How fathers construct and perform masculinity in a liminal prison space

Introduction

‘You can’t really play with the kids here too. You have to sit on your seat. It’s very hard, you can’t actually interact with your kids. They’ve got six officers, so, you know …’ (t). These are the words spoken by a primary carer father incarcerated in prison in Victoria. Through a lens of masculinity, identity, and the self, this article examines a dilemma that exists for fathers such as this. We do so by addressing the following research question:

Is it possible for incarcerated fathers to embody differing expressions of masculinity in prison and if so, how might this be facilitated?

In Australia, the absolute majority of prisoners are men (Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), 2016); yet little formal attention has been paid to the parenting status of this group. An Australian Institute of Health and Welfare (AIHW) study indicates that in 2015, 46% of the 1011 male ‘prison entrants’ had at least one dependent child prior to imprisonment (AIHW, 2015: 8). However, since only 49% of prison entrants overall (both men and women combined) took part in the study one could expect that to be an under-estimation. Research undertaken in Queensland on incarcerated fathers (Dennison and Smallbone, 2015; Dennison et al., 2014) estimates that in any given year some 0.8% of children (n = 8033) in that state will be affected by paternal incarceration and approximately 4% in their lifetime (Dennison et al., 2013). But apart from these two studies, Australian data is largely absent. In the state of Victoria, where this research is located, no data exist that focus exclusively on fathers in prison. Hence, not much is known about fathering in prison and how men construct and perform masculinity within the prison visiting space.

Previous work on masculinity in prisons tends to focus on the hyper-masculine prison environment (Mosher, 1998) and a prisoner’s ability to negotiate his place within the prison hierarchy. Similar to Ricciardelli et al. (2015), we argue that malleable models of masculinity exist for all imprisoned men (as they do for men outside the institution). These expressions of masculinity lie outside traditional notions of masculinity and may be witnessed, for example, within the prison visiting space where fathers interact with their children.

Using Goffman’s (1956) exploration of ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ personas, as shown in The Presentation of the Self in Everyday Life, we argue that fathers’ conflicting expressions of masculinity are negotiated and ‘performed’ within the prison visiting space, despite these two roles being contradictory in nature. We aim to expand on Goffman’s frontstage and backstage persona and how these are adopted within the prison environment to describe what happens within an individual when he moves between different spaces and interactions. It is within the prison visiting room that fathers are presented with an internal conflict, between their ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ self. In order to address these nuanced masculinities, we argue that prisons need to change the physical structure of visiting spaces in order to facilitate men’s roles as fathers with an eye to desistance.

Research indicates that father absence due to, and during, incarceration can strain financial resources for families and lead to the loss of consistent father and child interaction (Sharp et al., 1998). Conversely, maintaining father–child bonds during imprisonment strongly correlates with ongoing involvement of the father in a child’s life upon release (Roettger and Swisher, 2013; Turney and Wildeman, 2013). Furthermore, fathers who maintain ties to their families during imprisonment, and assume parenting roles upon release, have higher success rates post release, with fathers more likely to desist from crime in the first 8 months (Visher et al., 2013) and engage in positive parenting activities and employment (Visher, 2013). For children, maintaining a relationship with their imprisoned parent when appropriate may ease worries (Scharff Smith and Jakobsen, 2014), lead to better adjustment for children (Trice and Brewster, 2004), and may be a major factor in family reunification (Koban, 1983), despite the impact that visiting, and imprisonment in general, may have on the child/ren involved (see Geller et al., 2012; Murray and Farrington, 2005; Wakefield and Wildeman, 2013; Walker and McCarthy, 2005). Therefore, if fathers were better supported in expressing conflicting masculinities in the visiting space it may go some may towards maintaining the ties between father and child that are needed to engage in positive parenting and desistance from crime on release.

The remainder of this article is structured in four sections. Firstly, we provide a theoretical backdrop to our research by bringing together the concepts of masculinity, identity and the self for fathers in prison and introduce Goffman’s (1956) ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ personas, which we regard as a frontstage prisoner identity and backstage fathering self. We then outline the methodology before moving on to the three key themes that emerged from the interviews: the frontstage identity and the backstage self; differing constructions of masculinities for fathers in prison; and performing fathering in the liminal prison space. We conclude by summarising the key theoretical and practical implications of our work.

Performing fatherhood in prison

There is very little research that focuses on the ability of fathers to perform fathering within the prison environment in the context of identity and/or the self. Meek’s (2011) research on possible selves’ theory examines incarcerated fathers and fatherhood and indicates that the notion of parenthood remains a key aspect of prisoners’ identities, despite separation from family and the prison environment. Another study (Clarke et al., 2005: 238) shows a ‘fragmented paternal identity’ underneath fathers’ accounts of their role as a father within the prison, arguing that sustaining emotional connection and making economic contributions are fundamental to contemporary paternal identity. The latter is supported in the work of Chui (2016) and his discussion of identity theory. However, we are concerned in particular with fathers’ conflicting expressions of masculinity, seen through a lens of self and identity, and how this is negotiated within the prison visiting space.

Barreto and Ellemers’ (2003) research on social identity assists in understanding the internal drive of individuals who present with conflicting self and identity formation. For instance, public displays of internal identities can be modified to avoid a breach of group norms, or to express one’s perception of the self differently (Barreto and Ellemers, 2003). Furthermore, when placed in group situations ‘[people] take an active role in how they define themselves, by choosing whether to endorse an externally assigned categorisation, and by expressing this choice in their social interaction with others’ (Barreto and Ellemers, 2003: 142). Not only are people choosing how to define themselves by expressing choice, they are more inclined to endorse group norms in situations controlled by others, as it creates normative pressures even when, privately, they would not be inclined to do so (Barreto and Ellemers, 2003; Ellemers et al., 2002). Hence, in the prison, where almost all situations are controlled by others (be they staff or other prisoners), prisoners endorse group norms by way of routine and because adhering to the norm is the safest option. Importantly, however, prisoners do actively define roles for themselves, such as being a father, even though those roles may not be externally expressed. Such ‘hidden’ selves help maintain a coherent identity and presence of who they were outside the walls, while immersed in a homogenous and norm-controlling group. Moreover, this maintenance of ‘self’ can arguably act to prevent some of the most damaging aspects of institutionalization.

In his dramaturgical analysis as presented in The Presentation of the Self in Everyday Life Goffman (1956: 69) makes a distinction between the ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ personas. When an individual is in a frontstage space an activity is carried out in the presence of others and ‘some aspects of the activity are expressively accentuated and other aspects, which might discredit the fostered impression, are suppressed’ (Goffman, 1956: 69). In the prison environment, this can be seen in everyday life where most tasks are performed in the same space with the same people creating, what we coin, a frontstage prisoner identity. Based on Goffman’s (1956) analysis, this frontstage identity is reliant on the setting, and the audience who observe it, and individuals do not begin their performance until they arrive in this setting. Within the prison, individuals are moulded by the institution itself and the people within it (Goffman, 1961). At the same time, Goffman (1956) argues, they finish their frontstage performance when they leave this space.

Conversely, the backstage setting is where the suppressed facts of the individual come to the surface (Goffman, 1956). Inmates enter institutions with a ‘presenting culture’ (Goffman, 1961: 12) and a concept of the self that is made possible by the social foundations and arrangements around them. The ‘self’ may be conceptualised here as being a person’s internal emotional ‘core’ which is responsible for coping and processing feelings (Cohen, 1994). The way people relate to, and see, themselves is shaped by their internal thoughts, emotions and desires. In addition, self-perception is influenced by how others relate to us, and how we perceive ourselves to be seen (Morton and Sonnenberg, 2010). It is in the backstage setting that the performer relaxes and is able to drop their frontstage persona and that which is shown in the frontstage setting is knowingly contradicted. While the front is more formal, ‘reciprocal familiarity’ is determined within the backstage setting (Goffman, 1956: 78). It is also a space where devices, such as phones, are used so that those using them can do so in private. We argue that, for fathers, being with children outside of the prison environment would be akin to being in a backstage setting and fathers bring with them into the prison setting this backstage fathering self. At present, in the prison environment, there are very few spaces where a prisoner can step into this backstage space. This article draws attention to this by highlighting the vulnerabilities faced by prisoners as they switch between the ‘frontstage’ and ‘backstage’ self in prison spaces to negotiate differing masculinities.

We explore the issue of space by drawing on liminality; a concept first introduced to describe the transition from adolescence to adulthood (Van Gennep, 1960). We use this to refer to the in-between space in prison visiting rooms where the subject (both prisoner and father) is temporarily suspended between the inside and outside world. This is also a concept addressed further in a forthcoming article on incarcerated fathers and the liminal pre- and post-release space (Bartlett and Johns, forthcoming). The question, then, is whether it is possible for imprisoned fathers to embody differing expressions of masculinity in the prison visiting space to ensure that it is father and child who intersect rather than simply prisoner and child.

The ‘frontstage’ identity and ‘backstage’ self

According to Goffman (1956), the ultimate situation is one where the performer is able to segregate all audiences so that the individuals who witness him in frontstage will not be the same audience as those who witness him in his backstage role. An inability to maintain this control will leave performers, or in this case fathers, in the position of not knowing which ‘character’ he will have to perform from one moment to the next (Goffman, 1956: 83). In the prison environment in Victoria, such segregation of family and prison is currently impossible for fathers wanting to connect with their children in prison visiting rooms. As a result, fathers enter prison visit centres with both a backstage and frontstage self and are forced to manage multiple masculinities in order to ‘perform’ a fathering role.

Prior to prison, fathers performed fathering by actively engaging in their children’s lives and by being involved in a way that was very ‘hands-on’ (Day et al., 2005). The concept of the self was thus shown through active participation in their children’s lives. Fathers talked about typical day-to-day parenting activities such as school and day care drop offs, making meals, homework and going to the park and described ‘looking after’, ‘spending time with’, and ‘caring’ for children. One father said ‘do the baby thing!’ ‘Play with him most of the day’ (q), while another said he would give his child ‘the biggest hug!’(x) One father was very frank in stating ‘[I] just do all the shit that normal people do’ (y). This concept of the self is therefore very hands-on, engaged, and involved and supports previous research on father involvement (Day et al., 2005). Fathering, therefore, was actively performed.

Like Arditti et al. (2005) who found that fatherhood inside was characterised by an inability to perform fathering roles, for fathers in our study, once incarcerated they were stripped of their fathering identity and were, obviously, given less opportunities to actively perform fathering. One father said ‘[a]s soon as you pass that door man … [I]t doesn’t exist. Forget your kids man … they don’t exist … [C]ouldn’t even find out if my kids were alive let alone okay’ (f). Another noted that it was ‘… really limited by the walls and the distance’ (r). Several of the fathers made mention of not being able to do anything ‘in here’ and of not being able to teach or mentor their children. One father said ‘It’s pretty hard in here, you want to do as much as you can, but there’s only so much you can do’ (z) while another echoed this with ‘If I had known the ex was going to do the things she’s doing I wouldn’t have let my daughter be there, but there’s not much I can do being in here’ (l). Fathers in these instances are expected to be ‘in here’, taking on their frontstage prisoner identity, when it often directly conflicts with their backstage fathering self.

Yet most prisoners are able to self-manage; maintaining a backstage sense of self that sits beyond the prison persona and can be kept apart and intact, whilst performing the role that is required in prison to be a part of that group. Therefore, the prison delineates expressions of self, but does not eradicate it. Previous research (Jewkes, 2002) indicates that men nurture this private – and oftentimes non-‘macho’ – self by drawing on specific interpersonal relations, such as the family, to maintain a sense of self amongst the rest of the inmate population, in an institution that is designed to blur the lines between self and others. Men interviewed in our study nurtured their backstage fathering self in a protective way by showing they were still ‘Dad’. One father said ‘I still feel like I’m the boss’ (w) and another said ‘They listen to me’ (b). While others exhibited this private self with the knowledge that they still maintained this identity. ‘They know that Dad loves them and cares’ (m), ‘They know I’m safe … [T]hey’re loved’ (v). In this sense, parenting is seen as a precious fragment of this internal self, kept hidden for preservation.

However, cognitive dissonance emerges when individuals have conflicts between external categorisations (such as being a prisoner) and internal identities (such as being a father) and how they define themselves in relation to others (Barreto and Ellemers, 2003). Without a doubt this is a constant struggle that fathers in prison have to manage. Some do it by successfully preserving their two separate selves, others by withdrawing more or less completely from the ‘father’ self while inside. Some fathers tell their families not to visit at all as it is too painful and difficult for the prisoner to switch between father and prisoner. Indeed, research has consistently shown that around half of prisoners report receiving no visits at all from their children (Clarke et al., 2005; Glaze and Maruschak, 2008). In a study of 32 men (26 of these were fathers) incarcerated in a south-western state correctional facility in the United States, it was found that 37.5% of inmates had never received a visit from their child/ren and 38.5% of these reported there was no form of contact since their incarceration (Pierce, 2015). This is similar to UK findings where a large proportion of children with fathers imprisoned at HM Bedford were unaware of their fathers’ imprisonment (Murray, 2007). Several fathers we interviewed also informed their children they were away on holiday or working, rather than in prison. One father said ‘Just informed them [children] that I might be going on holiday’ (l), while another said the following: ‘Won’t let me children come here … it would ruin them. They think I’m away working, doing some painting’ (s). Another father also chose to do this, remarking that ‘Four and five year olds don’t know where I am – think I’m working. Didn’t want them to know about gaol’ (m). Another father commented on the ‘distress’ felt by his daughter when leaving the prison, so in an attempt to avoid that he limited her from visiting. For some fathers then, keeping children away from the prison visiting space entirely was the best option, a finding that adds to research in this area on imprisoned parents more generally (Hairston, 2002; Murray, 2007). For some fathers inside, opting out of visits is a way to minimise emotional pain for both themselves and their children. This seems to be the case particularly in high security prisons, where the physical and social cues do little to support a softer version of masculinity, ensuring that the switch between ‘backstage’ and ‘front stage’ self can be incredibly challenging. The environment in low security prisons is usually more supportive for such shifts, but in Australia at least, these prisons tend to be located hours away from the big cities, meaning that long bus rides and overnight accommodation has to be organised which, for many, is not possible. Hence, family contact is managed over the phone instead. There are indeed practical, social and emotional reasons for why some fathers chose not to have visits, but all illustrate prisoners attempting to manage their contradictory self-identities.

Conflicting constructions of masculinity

Traditionally, when discussing parenting and imprisonment, the focus has been on mothers (see Burgess, 2016; Flynn, 2014). However, an increasing recognition of gendered practice exists within the prison system, with new theorisations driving towards considering the experiences and needs of fathers (Chui, 2016; Meek, 2011; Moran, 2017). In particular, Miller’s (2011) work on hegemonic masculinity has been used to inform conceptions and practical implications relating to fathers in society and in the criminal justice system. Hegemonic masculinity is defined here as being the structural gender practice that assumes, and thus allows, men’s dominance over women and more feminine men (Connell and Messerschmidt, 2005). Within this framework, fatherhood is defined in relation to the prevailing cultural ideals of masculinities where paid work is central and fathering is associated with being a protector, companion to children, moral guide, co-parent and disciplinarian (Collier, 2001; Miller, 2011), whilst other ways of fathering, such as being involved in childcare and emotional work, are perceived as weakening a sense of constructed self-identity.

