I will never forget the day we were brought into an office where the Deputy Warden, the Regional Director of Education, and the GED teacher were sitting. During that meeting, we were informed that, as education aides, we would now manage the prison’s General Educational Development (GED) program without a paid staff member. In other words, the teacher was quitting and we were in charge.
We were expected to take on duties that would ordinarily require professional oversight and paid personnel. We had been placed in a position where we had to carry the program forward ourselves. Shutting down the only education program at the prison wasn’t an option and we were trusted to manage it with integrity, which we did for over two years. During that time, we witnessed facility staff adopt a deep personal interest in education at the facility. Our success and work ethic was regularly celebrated.
The success we saw gained the attention of state education leaders and regional supervisors. Visits to our classroom by state leadership became a regular occurrence. They couldn’t believe the success, saying, “I wish we could take you 3 to all of our facilities so you could teach our paid staff how to have the same success.” That success came down to one word; care. We deeply cared about the future of our students. Care is what made the difference. We were in the fight with them.
Education provides incarcerated individuals with a sense of purpose and the tools necessary to pursue a different future after incarceration. Many of our graduates went on to complete trade courses in HVAC and Carpentry or began Associates Degrees while incarcerated. I took my role seriously because I saw that the work extended beyond textbooks and testing. For me, it was about pushing people to believe that their circumstances did not define the rest of their lives and that obtaining an education was their ticket to the other side of incarceration.
Yearly graduation ceremonies celebrated achievement. We witnessed a sea of emerald green caps and gowns pour down a red carpet into a room filled with supporting family members and staff. I recall standing on the sidelines in disbelief that I helped get each of these men to this day. It was emotional and an honor for me to be a part of their story. I watched grown men weep at their own success as their families watched from the audience.Year after year our success in teaching, organizing, and intentional care was put on display as 52 men received their GED with the help of 3 inmate aides.
As staff noticed my abilities this led to more opportunities. I became responsible for planning and coordinating staff events, mental health workshops, graduation ceremonies, retirement parties, talent shows, holiday programs, book clubs, education workshops, and other celebrations and programs. Each event required organization, communication with upper level staff, and a lot of creativity. With every event I merged the gap between staff and inmates and helped create meaningful experiences for everyone in an environment where stress and loneliness were part of everyday life.
One of the most rewarding endeavors was managing an inmate-led interfaith program in a 100-man building. In managing a team of ten mentors and ten facilitators, I coordinated our efforts to support the program’s mission to think better, do better, and live better. This program was where real rehabilitation took place. We operated 13 inmate-led classes weekly. We operated the only NA/AA program at the facility and countless men discovered sobriety. Gardens were planted and a thriving horticulture program produced flowers and seasonal vegetables cultivated by inmates. In this program we built a community. In July 2025, I was awarded Most Valuable Leader by the Warden for my contributions.
However, as my responsibilities increased, I slowly began to feel that my work was making me a liability. As I walked around the prison I was constantly being asked for help by inmates and staff by individuals I didn’t know or recognize. I began to realize that my availability and constant help to others had given me a reputation and made me a target. My skills and knowledge of the institution had made me a valuable resource, but these same qualities began to work against me. I was being taken advantage of by everyone and I didn’t know how to establish boundaries without seeming disrespectful or ungrateful for the opportunities to serve others who desperately needed the help. Help that came easy for me to provide because of the trust others had in me. I had become known as someone who knew how to get things done. It was an isolating and lonely position to be in.
I felt like I was in survival mode, but how could I feel this way with all the good I had done? Only the inmates closest to me knew my inner struggle. So, in an effort to reverse my reputation I attempted to be invisible. I began diminishing my shine. I declined taking on extra tasks, became less visible to limit access, and started delegating responsibilities to other inmates. Work I had once found joy in had become bothersome and uninteresting. Because of my working relationship with staff, I was shut out of certain activities and left out of the loop by my peers. I felt rejected and desired deeply to undo all of the success. I found myself essentially alone, sitting with my success, wishing I didn’t accomplish anything.
I allowed myself to be overworked because I believed it would keep me safe and valuable, and in the end I was helping other inmates achieve their own success and creating wonderful programs. A win-win scenario. I even experienced burn out for the first time in my life. The public narrative of me was that I was untouchable and protected by staff because of my value. I was told, “you’re good for the business.” Those on the outside looking in saw favor. But, in reality it was the opposite. If any inmate at the prison was held to a higher standard or was more responsible than others it was me. I had become a trusted asset to the institution and was told this regularly.
Staff celebrated my programming success, personal achievements, and supported my mental health treatment. I deeply appreciate those staff members who mentored, supported, motivated, and believed in me and my abilities to create positive change within the institution.
Despite being “good for business,” I was transferred to another facility for no given reason. Staff members were upset and confused at the decision. One can conclude it was due to comfortability with staff and knowledge of operations. The transfer has become another chapter in my journey that I find gratitude and opportunity in. It has reinforced my understanding that my path within the correctional system would not always be determined by my work. It’s also shown me that I am much more than what I do. I know the value of the contributions I made that impacted hundreds of inmates for years to come, and that is enough for me.
Ultimately, my journey has taught me that success brings challenges, but it should never become a reason to be ashamed of your talents. I have learned through experience to be grateful for my success and skills because they are what make my story worth telling. I may be doing time, but I’m determined to never spend that time pretending to be less valuable. My freedom may be restricted, but my talents, my knowledge, and my light will never be dimmed.
B Speaks is a writer and advocate interested in prison/criminal justice reform, LGBTQ rights, and government/cultural criticism. A graduate of the University of South Carolina, B served as a political strategist and grassroots organizer in Washington D.C. Currently incarcerated in Georgia, B writes to expose and challenge the realities of the carceral system, advocating for justice reform and the voices often left unheard.
