INSIDE THE WALLS | Connecting to Community from Behind Bars

I entered prison a nonbeliever. An identification I not only found to be solitary, but also something that I thought best to hide in an environment that values strict identity markers and an ever-present conformity to tribalism.

I felt alone in prison due to my nonbelief. The adherents of other religious groups can often be quite obvious in their religious displays. Muslims are allowed to wear their kufis. Jews have access to their yarmulkes. Pagans can wear a necklace bearing a symbol of their chosen deity. Christians are always carrying around their Bibles or grouping up at a few tables for Bible study. Incarcerated nonbelievers do not have the same opportunities for displaying our identities. Nor would I necessarily want to if I could, for fear of my safety.

A few years ago, as I sat reading in my cell, a notification popped up on my prison tablet letting me know about a new message on the email app. I opened the app to find a newsletter from an organization called FairShake. This group’s newsletter kept incarcerated people up to date on happenings in the free worlds, advertised organizations with resources for the incarcerated, and sent a few words of encouragement to keep our spirits up. This particular newsletter held an advertisement about an organization I hadn’t heard of before called the American Humanist Association. A group that promoted the idea of “Good Without God,” and which offered a two-dollar membership for incarcerated individuals.

By the point in my sentence when I received that message, I felt a little sick of being “in hiding.” I just placed an order for, and awaited delivery of, Richard Dawkins’s book “The God Delusion” from a discount bookseller. I craved any reading material I could get my hands on. Though the lowered membership fee consisted of a full fifth of my biweekly paycheck, I figured why not and sent in my check.

Not long afterwards, I received a care package in the mail. Within a manilla envelope already torn open by a prison official, I found a copy of the book “Creating Change Through Humanism,” the latest edition of The Humanist and order form for print versions of their online courses (a much searched-for resource among incarcerated people), and a nifty little bookmark to help me keep track of all the reading I’d be doing. All of this topped by a short letter welcoming my membership.

I devoured the book and magazine. Then I read them again. Reading material written for people who rejected religion’s various answers for life’s questions felt like a breath of fresh air in a space saturated with religiosity.

As I read on I came to understand that this organization not only rejected religions offerings, it also espoused beliefs and ideals I held dear such as striving toward social justice and a dedication to environmentalism.

I also saw how AHA’s Ten Commitments held a deeper application for my life. Between my initial arrest and my sentencing, my family managed to pull together enough money to bail me out so I could be at home with them rather than sitting in jail. During that time I attended therapy sessions where I confronted the causes of my criminal behavior. Through these sessions my therapist helped me discover a disconnect between the ideals I held and the actions I committed.

As I read through the Ten Commitments I realized what they meant was the same thing my therapist and I talked about. I struggled with practicing empathy and taking responsibility for my actions, both issues which helped to land me in prison.

These commitments didn’t stop there however. They offered me an open hand in growing beyond my criminal actions. By placing an active element in a commitment to ethical development, these commitments became a rubric for continual growth. They became guidelines for a path I’ve been on since my arrest. By keeping them on my mind I can continue to grow as a person and someday become someone who contributes to their world rather than leech off it.

After I received my membership, a day came where I needed to go up to my prison’s library to return a book and find something else good to read. Once I got up there, I saw a buddy of mine working behind the library counter. Really, we were little more than passing acquaintances who often struck up fun conversations about what we currently read and made recommendations of what the other should be reading. He introduced me to the works of Sally Rooney. I showed him the writings of Willa Cather.

As I stepped into the library, I noticed him set aside a magazine he held so he could help those of us coming in. It looked an awful lot like the one I received just the other day. When my turn came to return my book at the desk, I saw his magazine displayed the same colorful cover of The Humanist as mine.

I browsed among the library stacks for awhile as I waited for the desk to clear of other patrons. Once everyone cleared out, I snuck back up to the desk and covertly asked if he was an atheist. He looked at me with skepticism in his eyes, as if he worried his answer would elicit a sermon from me (I’ve since asked this question four other times and got the same response each time). After considering it for a moment, he said yes.

From then on our conversations opened to include a variety of other topics. We still talked about what we read, but now we talked about the influential works of Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens, or how we could get our hands on works by Robert Ingersoll. Whenever a new edition of The Humanist came out, he and I would read it and then walk the outdoor track, discussing what each article meant to us.

Our passing conversations soon turned into friendship, a friendship started because we both finally had an opportunity to display an aspect of our nonbelief in a way similar to the other beliefs about religion.

My friend has since been moved to a federal prison, a place where I am not allowed to contact him until my release. But while the two of us lived in the same prison, it made me feel good to know I wasn’t alone, that I could make a connection with another person over a part of my identity I thought I needed to hide. I’ve since found other nonbelieving pals who I introduced to Humanism. Now I await my release date so I can send a letter to my first friend and maybe help him not feel so alone.