Beyond Bars celebrates writing and writers reaching out from inside prison walls

Louise K. Waakaa'igan reading her poems at Beyond Bars: Voices of Incarceration. (Frank Zufall/Wisconsin Examiner)

Louise K. Waakaa’igan, a poet and member of the Anishinaabe (Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Chippewa) tribe in Sawyer County, Wisconsin, spent 16 years at the Shakopee women’s prison on the outskirts of the Twin Cities. Waakaa’igan was one of the 19 writers featured at a program called Beyond Bars: Voices of Incarceration.
The event, held on Oct. 24 at Hamline University in St. Paul, was the 15th public reading organized by the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop, made possible by a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board.
Some of the writers, like Waakaa’igan, had been released and now have jobs on the outside. Waakaa’igan is the event coordinator at Lac Courte Oreilles Ojibwe University in Wisconsin. Others are still incarcerated and their writings were read by other authors or by a writing mentor or instructor.
More than 500 people filled the large, open venue at Hamline University overlooking the campus. The mood was upbeat. Writers who had recently been released got standing ovations, and all who had spent time in prison received flowers.

Waakaa’igan, who has participated in several of the past events since 2020, said she started writing when she was young as a way to “survive early adolescence,” but had stopped writing as an adult until she was in prison and a volunteer group encouraged her to start writing again in 2004.
“That’s really where my voice solidified, where I had an actual writing community for the first time in my life,” she said. “Just a circle of writers where we would give each other feedback, where we’d be able to share, learn different aspects and different pieces of the craft, which was really beneficial.”
In 2014 Jennifer Bowen, the founder of the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop, came to Shakopee, and helped expand the prison writing program with support from a large group of mentors who give feedback to incarcerated writers and instructors who teach in the prisons and provide a “creative community” to encourage writers.
“It’s just a creative, collaborative, supporting community that recognizes the writer, whether they’re incarcerated or not, recognizes the writer as an essential part of our creative life,” Waakaa’igan said of the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop.
Bowen spoke of her appreciation for the writers and those who came out to support them.

“The incarcerated writers you all have sent thousands, literally thousands, of notes of feedback to, have long written under pressure, under surveillance, and toward change,” she said. “They’ve told us stories about 600 days in segregation, about surviving the Khmer Rouge, about missing their daughter on her birthday every single year for 21 years. Many of those writers are home now, joining us as citizen artists on pages and stages and in the streets, showing up to offer change as artists and the art when it’s most needed, which is now. And they are building nonprofits that connect and organize and heal this community.”
The readings kicked off with a student introduction by an incarcerated writer named Andrew (read by Tarik Dobbs) who described himself as serving more than one life sentence. He recounted not caring about writing when he joined a workshop in prison just to pass the time, but then found something more:
“Writing gave me my life back, or at least made my fate and future possible, tolerable. And more often than one might think, for someone serving multiple life sentences, enjoyable — the kind of joy and serenity only possible when one finds a sense of purpose, a reason for being. For me, this meant, in some part, the self-expression, the catharsis that comes from any writing, as small as one word on a post note or a magnum opus on the meaning of the universe.”
Waakaa’igan read “East of Cicero,” a poem that recalls memories of abuse and struggles experienced after leaving the reservation:
“The year was 1999. They just buried half my identity. I refused to attend the ceremony after talking with Ni maama (Ojibwe word for mother). Instead, I sat in the dark, carving scars on my anemic body, dirtying my pale skin blending tears with Mad Dog 20/20, burning stale cigarettes in my nephew’s sandbox. I began driving alone back then, replacing reservation roads for out-of-state freeways…I met my first demon there on I-94 east of Cicero. He silenced me like those drunk hands did in Six Mile. I laughed as I flicked my Newport out the window. I’m not a little girl anymore. I bragged. I’ll fight back this time. It was his turn to laugh, and he did, mimicking that drunken slur that left boozy saliva on my five-year-old body? …It wasn’t until I slept in that cement cell block in Minnesota that he let my tears dry on their own. Those saltless tears pulled next to me on that cement floor pitied me, just as that demon den east of Cicero.”

