A biweekly newsletter about the future of postsecondary education in prisons. Written by Open Campus national reporter Charlotte West.

Short on time? Here are the highlights:

• Artist Alvin Smith worked together with his fellow students in the Hope-Western Prison Education Program in Michigan to put together this series of reflections on what it meant to see the college community embracing its students upon release. Congratulations to Alvin and eight other men who graduated last month as part of Hope-Western’s first bachelor’s cohort!

• Check out the Q1 print edition of College Inside that we distribute inside to 1500 incarcerated readers across the country. 

• It’s conference planning season again. System-impacted people can submit session proposals for the annual Rise Up Conference (Sept. 8-9) until July 18. The Alliance for Higher Education in Prison is also accepting session proposals for the virtual Incarcerated Scholars Conference (Oct. 21-22) until July 15. 

• ICYMI: We teamed up with the Prisoncast! team at our partner WBEZ Chicago to offer a rare glimpse into the opaque bureaucracy of the prison education waitlist. 

What it means to belong to a college community 

Late last year, Joe Cedillo and Richard Nelson stepped out of the gates of Muskegon Correctional Facility in Michigan after a combined 63 years of incarceration. 

Their freedom not only meant something to them, it also inspired their fellow students in the joint bachelor’s program that Hope College and Western Theological Seminary offer at the prison. The two faith-based colleges partner to provide a liberal arts education to 76 men — including nine who graduated at the end of June — incarcerated at Muskegon.

What moved these students most wasn’t just seeing their classmates walking through the gates — it was witnessing, in photographs, college faculty and staff waiting in the parking lot to welcome them home. Artist and writer Alvin Smith, who was among last month’s graduates and a frequent contributor to College Inside, worked with his fellow students to put together this collection of reflections on that transformative moment. 

Read the full story here.

“For the first time in a very long time, you trusted.”

Imagine a life where the only people you trust look and think like you, and live on the same block in the neighborhood where you grew up. Imagine that anyone who doesn’t resemble you gets met with disdain. 

This icy way of viewing outsiders didn’t start with you. Think back to the adults in your life, the way they vehemently distrusted anyone they didn’t know, especially those who looked different. Remember answering the knock on the door and informing the social worker, the insurance agent, the police officer: “My parents ain’t home.”

You carried that distrust into school, leaving the teacher to wonder why they couldn’t reach you. Meanwhile, the people you did feel safe to trust were forced to live less than stellar lives; they had their own issues with trust. You followed their example. You got in trouble. Before long, you ended up with a probation officer, whom you also distrusted.  Your cold distrust, their impatience: the combination rendered them ineffective at preventing your unnatural trajectory to prison.

Once behind bars, you found even less incentive to trust anyone outside of your circle. Hopelessness set in. The ice thickened. 

Then something happened. You were invited to participate in a seminary program inside your prison, alongside a motley crew of other mistrustful men. You were suspicious of the program organizers, of course you were. Soon the truth of who these people were would show through, you thought. They can’t be who and what they say they are. And who provides a quality education without strings attached? 

But a phrase they kept repeating stuck in your mind: “We are here for you.” We kept hearing it again and again in the classroom, and in our interactions with staff. 

Soon enough, a miracle occurred. Two of your classmates were granted parole after being incarcerated for 25 and 38 years, respectively. Both were initially given life sentences. You saw the pictures of both of them out in the parking lot with their families. The ice began to thaw. 

You were moved by their accomplishment: They had become members of the seminary program, that special community. In the pictures, those men were surrounded by directors, professors, student advisors, administrators and others who welcomed your brothers back into society just as they said they would.

Your defenses continued to melt — and not just yours, but other students in the program. The melting is a kind of freedom. It allowed you and your peers to commit fully to the education process. You knew you were not alone. For the first time in a very long time, you trusted.

— Alvin Smith

Related: ++What does it mean to be inspired inside?
++From the demise of Pell Grants to the return of federal financial aid

Let’s connect

Please connect if you have story ideas or just want to share your experience with prison education programs as a student or educator. You can always reach me at [email protected] or on Bluesky, LinkedIn, or Instagram. To reach me via snail mail, you can write to: Open Campus, 2460 17th Avenue #1015, Santa Cruz, CA 95062.

We know that not everyone has access to email, so if you’d like to have a print copy College Inside sent to an incarcerated friend or family member, you can sign them up here. We also publish the PDFs of our print newsletter on the Open Campus website.

There is no cost to subscribe to the print edition of College Inside. But as a nonprofit newsroom, we rely on grants and donations to keep bringing you the news about prison education. You can also donate here.

Interested in reaching people who care about higher education in prisons? Get in touch at [email protected] or request our media kit.

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