Legacy

Nearly two years ago, Cydnie Clark hit rock bottom. She was battling an addiction to crack cocaine that would quickly change the course of her life. On April 30, 2007, her four-month-old son inhaled enough smoke to cause cardiac arrest. Clark was charged with negligent homicide and essentially blamed for her son’s death.

“There was a heavy burden on my chest,” Clark said quietly, her eyes moist with tears. “And I was like, ‘That’s my son. I screwed up. And I just have to take responsibility.’”

What would have been a five-year probationary sentence turned into a two-year sentence — one year in prison and one on probation — when she failed her drug test in court.

Life in prison was hopeless, but the thought of life after prison seemed more frightening. Fortunately, Clark found a solution. “During my incarceration, I heard of Connections for Life and I thought, ‘You know, I want to try something different,’” she said.

CFL is a Baton Rouge program that works to rehabilitate women when they leave prison. Karen Stagg, the current owner of CFL, explained how the program works. “We’re called a transitional housing and re-entry program for women who are coming primarily from prison,” Stagg said. “We invite them to stay with us for a year and we provide housing for them.” Each of the 13 women in the program have their own efficiency apartment. “It’s certainly nothing lavish, but it’s theirs.”

CFL also helps the women obtain jobs  (which can be difficult for convicted felons)  and teaches them to live on a budget. “It’s a very structured program, the intent being to help the women go from dependence to independence in the year that [they’re] with us,” Stagg explained. “We try to teach them life skills and get them as equipped as they can so they can start fresh and get down a new path.”

Just two weeks before her release, Clark learned she was accepted into the program. “I really didn’t know too much of what I was getting into but I was just ready to start over,” she said.

Another aspect of the CFL program is its partnership with LSU service-learning courses, a connection that allows students to work closely with the women.

English service-learning professor Sharon Williams Andrews, along with several other LSU professors, operate under the idea that “students learn better, faster and with more meaning when they can apply what they’re doing in the classroom with what goes on in real life.”

I met with Stagg and Andrews at the CFL thrift store on Nicholson Drive, a place of employment for the women and source of 50 percent of funding for the program.

While most service-learning classes require elementary tutoring for underprivileged students, Andrews thought that was too easy. “I really wanted to rock their world,” she said. “I really wanted them to look at issues from another perspective, [not] just from reading books.” So when Andrews heard about CFL nine years ago, she saw a challenging opportunity for her students.

In the fall of 2007, history education sophomore Meagan Rogers signed up for a service-learning English class with Andrews. She had no idea what was in store for her. “My first thought was, ‘Oh my goodness, can LSU allow its students to work with ex-cons?’” Rogers said.

Rogers recalled meeting the women for the first time. “The first time I went to CFL was at the orientation they hold for all the students before beginning,” Rogers said. “I was still a little nervous about participating in this course until the women started to share their testimonies.”

She listened as women recounted stories of narcotics abuse, homelessness, and in one case, murder. “One of the women talked about how she had spent 30 years in prison for murdering her husband,” Rogers said. “At first that would frighten anyone, but the underlying truth was that she was mentally and physically abused by her husband before murdering him. And back then, spousal abuse was simply overlooked. If you were to meet this woman on the streets you would think she was just a sweet little grandmother that could never hurt a fly.”

Myria Andre-Martin founded CFL in February of 2000 after realizing there was a need for service to women in the Baton Rouge community. By the summer of that year, she had gained the attention of local media. “I saw an article about Myria in The Advocate,” Andrews said. “I had just gotten started with service-learning that semester and I was looking for a new partner.” Andrews called Andre-Martin that day and has partnered with CFL ever since.

One of the most difficult tasks facing the women in CFL is reconnecting with family members and children. “Often those relationships are broken,” Stagg said. Cydnie Clark struggled to contact her mother after she left prison. “She actually became homeless during my incarceration,” Clark said. “She’s in addiction right now.” Though Clark finally reconnected with her mother, the other women in CFL make up her current family.

The program is relatively small, which is conducive to closer, meaningful relationships among the women, CFL workers and student service-learners. “We really get to know the women,” Stagg said. “We learn their moods and their personalities — it’s truly a family-type environment.”

Stagg initially intended the program to accommodate more women. “When we first came I thought we needed to have space for 50,” Stagg said. Because there are so many more male prisoners in the area, few programs focus on women. But the size turned out to be an advantage; around 60 percent of women complete the program, which Stagg said is better than the national average.

