Think Body Electric: teaching yoga in jail

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Reconnecting with Real Yoga: Teaching in Cook County Jail

Cook County Jail, Chicago, Illinois

As soon as I came to the first indoor check-in point, it was clear that things were a little off that day. The guard at the front desk was filling in temporarily and had no clue what the normal procedures were supposed to be. The gym where yoga classes are held was still being used for something else when I arrived. The guard at check-in point #2 told me that I couldn't go in and had to wait in the hallway.

The woman who normally handles the yoga class set-up was gone. Her replacement was annoyed by the general level of confusion and disorganization. I hung out next to him in the hall while he complained to me about incompetence, reduced benefits, and worsening working conditions in between exasperated exchanges on a crackling walkie-talkie.

I waited around an extra 15 minutes before they got it together to let me into the gym. I took in what felt like a higher level of agitation in the air than I'd experienced in the past.

My sense that something was indeed off was confirmed when the first group of women was finally let into the gym for class. As we set up the mats, I asked them how they were feeling and if there was anything in particular they'd like to work on today.

Several women stopped laying out mats, turned around, and looked at me quite intently. Gazing straight into my eyes, a young looking blonde spoke first. "There's a lot of confusion and anger in the unit today," she said. Her voice was firm, clear, almost deadly serious.

Several other women nodded assent and murmured some comments I couldn't hear. "We really need to use this time to get to some inner peace," she continued.

By now, almost everyone was standing still and looking at me.

"Yeah, I had the sense that maybe something was going on when I came in," I replied. "We'll focus getting centered, calm, and grounded today."

"Can we do some of that meditation?" a young Black woman with braided hair asked.

"OK, sure."

The blonde spoke up again. "I was also wondering if you could give us some handouts or something so that we can practice on our own. I want to do Suns in my cell, but can never quite remember how it goes."

By happy coincidence, the group I'm working with, Yoga for Recovery, had just received word from James Fox of the Prison Yoga Project that he'd donate 50 of his yoga instruction books, so that we could give them to our more dedicated students. Talk about serendipity. I'd just received the email about that a day or two before.

I explained that we were working on it. The women looked pleased.

Then we had class. And it was totally great. Just like any good yoga class anywhere. The cavernous, grimy gym filled with metal cots and stacks of thin mattresses stored to handle the overflow of inmates faded away. The harsh whirr of the industrial-strength fans softened into the background. I felt temporarily transported into a very different, much safer and more intimate time and space.

Class ended and most of the women thanked me for coming. As they walked out, I heard three exclaiming to each other, "I feel so relaxed now! Don't you feel more relaxed now?" One pretty young Hispanic woman who looked like she could still be in high school came up and shyly gave me a hug.

Warnings of how we're not supposed to get too close to the prisoners, how we shouldn't touch them, jumped into my mind. I made a split-second assessment that it would be OK this one time. A mirco-moment exception to the rule that touched me quite deeply.

I left the jail shaking my head in wonder, thinking of how rare it would be to have a studio class in which so many students were so intent about the opportunity to practice. Not to mention knowledgeable about and interested in the potential of yoga to be much more than a workout, and eager to learn how to make it their own.

The fact that they could so clearly identify what they needed to work on that day on such a deep and meaningful level kind of stunned me.

Plus, it was one of those classes that left me feeling really good the rest of the day. My anxieties, which had been revving up, melted away. They just didn't feel that pressing anymore.

"no mud, no lotus"

I'm still thinking about how remarkable I found my experience that day. And how I wish that I could convey to people that despite the endless bullshit, there really is some incredibly powerful yoga going on in the U.S. today. You may need to travel outside of your comfort zone to find it. But it's definitely there. I'm grateful to know and believe that through these sorts of experiences, which imprint me in a powerful way.

To be clear, the experience of teaching yoga is jail is most certainly not "all good." I mean, let's get real: it's a fucking jail.

But: it can be authentically good in its own way, nonetheless.

This, to me, is the true meaning of yoga. It's also why I'm still passionate about the practice, despite the mountains of disillusioning bullshit that have been created in the name of yoga as well.

I hope that more yoga practitioners will be inspired to get real, cut through the crap, and practice in ways that really do open your heart and mind. I'm not suggesting that this requires teaching yoga in jail. There are as many ways to have a meaningful practice as there are individuals.

That said, I believe that by far the most vital yoga teaching and learning going on in America today is happening in the yoga service world. So if you're looking for something more meaningful than you're finding elsewhere, I strongly suggest checking it out.

