, reh a bilitation, and redemption lie.
We all know that prisons are most often like the dark nights of the soul—rife with pain, hurt, rage, humiliation, isolation, revenge, and desperation. But believe me when I tell you that rays of enlightenment shone on that medium-security pri s on in Chetumal. It started at the top and trickled down to all those who are inca r cerated.
The prison director, Victor Terrazas Cervera, walked around the garden-like inner courtyard of the prison unarmed, in shirtsleeves. He stopped to play with the prison’s pet coatimundi (which looks like a cross between a raccoon and an antea t er), and chatted with inmates, all of whom wore street clothes.
“Aren’t you concerned about violence?” I asked Victor.
He grinned and answered, “There is none.”
“This is a prison. You have serious offenders. There have to be incidents of v i olence.”
“I can assure you that there hasn’t been any violence in ten years.”
He led me to a small, two-room arts and crafts shop. The bare, cracked, white walls were covered with paintings; mobiles hung from the ceiling; sculptures, wearable art, and jewelry were perched on rough-hewn shelves; and brightly-colored hammocks were displayed on wooden looms. All of the work was made by inmates.
A few of the incarcerated artists were milling about the shop, an x ious to make contact and talk about their work. One of them held up a Ferris wheel fabricated from pieces of scrap metal and Coke cans, another proffered a Maya-themed pain t ing, and a third was the proud artist who had produced a bracelet fashioned from large, chunky beads. A shy man, who looked down, stood next to two hand-woven purple and blue hammocks which he was selling for $50 each.
“In New York, that hammock would cost you $125,” said the shy man’s friend, who was also an artist. He pointed out his latest work: a papier-maché sculpture of a vintage, single-engine plane.
The buildings were run down, but the prisoners were pumped up. They made and sold multi-hued hammocks, wooden furniture, jewe l ry, picture frames crafted from plastic sleeves on soda bottles, and i n ventive toys. They took art workshops and sold their creations to the public in the small gift shop I visited. A few of the finer artists were even provided with their own studios.
On the grounds of the prison were a massage room (where very inexpensive Reiki and Swedish treatments were available) for physical stress, garden areas for meditation to relieve mental and emotional stress, and, for one dollar, inmates could spend a night
Behind every criminal face is a human who once was a bouncing baby, gu r gling with glee, and aching to be loved. Then, something happened. Each story is different, provocative, sad, and disturbing. Needs were denied or not met, the env i ronment was violent or cruel or indifferent, and feelings with no healthy outlets were expressed in u n speakable acts. I learned this when I volunteered for six years in a juvenile detention facility, and I spent time with some baby-faced serious o f fenders who were shockingly young and others who had already logged years in a life of crime and were on their way to chronic crim i nality and incarceration.
Beneath the machismo, the drugs, the gangs, there are human b e ings who—although they no longer gurgle with glee—are often still capable of love, passion, pain, remorse, and creative output. In the d e tention facility I met frightening thugs who wrote tender, sensitive p o ems and created imaginative, highly expressive art.
Courts, judges, juries, and innocent victims are much more capable than I of dealing with issues of guilt, judgment, and sentencing. What interests me is getting a glimpse into a criminal’s heart and fin d ing a place, however tiny, where there is authentic feeling and sensitivity. To my mind, this is where hope for healing, reh a bilitation, and redemption lie.
We all know that prisons are most often like the dark nights of the soul—rife with pain, hurt, rage, humiliation, isolation, revenge, and desperation. But believe me when I tell you that rays of enlightenment shone on that medium-security pri s on in Chetumal. It started at the top and trickled down to all those who are inca r cerated.
The prison director, Victor Terrazas Cervera, walked around the garden-like inner courtyard of the prison unarmed, in shirtsleeves. He stopped to play with the prison’s pet coatimundi (which looks like a cross between a raccoon and an antea t er), and chatted with inmates, all of whom wore street clothes.
“Aren’t you concerned about violence?” I asked Victor.
He grinned and answered, “There is none.”
“This is a prison. You have serious offenders. There have to be incidents of v i olence.”
“I can assure you that there hasn’t been any violence in ten years.”
He led me to a small, two-room arts and crafts shop. The bare, cracked, white walls were covered with paintings; mobiles hung from the ceiling; sculptures, wearable art, and jewelry were perched on rough-hewn shelves; and brightly-colored hammocks were displayed on wooden looms. All of the work was made by inmates.
A few of the incarcerated artists were milling about the shop, an x ious to make contact and talk about their work. One of them held up a Ferris wheel fabricated from pieces of scrap metal and Coke cans, another proffered a Maya-themed pain t ing, and a third was the proud artist who had produced a bracelet fashioned from large, chunky beads. A shy man, who looked down, stood next to two hand-woven purple and blue hammocks which he was selling for $50 each.
“In New York, that hammock would cost you $125,” said the shy man’s friend, who was also an artist. He pointed out his latest work: a papier-maché sculpture of a vintage, single-engine plane.
The buildings were run down, but the prisoners were pumped up. They made and sold multi-hued hammocks, wooden furniture, jewe l ry, picture frames crafted from plastic sleeves on soda bottles, and i n ventive toys. They took art workshops and sold their creations to the public in the small gift shop I visited. A few of the finer artists were even provided with their own studios.
On the grounds of the prison were a massage room (where very inexpensive Reiki and Swedish treatments were available) for physical stress, garden areas for meditation to relieve mental and emotional stress, and, for one dollar, inmates could spend a night
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