photo by: Courtesy of Brian Daldorph

Brian Daldorph is pictured with his book "Words is a Powerful Thing," which is about his experiences teaching creative writing at the Douglas County Jail.

Brian Daldorph walked into the classroom at the Douglas County Jail to teach his first inmate writing group nearly 20 years ago. He did not anticipate that he’d repeat the ritual for approximately a thousand Thursdays — spending afternoons with a group of inmates who wanted to write poetry.

Daldorph, who teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Kansas, says his jail students were twice as engaged as his university students. He thinks the extra enthusiasm could partly be explained by the boredom inmates endure. But also, many inmates had lost jobs, friends and family, and writing allowed them to put feelings of loss, anger and regret into words — words that might carry meaning for others.

Daldorph has written about his experience leading the inmate writing group in a book called “Words is a Powerful Thing” — a phrase coined by an inmate in 2017 — which he will read from at 7 p.m. Wednesday during a virtual event hosted by the Raven Book Store. The event can be accessed via the events tab on the store’s website, www.ravenbookstore.com.

Daldorph’s book is a hybrid of sorts: a collection of his essays on correctional facility failures, the power of writing, inmate personalities and classroom dynamics, as well as inmates’ poetry, volunteer reflections and Daldorph’s own story on teaching.

“I thought it was important to have a record of this class and what we’ve done over the years,” Daldorph says. “Most of this would be lost. The whole purpose of the book was to leave some record of what we’d done, for us, but also an example for what other people might do.”

Mike Caron, former programs director at the jail, says the writing workshop was both a novelty and a treasure.

“There are quite a few prison writing programs, but it’s relatively rare to have a jail writing class,” Caron says. “Inmates who have spent time in jail, they learn they can’t trust anybody. That lesson gets beaten over their head all the time, and getting into a classroom where they’re sharing stuff that’s really important to them, that changes the dynamic so much. I’ve seen people talk about things they would never talk about. They come to share those things, to have that trust.”

Both Daldorph and Caron believe the workshop changed inmates’ lives in various ways. Because the workshop took place in a jail setting, not a prison, the inmates were sometimes there for only a short period. But while there, inmates were given writing prompts and time to explore the depths of their experience, an activity that seemed to enliven them.

“The poems are far from simple and have important things to say not only about jail life but also about human experience in general,” Daldorph writes. “There were just certain writers in the class that were just really good. They had important things to say, and they were examples to the class. In a way, they kind of selected themselves.”

Daldorph broke his class into three parts: a read-through of poetry from the week before, a free-writing period and a read-through of poems written during class. Each Thursday inmates had the opportunity to read their work aloud to the class. Somewhat surprisingly, most inmates did.

Avoiding revision and critique, techniques used in his college writing courses, Daldorph recognized that the chaotic, “rambunctious” atmosphere of the jail wasn’t conducive for collegiate-level feedback. And Daldorph identified that emphasizing grammar and syntax would likely erode inmates’ interest in writing. Perfectly polished prose was never the goal, though inmates often produced poetry that resonated emotionally, he said.

Inmates got excited during the free-writing sessions.

“There’s a sort of energy in the air — easy to feel, hard to explain,” Daldorph says. “It rises, rises, peaks around 22 minutes, then fast declines.”

To maintain order in the classroom, Caron enforced a strict set of rules: Inmates weren’t allowed to write about their cases, use racist language, glorify criminal life, disrespect women or use the N-word. Caron also forbade inmates from calling anyone a snitch in writing, or in conversation. To Caron, the word “snitch” carries with it the possibility of violent attack when used on another inmate.

On one occasion, an inmate scuffle could have ended the writing group. Two inmates had been antagonizing each other throughout the class, and in a culminating moment they stood and squared off, fists raised and clenched. The first words that came to Daldorph’s mind burst forth:

“Don’t ruin this class! It’s a good class for all of us!”

The inmates remained standing and tense, but eventually softened and sat down just as a police officer came to check in on the commotion. For some time after that, the group was able to keep meeting — until the coronavirus pandemic hit, and the jail shut down its writing workshop. It has been defunct since March 2020 because of health precautions.

Mourning the loss of his Thursday ritual, Daldorph remains grateful that he was able to lead the group as long as he did, allowing inmates the gift of reflection and showing them that writing is for all of us.

“The whole experience of being in jail, it slows (inmates) down, gives them time to think,” Daldorph says. “Some of the guys, there is such a great revelation that they can do this — write about their lives and have it hold significance for other people.”