Commenting on her poem, she said, “There are traumatic events in people’s lives, that I think, unfortunately, happen when we’re young that we learn how to recover and heal from, and I’m not exempt from that, and there have been things that have happened in my life that I’m still trying to recover and heal from, and my writing has definitely been a way to make sense of some of that and move on and heal in a way.”
She also read a poem written in prison about the place that shaped her:
“…I’m from Packer games on Sundays, Greyhound trips for Christmas, and Easter baskets with Karla. I’m from women with the same last name and a father none of us knew. I’m from the woods, northern, where pines and birch bark blanket both ends of tribal roads, paved and gravel. I’m from a single parent household. Michael Jackson cassette tapes, Purple Rain posters, and latchkey kids. Title V programs, commods (commodities, federal government issued food) on pantry shelves, cucumbers from Grandpa Jake’s garden and a mean ol’ dog named Turkey. I’m from ‘crying won’t change anything,’ and ‘you should have known better.’ I’m from punitive silence and where it’s normal, hugs are warm, forced Catholicism still weighs heavy on Imam’s shoulders. This is where I will always return.”
The poem, she said, was a kind of “sweet lamentation,” of the place she couldn’t return to because of incarceration.
Von Johnson, a writer recently released from prison and now on supervision, read his poem “Here Now!” describing the hardships in prison and then being released into society where he was adjusting to the freedom, figuring out who he spend his free time with, learning new technology, enjoying his first savoy steak, but also the continued accountability to the criminal justice system living with an ankle monitor:

“I have to fill out a pass to go everywhere, even to come here tonight. Noting the time to leave, how long the drive will take, the moment I arrive, the purpose of being in each destination. My selfie game is out of control, except there’s always some address or giant logo next to my face to identify that I reached my destination, as if this ankle monitor wasn’t enough, right? How long I will stay, the minute I leave, my travel time, the next logo-slash-address field, you get the picture. I have to have permission to see my mother. Rules on how long I can hold my significant other, but I guess I’m here now. I need permission to drive a car, own a car. I’m not allowed to finance a car. Hell, get into a car. But I’m here now…”
Mark Altenhofen, called Red because he formerly had a red beard, read his poem, “Do you remember,” written in prison upon learning a life-long friend outside was dying of leukemia:
“…Do you remember the feel of fist against flesh when we fought? The bitter tears on our lips with “I love you” and “I’m sorry” still foreign to us. Do you remember tumbling through the dust, our blood mixing with it until we fell side by side, too exhausted to do anything but laugh? Your mom compared us to Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. We acted out the stories written until we nearly drowned…”
After his reading, Altenhofen talked about how the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop helps remind people in prison that “we’re still human beings.” That is “huge,” he said, “because it’s really easy to lose your humanity in there, and to be reminded we’re still people. We still have people that care about us, and there’s a community out here we can come back to. … It gives us something to hold onto and to look forward to, and to make ourselves better men.”
He added, “I was one of those guys I didn’t know how to talk about emotions. I treated emotions like I was a diabetic and that was sugary cereal for kids.” Writing, he said, was “a way to get to deal with the stuff I never had a chance to deal with, I never had the courage to talk to anybody about.”
Peter Schilling has mentored seven writers through the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop. He said writers in prison often are processing their experience in a way that helps them cope. He noted one of his mentees wrote a Western, with wide open spaces that speak of unrestricted freedom as a counterpoint to his confinement, and another wrote a horror, modeled on a Steven King novel, transposing real struggles into the stories of fictional characters.

Michael Kleber-Diggs, a writing instructor in prisons since 2015 and board president for Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop, said the evening event represented an effort to “transcend prison walls and reach the community,” and also to “tear down the distinction between incarcerated writers and community writers.”
One of the evening’s last offerings was an original song written by a man named Will, who had recently been released. He performed “Among these voices,” an anthem to living courageously: “Justice, burn my lips come roaring off my tongue. Set me alight to set me free. This tide has risen to make many voices one. Among those voices you’ll find me.”





















