By Henry DelBello
“This thing of darkness I
Acknowledge mine.”
Prospero, “The Tempest” by William Shakespeare
Right now, in a Level 4 security prison far out in La Grange, