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Reese Conner Prison Journal:
• September 12th
2014
o Dana and I arrived at the prison. Unfortunately, all the warning about background
checks sometimes being lost in the system is true: they do not have my information
on record, and they cannot give me an ID. I am starting to think I have driven an
hour just to be turned away. I admit: part of me is relieved. I am not nervous because
I am to teach in a prison, per se, but there is something daunting about teaching a
new class no matter where the class is located. To the chagrin of my nerves, the very
helpful woman at the building where Dana and I were directed to pick up our ID’s
gave me a temporary pass. I thought this was odd, seeing that my background check
had not cleared and that they did not really know who I was. It gave me the sense
that the prison was not very organized in terms of its housekeeping. This possibility
was further realized just about every time Dana and I entered the prison, but I am
getting ahead of myself.
o It is my first time teaching at the prison. It puts me at ease that Dana is fairly
experienced, having already taught in the prison. It also puts me at ease because
Dana is a relatively soft-spoken, utterly unimposing personality in the most
complimentary way! And so, I follow her lead. She is familiar with the grounds, so
she directs me where to park. We make our way through the first obstacle: a chain-
link, barbed-wire gate. Dana does not remember how we are supposed to bypass this
impasse. We wait just outside the gate, feeling foolish. A loud buzzing sound, well,
buzzes. We intuit that the gate is open. We are right. We walk in the door. I follow
Dana’s lead as she shows her ID to a woman through bulletproof glass to our right. I
explain to the woman that I could not obtain my ID, that I had paper to prove I am
allowed in. She takes the paper and writes down some information from it. She gives
it back and warns me not to lose it—it is the only way to identify me. Dana has
already begun removing the contents from her pockets, her shoes from her feet, and
setting the materials on a desk next to a metal detector. I do the same. The guard on
the other side asks the questions I recall learning in training: any drugs, more than
$40, cellphones, and etcetera. We make it through the metal detectors. The guard
asks us where we are going. Dana is not sure. He asks if we have a guard taking us
there. Again, we have not heard anything about it. The guard radios and as it
happens there is a guard ready to take us to the classroom.
o We make our way outside. This is my first time inside the yard. It has a lot less
structure than I anticipated. Other than the guard chauffeuring us along, I only see
men in orange. The guard takes us to a building that looks a bit like a trailer. Dana
does not recognize it. She taught in a different part of the yard last time. We walk
toward the trailer and try to open a door. It is locked. The other door opens and a
man wearing orange pokes his head out and asks if we are the Creative Writing
teachers.

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o We enter the classroom. Dana prepared me to be underwhelmed at our class size.
She told me about how her first class dwindled down to two. I expected no more
than ten. There are eighteen men sardined inside a long, narrow room. This is not
conducive to teaching. There is only one chair at the head of the classroom. I give it
to Dana and search for another. The inmates in our class see my object and hurriedly
offer help. This puts me at ease.
o It is time to begin class and Dana hesitantly starts. It is clear she was not the one
who actively took charge in her last co-teaching assignment, but with a newcomer
like me, she adjusts. And I think this assignment will put her out of her comfort
zone. And I know that once I get comfortable, we will be equal partners. She begins
with a brief introduction to the course. We talked about this on our drive: she is
going to introduce the class a bit, and then I am going to lead a rather
unconventional roll call. Looking at the many men in front of me, I am beginning to
think my roll call, which is a blast in the classes I teach at ASU, is not going to fly.
But my time comes and I give it a whirl.
o I tell the students that I am going to snake my way around the room and each
student will identify himself by his last name and then, to make things interesting, say
what kind of animal they would choose to be able to turn into. I make sure to
include a certain caveat: hypotheticals should be indulged. I warn them not to simply
choose their favorite animal, as favorite animals may not be practical in the real
world. I urge them to consider their own limitations as human beings and as
mammals, and then to choose accordingly. After all, the Venn Diagram between a
human and a tiger has quite a bit of overlap, both being terrestrial mammals and all.
And so, choosing a tiger may not be wise, considering a possible shipwreck (tigers
cannot breathe underwater) or falling out of an airplane (tigers cannot fly) or simply
passing in the world (tigers stand out, particularly on a street). And so I offer the
students an alternative: a hummingbird. I see that some of the students are feeding
off of my enthusiasm, some are delighting in how seriously I am taking a ridiculous
question, and still others seem dubious. I tell them it is their turn.
o The first gentleman up turns my question in a way I did not expect. He says he
would choose to turn into a human being again. He continues by saying the prison
has stripped him of his humanity and that he would use this chance to regain that. It
was not an answer I expected, partially because it was almost too subversive and well-
articulated in such a short amount of time. I hid my surprise, a bit glad that his tone
was more in line with a philosophical lament than a tirade. The next man up said he
liked what the first man said. He also chose his humanity. My stomach began to sink.
Is this going to be a galvanizing moment that gets the room full of inmates upset
with the system? I did not intend to provoke unrest, even if it feels authentic and,
truth be told, I have a certain amount of sympathy for it. The third man saves me.
He says he wants to be a caterpillar/butterfly, and he says so seriously. He is not
yanking my chain. He does not even wait to be asked why. He explains that he wants

