Behind Locked Doors, a Former DA and 11 Inmates Search for Something More Than Poetry

Black Press Media USA

READ THE FULL STORY IN THE PHILADELPHIA TRIBUNE

Seth Williams entered the makeshift classroom at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Northeast Philadelphia – one of four such facilities within city limits and 85 throughout the state – with the calm and hope of a seasoned pastor. His black pullover, marked with “CHAPLAIN” in bold yellow letters, was both a badge and a reminder. Williams had lived on both sides of the law. He was celebrated, disgraced, and changed by his experiences.

Few people would choose the journey from Philadelphia’s first Black district attorney to a federal inmate and then to a prison chaplain. Yet here, where the air smells of cinder block and disinfectant, Williams has built something new.

Each Thursday, Williams leads the Prison Poets class, gathering men with different sentences and stories. They meet in a bright gray room with chalk dust and a few empty bookshelves. Across the hall, behind thick glass, the sounds of prison industry continue as men sew uniforms for the same city that once had Williams’ name on its letterhead.

Williams greeted the group of inmates with handshakes, hugs, and a wide smile. His arrival felt like an event, giving everyone permission to relax. Officers and officials, even the warden, welcomed him with hugs, handshakes, and jokes. Williams smiled back and greeted many by name.

For the next two hours, the 11 men in his class—usually there are 14—could let go of the defenses prison requires. They recited their creed: “Behind us are the challenges we met; before us are new possibilities. Today we choose the direction of our lives.”

For a moment, possibility felt real.

To Williams, poetry is a powerful tool. He begins each session with haiku—17 syllables, three lines—a small act of order during chaos. “A haiku,” Williams says, “expresses much and suggests more in the fewest possible words.” He reminds the men that even the smallest cell cannot confine the mind. As they write and share their work, the mood in the room changes.

Handshakes. Hugs. Fist bumps.

“Good morning,” Williams bellows. “Good morning,” the 11 respond as if they were a chorus.

One inmate skipped someone in the greeting line. Williams laughed.

“You forgot your only line,” the man now known as “Chap,” quipped.

Laughter filled the room. For a few moments, it felt less like jail and more like a classroom where everyone knew each other’s name.

“So why do we always start class this way?” Williams asked after everyone settled into their seats.

“Respect,” one inmate answered.

“What else?” Williams retorted. “It shows respect,” the inmate stated, and Williams nodded.

“When I was in prison,” Williams relayed, “I never saw so many grown men go out of their way to be polite to each other.”

He paused. “And why?” he asked.

“You don’t want conflict,” the inmate correctly answered.

Another inmate laughed. “You don’t want to get stomped,” he noted.

More laughter. Williams smiled.

“If we practiced those same skills outside these walls,” he said quietly, “we probably wouldn’t be here.”

The room fell silent.

The class is called Prison Poets, but poetry isn’t their main focus.

For almost an hour, the men focus on life skills. One serves as facilitator. Another gives the weather. Someone delivers sports. Another reports the news.

Each person stands in front of the class. Everyone practices speaking clearly, making eye contact, and accepting feedback without getting defensive.

“I learned while I was incarcerated that about 85 percent of what helps people keep a job has nothing to do with the actual work,” Williams told them. “It’s showing up on time. It’s how you treat people. It’s how you respond when somebody makes you angry.”

The lesson, he said, isn’t simply about employment.

It’s about getting by and surviving.

“If we can teach people conflict de-escalation,” he said, “we can help them keep jobs. We can help them stay out of prison.”

The men then stood together to recite the class creed, words they knew by heart.

Some spoke with confidence, while others barely whispered. No one was corrected. What mattered most was taking part, not being perfect.

Williams next called on Joseph Reed.

“My gratitude list is always simple,” Reed began as several inmates smiled. They had heard this before.

“The sun shining in my cell,” he posits.

The smiles disappeared. “Water,” he says. Another pause. “People to talk to.”

Williams leaned on a desk.

“Every week he says the sun,” the chaplain said. “When I was in solitary confinement, I spent five months without feeling sunlight.”

Williams remembered the narrow strip of sky he could barely see from an outdoor recreation cage and writing letters to his daughters.

“I’d tell them, ‘Next time it rains, go outside,” he recounted. “Stand there. Let the rain hit your face. Then write me and tell me what it feels like.’”

The room was quiet as Reed explained why gratitude had become so important.

“I’m a negative person,” he said. “I struggle with depression.”

There was a time, he admitted, when addiction had left him homeless and alone. “I thought about killing myself every day because I didn’t think anybody cared if I lived or died,” he remarked.

No one seemed surprised, and no one judged him for it.

Across the room sat Ronald Woodward.

Thirty-one years old.

Five months into his incarceration.

Earlier, he had laughed with everyone else, applauded every presentation, and joked with classmates. Now, his face changed.

He said his social worker encouraged him to join the class after learning what had happened in his life. His mother died of a drug overdose when he was 7 years old.

Years later, after building a family of his own, another betrayal broke him.

“My wife of 10 years had an affair with my father,” he said quietly, redness swelling beneath his eyes.

For several seconds, no one moved.

The room that had been full of laughter moments earlier was now silent.

“You think you’ve survived everything,” Woodward said. “Then the people you love the most hurt you the most.”

An inmate across the room softly shook his head. “That’s enough to break anybody,” the classmate acknowledged.

Williams didn’t interrupt or preach.

Finally, he looked at Woodward.

“But you’re still here,” Williams reassured.

Woodward nodded.

“I’m trying,” the devastated prisoner admitted.

Later, he explained why he keeps coming back every week.

“If Seth can do it,” he said, “I can do it.”

He hopes the class will help him rebuild his construction business, repair broken relationships, and avoid making the same mistakes.

“It’s giving me tools,” he said. “It’s giving me hope.”

Williams knows what hopelessness feels like.

He told the class about a federal prison shakedown during which officers handcuffed him, dumped his letters across the floor and confiscated the books that had become his escape, including his Bible.

“It was the first time I cried in prison,” Williams shared.

He asked the men what would have happened if he had attacked the officer.

“They would’ve beat you,” they said, almost in unison. “They would’ve added time.”

Williams then asked a question.

“So, what was I really in control of?”

Before anyone answered, he did.

“My response,” he argued.

That lesson surfaced again after an officer confiscated one inmate’s pen before class.

“What were you thinking?” Williams asked.

“I was mad,” the inmate responded.

“What stopped you?” Williams again asked.

“My daughters,” the young man stated.

He realized that getting angry could mean more time in jail and more time away from the people waiting for him outside.

“So, I let it go,” he offered.

Williams smiled.

“That’s conflict de-escalation,” he said.

Finally, it was time to write. Nate Williams stood and unfolded his paper.

“My poem is called ‘Respect,’” he said, reading slowly.

Respect is like wind.

Like leaves carried by the breeze.

It goes a long way.

The room filled with applause.

“I think the publisher of the Tribune would print that,” Seth Williams joked.

The laughter returned.

Soon correctional officers were back at the door.

One by one, the men picked up their notebooks, shook hands again, and walked out through another set of steel doors.

Seth Williams stayed behind, stacking his lesson plans before heading across the jail. One inmate waited for news about his child being taken off life support, and another needed help coping with the loss of a loved one.

He said he never imagined this would become his life’s work.

“Every morning,” the chaplain said, “I ask God to use me however He sees fit.”

He looked around the empty classroom.

“Other than being called Dad,” he said, “the greatest title I’ve ever had is chaplain.”