Discussions of masculinity within the prison system that stem from within this framework tend to focus on the ‘hyper masculine’ environment, a construction which is situated within a hierarchy of penal subcultures that exaggerate understandings of male socialization (Mosher, 1998). This framework stresses conventional masculine ideals (such as strength, bravery and staying true to your word) and is placed within an overtly aggressive context; one in which an ‘authoritative, controlling, heterosexual, independent and violent kind of masculinity’ is reinforced (Ricciardelli et al., 2015: 495). A prisoner’s capacity to survive prison life depends on his ability to negotiate his place within the prison hierarchy, which is based on ‘excessive displays of manliness,’ and it is the fostering of this public identity that allows a prisoner to ‘fit in’ (Jewkes, 2005: 46). Importantly, it also offers a limited cultural lens by skimming over factors such as race (Curtis, 2014). Miller’s (2011) often-cited study, for example, included a sample of white, middle class and partnered men. Masculinities that are characterised by more ‘feminine’ traits (such as caring, fathering and emotional fragility) are largely absent or hidden (Collier, 2001; Miller, 2011). Yet masculinity is constructed in different ways, depending on social, cultural, racial and political factors and such excessive focus on these hyper-masculine facets of the prison environment have understated a prisoner’s ability to manage prison life.

We propose that what exist instead are a range of models and malleable expressions of masculinity that are more varied than this. Ricciardelli et al. (2015) contend that masculinities within the prison environment, and particularly in the context of fathering, are much more transitory than earlier accounts suggest; those who appear the least emotionally, physically and legally vulnerable and are able to manage the uncertainties of prison life are the most empowered in relation to other prisoners. In this regard, prisoners adopt a range of masculinities to ensure their survival and to mask any vulnerability while maintaining a status of legitimacy (De Viggiani, 2012). What exists, therefore, is a ‘softer’ version of masculinity that sits between an overtly masculine exterior and a more personal self, which is intentionally preserved and employed (Ricciardelli et al., 2015). In an examination of masculinity narratives amongst male prisoners, Evans and Wallace (2007) identify several different groups. One group of relevance to the current article were exposed to extreme levels of hegemonic masculinity during childhood, but found ways to transcend the prison environment to develop a ‘softer and gentler’ code (Evans and Wallace 2007: 484). This code may be witnessed when fathers interact with their children. Therefore, contrary to popular opinion, there is indeed room for altering the sort of person one wishes to be within the prison environment.

Differing constructions of masculinity were witnessed during interviews with fathers in our study. This was evidenced by fathers’ feelings about their children and being separated from them and their perceptions of how their children were affected by their own imprisonment. One father said ‘I could see how much it hurt them’ (y) and another noted that he was unhappy ‘Just not being there’ (h). Another father said the following:

I feel bad for my son because I’m not there for him. I know he misses me a lot, he tells his mum he misses me … It definitely affects my son a lot – me being in gaol – but I’ve only got myself to blame and he really does need his dad, you know? (p)

Rather than choosing the ‘softer’ expression of self (Ricciardelli et al., 2015), we contend that incarcerated fathers adapt and display considerable agency in choosing versions of self and accompanying masculinities across different situations and interactions. Such theorisations highlight the vulnerabilities faced by incarcerated fathers as they switch between differing expressions of the self within the prison as well as how such agency and adaptation with regard to fathering can be supported. Imprisonment therefore challenges a father’s sense of self and well-being which, in turn, affects their self-presentation whilst inside (Ricciardelli et al., 2015). This is due in part to the forced separation from family and ongoing uncertainty about contact and maintenance of relationships, combined with a paradoxical need to adopt the frontstage prison identity. As mentioned previously, fathers who maintain regular contact with children while incarcerated have higher success rates post-release (Visher, 2013) and ongoing involvement also correlates with a father’s involvement in their children’s lives once released (Roettger and Swisher, 2013; Turney and Wildeman, 2013). The creation of a space in prison where fathers and children meet, therefore, is pivotal in allowing for this ongoing connection as the visit room is one space where a conflict of identity and its consequences may be most acutely seen for incarcerated fathers.