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For more of my writing on the yoga service movement, see:

"Gritty Inspiration: Chicago Welcomes the Prison Yoga Project" July/August 2013

"Integrating Science, Service, Spirituality, and Healing: The Second Annual Yoga Service Council Conference" Think Body Electric July 2013

"Socially Engaged Yoga: Healing a World in Crisis" May 2013

"Street Smart Karma Yoga: Terri Cooper and Miami's Yoga Gangsters" Yoga U Online May 2013

"Sweet Delight and Endless Night: Teaching Yoga in Jail - Year 2" Think Body Electric Feb. 2013

"The Art of Yoga and the Sacred Feminine" elephant journal July 2012

"Yoga Beyond Asana: Launching a Mindfulness Revolution at the Yoga Service Council Conference" elephant journal May 2012

"Socially Engaged Yoga: An Idea Whose Time Has Come?" Oct. 2011

"Teaching Yoga in Jail: Bittersweet Magic Behind the Barbed Wire Fence" Sept. 2011

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Finally, I'm pleased to announce that the Socially Engaged Yoga Network (SEYN), a organization I'm co-founding with , , , and Julia Pedersen, is launching on October 11th. Our mission is to support yoga teachers, community organizations, and other stakeholders committed to sharing the benefits of yoga with underserved communities in the Chicagoland area. Our vision is to build partnerships in the fields of community health, social services, environmental sustainability, and education that improve health, empower communities, and leverage resources for positive social change. If you live in the Chicago area and are engaged in yoga service work, you're invited!

Friday, February 8, 2013

Sweet Delight and Endless Night: Teaching Yoga in Jail - Year 2

Cook County Jail, Chicago, IL, USA

The first few times I walked in past the barbed wire cyclone fencing to teach yoga at Chicago’s Cook County Jail – through the metal detector (which inevitably goes off, wanding and frisking are SOP), beyond several sets of grimy doors, and into a second cinder block building where classes are held – I felt kind of disoriented. A little light-headed. Like I had suspended breathing for a bit.

A little over a year later, this journey past the front guard-post check-in into the second, smaller check-in location feels old hat. I enjoy that the guards are pretty friendly if you look 'em in the eye and say “good morning." They’ve gotten used to the yoga teachers coming in and out on Fridays and seem to like it. Not infrequently, one of the younger ones will ask if we could offer a class for them.

Our key staff contact inside the jail, Lisa, has a beautiful personality that lights up the room. She’s gotten to know me and the other teachers by name. Little snippets of time spent chatting about this or that gradually add up into a feeling of solid friendliness and familiarity. It’s truly pleasant.

The students are good. Each of the three classes that the group I'm working with, , runs on Friday (one for incarcerated women, one for parolees on a mandatory day program (the “ankle bracelets”), and one for pregnant women) has space for 12 students. It’s voluntary; the women have to sign up. Each class is full every week. Slots often have to be rationed and rotated because there’s more demand than supply.

Compared to teaching in a studio where there can be such pressure to build up your class size, it’s incredibly gratifying to have a full class of students who not only want to be there, but are on the whole very open to experiencing yoga as something that’s got a lot more to offer than simply exercise (although that’s a key part of it too).

So I’ve gotten into a certain groove working in an environment that initially rattled me. This feels good. But it can also produce a certain lull. I can start to feel so comfortable that I lose sight of where I really am – and how much I don’t know or understand about it.

Wake-Up Call

Checking in at the interior guard desk this morning, I received a wake-up call. I had sailed in with my co-teacher, the beautiful - chat chat, all good. She had gotten hung up at the first checkpoint due to some safety pins on her poncho that she had forgotten were there (they had to be confiscated and every pocket and lining carefully checked), but no biggie.

The young African American woman on guard duty didn't know our regular check-in procedure (show passes and IDs, sign log, get visitors pass). This wasn’t her regular station, she explained. She had just been called in to take over temporarily. So we started helpfully pointing out this and that on her desk, trying to help her get us checked in. “Oh, I think that’s the right log there! No? Hmm, maybe that one?” Fine fine. No pressure, no worries.

A bigger, slightly older looking, blonde guard joined the conversation. “Yeah, they moved me down here last month when one of my detainees died on my watch. They took me off my regular post because they thought I was traumatized.” Spoken like standard office water cooler conversation. Although it didn't, of course, sound that way to me and Marci. We looked at her.

“Um, died . . . ?,” I said, wondering all the things you'd imagine I might be wondering.

“Oh, he just had a heart attack,” she reassured us. “It had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be there. But because he died – they thought I was traumatized!” She gave a little laugh and shook her head, like – how silly can these overprotective jail managers be?

The young Black woman looked up from searching around her desk for the visitor log. “Huh,” she said flatly. “I just had three hangings on my watch last week and they still made me finish out my night shift.” Then went back to looking for the visitor log.

And I felt like the ceiling opened up and dumped a ton of bricks onto my sense of normalcy, putting some good cracks into my taken-for-granteds as a highly educated, upper-middle class white woman.

Back to Beauty

Marci and I finally got signed in and went to set up for class. We knew that we had to acknowledge what we had just heard. “Three hangings?” Marci paused and looked at me.

“Yeah, I know . . . “

There wasn’t a lot of time to talk as class would start soon. And there wasn’t that much I felt we really needed to say. I sensed that we both felt the same shock of recognition, and were going through a parallel processing of it.

Then we each taught a yoga class, back to back, taking turns teaching and assisting. I got lucky; my group was particularly sweet. That sense of magic in the air that you feel in a good yoga class built and deepened. Tadasana, Tree, Cobra, Prayer. The women brought a level of focus and heart that connected me to the poses on an almost mythological level of feeling. Practicing with them was much deeper and more satisfying than what I’d hurried through that morning at home.

But William Blake had it all right:

Every night and every morn

Some to misery are born,

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie

When we see not thro' the eye,

Which was born in a night to perish in a night,

When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,