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to know what it is like to be ugly and slow and earthbound so that, when he
experiences metamorphosis, he can appreciate what it means to be beautiful and
what it means to fly. The rest of the roll call is more men with, more or less, genuine
answers to my question. At the end of the roll call, the men turn the question on us.
I admit that, despite my better judgment and despite the caution I gave them, my
affection for the snow leopard—my favorite animal—would cause me to choose it
every time. The men got a kick out of this.
o The roll call took a large chunk of time, but it served both its purposes. First, the
explicit purpose we announced: it introduced everyone and introduced everyone to
the idea of what it means to think creatively. Second, it helped put me at ease by
allowing me into a situation where I am confident—engaging with people on a
creative level. Due to the time it took up, Dana and I only had a few minutes to
quickly go over our syllabus. Dana passed it out. We briefly described the structure
of the course: each week they would write either a poem or a short story. And each
week they would workshop either a poem or a short story. We would split each class
between fiction and poetry. Dana would take the lead on fiction lessons and fiction
workshops while I took the lead on poetry lessons and poetry workshops. Because
Dana and I are cross-genre writers ourselves, we would each support the other
during the times when we were not in charge. Dana and I gave the men a short
writing assignment to explain their preconceptions of the class versus their first
experience of the class. I ended the class with three poems that I read aloud to the
class. I brought three very different poems that highlighted how different poetry is
from what they probably imagined. The men really seemed to enjoy the poems.
• September 26th
2014
o On my second day teaching in the prison, I still needed to get my ID. Luckily, my
background check cleared. Unfortunately, the prison was not able to take my photo
and print the ID on site, so they had Dana and I make the trek to Eyman. More
unfortunately, when Dana and I reached Eyman we were informed that the
gentleman who normally takes the pictures and makes the ID’s does not work on
Fridays. Again, the prison proved not to have the greatest amount of organization.
Dana and I made our way back to the office that had directed us there. They made a
call to inquire about whether or not another location could accommodate us. They
could. Dana and I walked there (it was near where our security training was). Again,
we were not given specific orders, so getting through the gate into the prison was
awkward. Our ignorance of the situation was treated with a bit of condescension, as
if we were supposed to know where to go and who to talk to. That was frustrating.
We finally got to where we were supposed to be and two guards, who were very
affable and had already started decorating their little room for Halloween, helped us
through the process. And so, I got my ID!
o With our ID’s in hand, Dana and I make it through the checkpoint that allows us
into the yard.

