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You probably know that some books don’t politely knock. They show up, sit down, and make themselves very comfortable – sometimes at a level that makes us really uncomfortable. But that discomfort is necessary. These books might unsettle you. They might haunt you. They might leave you feeling some type of way - and then leave you feeling that way for a while.

To encapsulate their summer spent at Freedom Reads, our interns reflected on experiences that were both deeply personal and profoundly connected to the organization’s mission. A shared sentiment ran through each of their reflections: gratitude for the opportunity to contribute to meaningful work and admiration for the passion of the Freedom Reads team. At the same time, each intern brought a distinct perspective, shaped by the projects they took on and the memories they carried away.

Everyone who has ever been given a state number has a story of a cell door closing. And too often the stories that make it out from behind those closed cell doors are of sorrow. The sorrow of so many become the substance of films and of folklore, of the narratives of men like Malcolm X or Nathan McCall or Petey Greene or Merle Haggard or a half‑a‑dozen men in Bruce Springsteen songs. So many of us with debts no honest man can pay. I think of Susan Burton or Angela Davis or the many women I’ve met as I’ve walked back into prisons, their names less well known, but their struggles no less visceral. And yet, the thing less known than all those stories is how often an open book leads to shifting someone’s life—even for simply the span of time it takes to get from that first page to the last.

Why do some people love certain books that other people really can’t stand?  That may seem a weird question -- some people like Brussel sprouts and other people hate them, some people like to watch the news or the weather channel or romcoms and other people avoid all that as much as they can, some people love jazz music and others find it boring. To each their own.But when it comes to literature and other works of art, the way that people respond can have deeper meaning.

I was so honored, grateful, and deeply moved to be invited to speak at the Inside Literary Prize event on July 10, 2025. Not so long ago, within the walls of prison, loneliness was my constant companion. Isolation had become my reality, and hope felt like a distant memory. Each day felt heavier than the last.

At Freedom Reads, Allie serves as our Development Manager—but she’ll be the first to tell you that title only scratches the surface. Her work goes far beyond fundraising. From writing grant proposals to engaging with our Library Patrons, Allie is a key part of bringing our mission to life. She’s traveled to all 15 stops of the Inside Literary Prize tour this year, helping collect stories, discuss books, and take photos.

Once, I wrote that I met my fathers again. It’s the kind of thing that feels particular to men of my age, who grew up in the wake of the crack epidemic. Some say war on drugs, and I understand this - but it was crack cocaine that left the fathers of my youth’s eyes vacant, from a high of money or the ache of not having it. Inside, I met so many of us, barely older than me or much older, lost inside prisons from all the attendant ways that accumulating weight left us lost: murder, robbery, drug dealing. And inside, when we were sober, no longer fighting over blocks, turning to whatever gave us hope, sometimes, I swear, we saw more possible in each other than Galileo saw in the night sky.

On May 15, the team was in New Jersey at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women for a celebratory day talking about books. The team spread out across the women’s facility – some working with the judges for the Inside Literary Prize, the first major book prize in the United States selected solely by people in prison; some opening more than a dozen Freedom Libraries for those Inside; and, the rest of us helping me prepare to give a poetry reading from my latest poetry collection, Doggerel. We brought the women gifts: the Freedom Edition, a specially published paperback created in partnership with W.W. Norton. See, most prisons do not allow hardback books to enter for safety reasons. The Freedom Edition is a statement of support from my publisher and everyone who donates money that ensures those Inside can read Doggerel at the same time as the rest of us. And quiet as kept, my reading at Edna Mahan was so much joy.

The 2025 Inside Literary Prize orientation sessions kicked off with an esteemed cohort of Inside Judges! Across 13 prisons in five states and Puerto Rico, over 300 incarcerated individuals stepped into the role of judges and are taking part in an initiative that elevates the voice and agency of those locked up. With these four books in hand, Chain-Gang All-Stars, On a Woman's Madness, This Other Eden, and Blackouts, these sessions, both virtual and in-person, were not just about preparing judges for the task ahead, selecting a book they felt the world needed to read, but about creating a space where their voices, perspectives, and experiences could be amplified and recognized. The men and women Inside are central to the conversation about literature in America.

This year, something extraordinary happened. A group of ten individuals from all across the country came together to decide the shortlisted titles for the Inside Literary Prize 2025. But here’s the thing—this wasn’t just any group of book lovers. Our Selection Committee was a unique blend of people from the Inside: prison librarians, formerly incarcerated folks, and the incredible members of the Freedom Reads team (yes, yours truly included). Together, we embarked on a two-month journey that was far more than just reading—it was about connection, reflection, and reclaiming the power of stories.

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.

This story was published in partnership with Prison Journalism Project, a national nonprofit organization which trains incarcerated writers in journalism and publishes their work. Sign up for PJP’s newsletter, follow them on Instagram or connect with them on LinkedIn.