I’m a lifelong learner but what does that mean?

I went to school in the usual way, suburban public schools K-12, high school graduate, then I was accepted at the University of Connecticut at age 17 (this was an idiosyncrasy of my age, not an indication of any particular dedication to my studies).

Upon reflection, I realize that I didn’t really appreciate school during my first try at it. I muddled along as a C-average student for most of that time, never finishing college. Then, at the age of 18, my life was interrupted when I came to prison. In spite of this obstacle, I have never given up on learning, though my path certainly diverged from the traditional.

A little over 15years after I graduated high school I made my second attempt in academia. I applied for and was accepted into the lauded Wesleyan University Center for Prison Education (CPE) program. This program gives its incarcerated students the unique opportunity to engage in a premier liberal arts education.  I’ve heard (and I believe it) that this experience is comparable to what “on campus” students experience in both the breadth of knowledge and comprehension gained, as well as the quality and dedication of the faculty who teach here.

This program gives students the opportunity to earn associate’s and bachelor’s degrees equivalent to those earned by any other college student. These opportunities would not be possible without this program and, perhaps more importantly, the people who run this program. This entire endeavor is run on a shoestring budget with only four full-time faculty serving 20-times that many students across two correctional facilities.

Sadly, for these faculty, theirs is the epitome of a thankless job. Not because we (the incarcerated students) are ungrateful, more so because we can’t be. There is this tenuous, anxiety riven dynamic where the Department of Correction makes it abundantly clear that we (the incarcerated students) are “less.”

We are not students in the true sense of that word and we are not permitted to fully commit or engage in the educational experience because it can be taken from us (for myriad reasons) at any moment. We cannot engage with the faculty who run our program as coequal collaborators — because we are reminded day-in and day-out that we are not equals. We are prohibited from forming connections with these educators, both the professors who teach the individual courses and those crucial faculty members who keep this program actually running. Again, not by their choosing but, rather, because of archaic rules that prevent us from being treated as worthwhile, sincere participants.

And our faculty embody this pain and this heartache in a way that I don’t even want to begin to imagine. They wear their dedication — to us, to the program, to the very ideals of education — every day they come into these prisons. They cope with self-conscious anguish every time they walk out of these prisons, free, and we return to our cells, unfree.

As an adult learner, as a lifelong learner, I want more.  I want more for myself, for the people in my life, and society writ large. I believe in the ability of education to make us better people — more informed, more critically engaged in our world, and, yes, more compassionate.

A few years ago when I enrolled at Wesleyan, I was dubious as to the value or the purpose of a liberal arts education. It felt impractical. Through the grace of dedicated professors and even more dedicated program faculty, I have come to appreciate the ability to think for myself and to think with purpose. These skills are a direct product of that education.

To the teachers, professors, teacher’s assistants, and the faculty who support all forms of education, a sincere, heartfelt “thank you.”

To those same educators who support us,  the casual students and the lifelong learners, an apology. I apologize on behalf of myself and my peers.  I apologize for every missed opportunity to tell each of you just how much this education means. I apologize for every time you left the classroom feeling drained or dissatisfied. I apologize if I ever made you doubt your choice to educate. This process isn’t easy. This process is doubly difficult when attempted behind prison walls.

Yet, without you, our dedicated educators, our passionate faculty, we would be lost.

Now, after having read this, you may be under the mistaken belief that the educators in your life are immune from this brand of internalized distress because the schools, colleges, and universities in our state are wholly distinct from the unique challenges of a prison educational environment.  

I’ll suggest that you take pause and contemplate what it takes to educate. What are the stressors that these individuals endure — in and out — of the classroom? And how about the plethora of people behind the scenes, making it all work? What does it truly take to educate?

I wouldn’t trade my education for anything. I wouldn’t trade my educators for anyone. I’m just grateful that there are so many who care so much. Thank you.

Ian T. Cooke is incarcerated at the Cheshire Correctional Institution.