Performing fathering in the liminal prison space

For fathers negotiating these internal conflicts within the prison system this point of intersection with children is central. Visiting spaces vary considerably, depending on the facility, level of security and perceived risk of prisoner (Moran, 2013b). The emergence of carceral geography has begun to address the issue of space, with its focus on the experience of ‘carceral space, both in terms of the individual’s movement into and out of that space and their experience within it, as well as the physical manifestation of the penal institution in space’ (Moran, 2013b: 175–176). Moran’s (2013a) research on visiting in female Russian prisons identified the visiting space as a liminal space that represents a temporary, transient space for female prisoners. Our article adds to this discussion by contending that similar to female prisons the visiting space in male prisons is indeed a liminal – in-between – space for fathers as they are temporarily suspended between the prison environment and the outside world. In order to address this, the physical space in prisons needs to be changed in order to facilitate visits between fathers and children.

The quality of visiting facilities is therefore fundamental, as it is within the visiting space that a shift, or conflict, in identity may occur in order to connect with their children. This shift may be natural, necessary, and/or painful. Previous research on prison visiting generally has found it to be consistently poor across a range of settings and jurisdictions and highlights a number of obstacles that impact the quality of visits: the distance between prison and family home (Healy et al., 2000; Pierce, 2015; Trotter et al., 2015); inconvenient and irregular/infrequent visiting opportunities (Glaze and Maruschak, 2008; Pierce, 2015); insufficient facilities (Arditti et al., 2005; Pierce, 2015); and poor quality visits (Dennison et al., 2014; Pierce, 2015). The hostile attitude of staff toward family members is also well documented (Liebling and Arnold, 2005; Scharff Smith and Jakobsen, 2014; Tomaino et al., 2005). These physical and social characteristics of visiting spaces simply create a greater distance between fathers and their children.

These qualities were echoed by fathers in our study with one participant saying ‘You can’t really play with the kids here too. You have to sit on your seat. It’s very hard, you can’t actually interact with your kids. They’ve got six officers, so, you know …’ (t) while another father stated the following:

There seem to be more supports and services offered at public run facilities, rather than privately run gaols. Real issue at this place is profit before people; see that at the visit centres – everything’s out of order, can’t be used. The toys at the visit centre are just rubbish. If they had something in there where parents could engage with their kids I think that would be advanced. (r)

Previous research highlights the benefits of family style visits and events (Pierce, 2015; Scharff Smith and Jakobsen, 2014). One example from the United States are family trailer visits. These take place in a trailer on the prison grounds each Saturday and Sunday and last between 6 and 24 hours, giving fathers a greater opportunity to ‘be a dad’ and to ‘act naturally in a very unnatural environment’ (Pierce, 2015: 384). Family visits (also referred to as the Stronger Families Program) were mentioned by fathers in our study. These are a way for children and fathers to connect and play, however limited information on this service in Victoria means length of time and frequency of service is unknown (Castlemaine Community House, 2017). Comments from our study highlight a fragmented service, where other carer’s are not allowed to be present making it difficult to organise. One father said ‘… not allowed to have the partner there which makes it difficult – if she’s travelling far she has to make herself scarce for X amount of hours. Would be better if it was kids and partner’ (g). While another stated ‘… it’s impossible … at women’s prisons [you] get kids in for the day. At men’s prisons you don’t have that’ (k). As these responses indicate, family visits are currently limited in their ability to cultivate connection.