Clark explained how the small number, as well as required weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, breed closeness among the women in the program. “We all talk about everything — it seems like families don’t even function as well as we do.”

Andrew’s poetry class, Social Issues and the Poetry of Witness, focuses on the women who work at CFL. “Students have to perform service [at CFL], then they write journal entries linking the poems we talk about in class to their experience,” she said. “Then they have final projects where they put together this anthology of poetry that bears witness to the struggles of the women they meet.”

Andrews admitted that students are often skeptical or nervous about the program. “They start off working with the ladies at the thrift store,” Andrews said. “A lot of students spend the first half of the semester thinking, ‘I’m folding clothes — what does that have to do with poetry?’ and I tell them to expect to feel that way.” Andrews adopted a sensei-like voice and said, “It will become clearer as we go.”

Students are apprehensive not only about the relevance of the program to their class, but also the prospect of interacting with former prisoners. “They’re all really kind of terrified,” Andrews said. “A lot of them say, ‘I’ve never known an ex-con and what do we say to them?’”

Most students, however, generally reach the same conclusion. “They really start to care for these women and their stereotypes are all shut down,” Andrews said proudly. “I read over and over again in their journals: ‘They’re normal. They’re just like us. They’re regular people.’”

April Weintritt, a philosophy senior, participated in one of Andrews’ service-learning classes this semester. She, like Rogers, was unsure of what to expect, but was also pleasantly surprised. “I remember the first time that I went, there was this religious atmosphere — that even though all these bad things have happened, it’s not a ‘giving up,’ it’s a praise of where you are now,” Weintritt said. “The whole time I was there, Ms. Gladys (who runs the thrift store, she’s the manager) had this praise and worship CD on  … and everyone was singing the words.”

When Weintritt offered to burn a copy of a CD for her, she remembers Gladys’ shock at being treated like an equal. “She hit the floor,” Weintritt said. “She said, ‘And you can bring it back to me? Really?’” When Weintritt wouldn’t accept money for the CD, Gladys insisted she accept a gift from the thrift store: a 25-cent tie for her father. “‘Well then, this is yours,’ she said to me.”

Meagan Rogers also grew close to Gladys through  her service-learning. Gladys told her about being homeless for over 10 years, her addiction to cocaine, and the emotional and mental struggles she endured before CFL.  “Through my conversation with her, I was able to see the homeless community in a whole new attitude,” Rogers said.

Weintritt, on the other hand, prefers not to know why the women went to prison. “I couldn’t go to the orientation when they talk about their pasts and I’ve legitimately never spoken to them about [it],” she said. “We have conversations but I don’t know anything about what they’ve done and I don’t think I want to know — I don’t care to know because it makes no difference to the people they are today.”

While overcoming drug abuse is a serious problem for women leaving prison, many more unexpected challenges face them. “We pick them up the day they get out of prison. That’s a great day for them and for us,” Stagg said. “Most of them come out with maybe half a trash bag of belongings. It’s a very emotional time.”

“When I first got out of prison I didn’t have any clothes,” Clark recalled. “The thrift store provided everything I needed. It’s like a win-win because it gave to me and now I can give back.”

One of the most difficult transitions for the women is adjusting to the unfamiliar reality of independence. “We’ll take them to their apartment so they can see where they’re going to live,” Stagg said. “There are a lot of reactions: anxiety attacks, tears of joy.”

Clark’s newfound independence was strange to her. “I was young when I had my son, and I was with my son’s dad for the majority of my teenage years,” she said. “Even in prison I had a roommate. So living alone is really just a first. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s just hard to get adjusted back into the community, around other people.”

The next step is grocery shopping, a seemingly mundane task. “It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten to choose what to have for dinner and for breakfast the next day,” Stagg explained. “You’d think they’d want the freedom to shop for themselves but they usually want you right there shopping with them.”

The experience between the women and the students is more beneficial than either group initially expects. “Most of [the women] have very low self-esteem and self-worth; that someone in college would come and spend time with them and fold clothes with them is very meaningful,” Stagg said.

The impact is significant for the students as well. “Some of them have really forged these friendships with the ladies and have invited them to do things outside of here,” Andrews said. “It has a lot of impact on the private lives of the students, sometimes in ways they don’t expect.”

Clark wanted to stress how thankful she was to CFL, Stagg, and even service-learning. “The program is phenomenal,” she beamed. “They try to build stability for us and for that, we’re grateful. [CFL] gives a lot of hope to women who are coming out of prison, who do feel like they have nowhere to go. This program will lift you up.”