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o Our class size has remained mostly constant. We lost a few, but we also gained some
newcomers. We start the class by opening up the floor to students who want to share
their assignment. There are a handful of men who are very eager to share. There are
others who seem engaged, but are not as vocal. And then there are a few who seem
to distance themselves from the class, which is frustrating but not unexpected. After
talking about their assignments, Dana and I read a short story aloud. Dana
photocopied copies for the whole class. The men, even the disengaged ones, quietly
and attentively follow along. Once we finish the story, Dana opens the floor for a
discussion. Again, the same handful of men is eager to discuss. While it is not ideal
to have the same voices dominating the room, it is nice to have students who
guarantee there will always be engaged discussions. Once we discuss the story, we
turn to poetry. I lecture briefly about abstractions and clichés in poetry. I warn
against using them. I then hand out the first poetry prompt. The prompt is a series
of stipulations: no abstractions (I give a fairly long list of around 30 words that the
men cannot, under any circumstances, bring into the poem), must be 10-15 lines,
must have one stanza break, and must use five words I chose (this is a recurring
stipulation: I give the men four-five words for each prompt that they must use in
their poem. At first, the men were annoyed, but once they used the words and saw
what direction the words took their work, they were eager for more). I ask for
questions. None. I dismiss class.
• October 3rd
2014
o The process of getting into prison is simpler this time. Nothing surprising happens
on that front.
o Our first surprise comes when we are informed that our regular classroom is
unavailable, so we must go to a different part of the yard. Luckily, Dana is familiar
with where we are going (she has taught there before). Our route to the new
classroom takes us by many more men in the yard. A few catcall to Dana from afar.
None of the men whose faces we can clearly see say anything other than pleasantries.
o The new classroom is much larger than the trailer-type classroom Dana and I taught
in for the past two weeks, which is refreshing. The classroom actually looks like a
classroom. There are educational posters, inspirational quotes, and books lining the
walls. Moreover, the layout of the classroom is much more conducive to teaching.
Dana and I do not have to deal with some of our students being a great distance
away.
o We begin the class asking how the students how they took to the poetry prompt. A
few students struggled with the prompt and felt stifled by all the hoops I had them
jump through. I was happy to hear their complaints drowned out by a much larger
group who had a blast with the prompt. They talked about how, initially, they had
reservations about the stipulations, but they were enthused to find that the prompt
directed them into places where, otherwise, they would not have gone. They saw the
stipulations as invitations to be creative rather than detriments to creativity.

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o I offer the students the opportunity to read their poems aloud. I have around 4-5
takers. Dana and I give brief comments on what we noted from their readings. The
men seem impressed by what we gleaned from only hearing the work once. I tell
them that I will give more detailed feedback once I sit down and read their poems
for myself. I take volunteers to be workshopped in the next class, and then collect
their poems.
o At this point, we transition to fiction. Dana takes over and we read another story out
loud. We have a reading discussion afterwards, and then Dana ties it into a lecture on
building characterization through showing. She then gives them their first fiction
prompt. She asks if they have any questions. We dismiss the class.
• October 10th
2014
o Dana and I arrive at the prison. We are both used to the routine, although, given that
the prison has been whimsical thus far, we are not surprised when we are told that
we are still meeting in the other classroom. In fact, Dana and I prefer it there.
o We walk to the classroom, which still creates a certain amount of anxiety, given that
many of the people we pass are prisoners who register us as outsiders.
o Through the windows of the classroom we see that we have lost some students. It is
noticeable. As we walk in we make a somewhat facetious comment about having
lost so many students. The remaining students quickly defend the class and us as
instructors: they assure us that the folks who are not there are not there on account
of work schedules changing and the change in classroom. I am not sure I believe
them, but it is sweet of them to say. Dana and I have already talked about losing
students as the semester goes on—in some ways we did not want to lose any (as a
point of pride), but in terms of pragmatism and preference, we would rather have a
smaller, more engaged class. So, while our collective pride is hurt a bit, we are
actually okay with losing students.
o We begin class with my workshop. Two of the men who volunteered to be
workshopped are not in the class. This turns out to be a good thing, as I take more
than my allotted time to workshop the three that are there. The men were very good
about adhering to my workshop stipulations (the author may not talk until the end;
compliments are okay, but constructive criticism is more valuable and, thus,
encouraged; and the instructor is not always right). The workshops were very fruitful,
and the men were engaged, really trying to help further the poem. And, when I
announced the line-edits I made, some of the men were very taken with the changes,
which pleased me because I know that making the kind of edits I make can come off
as hurtful to some writers, so having a supportive group agreeing that the edits
strengthen the piece was helpful.
o Once I am done with my workshop, Dana invites the class to talk about their
experience with fiction, and then collects their stories. I then give them their next
prompt.
• October 17th
2014 – No class, MFA Composition Exams

