Why We Smile In Prison

There’s a peace lily on my porch. It’s a sad little creature, confined to a wicker basket that’s starting to rot.

I have a small collection of houseplants, all of which are in varying states of health and wellness. Yes, I was a horticulture major in college and hold a Master of Science from UGA, but never took the “Indoor Plants” class. I don’t know anything about our indoor plant friends, which is quite ironic because when people hear about my educational and career background, they immediately ask me about their houseplants. “Sorry,” I reply, “I missed that class.”

Let me let you in on a secret as to why this sad little peace lily is perhaps my most precious houseplant. She can go a week or so without water, allowing me to forsake her while I’m out on the road or just too busy to get around to filling up my watering pail for her. Every so often I forget to water her and like clockwork, I’ll walk out on my porch and see her, all sad and wrinkled, leaves drooping towards the cold, hard tile. I’ll admonish myself for the neglect I’ve shown her, reach under my cabinet for my trusty pail, and pour an entire gallon into her basket. In a few short hours, her leaves will be shining towards the sun once more, proud and radiant, glowing brightly in a sheen of dark green. Last year she was kind enough to even bloom for me, sending beautiful white stalks heavenward, proclaiming her desires to reproduce and bring joy elsewhere.

This may seem like a pivot, but stick with me. On Tuesday, June 4, I woke at 5 AM and turned my oven to 375 degrees. For the next four hours I baked 24 pounds of lasagna, 24 pounds of chicken alfredo, and 8 pounds of sauteed mushrooms. My mentor (and HeartBound board member) Amy Durham then met me at my apartment, where we loaded up pounds and pounds of pasta and commenced the hour-plus drive to Burruss Correctional Training Center in Forsyth, GA. That Tuesday was our graduation luncheon for the latest horticulture class at Burruss and we had cause to celebrate – over 50 men and boys had graduated, earning 4 college credits from Central Georgia Technical College along the way.

I’ve never been one for pageantry – on top of the Indoor Plants class I also missed the graduation ceremony for my master’s program. I suppose I had this idea that I simply did what I was supposed to do and saw no reason to celebrate accomplishing something expected of me. Consequently, during previous graduation ceremonies inside prisons, I didn’t put forth too much effort. We’d eat, I’d say a few remarks about how proud I was of the students, then we’d be on our way, ready to begin the next class.

However, the past couple weeks, I’ve noticed a change both internally and externally. One of the programs I lead is guitar at Metro Regional Youth Detention Center. Most of my students have never held a guitar before, let alone imagined that they could play. Teaching guitar isn’t exactly rocket science, but it sure isn’t easy either. The students become frustrated, their hands cramp, and the sounds they produce aren’t always “joyful.” I’ve had to learn to adapt my teaching style to keep them interested. I’ve had to learn a new trick: smile.

I’m embarrassed to admit that it’s taken me so long to learn this trick. But when a student plays something well, or makes progress, I look at them and smile. Sincerely. I tell them that I’m proud of them. Even if it sounds horrible and they missed three notes, I tell them that they’re making progress and that I believe in them. And I do truly believe in them. The darndest thing happens in return: they smile too. These unbelievably broken and tough and hardened young boys, serving time for murder, armed robbery, and vehicular theft, facing prison sentences of 20-plus years while living in the bleakest and most desolate of environments, smile. And they are real smiles, even if they only last for a fleeting second.

This newfound knowledge has transferred to other aspects of my life and work as well. I’ve learned that even the most disruptive unruly student at Burruss can be melted by a smile and the words, “I’m proud of you, keep going.” It’s totally changed our classroom; the troublemakers are now sitting in the front row, and the ones I had given up as lost causes are now engaged and passing with flying colors. All because God has granted me the grace to say, “I’m proud of you, Mr. Grant.”

After our latest horticulture class ended, I planned an actual graduation ceremony. We played bingo to start, but the kind of bingo where you have to go around and find people that match the descriptions in each square, such as “find someone who things LeBron is the GOAT” or “find someone who can play an instrument”. I thought it was a silly game, but the guys absolutely loved it. I realized afterwards that these men in prison don’t get to have a lot of fun; a silly childish game may be the only reason they smile that day. Following bingo, we served up those pounds and pounds of pasta, and like feeding the five thousand, the food just kept going and going, so much so that when we went to serve thirds, some of the younger boys looked at us with full tummies and said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I then went up to the podium with HeartBound chaplain, Pastor John Richardson, who delivered remarks for his students who had graduated from his financial literacy course. It was then my turn to speak. I’d prepared remarks this time. I’ll share with you the ending:

“You men have found a way to survive, to repel the attacks that you face, to communicate in unique and unprecedented ways, to find commonality to combat the boredom, the loneliness, the sorrow, and the holidays spent alone. You have banded together, Black, White, Muslim, Jehovah’s Witness, old and young, to not just survive, but thrive. You’ve confronted your past through written papers, composed beautiful poems, and discussed deep, philosophical, meaningful books. You’ve defied all odds, overturned expectations and perceptions, and done something great. Again, gentlemen, I am proud of you. Over time, this class has undergone a radical transformation; I have become the student, and you have become the teachers. Gentlemen, you are college professors in my eyes, the greatest teachers I have ever had, the greatest teachers I will ever have.

I’d like to leave you fine gentlemen with a Psalm: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning”. My hope, my ardent prayer, is that in this moment, in this visitation room, you find joy in this great accomplishment. I am so honored to be your student.”

I then called each graduate up to the podium to retrieve their certificate of completion, addressing them as “Mr. Haden Whitefield” or “Mr. Leron Askinton.” As each graduate stood, I saw God move in them in a very real and powerful way.

As I began calling names, the graduates tucked in their prison shirts and sat up a little taller. When their name arrived, they stood up, looking tough and mighty, bearing stoic looks on their faces. They walked unflinchingly towards the podium, taking care to puff up their shoulders, appearing quite statuesque in their resoluteness. They then would mechanically reach one hand forward for their certificate and the other for a handshake. And in that moment, I did what simply felt right. I let the handshakes linger, forcing each man to look me in the eyes, to see the smile on my face. And I told each one, “Mr. So and So, I am SO proud of you.”

I’m sure you can guess what happened next. The pride, the stoicism, the steadfast resoluteness, melted away. Smiles replaced the stone-cold rigidity on their faces. They became like children again. Some giggled. Some stared at their certificate in awe. One young man who’s struggled mightily in class, looked at me and said, “No, I’m the one that’s proud of this.”

I close this letter with an encouragement for each of you. Smile. Even when you don’t want to, even when you’ve been up since 5 am cooking pasta in a kitchen that’s way too small and holds all the heat from the oven. I promise it will have profound effects. Just like my peace lily that gets all sad and weepy when I neglect it, a little love and tenderness can turn things around, leading to joyfulness and prosperity. This world is thirsty. Shower it with God’s love.

Have a blessed day.

Spencer