Robert Boyd learned not to cry in prison, where showing emotion was seen as weakness. But three days following his release after 34 years on "the inside," the tears flowed freely as he dealt with the discomfort of adjusting to a world that had changed so much.
Incarcerated since age 16 for his role in what started as a burglary and ended as an unplanned murder, the 51-year-old spent more of his life in prison than out. In that time touch-screen cellphones replaced the wired telephones he remembered. The sleepy downtown he once knew turned into a vibrant tourist hub. Walking down the street as a free man seemed foreign and not quite right.
"I didn't feel as if I belonged here," said Boyd, wiping his eyes.
Sitting around a table recently with other men who had once been in his shoes, ex-offenders who'd come home after years in prison, Boyd felt free to let go. The men are part of a new program at Bon Secours Community Works that is helping people adjust to life after prison. An affiliate of Bon Secours Hospital, the Community Works program addresses the social issues, such as poverty, lack of housing and unemployment, that are as important to a person's well-being and health as the physical ailments that land them in a hospital.
Talib Horne, Community Works' executive director, decided to focus on ex-offenders after statistics showed the neighborhoods around the hospital had some of the largest numbers of people coming home from prison.
Baltimore receives 59 percent of all state prison releases, or 9,000 annually, Horne said. Of those, 30 percent return to just six communities, including the West Baltimore neighborhoods served by Bon Secours.
"When we started looking at the data, we saw that we were surrounded by this and we needed to do something about it," Horne said.
Many are thrown back into a drastically changed society with little or no social or financial support.
Bon Secours' 12-week program, which includes both men's and women's groups, helps ex-offenders navigate reintegration into society. It is modeled after a program created by an Ohio nonprofit called TYRO, a Latin word that means novice, and used by community groups in many states.
The program teaches ex-offenders life skills they will need to succeed outside of prison and coping mechanisms to deal with the stigma that often follows them through life. Participants also are taught to think positively about themselves despite their past, referring to them as "returning citizens," rather than ex-offenders.
The group leaders are ex-offenders who understand the struggles faced by those leaving the prison system after many years.
At a recent session, Alfreda Robinson-Dawkins, a reentry specialist, asked the women to describe their high and low moments of the week as she does at the start of each session. One woman described her low as feeling out-of-shape and unable to stop smoking. Another said her high was not letting an annoying boss goad her into losing her temper.
The discussion then turned to how people might judge the women because they are ex-offenders.
"Ever feel like people don't give you an opportunity because of your past?" asked Robinson-Dawkins, who spent 10 years in the 1990s in federal prison on conspiracy charges related to her son's drug dealing.
A woman dressed in a black T-shirt nodded her head feverishly.
"Yes," she said. "I was turned down so much because of the nature of my charges. Because I have shoplifted. People don't want you working in their establishment."
Robinson-Dawkins encouraged the women not to let labels define them. Don't let your past dominate the conversation in job interviews, she told them. Turn the focus to the skills you bring to the job.
"We know we can live beyond those labels," Robinson-Dawkins said.
Samantha Malfi, 29, had been in jail for various offenses including assault and theft, related to her drug addiction. Time and again she tried to do better only to sabotage herself and remain stuck in the same cycle.
But this time is different, she said. She went to rehab and has been off drugs for eight months. She comes to Bon Secours each week and is learning to love herself and get back on her feet.
"I really needed this support," said Malfi, who hopes to return to being a hairstylist, which she did before she went to jail. "It's given me more confidence."
Research has shown that a combination of family and peer support can help former prisoners transition better once they are released. Many of them move in with family when they get out and may put on a positive face to mask any anxiety or stress they're feeling, said Christy Visher, a professor of sociology and criminal justice at the University of Delaware who has studied the re-entry of former prisoners for more than a decade.
"The family is not going to be that person or group they will confide in as they face their fears," Visher said. "People who have been through that experience will be the ones that they will share that with. They are trying to present a really positive, I-am-going-to-make-it, I-am-going-to-be-okay image to the family, because they feel like they let the family down."
Family members often don't know how to help returning prisoners negotiate re-entry. Former prisoners are most vulnerable in the first six months as they deal with stigma, finding a job and housing, and adjusting to life without regimented schedules and restrictive rules, Visher said.
After Community Works' 12-week program, participants get a year of follow-up through a Bon Secours career development program. They get help with small logistical issues that can become big barriers to their success. They get help with transportation, mental health and substance abuse as well as job placement. Community Works also offers certification and occupational training for careers in construction and urban landscaping. There are also services for housing assistance, credit repair, child care, tax preparation and expungement assistance.
"A man coming out of jail after 33 or 44 years can't make it without a support system," said Anees Abdul-Rahim, reentry coordinator at Bon Secours. "They need concentrated attention to get back on the right path."
A couple of hours after the women met, a group of men, including Boyd, went through the same curriculum.
Boyd was introduced to Bon Secours by another ex-offender already in the program who lived in the same halfway house. The man took Boyd under his wing, bringing him to the Inner Harbor and other places to reacclimate with the city. Boyd said he is not sure how he would have managed otherwise.
Boyd earned a GED and a bachelor's degree in criminal justice while in prison and hopes to build a new life as a free man, but first he wants to learn how to navigate his freedom without being held back by his past.
He plans to return to the Bon Secours group. He was grateful for a place to freely shed tears among people who understood.
"It felt good," Boyd said.
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