Look at the Person Across from You

It was 5:30 a.m. and still dark out when I boarded a bus for the two-and-a-half-hour ride to the Kewanee Community Corrections Center.

I’d never been to a prison. I’d seen them from the highway but never imagined myself inside. I’d committed crimes, of course, but nothing that I thought would land me there.

I once stole four mini bottles of vodka from the bar that had just closed on an Amtrak train headed to Carbondale, egged on by my college friends.

I left twenty bucks, but that didn’t matter. The conductor threw me off at the next stop, where the police were waiting. They brought me to the little town jail, where they told me to sleep it off in a waiting room chair. I was told that I was banned from Amtrak, which was really more of a gift than a punishment.

Now, decades later, I was volunteering with Defy Ventures, which taught life and career readiness skills to people who were incarcerated. Their students were called Entrepreneurs in Training, or EITs. My job was to evaluate their business ideas and coach them for a day.

The facility was a life skills reentry center, which prepared people in custody for reentry into society. But there was no doubt where we were. We were searched, told not to use our last names, not to hug, not to ask what the men were in for, and never, ever, leave a room unescorted. We wore name tag stickers. There was Wise Wendy. Attentive Andy. Caring Carl.

I was Marvelous Mark.

We entered the cinderblock-walled auditorium to cheers from the EITs, who formed a human tunnel for us to pass through. We played a bingo-style icebreaker to meet everyone: Find someone who played guitar, someone who had a child, that sort of thing.

I never imagined I’d someday be in a men’s prison calling out, “I’m looking for someone who knits. Does anyone here like to knit?”

We were placed in two lines facing each other, about four feet apart, the volunteers on one side, the EITs on another. The executive director said, “Look at the person across from you. Are you ready?”

I looked into the eyes of the man in prison gear across from me and wondered, ready for what? We glanced at each other, then looked away.

“Step forward if you like movies.”

Everyone in both lines stepped forward. I smiled at the man now standing two feet across from me.

We stepped back in line.

“Step forward if you like rom coms.”

Most of us stepped forward, and some of the EITs cracked up and elbowed each other like little kids. “You like rom coms man? Who knew.”

We stepped back in line.

“Step forward if you’ve ever committed a crime and didn’t get caught or severely punished.”

I thought about Amtrak and figured I wasn’t “severely punished,” so I stepped forward and smiled sheepishly at the EIT across from me, who also stepped forward. But he wasn’t smiling. I put my hand in front of my mouth and pretended to cough, as if I hadn’t just been grinning like an idiot.

We stepped back in line.

The executive director continued.

“Step forward if you ever had anyone tuck you into bed at night as a child.”

All of the volunteers stepped forward. None of the EITs moved an inch.

At first I thought, That can’t be true. Everybody gets tucked in. Then I stared at my feet, remembering kisses on my forehead as I prayed, “now I lay me down to sleep” before my mom tiptoed out, leaving the door open a crack.

I stepped back in line.

“Step forward if anyone you love was killed before you turned eighteen.”

None of the volunteers stepped forward. All of the EITs did. I looked at the man across from me. His eyes were somewhere else.

He stepped back in line.

“Hello, Mr. Mark, how often are you too pressed for time to go to a carwash, even though your car desperately needs cleaning?”

“All the time,” I laughed.

“Then let Mike’s Mobile Car Wash come to you!”

The pitches had begun. Mike was confident and nervous, like every entrepreneur who had ever pitched me.

“And the best part is that I bring the carwash to my customers. They don’t need to leave their homes and wait in line. Sometimes it’s safer to just stay inside, know what I’m saying?”

I nodded as if I did.

Later, an EIT named Chris pitched an organic farm. He had grown up farming in the south, selling his goods at farmers’ markets, but said that he “made some mistakes.” Now he wanted to start over and grow vegetables near the prison so he wouldn’t risk breaking parole. When I usually hear business pitches, I ask about scale, making sure the entrepreneur is thinking big enough. Chris was focused on thinking small enough.

A guy named Jeff pitched me his idea for a healthy food truck. I said something mundane like, “You should expect the unexpected.”

He said, “Like getting arrested?” and laughed quietly. I caught myself wondering what crime brought him into the system, then tried to block that from my mind.

These pitches were the final step in a year-long program, and now these students were ready to graduate. Several families drove half a day to watch these men get their certificates.

The graduates marched to the podium with Pomp and Circumstance booming from the back. Many were crying as they walked to the stage, their prison uniforms peeking out below their caps and gowns.

After everyone received their certificate, some EITs brought their guests to the front, one at a time, to thank them. One tearful mother gripping a tissue in her right hand pounded on her son’s shoulder while hanging on to him with her left.

It was time to head back to the bus. The volunteers and I stepped forward to the exit; the EITs stepped back toward their units. As I left, Mike said, “Thanks for coming man. You gonna do this again?”

“Absolutely,” I said, maybe too quickly, not looking at him. He touched my arm and slowed me down. “Cool,” he said. “I really hope you do.”

“All right then,” I said, and walked away.

The sun began to set, and the bus drove past one empty brown field after another, separated by rusted metal fences. I didn’t know if the dry fields were supposed to look that way or had been abandoned.

Later that night, I lay in bed, turned off the light, and thought about the night a cop pulled me over on our tree-lined street when I was in high school. He asked if I’d been drinking.

“Yeah, a little,” I said. “But it’s not even my car. It’s his.” I pointed to my passed-out friend in the back seat. “He lives a block away. I just wanted to get him and his car home safe.” I didn’t mention that I also had a bag of weed on me.

“Okay,” the cop said. “If it’s just a block I’ll follow you there.” With my hands at 8 and 10, driving five miles an hour with a silent police escort, I got to my friend’s house. The cop watched me get my friend safely inside, then drove me home. No further questions.

I turned the light back on, reached for my phone, and texted the executive director.

“When’s the next one?”

Learn more about Defy here.

Unrelated, I was recently interviewed by the funny and occasionally charming host of I Used to be Somebody, Carl Landau. I had a great time being on his show, and promised Carl I’d give him a shout out. Listen to our conversation here.