STORY
Tony Lombardo
PHOTOS Jacob Stewart
Gregory Paramore, inmate No. 33690225D4, had not seen his
mother since his incarceration. The youngest brother of five,
he distinguished himself by becoming the first one arrested
and jailed. The offense: felonious assault. Paramore was left
behind bars to reflect alone. Three years in prison had passed
before Paramore was finally able to see his mother again.
 |
| Von Derek Knuckles, convicted of murder,
uses college courses as a diversion from prison lif. |
To see her, Paramore, then 27, was transported two and one-half
hours from prison to Youngstown. Visitation rules required
shackles on both his ankles and wrists.
“I never wanted my mother to see me like that,”
Paramore says, holding up his wrists. The chains are gone,
but his state-issued prison blues remain.
Paramore shuffled his feet toward his mother, officers in
tow. With trepidation, Paramore peered over his mother’s
casket, and his legs gave out underneath him.
“When I saw her, I felt faint, and my knees buckled,”
Paramore says softly.
“The guards didn’t know what to do so they put
their hands on their guns. The funeral director brought me
a chair to sit on.”
Paramore’s mother had died of an aneurysm while he
was in prison. Because prison policy forbade him to attend
the funeral, a private visitation was arranged. Private visitation
in prison terms means two guards, their guns and enough chain
to suppress any rebellious intentions.
Seeing his mother lying there was a turning point for Paramore
— the drinking, partying and trouble that brought him
to prison needed to stop.
“I never had a chance to talk to her since prison,”
he says. “I knew she had forgiven me. It was at that
point I realized I really needed to get things together.”
 |
| Inmate Gregory Paramore (far right)takes
notes in one of the facility's 12 classrooms. |
After his mother’s death, Paramore enrolled in Lake
Erie Correctional Institution’s Outreach Program through
Kent State’s Ashtabula campus. By taking college courses
applicable to a degree, Paramore, now 31, is planning a career
in advertising. More than 100 other inmates are also taking
courses at the institution in Conneaut, learning computer
and business concepts to rebuild their reputations and master
new skills to remain competitive in the real world.
Joyce Shelestak and Judy Wareham walk across the prison yard
toward their classrooms while hundreds of inmates walk by
on their way to the mess hall. The occasional inmate shouts
a “Hello, Mrs. Shelestak. Hello, Mrs. Wareham.”
These two women serve as directors for Kent State’s
Outreach Program, which helps provide a college education
for those unable to attain it.
Shelestak and Wareham walk across the entire yard each day,
but it has never been a problem. They have been working with
students at the prison since 2000, when the facility was built.
“I never feel threatened,” Shelestak says, passing
a group of burly inmates who all tower over her. “The
only differences between these students are that they are
all dressed in blue, and they don’t go home at night.”
Wareham says she sometimes forgets criminals and barbed wire
surround her because it feels so natural.
“You can almost get too comfortable,” she says.
“I think of them as students, like they are on a campus.”
No correctional officers are required to escort the women
in the medium-security institution, although they are always
watching on surveillance cameras. The prison does have one
precautionary measure, though. The women each have a “man
down” button on a chain that can be pressed whenever
they feel threatened by an inmate.
“And boy do they come running,” Wareham says,
laughing. She and Shelestak have never actually needed to
use the button, but Wareham accidentally activated hers once.
 |
| Paramore uses his studies to cope with
his mother's death. |
“And, boy, do they come running,” she says with
a laugh.
From 6 p.m. to 9 p.m., Monday through Thursday, inmates attend
a number of classes taught by several instructors. Courses
range from English to computer-assisted drafting.
John Godlewski, adjunct instructor of business, says all
he has to do is come in and teach — the prison atmosphere
is not intimidating when students are so willing to learn.
“As far as how motivated these guys are, I’ll
take some of these guys over some of those campus students
anytime,” he says.
Godlewski has taught about 10 courses at the prison over
the past two years. Classes are offered in fall, spring and
summer sessions, like at all Kent State campuses.
Instructors teach from a podium while the students sit at
tables or desks. Inmates are permitted and encouraged to write
notes with pencils and pens.
Large windows are built into every wall, permitting teachers
and, more importantly, correctional officers to see all 12
classrooms at once. Should a problem arise in a room, the
officer on duty would respond instantly. Marilynn McQueen,
deputy warden of programs, says an incident has yet to occur
in a classroom.
