Facilitating Prisoner Ethnography

Introduction

The lived realities of those warehoused and working behind bars have been the subject of social research for decades. Various ethnographic approaches have been used to understand prison life. Studies by Donald Clemmer (1940/1958), Gresham Sykes (1958/2007), and others (e.g., Cressey, 1961) have documented interactions between prisoners and staff, as well as the pains of imprisonment. ¹ Scholars such as Craig Haney, Curtis Banks, and Philip Zimbardo (1973) have even attempted to replicate prison dynamics in clinical experiments conducted to examine the impacts of asymmetrical power relations on human behavior. ²

While some academics have identified a decline in ethnographic and qualitative knowledge in this era of mass incarceration (Gaucher, 1988; Simon, 2000; Wacquant, 2002), both Yvonne Jewkes (2012) and Jon Marc Taylor (2009) indicate that ethnographic work continues despite several barriers that limit researcher access to carceral sites. As just one example, former prisoners and prison staff turned academics working under the banner of Convict Criminology (see Newbold et al., this volume; Earle, this volume) have followed the example of John Irwin (1970) by integrating their carceral experiences with qualitative research to develop reflections on life in and release from prison (Richards & Lenza, 2012). Qualitative research on imprisonment has not been limited to observational studies either. Approaches such as life-history interviews inspired by the work of Clifford Shaw (1930), along with studies based on semi-structured interviews integral to the work of Pat Carlen (1983) and others that privilege the standpoint of the criminalized have been vital in making sense of the violence characterizing the world of prison (Scraton & McCullough, 2009). In addition, scholars have collaborated with prisoners, co-authoring articles about life and death on the inside (e.g., Bosworth, Campbell, Demby, Ferranti, & Santos, 2005).

Equally pertinent to these discussions is the degree to which prisoner writing is acknowledged as a method of understanding what happens behind bars. For instance, in discussions about the status of prison ethnography that have taken place in the last century, the contributions of incarcerated writers are acknowledged by some as important (e.g., Simon, 2000) but ignored by others (e.g., Wacquant, 2002). In the latter case, Jon Marc Taylor (2009, p. 102)—who has dozens of publications in criminology and criminal justice venues, many of which are ethnographic accounts—expresses frustration over not having this work cited in Loïc Wacquant’s call for academics to re-enter prisons to conduct ethnography, which is argued to be in eclipse:

. . . I feel slighted by Wacquant’s omission of the whole field of study briefly outlined in this article . . . What we do is important. What we contribute is impressive. What is needed is a variation of what Wacquant (2002) “concludes by suggesting that getting ‘in . . . [but not out] . . . of the belly of the beast’ offers a unique vantage point from which to contribute to the comparative ethnography of the state in the age of triumphant neoliberalism.” (p. 371)

What the excerpt above reveals is that prisoner writers are marginalized ethnographers in two ways. First, these authors are marginalized by structures of domination (e.g., class and race) that shaped the circumstances leading to their forced confinement in human warehouses. Second, these authors are marginalized in academic worlds and literary spheres where their contributions to knowledge are seldom recognized.

In the spirit of this special section of Qualitative Inquiry on “doing prison research differently,” we challenge the idea of the academic as an authorized knower of prisons and jails, arguing that the ethnographic work of prisoners needs to be treated more seriously in scholarly debates. Our objective is to push the boundaries of what it means to “give voice” in academic work and in criminological literature specifically. We explore the possibilities and constraints of marginalized ethnographies facilitated by academic researchers, with the explicit purpose of privileging the standpoint of prisoners. Drawing on our experiences in various editorial roles with the Journal of Prisoners on Prisons (JPP)—a peer-reviewed and academically oriented journal printed by a university press, featuring articles authored or co-authored by current and former prisoners—we argue that the facilitation of prisoner ethnography offers an alternative qualitative approach for researchers to help produce knowledge on carceral experiences.

We begin by situating prisoner ethnography in relation to prisoner writing and other ethnographic approaches as a way of knowing about imprisonment and punishment. We then outline the role of the researcher-as-facilitator of prisoner ethnography with a focus on relationship-building that fosters trust necessary for intellectual engagement among peers, as well as the circulation of power during the process. We describe the role of the researcher in this context as facilitative, which involves making space for prisoner contributions to academic knowledge by creating venues for their written works, providing resources to deepen their analyses, and offering support to help them overcome barriers they face during the process of producing ethnographic accounts. We conclude by reflecting on the importance of prisoner ethnography and the possibilities for the expansion of marginalized ethnographies in other areas of qualitative inquiry.

Situating Prisoner Ethnography

Prisoner ethnography refers to the application of ethnographic and participant observation research methods to carceral settings by those held captive within them. This approach is distinct from other methodologies in the ethnographic tradition since the access and immersion of the prisoner is not of their own choosing and is not a part of their life they can walk away from. It is forced immersion in a social world of intense control that most academics have not directly experienced or known. Having endured imprisonment and punishment, prisoners are uniquely positioned to comment on these social processes. In contrast, academic ethnographies are usually temporally and corporeally detached from carceral settings, which is a significant limitation of academic accounts of the prison (Gaucher, 2002).

