Buggs*, about 20 years into a life sentence in Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) custody, has built his self-preservation routine around yoga. Because he finds it uncomfortable to practice in a shared cell, he does his stretches and holds his poses in the common areas. This draws attention, but not always negative attention. For a while Buggs was teaching yoga for free to any fellow prisoners who wished to learn.
Buggs first developed his appreciation for yoga when he needed something to take his mind off wanting a cigarette. Over time, he found that the deep breathing involved helped him appreciate having given up smoking. And then he got the idea of starting a yoga class from the book We’re All Doing Time, (AKA “the Convict’s Bible”) by Prison Ashram Project founder Bo Lozoff.
“Yoga is a path with a long history of success in prisons,” Buggs told Filter. “An old, but effective method of becoming a calmer person … after seeing the change for the good in myself, I realized this is a thing I can share.”
Corrections departments hate change, so Buggs knew better than to be in a rush. He began talking to the recreation director—we’ll call him Coach—and to a deputy warden he believed would be sympathetic to the cause. In time it was agreed that Buggs could access the gym two or three mornings each week once Coach arrived to supervise, which was usually around 6:15 am during chow. Buggs invited a dozen guys he’d done yoga with over the years, and they invited interested parties from their respective living units.
Blankets were folded up to serve as mats, though the better option was a prayer rug ordered through the chaplain’s office, and yoga class commenced.
The Mental Health population is considered the jurisdiction of Centurion, GDC’s current private health care contractor.
Soon everyone was doing an hour of yoga each morning, either with Buggs in the gym or in pairs in their respective living units when the gym was unavailable.
“Consistency breeds habit,” Buggs said. “This takes time and scheduling. In prison it’s too easy for people to lose one of the benefits of yoga: self-discipline. Accountability partners in the living units became needed, because we are only getting to meet in the gym three mornings a week at best.”
Yoga class was open to everyone. But it began to attract those whom GDC had designated as Mental Health (MH) prisoners, because it was the rare activity that was available to them and from which they weren’t shunned.
Coach is supposed to organize programming for general population. But the MH population is considered the jurisdiction of Centurion, GDC’s current private health care contractor. There was a time when the Centurion counselors would organize recreational activities just for the MH population, but that time is past. Not enough staff to round them up and get them out of the buildings and then back in again, so mostly they’re left locked down in their cells or living units.
Level I MH prisoners are those GDC decides are doing fine on their own. Per policy, Level II is for prisoners deemed to be “mildly impaired” due to a mental health condition, or “not currently impaired but needs monitoring.” They get outpatient services and see a counselor once a month. Levels III and IV are supposed to be for prisoners with moderate and severe impairment, respectively (but who are not in acute crisis; Level V). They’re often housed separately, and socially ostracized either way. Case-by-case determinations are made as to whether they’re are allowed to join general population activities like daily gym call.
At its peak, about one-third of the class had Mental Health designations.
But yoga class never officially existed on the schedules. Coach did begin sending call-outs—the slips of paper that authorize prisoners to be at a certain place at a certain time—for participants to go to the gym at 6 am, but that was all; the call-outs resolved the issue of new officers being reluctant to let participants out of cell houses to go to the gym at that hour. Coach never stuck around for the class itself, but delegating everything to Buggs worked fine for all involved.
Most of the MH participants told their counselors about Buggs’ yoga class. The counselors, observing positive behavior changes among the participants, began to congratulate Coach on the success of his class, though Coach had only a vague idea of what they were talking about. For its two dozen or so participants, yoga class was a quiet but surprisingly impactful morning routine—right up until Coach quit, and the morning call-outs and gym access went with him.
At its peak, about one-third of the class had MH designations. Four started off in a nonverbal state—either unable to talk, or conditioned not to talk for fear of punishment. But they began to talk during yoga; the practice calmed them that deeply. Those are the guys Buggs gets weepy about.
“There will be young men that … have experienced a lot of trauma in their lives. I’m speaking of the ones you’ll see walking in tight circles in an area of a few feet,” he said. “The zen of the practice fulfills the need for repetitious movement, gives them a focus point, but also provides a feeling of accomplishment as they progress. Yoga becomes a subject they can talk about.”
Buggs of course still does his daily routine in the common areas of his living unit, with his “accountability partner.” Elsewhere in the prison, perhaps some of the other participants are doing so, too.
*Name has been changed to protect source
Image (cropped) via Commonwealth of Massachusetts