“It’s a lot safer than public schools these days,”
McQueen says. “The inmates have to behave. They all
know that one miscue, and they are out.”
Instructor Judy Knight teaches computer courses to inmates.
Knight says she uses mutual respect to build a strong relationship
with the inmates.
At times it can be difficult, though, because any personal
conversation or intimacy is strictly prohibited between student
and teacher, Shelestak says. The main rule is that Knight
is always “Ms. Knight” and each inmate is a “Mr.”
No first names are allowed because they imply a personal relationship.
Some inmates say they don’t mind the “Mr.”
when they are normally referred to as “Hey, you”
by the correctional officers.
Although Knight says the classroom facilities are sufficient,
the prison presents some obstacles. The Internet, for example,
is prohibited by state law in the prison, Knight says. To
compensate for this, Knight uses a simulation of the Internet.
“I am trying to teach them,” she says. “I
have to say, ‘This is what it should look like when
you use it.’ We need to have computers without those
limitations to teach.”
In addition to the Internet problem, Knight says certain
computer functions are no longer accessible to the inmates
because of misbehavior. Students are no longer able to use
the right click function on the mouse or access the start
menu because system files have been deleted. Knight says these
rules just make it harder for inmates to conceptualize what
a real menu screen would look like.
Despite these barriers, inmates are able to take courses and
gain Kent State certificates for every 22 hours earned. Inmates
can’t get complete degrees in prison, but once released,
they can apply the hours toward a degree.
“These men are Kent State students,” Wareham
stresses.
Von Derek Knuckles, 33, is serving 15 years to life for murder.
Knuckles says his seven and one-half years of prison have
diminished his aggression and heightened his desire to learn.
“I’ve been incident-free and hole-free for the
last two years,” Knuckles says. “I am keeping
myself out of trouble by being in school.”
 |
| Joyce Shelestak sits in her office
at the prison. She says she never feels threatened by
her students. |
Not all of the inmates avoid problems in the facility, though.
They are permitted to wander the yard during the day, visit
the chapel or just spend time in the dormitories, which each
house more than 200 criminal offenders. The facility itself
houses more than 1,370 inmates.
“This atmosphere can be influential for trouble,”
Knuckles says. “A lot of guys younger than me are following
the trends, getting in gangs. It’s not on the surface,
but there are members of the Crips, the Bloods and the Folks
in here.”
Knuckles claims he is innocent of murder but admits to some
“dibble-dabbling in illegal activity” in the past,
including selling drugs. Thanks to his business courses, Knuckles
says he hopes to get into retail and open his own store to
sell electronics or clothes. He is also looking into opening
a restaurant.
“I’m kickin’ around a few ideas,”
he says with a sly smile. Knuckles has at least two more years
to brainstorm. His parole hearing is set for 2005.
Classes in prison do more for Knuckles than open up doors
to his future. He says his schoolwork helps him forget about
the barbed wire, fighting and lock-downs of prison life.
“I love school. It inspires me through listening and
talking about real-world experiences,” Knuckles says.
“It’s twice a week that I’m not even here.
I’m out on the streets and going to school.”
Some escapism is pleasant for Knuckles, who says he hasn’t
seen or heard from his son and two daughters since 1997.
“It’s hard, but I try not to think about it,”
he says. “Negativity keeps people here.” Chris
Pisarchik, 26, says his immaturity as a youth led to his incarceration.
“Before I came to prison, I thought I knew everything,”
he says. “I would do things the way I wanted to. I have
changed my whole thought process.”
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| Shelestak and Judy Wareham are both
armed with "man down" buttons in case of trouble. |
Pisarchik’s grandmother, Gloria Yoder, says nobody
supported him when he was growing up, and the neglect produced
a “cocky little kid.”
But thanks to his Kent State courses, Pisarchik says he has
gotten deep into philosophy, mainly the works of Plato. He
unabashedly states that he was one of the prison’s finest
students.
But while some of his classmates will sit and study for years
to come, Pisarchik is now starting a new life. After serving
his three years for illegal manufacturing of methamphetamines
(speed was his drug of choice), Pisarchik left prison with
a certificate in business.
Yoder says that Pisarchik’s father is going to give
him a place to stay in Texas and pay for him to attend a university.
Pisarchik says he hopes to stay out of trouble in the future.