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• October 24th
2014
o Dana and I come back to the prison after a missed week. Our classroom has
officially changed to the location we have been going to the last two weeks, which
Dana and I are pleased about. Unfortunately, the prison—bad at communication as
usual—had not informed the necessary people that our class was canceled, so the
men had showed up to class the previous week. I believe this accounted for why our
class size dwindled even more this week: there are only seven students left. Luckily,
however, those seven students are the ones who have been the most talkative and
the most engaged. We are glad to retain them. Again, they promise us that it is not
our fault that folks are dropping the class.
o Much to my surprise, the students—who have written poems for the prompt I gave
out—actually recited their poems and exchanged feedback in the class that Dana and
I canceled. It is wonderful to hear that. t makes their enthusiasm seem that much
more authentic. We briefly talk about what was talked about in their impromptu
meeting.
o We then segue to Dana’s workshop. Again, the workshop goes over well. When it is
over, I lecture a bit on the relationship between the author of a poem and the
speaker of a poem. I also read a few poems to the class. Dana then gives the next
fiction prompt.
• October 31st
2014
o This week the prison moved us back to our original classroom. Dana and I are a bit
upset about that, but it only seems like a one-week deal before we are back to the
better room. We have lost another student or two.
o Only two of the workshop volunteers are in attendance, so I spend a lot of time on
each poem. One of our favorite students, I will call him Bob, wrote a strong poem,
but, because he writes with higher diction than the other students, his poem
intimidates the class into thinking everything he writes is good. I am invested in
improving his writing rather than letting him think he has no room to improve. I
give an off-the-cuff lecture during his workshop about high-register versus low-
register diction, and how vacillating between the two can be very powerful. I give
some examples in his poem, and he really seems to take to the suggestions. It is a
nice teaching moment.
o As per usual, Dana and the class talk about their experience with the fiction prompt.
She reads a short story (“Jealous Husband Returns in the Form of a Parrot”) and we
all discuss it. The class loves the story. I give the next poetry prompt.
• November 7th
2014 – No class, Dana had Fullbright interview
• November 14th
2014
o The class is back in the better classroom. We maintained our core group of students
from before. It looks like these are the guys who will stick with it till the end.
o Dana begins the class with a lecture on revision. It is at this point that we mention
only having two classes left. Dana and I have decided that, for the last class, we will

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have them bring in either a revision of a story or poem from this class, or some other
type of art that they have created. Because there are only a handful of men in the
class, we feel comfortable in being able to get to everyone.
o Dana then transitions to her workshop. Because we have such a small class, one of
the same students, Bob, is being workshopped again. He has really taken to heart the
high-register, low-register criticism, but his story is still too highfalutin. We have a
nice back and forth wherein we try to impart on him the idea that simple words and
easy-to-understand writing is not equated with dumb.
o I find some poems in my book and give a few examples of poets who use plain
language particularly well. The examples help crystallize for Bob how low-register
language works.
o I ask the men how their poems went. It was a persona poem prompt, so it was fun
to hear what personas they chose. I had had a brief fear that one might choose some
sort of criminal, which would have probably been very bad…
• November 21st
2014
o We do the last poetry workshop. It is sad to see the workshops coming to an end,
but the students are much more trusting of one another at this point that the
workshops are far more helpful because I do not have to do all the heavy lifting.
Again, because the class size is so small, Bob is up again. His poem does much better
at utilizing the low-register. I think the class has a much better grasp on the
possibility of language thanks to the ongoing discussion.
o Dana, for her half of class, reads a much longer short story than usual. We take turns
reading while the men follow along.
o We reiterate that for the last class they can bring whatever they want to share.
o Dana and I talk on the ride home about which discipline we think the men will bring
in for the final class. We make a friendly wager on our respective specialties!
• November 28th
2014 – No class, Thanksgiving.
• December 5th
2014
o It is our last class. Dana and I are eager to see what our students brought in. As it
turns out, they all brought poetry! I am very happy to see that they took to poetry so
much, especially when, in the beginning, they did not seem too thrilled about it
(especially when I told them rhyming was strictly forbidden for the first half of the
semester…). One of our students shared a revision of the first poem he wrote for
the class. It was a wonderful revision. I will never forget the final line: “Deep in the
belly of the kaleidoscope.” It is a much stronger culmination than the very abstract
ending he had previously. Bob brought in two revisions: one poem and one rap! He
shared the rap with us. It was about three-and-a-half minutes long, and he had it
meticulously memorized. It was incredibly good, and it was clear he not only put a
significant amount of time into writing it, but a significant amount of time
memorizing it as well. It reflected how seriously he took the class, which was a nice
way to end the class. Moreover, as a sort of happy finale to the ongoing high-

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register/low-register lesson, Bob’s rap was a wonderful conflation of the two
registers. We talked about how the medium of rap, perhaps, let him be more
comfortable using colloquial terms and phrases. And the whole class was supportive
of the result.
o We spent the rest of the class fielding whatever questions they had. When the time
came to go, they were very liberal with their praise of the whole semester.