“I feel like a kid again!” Marcus exclaimed while drawing the torso of his “exquisite creature”.
Everyone is looking over each other’s shoulders, trying to get a peek at what the other person has drawn, comparing notes and giggling at the ridiculousness of the “assignment”.
I’m in a medium security prison in the Fraser Valley, facilitating storytelling workshops with incarcerated men, and our icebreaker activity is “exquisite corpse” (though I prefer to call it “exquisite creature”). For those unfamiliar, it’s a game where each participant takes turns drawing parts of a “creature” on a sheet of paper, starting with the head, then the torso, and finally, the legs. At each step, they must fold the paper to conceal their contribution and then pass it to the next player to continue the drawing.
Once we’ve completed a round, I ask them all to unfold their sheet of paper to reveal what they’ve created together and to tape it up to the wall at the front of the room, which I like to call “our art gallery”. I invite the guys to stand up and admire each other’s artistic expressions.
At this point, it is complete chaos in the room. Everyone is howling with laughter.
“What the hell is that, man?!” “That’s so freaky!” “Why did you draw it upside down?!” “Because it’s EXQUISITE!”
Everyone is joking around and laughing uncontrollably. Everyone is fully tapped into their silly side, and it is an absolute delight.
Shout out to multimedia artist Mash Vass who first introduced me to this wonderful activity!
When people ask me what it’s like working in the prison system, I can’t help but feel like they expect a certain answer. Something serious, something heavy…a story about how scary it is going inside. It can sometimes feel this way, of course, but it’s not really the first word that comes to mind.
If there is a single word I would choose to describe what it’s like sharing space and stories with these men, it would be quite simply…FUN!
And if I’m being totally honest, facilitating these storytelling circles with incarcerated men is the most fun I’ve had since starting my facilitation work with Living Hyphen back in 2019.
The prison system is bleak. It is as you likely imagine it to be – a place of rigidity and control and isolation. And so, my goal during my time inside is really to work against those forces and instead bring in moments of choice, delight, and connection. My goal is to reconnect to our shared humanity.
How do we do that? In so many different ways, but for now I’ll share just this one…
First and foremost, I set up our space with as much warmth as I know how. I bring notebooks and paper that pop with colour, fill the tables with Play-Doh, markers, and colouring pencils, and share Living Hyphen’s beautifully illustrated stickers and bookmarks. I bring my speaker and curate a playlist of recognizable hits to welcome everyone into the room, and calming music for our writing time.
When the men enter our space, I want to signal to them from the get-go that this space is something completely different.
“What’s the Play-Doh for?” The men would ask skeptically with the faintest tinge of hope.
“What do you think it’s for? To play with, of course!” I’d say with some prodding.
A giant smile would spread across their faces. “Whoaaaa! I haven’t seen Play-Doh in years! I used to play with this stuff all the time with my cousins.” And then they would negotiate, trading with each other to get their favourite colour to play with.
It is quite a sight to behold – grown men who have been accused and convicted of some of the most violent crimes, smiling and laughing as their hands pop open the jars and knead through that soft, neon-coloured putty to create random, silly, imaginative things.
One of the guards now calls me “the Play-Doh Lady,” and it’s a name I carry proudly. I promise to bring them a jar of their own next time, and they too are delighted by the thought. He chuckles at the silliness of the suggestion, but earnestly asks if I could bring him the colour green.
It is quite a sight to behold – a grown man in this tough, heavily protected uniform who has been told to “serve and protect,” and who has internalized that role so deeply, is tickled by the promise of a toy.
In these moments, I look at these men’s faces, and I see playful, kind, and innocent children who are full of curiosity, creativity, and wonder.
Both instances are powerful reminders for me that we are all just big kids who want to play. Both instances break my heart to see just how far we’ve strayed from these integral parts of ourselves. And both instances ignite a spark in me, knowing that it does not take all that much to reconnect to our shared humanity.
This little glimmer of joy expressed by these grown men over Play-Doh fuels a hope in me that healing is oh so very possible, and it is all within our grasp.
I close each storytelling circle in the same way: by “checking in to check out”, I ask everyone to share what the experience felt like for them and how they’re feeling as we leave the space that we created together.
“I forgot we were in prison.”
“I felt freer than I’ve ever felt in a long time.”
“Connected and together.”
“This felt like an escape”.
“Freedom.”
“Complete.”
I cannot tell you how profoundly moving it is to hear these words uttered by these men. I am in awe of the transformational spaces we are all able to create together.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve been guided and inspired by adrienne maree brown and her book 'Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good', and I have been rooting all of our workshops and gatherings with as much joy, play, and beauty as I can muster.
““Pleasure is the point. Feeling good is not frivolous, it is freedom. We can gift it to each other in a million ways: with authentic presence, abundant care, and honesty; with boundaries that keep us from overextending; with slower kisses; with foot massages in the evening; with baby hugs and elder hugs; with delicious food; with supported solitude and listening to our bodies, our shameless desire, and coordinated longing.””
In the case of my time inside, we have been gifting freedom to each other with exquisite creatures and Play-Doh, by holding space for our child-like wonder and silly selves.
These small moments are not frivolous; they are the point.
And I know that it is through more and more of these “small” moments that we will shift our larger systems and birth new ones.
That is our labour, that is our love.