“It’s going to be a lot easier to stay focused
with my dad,” Pisarchik says. “I’m taking
myself out of the same situation with my friends in Ohio.”
John Stone, 42, is another one of the institution’s
honor students. With a grade point average of 3.72, he qualifies
to live in the prison’s honors dormitory.
“It’s a lot better in there,” Stone says.
“In the other dorms there are 250 guys screamin’
and hollerin’. I used to get up in the morning and have
to wait a half-hour to use the toilet.”
While now an honors student, Stone says his life before prison
included excessive drinking and violence. Stone was sentenced
to three years after beating his wife, who he suspected of
cheating on him.
“Alcohol played the whole role in my life,” Stone
says. “I didn’t realize I was an alcoholic. I’d
go to work, come home, slam a 12-pack, and everything would
be fine. It led to violence.”
In addition to schooling, Stone took part in the prison’s
rehabilitation program and joined Alcoholics Anonymous.
“I took the recovery program and anger management,”
Stone says. “I am doing everything I can to better myself.
This ain’t no type of life.”
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| An inmate studies at his leisure inside
the high walls of the prison. |
Stone’s mother, Loma, has continued to visit him throughout
his incarceration and says she has witnessed a transformation.
“He was never violent at home, but he did have a temper,”
she says. “Now he’s calm, and he has a better
attitude toward everything.”
Loma says her son comes from a family of alcoholics, including
her husband and three of John’s brothers, all of which
have since stopped drinking.
“I know it’s hereditary,” she says.
Stone says getting an education was not the main reason why
he enrolled in the courses.
“You take classes to get out of other work like kitchen
detail,” he says. “There’s a few guys who
did that, and I was one of ‘em.”
In addition to avoiding labor, some inmates are rewarded
with reduced sentencing, Deputy Warden McQueen says.
As long as the sentence is not deemed mandatory by a judge,
each month of classes takes a day off an inmate’s sentence,
she says.
Stone will be released in July, and he says he will enroll
in courses at the Ashtabula campus. He will go back to roofing
but now has plans to start his own roofing company.
Not all inmates are suited for Kent State’s Outreach
Program. Some don’t meet the requirements, whereas others
have no interest in expanding their education, Wareham says.
To take part in the outreach program, students must have
a high school diploma or their GED, less than five years left
in their sentence and no more than two adult incarcerations.
“The three-strike rule is in effect,” Wareham
says. “It’s not up to us, it’s up to the
government. Three-time losers are not permitted.”
 |
| A guard at the Lake Erie Correctional
Institutional stands watch. |
Some students who enroll are removed from the program for
not following regular prison rules. Two incident reports result
in removal from the program. Shelestak says the students can’t
participate anyway because they will be in solitary confinement
or “the hole.”
Only two unexcused absences are permitted or an inmate is
removed from the course.
“Out on the streets you can go to a psychology class
on the first day and not come back until the final,”
she says. “Prison has a stricter policy.”
In addition, students must get a C or better in the course
or it will not count for credit.
“What’s really good is to see someone start out
with a negative attitude, then see them really change and
get into it,” she says. “It’s good to see
them become someone who cares.”
Those inmates who meet the qualifications, follow the rules
and stick with the 22-hour programs are awarded with an end-of-semester
graduation. Inmates such as Stone have already experienced
one graduation and are working hard for another certificate.
Unlike traditional ceremonies, caps and gowns are not allowed.
Rather, inmates are dressed in their standard blues, institution
number included, for proud family and friends to see.
Each inmate is allowed to invite two people from the outside
world to attend the event, if on the list of acceptable visitors.
Stone says he chose to have his mother in attendance.
“She came to my first graduation,” he says. “It
felt good to have one accomplished.”
Graduates receive a portfolio, including their resume, certificate
and letter from the dean of the Ashtabula campus.
Two family members visited Paramore, who lost his mother,
when he received his graduation certificate in business.
In 18 months he will be released and reunited with his family.
Paramore says he knows getting out of prison is going to
be an adjustment, but it’s one he’s been preparing
for. Despite the stigma his criminal record carries, he says
he’s ready for reality.
“I’ve wanted to get out of prison for a long
time now,” he says. “I know there will be obstacles.
I’m not looking for it to be easy. There’ll be
some doors slammed and some doors opened up. I realize I have
a life out there. I regret some of the things I’ve done,
but in the same breath, better things are coming.” |