The position of researcher-as-facilitator of prisoner ethnography is different than the idea of “critical ethnography” (Thomas, 1993) in which ethnography is guided by critical theory while the academic remains the authorized knower. Nor is our position to be confused with “collaborative ethnography” (Lassiter, 2005), which “invites commentary from our consultants and seeks to make that commentary overtly part of the ethnographic text as it develops . . . this negotiation is reintegrated back into the fieldwork process itself” (p. 16). Critical ethnography and collaborative ethnography continue to privilege the standpoint of the academic as knower. The position of researcher-as-facilitator of prisoner ethnography privileges the standpoint of the prisoner and promotes their written words. As discussed below, the prisoner ethnography facilitated through the work of the JPP emerged in response to developments in prison writing, criminology, and the sociology of punishment, qualitative research, as well as shifts in penal policies and practices.

Prisoner ethnography is just one form of prison writing. Bob Gaucher (1999a) contends that “[t]he cumulative wealth of prisoners’ writing over the centuries constitutes a firmly established and highly influential body of work within western literary and intellectual traditions” (p. 14). Following Ioan Davies (1990), Bob Gaucher further argues that the prison has served as an important symbol throughout the documented history of Western thought, forming the immediate context and crucible for an influential and celebrated group of intellectuals and writers. ³ The emergence and dominance of the penitentiary in the 19th century and early 20th century produced a carceral form that isolated and silenced the voices of dissent and resistance of the imprisoned. Yet, their counter-inscriptions continued in letters, political propaganda, and literary work (see Brock, 2004). For instance, Oswald C. J. Withrow’s (1933) memoir of his time spent in Kingston Penitentiary was instrumental in the penal reform movement in Canada, which instigated a Royal Commission into its federal prison system (see Archambault, 1938).

Despite recognition of the literary contributions of the incarcerated, particularly the writing of prisoners of conscience and political prisoners, it was not until the 1930s and the work of Donald Clemmer (1940/1958)—who entered Illinois State Penitentiary as both a sociologist and staff member—that social scientists discovered “the hidden world of the prison.” As scholars entered carceral spaces in the United States and Canada to study their social organization and social relations, vast penal reform projects being pursued in the name of prisoner rehabilitation were underway (Simon, 2000). A bourgeoning penal press, which was encouraged and used by penal reformers to justify the proposed new rehabilitative regimes, contributed to the proliferation of knowledge on incarceration. Outside supporters like E. S. Gardner promoted both the penal press and writers like Tom Runyon ⁴ (Editor of Presido, Iowa State Penitentiary ⁵ ) in his Argosy magazine column “Court of Last Resort” during the 1950s. The Kingston Penitentiary Telescope (1950-1964) had over 4,000 outside subscribers 2 years after it commenced publication and was strongly supported by the new Commissioner of Penitentiaries to promote penal reform with the general public in Canada.

As prisoners shed more light on carceral spaces whose stated functions were being reorganized within the emergence of welfare states in the Western world, more scholars entered these spaces, casting more light on penal practices. The work of numerous sociologists (whose work is recounted below) stimulated academic debate about social control, at the same time as the phenomenology of Alfred Schutz (1964, 1967) was translated into the basis for a new qualitative approach to understanding social worlds. What these developments illustrated, among other things, was that we as researchers must ask ourselves questions about our relationships with research subjects beyond mere scientific probes, and following Howard Becker (1967) ask, “whose side are we on?” The role of the prisoner as “situated knower” hinges on our answer to this question. In Becker’s appeal to take the side of the discredited and criminalized, he argued that we must believe in their experiences, along with the value of their accounts. David Matza (1969), in his theorization of deviance, also argued that we have to take the rule breaker’s definition of the situation seriously and place it at the center of our analysis to add authenticity, voice, and meaning to scholarly accounts. Following this, the situated knowledge of prisoners is a vital component of our scrutiny of prison custom and regime.

Arguably the most formative studies regarding imprisonment and punishment took place during this period (Simon, 2000), and the major analysts of this critical tradition are all indebted to prisoners. This high-water mark in the sociology of punishment took different forms from one country to the next. In the United States, the initiating works of Clemmer, Becker, and interactionists such as Gresham Sykes (1958/2007), Erving Goffman (1961), and Harold Garfinkel (1956) were informed by their work in carceral spaces. Prison revolutionaries and the struggles of prisoners in California directed the early work of the Berkeley Center. The first issue of Crime and Social Justice (now Social Justice), ⁶ which included contributions from prisoners and assessed prison conditions, is demonstrative in this regard. In England, the work of the “new criminologists” (I. Taylor, Walton, & Young, 1973) was informed by their interaction with prisoners in the maximum-security wing of Durham prison. Psychological Survival: Studies in Long-Term Incarceration was written by Stanley Cohen and Laurie Taylor (1972) with the assistance of prisoners taking part in educational classes, which included a significant number of outside lecturers and participants. The list of outside members of this group reads like a roster for the British “new criminologists” that emerged in the 1970s and of the founders of the National Deviancy Conference in England, Scotland, and Wales. In Scandinavia, theorists such as Thomas Mathiesen (1974) formulated their work on the basis of their involvement with prisoners’ struggles and the creation of prisoners’ unions like the KROM, also known as the Norwegian Association for Penal Reform (Papendorf, 2006). In France, Michel Foucault was a founding member of Le groupe d’information sur les prisons (GIP), which started in 1971, and aimed at giving prisoners a public voice (see also Welch, 2011). This involvement served as an inspiration for Foucault’s analysis in Discipline and Punish (1977).

