Dear Reader,

By now, you’ve heard plenty of stories about how prison destroys lives, separate families, and destroy hope. My column touches on these subjects often, and in my writing, I often describe prisons as warehouses of despair. 

But this isn’t the only truth there is about prison. Today, I want to balance the scales with another uncomfortable truth: Prisons are crucibles, and it’s up to us whether we make it out of the fire. 

“For real, I had no idea what a crucible was,” said Adrian, one of those guys in prison who enjoyed reading about chivalry, foreign cultures, and expeditions to far-flung countries where he could remake himself in the image of his own romanticized beliefs. “I thought it was like some pagan thing or an arena or something.”

I’d always taken “crucible” to mean a bad situation or a frying pan. But I was wrong.

“So you’re telling me it’s not?” Adrian asked. 

What is a crucible? Dictionaries define a crucible as either a container for heating substances to high temperatures or a severe trial. Incarcerated people know prison can be both. Popcorn kernels explode under pressure, iron ore melts, and sand becomes molten glass. But what happens when people are confined inside the pressure cooker that is a prison?

The first time I heard the word crucible—the actual moment someone used it in a sentence directed at me—was about my ability to survive any situation I faced in this place, I explained to Adrian. 

“Prison?” Adrian asked. “We’re still talking about prison, right?”

“Yes.”

I could see on Adrian’s face that he was trying to wrap his mind around the concept and make sense of a crucible being a prison.

“It’s not exactly a prison,” I said, opening my dictionary to the word. “But close enough for metaphor’s sake. Imagine a sword maker refining iron ore to make a sword. The crucible is the vessel that holds the ore. It’s the container that keeps the ore inside while the fire outside heats it up so it can change into metal.”

Adrian frowned, and then his face lit up. “Incredible!” he shouted. “We were both right.”

“How so?” I asked. 

“Because I’ve never felt God in here,” he said. “They call this place ‘gladiator school,’ don’t they? It’s where the system sends the worst of the worst in order to watch them destroy themselves.”

“But we’re not gladiators,” I reminded Adrian. 

“We can be if we have to be,” he said. 

“I’m still waiting for you to get to the part where we were both right.”

“Well, you took the word to mean a bad situation. What can be worse than prison?”

My thoughts flashed to the images I see every night on the evening news. Floods. Wildfires. Bridge collapses. Homelessness. Addiction. Divisiveness. “Oh, lots of things,” I said. “At least in here, we have three hots and a cot.” 

This set Adrian off. He began ranting about our horrible, hard bunk beds with their cheap, thin mats. He said we are treated worse than caged animals and that the food we are served amounted to slop that pigs wouldn’t eat. 

“This isn’t living,” Adrian said, his face red with anger. “Every time I have to lie to my mom about things being OK in here, it destroys me. There isn’t a damn thing OK about this shit.”

When Adrian calmed down, I asked him what he expected prison to be like. 

Adrian sat down, his fists balled. “Not this,” he said. “I wasn’t even thinking about prison when I did what I did.”

“Most people aren’t.” 

Adrian opened his hands and placed them palms down on the table. He told me about the gun he bought, against the advice of his mom. He walked around with it tucked into his waist, which made him feel like a “real badass.” But then, one day, he got drunk and got into an argument with another man. Things escalated, and Adrian stuck the gun in the man’s face. He pulled the trigger, thinking the click would scare him badly enough that he’d finally shut up. But Adrian forgot that he loaded the gun. 

“Is this what you expected prison to be like?” I asked again.

“Yes. I expected it to be miserable. I expected to be neglected, caged, and treated inhumanely. Like I said, I’ve never felt God in here.” 

“Is this what you expected prison to be like?”

“Why do you keep asking me the same damn question, Trumbo?” 

“Because I’m looking for an answer,” I explained. “Just like you.”

It turned out this was not what Adrian expected of prison. Like people who’ve never been to prison or people who buy into the idea that prisons are places of reform, Adrian thought prison would “fix” him. 

“I thought I would be thrown in here with counselors and officers who gave a shit about figuring out what was wrong with me,” he explained. “I thought I’d get treatment for my alcoholism and have to do therapy for my rough childhood. I thought someone would fucking ask me why I felt like I needed a gun, and then we’d use this time to help me to understand why I always felt so afraid.”

“But that’s not what prison is like,” I said. “No one gives a damn in here. Isn’t that what you really think?” 

“Prison is just a place. It’s a bad place because the people who should care don’t, and then folks like you and me are left to figure shit out.”

“I hate it when you ask me this shit,” Adrian said. “You and your questions and your writing and your annoying methods. Prison is just a place. It’s a bad place because the people who should care don’t, and then folks like you and me are left to figure shit out.”

Like ore in a crucible left over the fire and forgotten about.

America is supposed to be a world superpower. America is supposed to be the most enlightened country in the world, but it fixes all of its problems by throwing its people in cages and letting us rot.  

“I know what I did was wrong,” Adrian said. “I won’t do it again. What is 50 years in prison supposed to change about that?”

But change has to come from within, especially in prison. You have to want to change because no one in the prison system will make you. In the eyes of the system, you are here to do your time, and you are owed nothing—not even basic decency. 

“If this place is the crucible and we’re the ore, then we’re all fucked,” Adrian said. “Swords can’t be made without blacksmiths. Someone outside of this hellhole has to give enough of a damn to help shape us. Whose responsibility is that?” 

That is the question. But what is the answer? 

Editorial Team:
Tina Vasquez, Lead Editor
Carolyn Copeland, Top Editor
Rashmee Kumar, Copy Editor

The Right to Write (R2W) project is an editorial initiative where Prism works with incarcerated writers to share their reporting and perspectives across our verticals and coverage areas. Learn more about R2W and how to pitch here.