Walking up to the complex on Sunday evening, I couldn’t help but notice the beauty, both of the nature and of the buildings. It was a foggy evening, and the mist descended on the mountains above Allenwood Low Security Correctional Institution, the sun getting caught in the clouds and setting the whole valley in a light gray haze. Through the double layer of barbed wire fencing my eye was caught by the low reddish-orange brick buildings with their green slanted roofs and the open grassy fields in between them. After bringing our shofar and Torah through a security check, we followed the chaplain up a sidewalk bisecting those grass fields to the chapel on the other side of the complex.
I was excited for the opportunity to spend Yom Kippur in prison because I often struggle with the long, repetitive hours of davening. I was looking forward to escaping the confines of the machzor and the Hillel MPR (though ironically that led me to a prison).
A few minutes later, 12 or so inmates walked in. “Shalom aleichem,” smiled a middle aged inmate who introduced himself as Moshe. “Aleichem shalom,” I smiled back. The halachically Jewish cadre was made up of four Israelis, two Russians, and one American. They were followed by a few others who had either found Judaism in prison or had just decided to come along.
I realized two things over the course of the day, though at different times. The first realization hit me fairly quickly: how much I missed being in shul. I missed the chorus of voices singing together the melodies I’ve come to expect and love, and having the whole day to myself to think and reflect. My Yom Kippur getaway was not the escape I hoped it would be.
The second realization took almost the entire day to land. This was an experience I’d been looking forward to for weeks, so I had formed a lot of expectations in anticipation about what it would be like. I was hoping we’d spend the day talking about our lives and our families and have deep, philosophical conversations about forgiveness. I realized those expectations were incredibly inhibiting because it didn’t let me appreciate what we were doing. When our conversations stayed on topics like alternative energy and the TV show Chicago Fire I found myself getting frustrated. Even on those topics, it felt like I was pushing to get people talking.
It took me until Mincha to really internalize and appreciate what I was doing there. It was something an inmate, Erez, had said to me hours earlier: you can’t begin to understand how much it means to us that you’re here; anything that reminds us of home and our families and our traditions means everything to us. Once that clicked, everything else fell into place.
All the pressure I had put on myself fell away. Suddenly our conversations felt more organic and even turned to topics of forgiveness and cleanliness and meditation. I remember smiling as Moshe blew the shofar, having finally realized that my presence and smile spoke volumes louder than the tefillot and discussions.
Below are a few short exchanges I had that offer some unique humanity to the inmates I met:
Chigbo: “Are you sure you weren’t here last year?”
Me: “Uhh yeah”
Chigbo: “Was there someone here who looked like you?”
Me: “Ari Porter? He looks a bit like me with the dark hair and glasses but he’s jacked.”
Chigbo: “Yes!”
–
Me: “Have you all been liking the pacing of the prayer services we’re leading?”
Osher: “We like anything you guys do. We’re what you would call a ‘captive audience.’”
–
Me: “Denis, do you have more family still in Russia besides your mother?”
Denis: “I have a brother, but he’s sitting right next to me!” (pointing and laughing at Igor sitting right next to him).
–
Osher: (to me) “So you want to go into politics?”
Denis: “Maybe you can make some changes to the prison system.”
Osher: “You know we have a senator here. Bob Menendez.”
Denis: “But you’d never recognize him, he lost so much weight. He walks like 10 miles a day here.”