As Bob Gaucher (1988) has argued, that short period of time in the 1960s and early 1970s, when academics and critics joined with those inside carceral sites to examine, analyze, and criticize what takes place within them was a “fruitful juncture in social research, spawning a new critical stream of analysis and involvement, that held considerable, if unrealized promise” (p. 53; also see Simon, 2000; Wacquant, 2002). The entry point for these developments was ethnographic research. Yet as the rehabilitative approach waned and warehousing became more common in the late 1970s—where outside actors were treated as suspicious and often barred from prison under the resurgence of lockdown and censorship regimes (e.g., Culhane, 1979)—the involvement of academics doing prison ethnography declined. This occurred despite the fact that feminist researchers such as Pat Carlen (1983) “interested in reconstructing history and contemporary developments through the perspectives of women” began conducting such work (Piché, 2008, p. 9). ⁷ Alternatives had to be developed. Writing in the first issue of the JPP, Gaucher (1988) noted,

The necessity of taking into account the sense and rationale of all actors within the analysed social situation or cultural realm has become an accepted part of contemporary anthropology and sociology. However in the current analysis of prisons, this component is increasingly absent. This void is important because a reliance on the perceptions and interpretations of prisoners serves to inform and vitalize academic analysts. The originators and proponents of the new schools of critical criminology seem to have forgotten the role the criminalized and imprisoned have played in the development of their own thinking and the critical positions they have established. (p. 52)

Instead of heeding contemporary calls to recommit to the academic excavation of the carceral, of which Loïc Wacquant’s (2002) is the most popular, the alternative approach to “giving voice” adopted by the JPP is to engage with prisoners as ethnographers who research and write about their experiences and the carceral sites in which they are held captive. It is a model that shifts the role of the academic from authorized knower to facilitator of ethnographic research and that carves out scholarly spaces for accounts written by prisoners, who have the closest relationship with the phenomenon being studied by virtue of their forced immersion. Below we explore the researcher-as-facilitator approach to prisoner ethnography with an emphasis on the power relations present during research, writing, reviewing, and editorial production process, which also shape the knowledge that is generated.

The Researcher-as-Facilitator

In our experience managing and editing the JPP, facilitating prisoner ethnography involves four primary activities: (a) creating a space to publish ethnographic works written by prisoners, (b) developing relationships with prisoners and encouraging their research and writing pursuits, (c) using the peer-review process to collaborate on the development of their situated knowledge, and (d) publishing their contributions. Each of these stages will be described to highlight the advantages and pitfalls of this approach.

A key starting point for the researcher-as-facilitator of prisoner ethnography is to develop a publishing space where imprisoned contributors can be as free as possible from the constraints imposed by their incarceration as they develop their works. Constraints related directly to publishing are twofold. First, as is evident when examining the history of the penal press, prison staff and administrators have often served as gatekeepers with final say over whether in-house publications see the light of day (Gaucher, 2002). To limit the influence these actors have on the content of prisoner ethnographies, it is necessary that platforms for such work be independent from the administrative and control mechanisms of carceral sites. Managers and staff of publishing houses, who have their own sets of demands and motives, also exert power over what is and is not said about prison life. When facilitating prisoner ethnography to expose the realities of incarceration as a means of resisting state repression one needs to ensure that projects are not feeding the prison industrial complex. For example, Yraida Guanipa (2011) notes that while incarcerated in Florida one of her prison labor positions involved working for a company that manages a vast catalogue of scholarly publications accessed by college and university students and staff.

In its 25 years of existence, the JPP has been able to navigate these two potential sources of distortion by not aligning the publication with prison authorities as a means to reach and legitimize the journal with prisoner writers (Gaucher, 2002). To produce issues free of corporate or state influence, the journal initially operated out of the university department of the editor-in-chief. ⁸ After a decade of publishing, we found supporters working in scholarly presses who have given us the space to produce issues free of their influence. All proceeds from subscriptions and sales go to the journal, funding subsequent press runs, and paying for services that our publisher provides us (e.g., processing our print-on-demand orders).