Yet, research shows that men in prison are open to exploring their internal worlds in a space where expression of feeling is normalized and supported (Evans and Wallace, 2007). In our study, men spoke explicitly of needing opportunities and spaces to engage in a fathering role from inside. ‘It would be great if it was like the women’s [prison] in Queensland where they have little cottages where you could have the children. They’d love it I reckon. But I don’t think they’d ever allow it at a men’s prison’ (o). While another father said the following:

But also something for kids. When my daughter used to come in she was happy, happy! When she had to leave she’d be screaming and stuff. So having the primary carer with DHS [Department of Human Services; sic] or whatever to be able to come in and be there with the kids so they aren’t so distressed. Maybe more projects where kids can interact with fathers – specialised days. (e)

Visiting spaces that do work in male prisons give fathers a space to openly engage with their children (Pierce, 2015). One space that allowed for this was the development of a patio in a US correctional facility as it gave fathers somewhere to go and be with their children (Pierce, 2015). In Australia, there has been a recent attempt to address the issues raised thus far with the instalment of a playground at Tasmania’s Risdon Prison touted as a way of allowing ‘dads to be dads’ (Fantin, 2016: para 1). In Victoria, there are some initiatives that allow fathers and children to engage, although only one participant in our study had accessed these. For instance, SHINE for Kids offer their Prison Invisit’s Program in one adult male prison (and one remand prison). This includes a colourful family friendly visiting space with art and creative activities that parents and children can work on together (SHINE for Kids, 2017). No participants in our study had accessed or experienced this service.

Along with SHINE for Kids in Victoria, Read Along Dads is another program offered in one correctional setting where fathers read along to a book from inside. The book and recording are then sent to the family so children can hear their dad reading to them (Delahunty, 2017). This is based on Storybook Dads in the United Kingdom, offered in over 100 prisons, and helps to maintain the emotional bond between parent and child (Storybook Dads, n.d.). It also allows fathers and children to be in their frontstage space, whilst simultaneously nurturing their backstage self and connecting in a way that is familiar. One participant in our study had taken part in this program. As these examples illustrate, spaces that work allow fathers and children to engage in a way that is familiar and routine. Improving the visiting spaces in male prisons is only one part of the equation, as the movement into and out of the liminal space must also be acknowledged. For fathers, this means being in the role of father, despite being in a prison space. The question then is how to facilitate and allow for this shift in identity to safely occur, ensuring that the child meets his/her parent, and not simply a prisoner.

One way that fathers in our study adopted agency and preserved their two separate selves was through phone conversations. These were a way for fathers to be in a typically frontstage space while preserving their backstage self. Phone conversations gave fathers the opportunity to perform fathering in a routine way from inside the prison (Clarke et al., 2005). One father said ‘[I] speak to three year old every night and other kids twice a week’ (g) while another father mentioned speaking with his children on the phone allowed him to talk when he was unable to see them in person: ‘Haven’t seen them in five months … every week talk to them. Important to talk to them so there is no gap’ (n). Fathers also spoke of being able to take part in decision making over the phone and ‘Just … being able to listen’ (b).

Not only was it a way of maintaining contact whilst inside, it was also a space where fathers could construct multiple masculinities by disciplining and giving advice to their children. One father said ‘I talk on the phone with [my son] and tell him to sharpen up … I try to do as much as I can – help with maths …’ (m). With another father saying:

Trying to continue to remain relevant in their lives, encouraging them to talk to me about their issues and giving them advice …. Do everything possible in communication to show them that even though I’m still in gaol I still have a lot to offer as a father (u).

Conclusion

Seen through a lens of self and identity, we examined how fathers’ conflicting constructions of masculinity are negotiated within the prison. We also addressed a gap in research by exploring how fathers perform fathering with the liminal spaces of the prison.

