Forging friendships behind bars
Stride program links volunteers in the community with women about to leave prison
WATERLOO REGION — As unlikely as it may sound, going to federal prison saved Erika’s life.
She hit rock bottom the day she committed the crime that sent her to prison for more than 10 years, she says. “I lost everybody in my life,” she said. “I hurt so many people from what I did. I just destroyed so many lives.”
Erika left Grand Valley Institution, the women’s prison in south Kitchener, almost a year ago. She’s living in a halfway house, working full time, and feels like “life is awesome.”
“It genuinely is a second chance at life,” she says today, adding she’s determined to make the most of that chance.
Her time in prison helped her rebuild her life and her confidence, and tackle her demons. But it was also a tightly regimented, highly structured place. Leaving that world was, in many ways, terrifying.
Technology had radically changed while she was in prison, where prisoners have no access to the internet. She hadn’t taken a bus in decades. She hadn’t been in anything as big or as crowded as a shopping mall in years.
A big part of what has helped her cope is her Stride circle of support, a group of women
who first began meeting with her while she was at Grand Valley, and who now are in regular contact.
The circle meets once or twice a month, and Erika texts them a few times a week. Sometimes they just grab a cup of coffee and talk. Sometimes they get their nails done, go for a walk or take dance lessons.
Their support can be very practical: helping get basic identification papers, hone a resumé or get clothes at a thrift store. It can also be more fundamental: being there to listen, to encourage, to hang out.
“They go above and beyond to be able to help you,” Erika says. “They’re my friends now.”
The circles are part of a program called Stride, run by Community Justice Initiatives, which organizes social time and activities for women in the prison. The relationships that develop from the friendly socializing can lead to Stride circles.
Every week, more than three dozen Stride volunteers go to the prison. They’ve had hours of training and received security clearance from Correctional Service Canada. They get buzzed in past the razor wire-topped security fence, and go through the metal detectors for an evening of crafts, volleyball or conversation.
Bethany Draves says the reaction is always the same when someone learns she volunteers in a prison. “The first question is always, ‘Why? Why do you do that?’”
She admits she felt a bit jittery the first night. “I’d never been exposed to that type of environment. I thought it was going to be like on TV,” a grim place with hardened, cynical prisoners. Instead, “it felt like community. I felt very safe, and I’ve never not felt safe,” she said.
Unlike most Stride volunteers, Draves’ visits take place in the maximum security wing, where the woman in her circle was moved several months ago. There are no crafts or games, and they meet in a bare classroom. She worried at first that it would be tough to find things to do in such a sterile environment. “But once I got in there, it was like nothing had changed. We have conversations. Sometimes we laugh so much we’re almost crying.”
The circles are set up to make sure volunteers don’t get overwhelmed. Participants draw up an agreement that sets boundaries; volunteers can spell out how often they have contact or whether they’re willing to give out a cellphone number. Having a group working together with a woman also helps, said Kaitlyn Kraatz, who’s part of Erika’s circle. “Different people in the circle can meet different needs.”
Draves was drawn to the program because it seemed a unique way to contribute to the community. But the main reason she does it is because she enjoys it. “At the end of the night, they want to shake your hand and thank you for coming. They appreciate it and it shows. You can leave there and your heart’s full and you feel good.”
Kraatz has developed a deep respect for Erika. “She has a strength and resilience that I don’t have.”
“I knew I didn’t like what prisons did to people. I knew the idea that we would send someone there and expect them to leave and somehow behave differently than before they went in didn’t make sense to me.”
Stride has made the volunteers appreciate all that they have: a supportive family, a loving spouse, a life of stability.
There’s a very practical argument for supporting those leaving prison, Kraatz says: it costs $213,000 a year to keep a woman at Grand Valley, and it makes sense to help them stay out. “You can call it bleeding heart, or you can say, ‘Let’s not spend that money.’ But I really think there’s something about the way we treat people who have already been hurt. I think low-power groups are deserving of our support.”
“Society doesn’t give these women a chance a lot of the time,” Draves says. “Yes, they’re far from perfect. Yes, there are bad people in there. But the women that are getting out, we’re helping them to be integrated into society. That’s all I want, to see them stay out of prison.”