Kelsey Sutton 10/12/2013
The Art of Debate Behind Bars Heavy gates clacked like roller coasters, then crashed shut, as she passed through the various checkpoints, usually catching inmates at a transition point as they walked from their cells to the yard. She never imagined having a summer job at a maximum-security penitentiary, teaching men dressed in jumpsuits how to frame effective arguments. Despite metal detectors, several secure gates and even a disclaimer, she wasn't fazed by the unusual task. At the Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem, 20-year-old Linfield College student Megan Schwab taught a summer class on the art of debate. Every Monday for nine weeks, inmates filed into the classroom and listened intently to what Schwab had to say. Schwab admits she was apprehensive at first, unsure of what to expect. There she stood, a young, blonde, bubbly woman, expecting these men to respect her knowledge. She wondered, will they be negative or badly behaved people? After all, some of these men have already been in prison for 20 years or more, and some will be spending the last of their days in prison. "These are individuals who broke the law, and not necessarily in a small way," she said. "You don't know what kind of people you're dealing with. So I was definitely on my guard at first. "I didn't want to label people as all bad, because there are different situations. But it's always in the back of your mind. Of course, I was a little more open-minded than most, because I was there to teach a nine-week course." To her surprise, the eight men in her class were eager to go above and beyond to learn. In a tall room with painted murals and chain-link windows,
guards kept watch as relaxed inmates soaked up all the information she had to offer. Schwab said she didn't teach them how to argue, be intelligent or have opinions. That was already in place. She just gave them a a forum where their voices could be heard and tools to give those voices impact. "They were all such intelligent people, with ideas that I often didn't understand or that baffled me," she said. She taught them how to articulate their arguments in a productive way, which for some inmates might not be second nature. She wanted to provide them with a forum for debating that allowed them to express their ideas and thoughts openly, without fear of recrimination. The prison hosts a chapter of the worldwide public speaking club Toastmasters. However, the club does not have a formal debate component. So Jackson Miller, debate coach at Linfield College, offered his services. The program grew quickly. He needed to launch an advanced class, but didn't have the time to also continue with the introductory class. Miller approached Schwab about taking it on. Having briefly taught debate in China, she was excited about the opportunity. "This was going to be an outlet for me to teach people who are willing to do so and expressed interest," she said. "I saw it as an opportunity to break down these ideas I had about certain people, and I was curious. They don't have a voice in our society, and I wanted to know what they thought about these issues that we debate." "The examples the guys always liked were ones they wanted to discuss themselves, and they were more passionate about those topics, such as decriminalization of drugs, rehabilitative versus retributive justice and capital punishment. But I wanted to broaden their scope of ideas with issues that weren't necessarily on their back doorstep."
The inmates, polite and distant at first, soon developed a friendship with the bright and outgoing Schwab. They became more open, talking about their lives and experiences, especially relating to debate topics. She said, "Sometimes in a debate round, they'd be talking about what they did that got them here. They'd say, 'You don't know crap about stealing cars. That's what I did. That's what landed me in here!'" Schwab said things will come out in that way sometimes, but she doesn't think it's her place to know or care. So she never probes. "When we look at the inmates, we try not to see them defined by the crime committed," she said. "Their crimes are public record, but I've never looked, never will. Because that's not the point of the program. It's to gain skills, move on and use them in a productive way, not to be shaped by something they once did." One quiet inmate, not assertive in his demeanor, often sat watching in the corner of the class, legs crossed and arms folded. Schwab knew he was engaged, though, as he nodded along, his thick glasses focused on the instructor. "He doesn't really speak up or feel the need to express every opinion he has," she said. "At the end, he'll raise his hand and ask me a series of really good, very difficult questions that are complex and hard to answer." She said when it came to the debate, a new personality came out. Assertive and on top of it, he succeeded in the debates. "All of a sudden he's like a firecracker," Schwab said. "When he debates, he'll smell blood and he'll come out and just hand it to you." Another man was a true beginner, a slow talker with a big thirst for learning. He had previously been an advocate in the Native American community and is now involved in "yard politics." "He had a lot of ideas and ambitions," she said. "He understood that this class would translate into skills that he can use when he gets out of jail. He could
be an advocate for youth in troubled areas and an advocate for young Native Americans." At the end of the course, the inmates got a chance, via a demonstration debate, to show their abilities off to other inmates who might be interested in joining the debate club. The demonstration debate, in which Schwab had participated the previous year in a different role, featured teams from Willamette University, Linfield College and the Oregon State Prison. The club then hosted a tournament, where Schwab paired up with an inmate for the first time in the program's history. Although her hybrid team didn't end up placing, it performed well in the preliminary rounds. And Schwab took fourth among individual speakers, while her partner, Ron, took second. "We had a big showing, with about 120 people there," Schwab said. "Everyone was really into it, including staff at the prison. "I ended up pairing with the captain of the OSP Toastmaster's club, whom Jackson taught. One of the guys who was supposed to be his partner couldn't attend the debate, so I picked it up." Schwab didn't think the topics, such as Syria and euthanasia, pushed boundaries or ideas enough. But the inmates articulated their arguments well, given the small amount of time they had to prepare. "You know these guys are passionate, otherwise they wouldn't be there," she said. "They're probably better than the average citizen at debating, because they cut through all the bullshit. They understand what's important about the debate rounds and resolutions and argue to that. "They don't have anything to lose. Inmates don't feel the need to tip-toe around subjects like retributive justice." Now that the program is done for the year, Schwab can reflect on how the experience affected her. Letting go of the common stigmas, her perception of people in prison and prisons changed profoundly.
"I learned so much about these guys and what they want to do when they get out," she said. "A couple of the guys are getting out this spring. These people are going to be out and in society. If you want them to move on in a productive way in their life, they need to know their voices matter and need someone to show them how." If she had grown up in some of the inmates' situations, socialized with certain family or socio-economic circumstances, she wouldn't have turned out any differently, she said. Put in the same place, a lot of us would have done the same thing and landed in jail, she said. Growing up in Boise, Idaho, Schwab was raised in a middle-class family by loving parents who took education seriously. All signs point toward a bright future for her, but she believes that's merely chance. "If I had been there, it's really hard to say that I would've ended up somewhere else. They didn't get the chances or grow up in the environment that many of us did." Although Oregon has the lowest recidivism rate in the U.S., it is still high. For Oregon State Penitentiary, reserved for offenders serving the longest terms for the most serious crimes, the rate is 70 percent. "The system we have set up isn't helping these individuals lead good lives," Schwab said. "We think by sending them to prison and punishing them, we've done our work and it's done. But these people are still committing the crimes. "The accredited college classes and debate class have zero percent recidivism rate," she said. "That speaks highly to the work that we're doing."