Our findings reaffirm previous research on social identity (Barreto and Ellemers, 2003) and show that individuals who are presented with conflicting self and identity formations in prison take an active role in how they present themselves in this context. We have expanded on Goffman’s (1959) frontstage and backstage personas to identify what we have called a frontstage prisoner identity and a backstage fathering self. This was done in order to describe what happens internally for fathers in prison when moving between different spaces and interactions in the prison environment. In the prison, where almost all situations are controlled by others, prisoners actively define their sense of self, both through an internal backstage process, and a more overt product, which is actively shown to others. Rather than being forced into hyper-masculine, or ‘softer’ masculine, roles we conclude that it is more complex than this. Instead, men in prison construct a range of malleable masculinities within the prison environment to navigate prison life. Specifically, incarcerated men display considerable agency in constructing masculinities, and for fathers this involves navigating conflicting prisoner and fathering roles and managing these in different settings.

Currently, male prison visiting spaces in Victoria are not conducive to fathering as they are indeed liminal spaces (Moran, 2013a) and it is virtually impossible for men to consider their identity as anything but a prisoner within them. While it is expected that these spaces would allow fathering to be performed, our research concludes that they are limited in this capacity. Instead, in this in-between space, fathers are temporarily suspended between the prison environment and the outside world and are faced with ongoing conflict of performing both prisoner and father. What can be seen, therefore, is a situation as identified by Goffman (1956: 83) in which the performer, in this case the prisoner and father, is in the position of not knowing which ‘character’ he has to perform.

The challenge, then, is how to merge these differing constructions of masculinity in order to provide a space that fits within the confines of the prison environment, whilst simultaneously allowing for a coalesce of separate selves. Ensuring that social infrastructure plays an important role in maintaining and expressing alternative masculinities within the prison is challenging when security is, obviously, at the forefront of management. Despite this, Evans and Wallace (2007: 504) made the following statement: ‘it seems vital to give active thought to creating space in which expression of feeling is both normalized and supported’. Indeed it is so. Our findings, along with previous research (Arditti et al., 2005; Pierce, 2015) indicate that spaces that work would provide fathers with the opportunity to give advice, provide discipline, listen and actively engage with children. Presently, fathers are prone to using phone conversations to do this as it allows them to perform fathering in a routine way (Clarke et al., 2005) that is private. It also allows fathers to remain in the frontstage prison space while nurturing their backstage self. As such, in order to lessen the impact on children with incarcerated fathers (Sharp et al., 1998), whilst allowing for the maintenance of positive family ties (Visher, 2013) and desistance from crime (Visher et al., 2013), prisons would be better placed to recognise this by incorporating dynamics that allow for the preservation of the self and the maintenance of these nuanced masculinities. These hidden selves serve to maintain a coherent identity and presence of who they were outside the prison walls, such as being a father.

We propose that the solution involves addressing the cognitive dissonance that occurs within the visiting room for fathers, as well as the physical space itself. For this to occur, the prison visiting space as it currently exists would be transformed from an in-between–liminal–space to one that has the ability to connect fathers and children. This could be achieved by applying in some capacity the privacy and ‘reciprocal familiarity’ that is afforded men during phone conversations (Goffman, 1956: 78) to other spaces in prison. By working within the structure of the prison environment, opportunities that foster engagement, and are individualised, can be developed as these would allow for self-preservation. These would be supported spaces, like the trailer visits identified by Pierce (2015), which allow for a better quality connection with children. In order to deliver this to a high number of men, we suggest expanding the scope of already existing programs described above, like SHINE for Kids, the Stronger Families Program, or art programs. The success of Storybook Dad’s in the UK is testament to its need. Expanding these programs and providing these spaces would require the ongoing establishment of trust by the professionals involved (Evans and Wallace, 2007) and would therefore involve a cultural shift with input from prison management, staff, prisoners and families. The benefits of which can be seen in past research which indicates (Roettger and Swisher, 2013; Turney and Wildeman, 2013) that such spaces assist in maintaining family ties upon release. We contend that they would also preserve a durable sense of self for fathers while incarcerated; making post-release life easier for themselves, as well as those they are returning home to (Scharff Smith, 2014). For those men who define themselves by their role as fathers, above and beyond a criminal identity, this would offer real hope of desistance by supporting and maintaining such aspects of their life while inside.