A second aspect of the researcher-as-facilitator approach is the development of relationships with prospective prisoner ethnographers, which, like other approaches to prison research, requires building trust and credibility (see, for example, Bosworth et al., 2005). Developing a platform to disseminate their works that is not sanctioned by prison officials and thus the object of suspicion among prisoners is one means to this end. Having an editorial board composed partly of current or former prisoners, as well as individuals involved in prisoner advocacy, is another. This has been the tradition of the JPP, which emerged, in part, to ensure that the voices of prisoners were included at the Third International Conference on Penal Abolition (ICOPA) in Montreal, Quebec, Canada (Gaucher, 2002). ⁹ These connections help foster the exchange of advice on how to conduct research and approach writing.

When the researcher acts as a facilitator of prisoner ethnography, the standpoint and knowledge of prisoners must become the starting point for inquiry. The academic as a privileged knower is replaced. Instead, the academic takes guidance from prisoners’ views on imprisonment and punishment. For instance, Justin Piché and Kevin Walby (2009) asked past JPP contributors—including Jon Mac Taylor (2009), Eugene Dey (2009), Charles Huckelbury (2009), and Craig Minogue (2009)—whether they should participate in brief tours of operational prisons such as those taken by Loïc Wacquant (2002) to see what they could learn about imprisonment. Some of the subsequent JPP articles outlined the ethical issues that prisoners had identified (e.g., invasion of their privacy, prohibition from engaging in conversations with tourists), leading Justin and Kevin to argue that such excursions, whether pursued for research or pedagogical purposes, extend the social control of prisoners and do damage to their dignity and human rights (Piché & Walby, 2010; also see Minogue, 2003). ¹⁰ This is one example of how the research agendas of academics and prisoners can be influenced by their direct engagement with each other.

Although such forums can be enlightening, putting the power to set scholarly agendas in the hands of prisoner ethnographers is arguably more advantageous for producing knowledge about contemporary prison life. Having an ongoing open call for papers and publishing general issues that feature articles on the concerns of the day is one approach members of JPP the editorial board have used to limit the influence of their research interests and agendas in their interactions with prisoners. For example, Paul Wright (1995a, 1995b), Jon Marc Taylor (1995), along with Little Rock Reed and Ivan Denisovich (1995) wrote articles on the intensification of punishment they were witnessing in different corners of the United States in Volume 6, Number 2 of the JPP. Another approach has been to open space to prisoners to propose themes and be involved in the editing of special issues. Little Rock Reed’s suggestion to dedicate an entire JPP issue to prisoner experiences of emerging American supermax prisons is one such instance that culminated into the publication of Volume 4, Number 2, which he guest edited with Lisa Morgan. The issue featured seven articles (Del Raine, 1993; Dowker & Good, 1993; Dunne, 1993; Griffin, 1993; Niles, 1993; Reed, 1993a; S. D. Wilson, 1993) and two poems (Al-Jamil, 1993; Reed, 1993b) on the topic, providing ethnographic insights into some of the most isolated spaces of segregation erected in modern times. Volume 5, Number 2 of the JPP—a special issue on criminalized and incarcerated women published in 1994—is another example of how prisoner ethnography can emerge from the ground up. Liz Elliott, an academic and activist, along with Gayle Horii, who was a prisoner at the time of writing when a restructuring of federal imprisonment was underway in Canada (see Hannah-Moffat, 2001; Hannah-Moffat & Shaw, 2000), edited the collection.

A third facet of facilitating prisoner ethnography, which continues the work of building rapport between academics and the incarcerated, is the peer-review process. In the case of the JPP, submissions that do not promote “hatred, sexism, racism, violence or that supports the death penalty” and meet our guidelines ¹¹ are sent to two members of the editorial board for double-blind review. Since the pieces we receive vary in quality, reviews aim to provide authors with constructive comments on the coherence of the arguments presented, their ability to substantiate their claims with ethnographic accounts that illuminate the broader issues inside or beyond prison walls being addressed, and how their observations and claims connect with academic literature. Reviewers are also encouraged to recommend scholarly works that can be consulted and cited in future drafts. Where possible, the suggested materials are sent to the authors by the editorial staff.

This process tends to be challenging for reviewers who are often unsure of how to assess the work of their incarcerated peers, particularly if they have not been imprisoned themselves. The main concern expressed is that they do not want to silence prisoners’ voices. To address the dilemma and to encourage rigorous reviews, the JPP has adopted a policy whereby even in cases when articles are rejected, the authors are invited to address reviewer feedback and resubmit their revised pieces for consideration by new reviewers. Taking this approach to reviewing proved to be necessary to not alienate prospective contributors who have, on occasions, experienced scholarly critique as just another offensive from outsiders who do not want to give them a chance. For example, writing in the first issue of the JPP, Jo-Ann Mayhew (1988) expressed her frustration with a reviewer who problematized her call for gender equality in access to services and programs, as well as the replacement of the austere Kingston Prison for Women, to improve her living conditions and those of other federally sentenced women in Canada:

