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I remember my first holiday meal in prison. I’d just turned eighteen-years-old a few weeks before, my second of eight birthdays Inside. I was at Southampton Correctional Center in Capron, Virginia. There are still a lot of folks I remember who would have been in the chow hall that day, some I still talk to. Fats, Star, Divine, Smoke. That dinner, they served Cornish hens. I didn’t know what that was then but knew it was delicious. Later found out these hens are juvenile chickens particularly tender for eating.

A full moon cast a wintry bright light over London while people from all over the world hurried across cobblestoned streets to the seasonal sound of Christmas. Street-corner Santas held gleaming brass bells which they shook endlessly in the cold night. From high-end boutiques glittering up and down and all around in silver and gold, to the pipe smoking vendor selling bourbon laced eggnog with candy cane mixers, to the church choir singing “We Three Kings” beneath a Victorian-era lamppost, the scene in London was about one thing: Christmas. The holiday was here, large and in charge. It was holding the candle of religion in one hand, while balancing the candle of commercialization in the other. Whether or not you or anyone else was in the mood for Christmas, the sights and sounds of the city in December were doing their level best to get you there.

In October, Freedom Reads received over 100 letters from people who are incarcerated, our first time crossing this milestone. For someone like me, who spent seven days short of 30 years in prison, sleeping in 11 different facilities across two states, this milestone is deeply personal. I know firsthand the power of a letter, the way it can pierce through the isolation and remind someone Inside that they are still seen, still valued, still connected to the outside world…still somebody.

Without me knowing it, prison became the center of my life. I have thought about what a prison cell does to a man for more consecutive days than I have contemplated what it means to be a good man, let alone a father. Sometimes, I imagine that prison has become more than a metaphor, but the literal antecedent to every move I make. It’s a lonely place.

This fall, Freedom Reads welcomed two University of Michigan PhD student fellows to the team. Meet Carina and Ryan below, and read on to hear about their experience working with Freedom Reads and what they will take away from their time here.

​​My first day at Freedom Reads, I teared up upon walking through the front door. Greeting me in the middle of the open space, beckoning me to fully step into the wooden warmth decorating the walls and floor was the free-floating Freedom Library, filled to the brim with books familiar and new. I had never been in such close proximity to something so beautiful that I could actually touch. The hundreds of books that sat upon those curving shelves left me speechless, and the bookworm in me who grew up with limited access to books felt genuinely giddy at seeing so many books I could pick out at any time and read.

I’ve learned that some of us, with these two ears of ours, though parallel and balanced, still hear like owls – with a particular precision. Owls have ears that almost function as longitude and latitude. At forty miles per hour and over three feet of freshly fallen snow, an owl can swoop down and locate the heart pulse of a mole twelve inches buried in white. I am humbled by that necessary focus. And though my brain is scattered as some memories might be, my receptors are finely tuned to decipher, and sometimes only this, complicated text into the reasons I am not loved.

Robert Lee Williams is a journalist and poet. His work has been published by Literary Hub, PEN America, Plough Quarterly (United States/and Germany), and Slate. Williams is serving his 15th year of incarceration in New York.

This is what David Foster Wallace says – the only choice we get is what we worship. And for many years, I have worshipped a Janus-Faced G-d. The G-d of Silence and the G-d of Discontent. I've probably worshipped other g-ds as well, maybe we all have. But these days I think a lot about silence and discontent. It's wild, too, in a way, as someone recently said to me, Dwayne, I'm surprised you complain about anything, look at how charmed your life is.

In a recent trip Inside, there was a day that radiated with unexpected joy and connection. It was a special event organized by Freedom Reads. As you may know, our organization is dedicated to bringing the transformative power of literature to incarcerated individuals. The air was thick with anticipation as the day’s discussions unfolded. The inaugural Inside Literary Prize was at the forefront, with thoughtful conversations about why these titles mattered and how they could resonate with those behind bars and the world.

Freedom Reads was back at it again, opening 42 Freedom Libraries in three Connecticut prisons: MacDougall-Walker Correctional Institution, Cybulski Community Reintegration Center, and Cheshire Correctional Institution. Prison numbers 36, 37, and 38 visited since my release 22 months ago from seven days short of 30 years Inside. For those of us formerly incarcerated in Connecticut on the Freedom Reads team—Kevin, Mike, Jimmy, David, and myself—these places held memories, both painful and transformative.

For years I’ve had a gripe with the ACLU. During the winter of 1998, the same winter that I became a poet, my friend Markeese Turnage and I wrote a letter to the ACLU asking for legal help. Keese had been sentenced to more than sixty years in prison. He didn’t have a rape, murder, or robbery conviction. Instead, he’d wrangled an officer’s gun from him and attempted to turn it on himself. The gun never went off. No one was hurt. He was 17 years old. For Christmas that year, the ACLU sent us a form letter back. And today, Keese is still incarcerated. I’d used his story to get myself admitted to Yale Law School; I’d used his story to get him a lawyer once I was a graduate of the same. And still, years later, he is inside, as loss after loss accumulates.