Personal transformation is a lifelong journey. Mine began in a WA prison | Opinion
What was the “aha” moment that pushed me to change my life?
About a decade ago, a judge joined a gathering of incarcerated men at the Monroe Correctional Complex and asked us to reflect on this question. We were there for a meeting of the Concerned Lifers Organization — a group focused on improving prison conditions, raising awareness about how we ended up behind bars, and giving back to a world we’d taken far too much from. Personal transformation had become an animating force in many of our lives. But very few of us had tried to pinpoint the exact event that put us on a different trajectory.
At that time, I had served about 10 years of a 45-year sentence for taking a life during a drug robbery gone bad. I was different than the 22-year-old who made that devastating decision, but I couldn’t say when that shift had begun. Not having an answer sometimes made me question my transformation. If it was so profound, shouldn’t I know the exact moment it started?
I spent the next few weeks determined to find the answer. Eventually, it hit me: There was no single event that put me on the path toward change. This is perhaps how change looks for many people — less an epiphany of self-discovery than a gradual progression. Hard work allowed me to move away from a life of causing harm to one of healing and loving those around me. With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see the broad themes of my journey.
First, I had to come to terms with my past trauma. Trauma can be a heavy bag to carry. It often leads people to treat others the way they’ve been treated. In other words, hurt people hurt people. For years, I detached from society and pushed down the harmful things I had experienced. I felt like my safety and life didn’t matter — like I was alone in this world, existing only to survive.
It’s difficult for people in survival mode to take accountability for the harm they cause, as the hurt they’ve experienced often becomes a justification. It was only by processing my past trauma that I was able to see the pain I had inflicted. This opened the door to accountability, which, in turn, allowed me to focus on healing, transformation and atoning for my past mistakes.
Next, I had to work on my self-esteem. Growing up in an impoverished, over-policed neighborhood, my early entanglements with the legal system caused me to fall behind in school. When I believed I was the dumbest person in the room, I had no reason to try to reach my full potential. I knew how to make money selling drugs. I had no idea what else I was capable of.
Inspired by other guys in my prison who had begun their own journeys, I finally gave education a real shot in my twenties. I quickly learned that I was, in fact, smart enough to excel in school. I just needed someone to water my seed so I could grow.
In 2017, when I received my college degree, I was asked to give a speech in front of a room full of classmates, professors and loved ones, including my family and friends. I felt proud and honored to have reached an accomplishment I never thought possible.
Putting my mind to something and achieving it helped me build the confidence to be my own leader. So many of my past mistakes came from wanting to fit in or going along with something I knew was wrong because it was the path of least resistance. Today, I feel strong enough in myself to reject the shallow need for external validation and make decisions I know are right for me, my loved ones and my community.
Writing about transformative growth in prisons is difficult because much of my transformation occurred despite — not because of — the criminal legal system. I’ve read the Washington Department of Corrections slogan, “Working Together for SAFER Communities,” more times than I can count. I still struggle to understand what the department means by that and what it provides in service of that goal.
The prisons I’ve been inside are violent, dehumanizing spaces that have severely limited my opportunities for growth and given me endless reasons to doubt my self-worth. I am indebted to the other prisoners who have mentored me and given me a sense of community, as well as the volunteers who helped me access educational classes and training. These resources are invaluable for rehabilitation. But as I learned during the early days of the pandemic, they are far from guaranteed. Positive programming has been slow to reemerge in recent years, as prisons continue to use COVID-19 as a reason to further isolate the incarcerated.
Today, I follow the path of those who stepped up to mentor me while I grew into the person I am now. In turn, I try my best to be a model for others. But we can’t leave prisoners to figure this out on their own, hoping that a moment of inspiration will put them on a path toward change — especially as toxic prison environments make transformation less likely.
If the DOC is to fulfill its mantra of “working together for SAFER Communities,” it must invest robustly in these resources, knowing full well that there are no shortcuts to personal transformation.
This is difficult, often lifelong work — a marathon, not a sprint.
But the journey is well worth the effort.
Christopher Blackwell is an incarcerated journalist and the executive director of Look2justice.org, an organization centered on empowering incarcerated voices through civic engagement. Blackwell grew up in Tacoma and has been in prison since he was 22; he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 45 years in prison for taking the life of another person during a 2003 drug robbery. His work has been featured in the New York Times, The Washington Post and the Boston Globe. Blackwell writes a monthly column with The Appeal centered on aspects of the carceral system. The column also appears in The News Tribune and McClatchy’s other Washington papers.
