Prison Newspapers: Stories of Life Behind Bars

Woody Eargle can’t help but take his work home with him. He lives, eats and sleeps with the people he writes about.

Eargle edits the monthly newspaper at Tennessee State Penitentiary, walking a fine line between what the administration will allow him to write and what the inmates want to read.

He works about 10 hours a day, six days a week and earns $2 an hour, but Eargle has no complaints about editing The Interim. He says it’s the first time since he entered prison in 1980 for an armed robbery that he has felt in charge of his life, instead of “letting time do you.”

Makes a Difference

“When you’re working at something where you can make a difference, it makes the time a lot easier to do. There are so many people in prison with so many ideas about how to change things but they have no medium to express these things.”

Prison journalism provides a creative outlet for hundreds of inmate reporters and editors across the country who work exhaustive hours to produce accurate, often stirring, accounts of life behind bars.

At first glance, many prison publications look like community newspapers, with articles on the annual picnic, the softball team and promotions in the institution. But they also cover upcoming executions, uprisings in the prison and legal opinions that might affect inmates trying to appeal their convictions.

The Angolite, an inmate publication in Angola, La., is so provocative that it was once banned from other prisons. Today, the Angolite is required reading in many college courses on corrections.

The award-winning bimonthly runs articles on every facet of life at Louisiana State Penitentiary, once considered one of the deadliest prisons in the nation. Editors pick topics like “Prison: The Sexual Jungle,” “Dying in Prison” and “The Execution” for their cover stories.

Called a Trend-Setter

Wilbert Rideau, editor of the Angolite, says Corrections Secretary C. Paul Phelps deserves most of the credit for transforming the magazine from a sleepy publication that rarely went to press to a trend-setter in the corrections field.

When Rideau became editor in 1975, Phelps told him he could write about anything he wanted to so long as he could verify the stories.

“We created a whole new kind of prison journalism in this state. The wardens in various institutions got into a competition as to who had the best publication,” Rideau said. “The fences don’t fall if you allow some freedom.”

Most of the 43 inmate publications in the country face more restrictions than the Angolite. Nearly all are censored by corrections officials, but reporters say most of the things they write get into print.

“Like all newspapers, you push to see what your limits are. Most of the people who work for the paper have common sense, enough to know when they’re getting close to the line,” Eargle said.

Sometimes fellow convicts set the limits for prison publications. Editors and reporters occasionally withhold controversial stories if the risks outweigh the gains.

“The people who are doing wrong will react to us. In order for us to operate, we have to survive. We’re not practicing suicidal journalism,” Rideau said.

“I sleep in a dormitory with 50 other men. So far, I’ve been waking up every morning.”

Prison Maps Censored

Stories censored by the authorities include such items as bomb-making instructions, prison maps or inflammatory rhetoric, said Leon Washington, editor of The Menard Time at Illinois’ Menard Correctional Center.

“Nobody is totally censorship-free. Out in the community your publisher has certain standards,” said Dianna Douglas, adviser for the Vienna In Progress, a monthly newspaper for the minimum-security prison in Vienna, Ill.

“I tell them, ‘Look, let’s be realistic and see what it is on the outside and you’ll see it isn’t all that different on the inside.’ ”

Reporting on the inside, like journalism on the outside, comes with a few perks. Inmate reporters and editors have access to administration officials that most prisoners do not. If they need a quote from the warden, they can pick up the phone and reach him.

Many prison journalists are allowed to travel to parts of the institution that are cut off from most inmates. The press room, where the paper is put together, is often unmonitored, unlike other prison jobs where at least one corrections official stands guard at all times.

“The inmates are so grateful to have this unique work experience that they put their heart and soul into it,” says Barry Lock, a former journalist who served a two-year prison sentence in Massachusetts for attempted bribery and larceny and now lives in Washington.

“With every issue, there is somewhere a positive impact on some inmate because it’s a product put together by his fellow convicts for him.”

Help Reduce Tensions

Articles in prison journals have led to the release of inmates falsely accused of crimes, new trials for prisoners and policy reforms. More often, though, the publications help reduce the tensions in prison and defuse rumors before they overwhelm the institution.

“The one thing that gets a prison really tensed up is rumor. Rumor will get a whole population all excited about what may turn out to be nothing,” Eargle said.

When the first inmate at the maximum-security prison in Menard contracted AIDS, the Time ran a comprehensive article about the virus and how it is spread to allay prisoners’ concerns.

Many editors regard their publications, which range from mimeographed sheets to glossy magazines, as a bridge between the prison and the community, fostering a better understanding of the men behind bars.

“There are a lot of misnomers and myths about prison. We try to play up the entire scope of things that are going on here,” Washington said.

“There are bad things going on here and there are good things going on here. Most people are not going to read much about what’s going on in prisons. We try to fill in the gaps wherever we can.”

Covering a routine story in prison often requires the skills of an investigative reporter. Prison reporters need to coax and cajole fellow convicts and corrections employees who are reluctant to be quoted. They must develop superb telephone interview skills if they want to reach anyone on the outside, since they cannot leave the prison.

They Dig for Stories

“We have to really dig for a lot of our stories. We have to be more aggressive. We have to sell our personalities more. Guys (inmates) are naturally going to have problems talking to a journalist,” says Robert Taliaferro, editor of The Mirror, the biweekly newspaper at the Minnesota Correctional Facility in Stillwater.

“I think (prison reporters) would make excellent investigative journalists,” he says.

Prison journalists also need to be resourceful. After last summer’s riot at Tennessee State Penitentiary, reporters took the typewriters from the press room and brought them to their cells.

They wrote everything they could remember about the outbreak during the inevitable period of confinement that follows a riot. When the lockdown finally ended, the reporters met to lay out the Interim and the monthly newspaper went to press on time--despite nearly a month of confinement.

“Inmate newsmen are more dedicated to improving the lot of mankind than your typical working newsman,” says Lock, who started an inmate newspaper at the Lawrence County Jail while imprisoned.

“They’ve seen and have experienced the tragedies of life,” he says.

Many inmate editors and reporters are serving time for murder. Because they face long sentences, murderers are often able to dedicate themselves to the publication, and many supervisors regard them as more trustworthy than repeat offenders serving time for lesser crimes.

‘Lifers Are Best Prisoners’

“When you’re doing life, you’re first thought is, ‘I’m never getting out of jail,’ ” says Taliaferro, who received a life sentence in 1984 for murder. “Lifers are considered to be the best prisoners in the country.

“We figure we have to put our energies into something constructive. It might not affect us getting out, but it gives us something to feel proud of.”