This article was returned to me for rewriting. There were crisp editorial notes pointing out that as I traced the historical patterns of the main body of the Correctional service, noting the easement of living for male prisoners provided by constructing more moderate living circumstances in the guise of new prisons, I appeared to be supportive of prison reform in that direction. I do not think that the building of more prisons is any step to reform. However, I doubt that most readers will find it credible that since the 1950s a system of Corrections was devised for this entire county without one ounce of planning put into effect for women. Yet that is the truth of the situation. This article is being written from the upper tier of A range, that portion of the Prison for Women that was declared unfit in 1938! As I have stated before, I am serving a life sentence and the most progression I can look forward to is a return to a Wing unit, an old army barrack located down three flights of stairs. No man is expected to serve a life sentence with such a total lack of expectations. There are no carrots or sticks for women, just larger, unremitting portions of boredom. (pp. 17-18)

In approaching the dialogue in this manner, the commitment to producing knowledge pushes the boundaries of ideas developed by prisoner writers, while also creating space for them to challenge the thinking of reviewers of their work who have experience engaging research in the area. The role of the academic as facilitator at this stage of the process is to raise questions concerning the claims of authors and point to resources that will reinforce their firsthand accounts.

Susan Nagelsen (2008, p. 107; also see Piché, 2008, pp. 9-10) notes the benefits that this engagement can offer for prisoner writers whose writing she has facilitated as a professor:

By putting pen to paper, prisoners find an immediate route to self-expression. Editorial feedback, whether from the staff at the JPP or in mainstream periodicals, validates their work and brings them into contact with men and women on the outside. By allowing this form of self-directed exploration, both educational achievement and social fluency advance, contrary to the resentment often fostered when tedious or boring programming is forced by staff “recommendations” or viewed only as a means to an end. Writing is an educational experience that continues to provide benefits beyond the classroom.

The process, during which prisoners may be asked to make several substantive rounds of revisions prior to the publication of their articles, also lends credibility and legitimacy to incarcerated ethnographers in a world where they are often stigmatized, distrusted, and excluded from opportunities to better their lives. For example, Eugene Dey—a JPP contributor and editorial board member, as well as a recent sociology graduate of California State University, Sacramento—was recently given a waiver for his program’s English writing placement largely based on his publication record.

A final aspect of collaborations between the researcher-as-facilitator and prisoner ethnographer involves the editorial work that occurs as writings are prepared for press. Here facilitators run the risk of altering the voices of prisoners through copy-editing. It is vital that the published outcome be consistent with what the author intended. However, one challenge here is that we can not readily send printer proofs to authors to check, or at least we have not yet, due to rules around prisoner correspondence described in the following section. This requires facilitators who are always questioning whether the changes being made are simply addressing minor grammatical or stylistic issues, or is transforming the claims of the authors. Not being reflexive defeats the purpose of making space for ethnographic works on prisons by prisoners.

Constraints

The challenges that academics face in facilitating prisoner ethnography extend beyond issues related to establishing trust with incarcerated writers, while avoiding the difficulties that arise during the knowledge production process. As noted in Rebecca Bordt’s (2011) qualitative study involving exchanges with prisoners via mail and e-mail correspondence, as well as phone interviews, those seeking to write behind bars face numerous barriers. Scholars interested in the development of such knowledge need to be aware of these constraints, which have been documented by JPP contributors that we have worked with and that we reflect on further below.

A first series of challenges that prisoner ethnographers face are related to the actual creation of scholarly works. Key among them is access to the resources needed to produce academic knowledge. As Stephen Richards and Jeffrey Ross (2004) note,

We recognize that much of their research and writing, while critically informed, based on their experiences inside prisons, may only be partially grounded in the academic literature. After all, many of these authors lack or have difficulties obtaining the typical amenities that most scholars take for granted (e.g., a computer for writing, university library, and colleagues educated in criminology who might provide feedback on their work). They struggle to write by hand, or with broken and worn out machines, and without supplies (e.g., typewriter ribbons, paper, envelopes, stamps, etc.). (p. 120)

In circumstances where academics try to bridge this gap by sending in materials such as books and scholarly articles to prisoners, the mail screening practices, which vary across jurisdictions and carceral sites, can result in the confiscation of some or all correspondence before reaching prisoners. For instance, when Justin Piché began working on the first JPP issue he edited, he sent a full manuscript to Jon Marc Taylor along with a request to write a piece in response to the articles. Jon Marc Taylor (2008) describes what transpired thereafter:

. . . shipping all the manuscripts for the forthcoming issue, the institutional mailroom had withheld all but the cover letter and the draft of the issue’s introduction. In the myriad of maddening policies, this state penal system limits envelope enclosures to five items/pages beyond actual correspondence. This is simply another example of many (e.g., the prohibition of receiving free books even directly from distributors or publishers, the denial of stamps as enclosures, the refusal of prepaid correspondence courses and so on) restrictions continually creeping into prisoners’ lives to further isolate them from the outside world. (p. 109)

Should prisoners manage to gain access to writing materials, the threat of confiscation and destruction in the name of security remains. As Gregory McMaster (1999) observes,

Over time the dedicated prison writer creates personal resources by purchasing selected books and organizing files from clipped newspaper and magazine articles. The minute our writings aggravate a high ranking corrections official or some other government bureaucrat, the files and books are deemed to be a fire hazard and confiscated. (p. 50)

