My Students Deserved Better
How fear and institutional barriers undermine education and human dignity in correctional facilities.
My Students Deserved Better
People often assume that the hardest part of teaching college inside a prison is walking through the gates. They imagine the security checkpoints, the locked doors, the razor wire, and the reality of teaching in a correctional setting. While those things are certainly different from a traditional college classroom, they were never what made teaching difficult for me.
I taught at four correctional facilities, spending most of my time at a Level II prison. It was there that I witnessed both the incredible potential of my students and the unnecessary barriers placed in their way.
My students came to class eager to learn. They wanted to challenge themselves, earn an education, and become something greater than the mistakes that had brought them to prison. They deserved to be treated as college students.
From the first day of class, I set high academic expectations. I expected professionalism, critical thinking, respectful dialogue, and accountability. My students rose to those expectations. They completed challenging readings, participated in thoughtful discussions, and challenged one another intellectually. Many discovered abilities they never knew they possessed. Watching them grow in confidence and develop a genuine love of learning was one of the greatest privileges of my career.
Fear Occupies the Classroom
Unfortunately, their learning environment was often overshadowed by inhumanity.
My students constantly monitored every word they spoke. Before answering a question or participating in a discussion, their demeanor would change whenever a particular education officer was present. Their concern was not whether their answer was correct, but whether what they said—or how they said it—might result in disciplinary action.
Even the simplest interactions required careful calculation. They felt compelled to use overly cautious language, excessive politeness, or remain silent altogether because they feared receiving a misconduct ticket.
A college classroom should be a place where students are encouraged to think critically, ask questions, respectfully debate ideas, and occasionally make mistakes. Instead, I watched students censor themselves out of fear.
Education cannot flourish when fear occupies the classroom.
An Impossible Position
As an instructor, I often found myself in an impossible position.
There were times when I witnessed interactions that were discouraging, demeaning, or unnecessarily hostile. Yet I had to remain composed because my students were watching me. If I openly challenged those situations or reacted emotionally, I feared the consequences would not fall solely on me—they could fall on my students.
I knew that if tension developed, my students could become vulnerable to misconduct tickets or other forms of retaliation. I had seen it happen. That reality forced me to choose my responses carefully, even when everything in me wanted to advocate immediately for the students sitting before me.
I often felt subject to whatever mood the education officer brought into the building that day. The atmosphere could change instantly depending on that person's disposition. Instead of focusing solely on lesson plans, classroom discussions, and student engagement, there was always an underlying awareness that the educational environment could shift because of factors completely unrelated to teaching or learning.
I was not alone in experiencing this.
Over the years, I watched talented educators become discouraged from teaching at the facility because of repeated negative interactions. Some chose not to return. Others quietly accepted conditions that no educator should have to endure simply because they cared so deeply about their students.
Every teacher who walks away represents another lost opportunity for incarcerated students seeking a better future.
My Students' Resilience
What stays with me most, however, is not the frustration I experienced.
It is my students' resilience.
I watched men who had often been told throughout their lives that they would never amount to anything become excited about literature, business, leadership, and philosophy. I watched students stay after class to ask questions, encourage one another, and celebrate academic success.
Yet all it took was the presence of one particular education officer for the atmosphere to change. Conversations stopped. Participation declined. Confidence faded.
I watched individuals who had once doubted their own intelligence discover that they could analyze complex theories, write college-level papers, and contribute meaningful ideas.
Education gave them hope.
It gave them purpose.
It gave them a vision of who they could become.
Even as they grew academically, I could see the hesitation whenever that officer entered the room. Students who had been actively engaged moments earlier suddenly became guarded. No student should have to choose between participating in a college discussion and worrying that their words might lead to disciplinary consequences.
Unfortunately, educators often received little meaningful institutional support, while incarcerated students were increasingly viewed through the lens of funding rather than their potential. In that environment, your integrity has to be fearless. You keep showing up because your students deserve nothing less.
I especially looked forward to the Saturday morning 7:00 a.m. classes. A different education officer was assigned on those mornings—someone who approached the job with professionalism and humanity. The atmosphere was noticeably different. Students relaxed. Discussions flourished. The classroom finally felt like what a college classroom should be: a place where learning, curiosity, and respect could thrive.
Education Must Reflect That Belief
Education in prison should not be limited to offering classes. It should create an environment where learning is protected, curiosity is encouraged, and human dignity is respected.
Security is essential, but it is not mutually exclusive with humanity.
Both can coexist.
My students deserved a classroom where they could think freely, ask difficult questions, and grow without intimidation. They deserved to walk into the building without being immediately scolded or redirected. I was yelled at more times than I can count without ever understanding why. I would simply smile, say, "Thank you," and continue walking with my students watching. Minutes later, the very same officer would enter my classroom and casually ask whether I needed anything.
Those contradictory interactions were difficult to reconcile.
My students deserved educators who could focus entirely on teaching instead of navigating unnecessary hostility. They deserved to be recognized not simply as incarcerated individuals, but as college students working to change the trajectory of their lives.
I have witnessed firsthand the transformative power of higher education in prison. I have seen students rediscover hope, purpose, confidence, and self-worth through learning. I have also witnessed how quickly that transformation can be undermined when fear enters the classroom.
When we say we believe in rehabilitation, education must reflect that belief.
If we truly want people to return to society as productive, responsible citizens, we must provide learning environments that support that goal.
My students deserved better.
They still do.
