Craig Grossi - Second Chances: A Marine, His Dog, and Finding Redemption

For the men of Maine State Prison

April 11, 2019

Its a sunny, warm, spring day in Maine, and Im going to prison. Thankfully, Im not alone. Ive got my dog, Fred, with me, and unless something goes terribly wrong, well be walking out again in a few hours. For now Im in my faithful 1988 Land Cruiser, making the two-hour drive from our home to the state prison. Its not our first visit, but today were heading up with a new purpose. Ive volunteered to teach a writing class to a group of incarcerated men, many of them veterans. Over the next year, Ill be meeting with the guys on a weekly basis to share writings and stories.

We take Route 1 up the coast, watching the sun dance on the water as we pass through quaint coastal towns awaiting the summer tourist season. Freds in the back, alternating between napping and surveying the passing scenery. On the seat next to me is the syllabus Ive written with each of the different topics Im planning to cover in class in the coming weeks. We continue on Route 1 for a little over fifty miles before making a right turn just after reaching the small town of Warren. The peaceful coastal scenery quickly transitions to rolling hills and farmland. In a field on the side of the road, a few men in white T-shirts and jeans spread hay with pitchforks. Our next turn is up a hill and into another world.

You may have heard of Maine State Prison. This maximum-security prison was the inspiration for the Stephen King novella Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, which was made into an iconic film in 1994. Although the original Maine State Prison was built in 1824, it relocated to the town of Warren, and into a modern building, in 2002. Since then, under the guidance of prison warden Randy Libertyhis real nameits grown to become one of the most unique prison environments in the country, known for its progressive programs that help prisoners prepare for life on the outside, if thats whats ahead of them, or help them deal with life on the inside, if thats where theyll remain.

I crest the hill, and there it is, rising up out of the hard Maine earth, a complex of bright white concrete buildings that could be mistaken for a large high school if it werent for the rows of razor-wire fencing encircling the perimeter. Its a familiar sight to me by now: Ive been a regular visitor to Maine State Prison for about a year, invited either as a guest speaker or to attend volunteer events. But this is my first time in any kind of official capacity. Part of me is excited about this new opportunity. And part of me is on edge. How will the guys who signed up for the course react to the syllabus Ive put together for them? Will they engage with the topics Ive suggested, or do they simply see this as a convenient way to spend time outside their cells?

I quickly find a spot in the parking lot; here, unlike at other prisons Ive visited, theres no gate or entry-control point for vehicles. Fred hops out of the truck, and we walk together toward giant glass doors. I see the words maine state prison over the entrance and the states coat of arms with its familiar pine tree and moose above.

Inside, I sign into the logbook, and a prison guard escorts me into the facility. We step outside, walking down The Mile, a stretch of concrete that serves as the main thoroughfare for foot traffic around the prison. Looking across to the other side of the open yard, I see men wearing white T-shirts and jeans, kneeling beside beds of freshly tilled soil, working with their hands, growing vegetables for the prison kitchen.

Soon enough we approach the housing unit where the writing classes will be taking place. My middle-aged chaperone looks tired and seems a little annoyed about his role as my escort. After my attempts at small talk fail, I realize that my nerves are starting to get the better of me. Inmates walk past me and look me up and down. Another guard gives a friendly hello to my escort but ignores my attempt to say good morning. The thought goes through my head, What the hell are you doing here, Craig? This is a terrible idea.

The men Im coming to see here are serving lengthy sentences for some serious crimes. Is this really where Im meant to spend my time? Or am I being lured into some kind of trap, drawn by my desire to help? Luckily, trotting happily at my heel is Fred, his joy and positivity impervious to my jitters or our gloomy surroundings. I focus on him, pressing on toward our destination.

Finally we arrive at the cellblock where former U.S. military members are heldknown as the Veterans Pod. Randy Liberty, the prison warden, is a veteran himself, and as many of the guys locked up here have served in the military, he decided to create a special area where the vets could be housed. As a veteran I feel a connection to what Randys doing here, and its a big part of the reason I volunteered to spend my time in his prison.

We walk down the freshly mopped hallway that leads to the pod. Suddenly it occurs to me that although eight guys have signed up for my sessions, theres no guarantee any of them will show up. What will I do if I get there and the class is empty? I can only imagine the smug look on the face of the reluctant guard escorting me if that happens.

To my relief, as I walk into the Veterans Pod, I can see through the large rectangular window of the classroom directly in front of us that inside there are four guys waiting for me, seated at the table.

My chaperone makes sure the guard at the supervisors desk knows Ive arrived before leaving me on my own.

All around me the dayroom buzzes with other inmates coming and going from their rooms on their way to different jobs and activities within the prison. But even though its a beautiful spring day outside, one of Maines first of the season, four men are seated in a classroom, ready to talk about our first subject.

Okay, I think. Lets do this.

Ive never taught a writing class before, but I know that its important to at least act as if I have. Before walking into the classroom, I put a mask on my face. Its a mask that says, I know what Im doing, Im in control.

As I walk in, Im trying my best to convey confidence and expertise to the four men in jeans and white T-shirts staring up at me, the tattoos on their arms and necks seeming brighter and more menacing than on my past visits. I realize I will need to lead while creating a constructive and peaceful space for them.

I sit down at the table and take a deep breath, ready to get started. Thankfully, I recognize everyone from my prior visits. I even know their names: Michael Kidd, Michael Callahan, Nate Nightingale, and Robert Craig, otherwise known as Mr. Craig.

What I dont know is that over the next twelve months I will learn more from the men seated in front of me than they will ever learn from me.

As with most good things in my life, I ended up at Maine State Prison thanks to my dog, Fred.

I met Fred almost nine years earlier, on a battlefield in Afghanistan. I was a marine sergeant at the time, serving in the Sangin district of Helmand province as an intelligence collector assigned to support RECON marines, the Corpss most elite fighters. Sangin was a remote and dangerous post. If the heat and dust didnt get to you, the constant threat of a violent death certainly did. The Taliban were relentless. We were on their turf, and they let us know it. Each day started with coordinated attacks on our exposed and isolated position. Wed defend ourselves during the day and then infiltrate enemy territory at night on covert patrols, meeting with villagers caught in the middle and helping them escape the Taliban-controlled territory to safer ground.

One day, between Taliban attacks, I spotted a skinny pup with a big head and little legs, the kind of dog who immediately puts a smile on your face. Unlike most of the strays Id encountered while in Sanginvicious mutts who had more in common with coyotes than dogs this one seemed friendly. I approached the goofy yet still-handsome pup, just to get a better look at him. As I got closer, I could see he was covered in bugs and his ribs were protruding through his matted coat. I almost turned around, assuming he wouldnt want anything to do with me. A wag of his tail said otherwise, and I offered him a piece of beef jerky. We spent a few peaceful moments together, and as I stood to walk away, he began to follow me.