The following passage from “Petey” (2011), a former prisoner who served her sentence in both youth and adult prisons in Canada and began her pursuit of higher education while incarcerated, poignantly highlights the disregard that some front-line staff members have for education and writing behind bars:

. . . we would get strip searched roughly three times a week, and our cells would be turned upside down and inside out for “security purposes.” I used to make origami flowers, but guards would crush them “just in case” I was hiding drugs. I had to fight tooth and nail to continue the university course I started in juvie. I used to cry because my course papers would get separated, thrown around and ripped during searches. Was the only way to check if there were drugs or weapons in my loose papers to rip them? This was my introduction into the adult system. This was supposed to rehabilitate me. (p. 99)

Similar issues arise when prisoners are involuntarily transferred to other units or prisons. For example, after an escape from the Ellis Unit in 1998, prisoners from this Texas death row were transferred to the Terrell Unit. James Allridge III (2001) recounts the impact of this transfer on his ability to keep his possessions, including those that informed his research and writing:

The evening prior to the move began with the officer coming by with sacks, giving each of us two and telling us we had two hours in which to pack what we could of our property. Unable to fit thirteen years of possessions into two sacks, many things such as books, catalogues, and less sentimental items had to be left behind. (p. 62)

Writing his submission on paper using a pencil, James notes that his “word processor was damaged during the move (which they refuse to take responsibility for) so writing for publication is out for now” (Allridge, p. 64). Facing such obstacles, the researcher-as-facilitator of prisoner ethnography needs to be prepared to transcribe handwritten submissions, as well as send or resend materials that prisoners do not—or no longer—have access to. Where such problems persist, it may also be necessary to consult with prisoners to see if they wish for assistance to appeal to staff and administrators for reconsideration on these matters. On several occasions, the JPP has advocated to allow prisoners more access to more materials for writing. For instance, we have appealed decisions by correspondence officers who have issued notices prohibiting the entry of journal issues to prisoners on the grounds that the journals themselves or their contents posed a risk to security. In such instances, we have often successfully brokered the entry of these materials by sending letters indicating that the JPP is a scholarly journal published by a university press.

A second series of barriers faced by prisoner writers regards the practice of doing ethnography. These are challenges that all ethnographers face. The benefit of prisoner ethnography in terms of knowledge production is that prisoners can achieve immersion and assume roles in carceral spaces, which outside academics—try as they might (see Nielsen, 2010; Rhodes, 2001)—can never achieve unless they become prisoners or staff themselves. Yet ethnography is not as simple as being somewhere and jotting down a few notes. There is a training that must go on to become an ethnographer. The training need not take place in an academic classroom or be directed by an academic—indeed, most JPP contributors are self-trained ethnographers—but there are some aspects of ethnographic accounts that must be present for articles to fit with the journal’s mission to publish prisoner ethnographies. First, there is the matter of how to collate and analyze field notes, along with other sources of data. It is not easy to write an ethnographic piece from memories of manifold experiences over many years, and so the question becomes how to make sense of the empirical material and select examples to write about (Wolfinger, 2002). Second, ethnographic accounts can not simply be a descriptive or an anecdotal list of empirical happenings, but must be connected to more conceptual claims about social processes and practices (Snow, Morrill, & Anderson, 2003). Third, ethnographic writing is richly descriptive and is a unique form of academic writing that one must learn. Given that prisoners have reduced access to training in ethnography, it makes it all the more difficult to try to facilitate ethnographic accounts. We do not suggest there is one approach to ethnography that prisoners must master, as there are different ways of conducting ethnography (Johnson, Avenarius, & Weatherford, 2006; Yanow, 1998), as well as different ways to write about ethnographic research (Katz, 2004). Nevertheless, there are many challenges to doing ethnography (see Fine, 1993) that are exacerbated in carceral settings.

A third set of barriers faced by prisoner ethnographers has to do with the kinds of accounts they produce and the extent to which these represent the experiences of their peers. Many prisoner ethnographers are long-term prisoners, who are excellent writers and who are sometimes university-educated, which shapes the types of knowledge they produce about prison life (Gaucher, 2002). These accounts may differ from the perspectives of other prisoners who do not share such biographies. This challenge is essentially about the way that ethnographers make claims about the representativeness of their account, which also has ramifications for their credibility and trustworthiness. In addition, prisoners are so temporally and corporeally immersed in such settings, without the possibility of finding any social distance from the scene to report on it, that their attempts to write about imprisonment and punishment may sometimes suffer from that inability to gain separation from their situated role, exit from the field being typical of ethnographers during analysis and writing. It may be hard for some prisoners to approach carceral spaces through the lens of anthropological strangeness that is typical of ethnography. It may be even more difficult for prisoners to separate themselves from the role they perform in the field as it is continually forced upon them. The challenges noted above are perhaps best captured in an interview with Victor Hassine (Gaucher, 1999b), who notes,

