Paul agreed to this and over time came to see the value in Dan’s conservative views and lifestyle. When Paul was paroled, Dan invited him to live with him and his family. Paul’s past criminal activities did not prevent Dan from recognizing that this young man was a human being with immense potential. He valued honesty more than money.Īmazingly, a significant rapport developed between them, probably in part because Dan unreservedly accepted and valued Paul. Dan had devoted himself to his family, church, farm, and the local community. He and Dan were at opposite ends of the spectrum in pretty much every respect. Paul was about half Dan’s age and could have considered himself superior to this farmer who chose not to own a radio or television. A chicken farmer, he was pragmatic and discerning, a good match for Paul. I got to know one of these men, Dan, quite well. When they gave their word, it was like a signed contract with a lawyers stamp. I came to respect them for their commitment and integrity. They were rigorous, resolute, caring men, farmers, teachers, trades people, businessmen. One contingent of men came from a conservative Mennonite church on Ross Rd. they believed they too had a responsibility to the less fortunate. Knowing that Jesus had many times responded to cries for help from lepers, blind individuals, parents with sick children, people looking for a source of hope, etc. These men had little experience with joy, delight or a sense of fulfillment.Īlmost without exception, the men I had joined with to visit prisoners had church connections. It also made me aware that other than resignation, bitterness and anger, this prison was indeed an emotional wasteland. Visiting Rick and Pierre provided me with a basic education concerning prison inmates, prison life and regulations. The men at Oakalla were doing provincial time, two years less a day (a deuce less, as they referred to it). Apparently my books had made the trip with him. When I showed up for my next visit with him, I was told he had been sent back to Quebec. I loaned him several prized books dealing with sociological issues. He loved to talk about his exploits, seemingly without pausing to catch a breath. My next match was Pierre, who claimed he had been a lawyer in Quebec. In time I would learn that this was not uncommon. Rick was paroled a few months later and quickly vanished, probably to the streets of Vancouver. When I asked a question or introduced a subject, he responded only briefly, his voice remaining flat and without even a hint of emotion. He had no plans or ambitions that interested or excited him. ![]() Generating conversation with him immediately became my exclusive and difficult responsibility. Too many years behind bars had warped and hardened his thinking. He was never willing to speak about his family or upbringing, but almost certainly he came from an environment that did not nurture. ![]() The years of successive terms in prison had seemingly sapped Rick’s humanity. The first man I was matched with demonstrated little interest in anything. I was still a student at SFU and had decided that this prison visitation program would be interesting and might provide some insights for my sociology courses. In time, teams of women would become involved in prisons for women. M2/W2 organizers believed if a man doing time has a contact in the community outside the prison, he has a better chance of establishing healthier relationships and a more positive lifestyle when released. Our assignment was to visit this man every two weeks and attempt to establish a relationship with him. Each of us had already been matched with a specific prisoner in this cell block. We were the first batch of citizens recruited by the newly minted M2/W2 organization. If they felt surprised, they chose not to reveal it. ![]() Seeing us, they momentarily ceased their meaningless wandering to scrutinize this troupe of “Square Johns” entering their dreary domain. The men, clad in light brown prison garb, moved about restlessly, with little discernible purpose. Each cell contained a simple metal bunk covered with a grey blanket. We had entered a wide grey corridor with a concrete floor and cells on one side. When the massive inner steel door at Oakalla clanged shut behind us, my heart told me we had entered an emotional wasteland. 1987 Aerial Photo of Oakalla Prison Main Hall, Runagate Pictures
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