Three days a week, Jonathan Castro heads to the library of Northwest State Correctional Facility in St. Albans to learn what he calls "high-class words." In a humble classroom where self-help and fantasy volumes line the walls, the 33-year-old is acquiring the fundamental reading and writing skills he never mastered growing up.
Castro is quick to admit that when he was younger, he didn't apply himself as a student. A Spanish speaker who was born in Puerto Rico, he was embarrassed by his poor English after moving to Massachusetts at age 10. He got kicked out of high school on the second day, he said, after throwing a water bottle at a teacher. He turned to dealing drugs, following in his father's footsteps.
After 11 months of basic literacy classes in prison, "I wake up every morning excited to learn," Castro said. "I like writing. I like seeing progress. Before this, I would just guess at how to spell things."
Castro sometimes thinks about what it would be like to go back to school, knowing then what he knows now.
"I'd be in the front-row seat, raising my hand," he said.
Castro is one of more than 600 incarcerated individuals who are learning behind bars at Vermont's six correctional facilities. Though some prison educational programs have long been available, they were limited in recent years due to COVID-19 protocols. Now, the Department of Corrections is rebuilding its educational offerings, with a renewed focus on literacy skills and a recently launched initiative that offers credits from the Community College of Vermont. Studies have found that inmates who take classes while in prison are significantly less likely to reoffend.
DOC educators say learning in prison provides additional benefits. It enables incarcerated individuals to understand reading material that may be part of a court-ordered treatment program. It helps them follow societal expectations when they are released. It shows potential employers that they used their time in jail wisely. And it boosts feelings of belonging and accomplishment.
Some inmates, such as Castro, are taking classes in foundational skills designed to help them become more literate. Others work toward a high school diploma through the Community High School of Vermont, an independent, accredited secondary school within the corrections department that was established through state statute in 1998. Still others take career and technical education courses on topics such as construction, information technology and food services.
The RAND Corporation found that inmates who participated in correctional education programs were 43 percent less likely to return to prison than those who didn't. For every $1 invested in prison education programs, the study found, there is a $4 to $5 reduction in incarceration costs during the first three years after an inmate's release.
Vermont is spending nearly $4 million on prison education programs this fiscal year, not including the college courses, which are federally funded.
Jeanne Smith, literacy specialist for the Community High School of Vermont, said many of the students she works with come from backgrounds marked by trauma and instability and did not have the opportunity to learn when they were younger. A large percentage were in special education or spent time in foster care.
"Whatever age they are, they've thought of themselves in a certain way," Smith said, "and this is going to change how they see themselves and change how their children see them."
Upon intake, every inmate is given a series of assessments to gauge academic skills in reading and math. Those who fall below a certain score are referred for further testing. Often, they are enrolled in a foundational reading program.
Smith, who has taught in the Community High School of Vermont for 12 years, has worked to improve that program. Prior to her arrival, literacy instructors used a patchwork of methods. Now, they adhere to structured literacy, a science-based approach meant to ensure that students have a strong foundation in phonemic awareness, the ability to identify the sounds in words; and phonics, the ability to connect those sounds to print.
Smith teaches in a step-by-step, systematic way, using the Orton-Gillingham method and Wilson Reading System curriculum, which are also used in a number of K-12 schools in Vermont. Last year, a Seven Days cover story detailed how those schools are increasingly returning to this proven method over the more contemporary balanced literacy approach amid declining reading test scores.
At the Northwest State Correctional Facility last month, words scrawled on a whiteboard hanging in the library provided examples of structured literacy: those with short and long vowel sounds, different syllable types, and pairs of homophones such as "beat" and "beet."
Three mornings a week, Castro and two fellow inmates meet there with Smith to learn vocabulary, how to sound out and spell words, and sentence construction.
Smith, who worked in public and private schools for about three decades before joining the Department of Corrections, said she builds trust with students by listening to their stories and focusing on their humanity rather than the mistakes that landed them in prison. She is quick to praise them when they show up to class, ask questions and apply themselves to their work.
"I think everyone in America deserves a chance," Smith said, "and if I have a chance to help someone who didn't learn ... I am privileged to be able to do that."
In turn, Castro, the most gregarious of the group, calls Smith "the best lady you'll find."
He hasn't always been so fond of his teachers. After being kicked out of high school in Massachusetts, Castro, who sports tight braids and tattoos on his neck and knuckles, was tutored at home, but the arrangement didn't last long. While in prison, he's taken several food-service certification courses. He said he'd like to open a Spanish restaurant one day. He feels the program has given him the English skills and confidence to do it.
Another student came to the U.S. from Kenya nearly two decades ago, when he was 22. He graduated from high school there, he said, but when he arrived in the U.S., he moved frequently and wasn't able to find a job that paid well. After taking classes in prison, he's now thinking about the future — possibly pursuing classes at the Community College of Vermont and starting his own office-cleaning business.
A third inmate, 21, said he bounced around different foster homes in Vermont. As a student who qualified for special education, he was slow to process information and had a hard time focusing on his work, he said. He is just three classes short of a high school diploma.
Mary Poulos, who has taught and supervised education within the Department of Corrections for 33 years, said the sense of hope that taking classes in prison provides is the most meaningful part of her work.
There are unique challenges, though. State statute requires inmates between ages 18 and 23 to participate in prison education, but some are reluctant at first, Poulos said. Furthermore, because the prison population is transient, instruction often gets disrupted. If an inmate is segregated for breaking the rules, he is not allowed to attend class during that time.
The Department of Corrections is working to strengthen its connection with Vermont Adult Learning — a statewide organization that helps Vermonters over 16 earn their GEDs or high school diplomas and develop workforce skills — so that those who wish to continue with their education when they get out of prison have an easier time doing so.
Around 72 percent of inmates enrolled in prison educational programs do not have a high school diploma. It's standard practice for Department of Corrections staff to request a transcript from the last school they attended and help them complete the courses they need to graduate, typically in a one-on-one or small-group format.
Those who earn their diploma while in prison — about 25 students each year — are honored with a ceremony. Smith likens those events to "a ray of sunshine coming into a very dark place."
Spectators are often emotional. At times, they give standing ovations. On at least one occasion, a graduate's lawyer broke into tears, Smith recalled.
The celebrations are small. But, as in a traditional graduation, family members attend and honorees don caps and gowns. Pictures are taken, and cake is served. Prison staff make sure that fellow inmates are invited — so they can see what is possible.