So what I do is I do detach myself and I have to or else I would have so much hate because being crammed in this prison in these small cells with so many angry and hurt people and injured people makes you hate, and you can’t write objectively with all that hate in you. And so part of my pleasure in writing is that in order to write objectively I have to remove myself from prison. And although I don’t remove myself physically, my mind is removed and then I’m a little more free, I’m a little less hateful, and I can better deal with it. And so there’s an actual separation from mind and body and it has to take place, at least for me. I don’t know how Jack Abbott did it, but that’s how I have to do it. (pp. 119-120)

A fourth series of barriers faced by prisoner ethnographers are encountered when manuscripts are written and the search for a publisher begins. While there continue to be some supporters of prisoner writing, such as the PEN (Poets, Playwrights, Essayists, Editors, and Novelists) American Center who runs a “nationwide program for writers in prison” in the United States (Chevigny, 2009, p. 4; also see Chevigny, 1999), prisoners have few outlets to publish their written works. Victor Hassine (1999) describes this phenomenon by noting that “the memory of Jack Abbot has wrongly led the literacy community to turn their backs on all common criminals” (p. 45). Abbot, whose release from prison was supported by Norman Mailer and others, killed Richard Adan shortly after his return to society. Gregory McMaster (1999) explains the consequences of marginalizing prisoners’ voices:

Having run the gauntlet of our insane environment we still need to find an editor who believes what we write, has a format we can fit into, and is willing to deal with the negative public sentiment in regards to prisoners. The sad reality is that there is an overabundance of talented prison writers and only a handful of editors that will take a chance on us. The limited market available to us is thoroughly saturated and we are all competing for the same column space. (p. 51).

In cases where publishers are willing to ignore the potential blowback in the form of rebukes from media outlets, politicians, and others that can arise should they agree to support the literary pursuits of the incarcerated, their writing can be altered by the agendas of the presses they work with. Gregory McMaster (1999) highlights how the corporate pursuit of profit not only changes the voices of prisoners but also can have more dire consequences:

Finding the “right” editor can easily turn into a disaster. Editorial liberties, the changing of just a couple of words can intentionally or unwittingly place our personal safety and indeed our lives in jeopardy. Other than the rare exceptions, magazines and newspaper editors have never experienced the realities of prison life and would not have a clue when they were placing us in harms way. Even if they were so aware, their number one priority is sales, which equates to sensationalism. Our personal well being is not on their agenda. Every prisoner who has been published, waited with baited breath until they saw the finished product in print. (pp. 51-52)

What the words above bring to light is that if the researcher is to take on the role of prisoner ethnography facilitator they must be connected to what is happening behind bars. One way to do this is to enter carceral spaces to meet with prisoners (e.g., visits), which requires being perceived as neutral or as being a beneficial presence by prison authorities who determine whether one gets through prison gates. Another approach is to maintain links with prisoners, as well as their allies and support networks on the outside in some other way (e.g., written correspondence), which also involves its own challenges that are discussed further below. Knowing the key dynamics at play inside carceral settings is necessary to reduce the risks that one’s editorial input could have for prisoners who are ultimately held responsible for the words published under their names. For the JPP, this has also meant entering into arrangements with publishers whereby full editorial control over the material published is retained by the journal so that all related decisions (e.g., changes to wording) are made with the considerations expressed by our authors in mind.

A fifth set of barriers pertain to the consequences that prisoner writers face following the publication of their works. While the examples of retribution discussed below do not occur in all instances where prisoners communicate to the outside world, no amount of precaution, whether taken by facilitators or the prisoner ethnographers they collaborate with, can eliminate this risk. It is thus incumbent upon prisoners to decide whether expressing their freedom of speech within authoritarian environments to inform others is worth the potential price. American prisoner and scholar Jon Marc Taylor (2009) is among those who believe that the pursuit and dissemination of knowledge, despite the ramifications, is justified:

I invested the effort and gambled the potential ramifications of my critical discourse to stand up for my fellow prisoners who endure the tribulations of incarceration and risk the—sometimes literally physically dangerous—consequences of their writings, and my brethren academics who engage in many struggles above and beyond the call of standard research as well to carry the lamp illuminating the gulag archipelago of the largest penal system in the history of the world. (p. 102)

The threats that prisoner ethnographers can face come from multiple sources. For imparting their situated knowledge, prisoner writers “suffer the retribution of prison authorities, including denial of parole, loss of good-time credit, physical threats from staff or inmates, frequent cell searches, confiscation of manuscripts, trips to ‘the hole,’ and disciplinary transfers to other prisons” (Richards & Ross, 2004, p. 120). As it pertains to fellow prisoners, Gregory McMaster (1999) notes,

Penitentiaries contain every personality disorder known to mankind and misguided jealousies continuously surface. We have all experienced unstable and malicious individuals who bear us ill will simply because we are receiving attention that they are not. Moving along, there is an overly negative segment of the prison population that must be addressed. These characters assert psychological and physical peer pressure in support of their belief that it is taboo to openly discuss any aspect of our hidden society . . . The constant dilemma faced by any prison writer is how do we effectively educate and inform the public about the realities of our lives without insulting and alienating the very people we are trying to help? We become tightrope walkers, forever walking the fine line in our attempts to articulate the facts without ostracizing our fellow prisoners. (pp. 50-51)

Here the author notes a constraint that impinges upon his ability to make contributions to knowledge. Reprimands are far-reaching in terms of their implications compared with the simple scrutiny faced by outside academics when they publish an academic article. As an example, Gregory McMaster (1999) discusses how going to “the hole” affects what prisoners can produce behind bars:

Placing a writer in segregation is probably the most efficient form of censorship employed by corrections. Not only are we separated from our writing tools but also from our fellow prisoners whose situations are often the subject matter and catalyst of our written material. Most segregation units remain in the dark ages with draconian security measures. Ink pens are deemed a security risk and we are instead issued half a pencil and three sheets of writing paper twice a week. Any additional paper is considered to be a fire hazard. The pencils are worn down so small that they can no longer be held. Pencil sharpeners are contraband and the writer is dependent upon the guard to sharpen the pencil. Of course the writer has to wait until the guard makes his next hourly round to get the whittled down stump of a pencil back; assuming the guard brings it back at all. Long ago and far away this writer experienced several years in solitary confinement. I had become so frustrated, enraged and twisted in this horrendous environment that I actually resorted to scratching out letters in my own blood. (p. 49)

The marginalization of published prisoner writers is not simply limited to persons who find themselves behind the razor wire and fences as “their status as common criminals . . . muffles their voice in a thick atmosphere of disbelief” (Hassine, 1999, p. 45). This mistrust and mockery is sometimes communicated to prisoners by their loved ones. Again, the words of Gregory McMaster (1999) describe what this phenomenon can feel like:

. . . I have a family that is humiliated every time I manage to get published. I am made to feel as if I am the family’s dirtiest little secret that refuses to stay in the closet. Siblings that cringe, a mother that weeps and a father that denies my existence. “Why do you have to write these stories, Greg?” “Can’t you find something else to do?” “If you insist on writing these God awful stories can’t you at least use a pseudonym?” I used to send copies of my published works to my family thinking they would be proud of me, pleased that I achieved something tangible and positive. When two of my award winning stories were received as if they were disease ridden vermin, it hit me hard and brought about some noticeable changes, I no longer share anything that is published with my family. Furthermore, I now include them in my writings when the stories warrant it. Previously, I had gone to great lengths to avoid mentioning my family in any manner. (p. 52)

As noted in the introduction, another constraint facing prisoner ethnography is its marginalization in criminological literature. One way that academics can mitigate this barrier to knowledge developed by prisoners is to be a sounding board through which they can make sense of their circumstances. Ways to do this include providing feedback to incarcerated writers on draft articles, sending relevant sources to assist them as they revise their pieces, and finding ways to publish their works that make contributions to knowledge on prisons. Citing the articles and books authored by current and former prisoners in our own scholarly work where pertinent is another important way to acknowledge their contributions to knowledge.

Possibilities

The scholarly writings of prisoners offer a unique vantage point through which to understand experiences of imprisonment, as well as the cultural, economic, political, and social structures that shape this repressive practice. Despite the perceived limitations of prisoner ethnography such as the representativeness of singular accounts, as well as the dearth of contributions by criminalized women and the issues that are obscured as a result, we concur with Mary Bosworth and colleagues (2005, original emphasis) that “[w]orking with prisoners directly, rather than writing about them” to excavate what happens within carceral sites is needed (p. 261). This objective is well-served whether such an alliance takes place through conventional approaches to “giving voice” such as the qualitative interviewing discussed in other articles in this special section, collaborative work between academics and prisoner researchers (e.g., Larsen, Harkat, & Harkat, 2008), teaching college and university courses behind bars (Bordt & Carceral, 2012) via initiatives like the Inside-Out Prison Exchange Program that encourage joint studies led by inside students who provide firsthand expertise on incarceration and outside students who have access to scholarly resources, or through the facilitative model described above. Every publication that contributes to the humanization of the dehumanized is, from our perspective, welcome.

Given the breadth of topics addressed in qualitative research, there are many possibilities to extend the facilitative approach described above to further illuminate the experiences of other marginalized peoples by encouraging the development of their own ethnographic work. In a world where countless individuals are routinely reminded of the social forces that constrain their lives, knowledge remains central to their subjugation as well as their prospects for freedom. Jo-Ann Mayhew (1988), whose words grace the first page of every JPP issue, best highlights the importance of facilitating counter-inscriptions to dominant discourses:

. . . allowing our experiences and analysis to be added to the forum that will constitute public opinion could help halt the disastrous trend toward building more fortresses of fear which will become in the 21st century this generation’s monuments to failure.

As state repression continues to push more and more people to the brink of existence, marginalized ethnographies offer considerable promise as a means to counter the dominant discourses and practices that legitimate dehumanization.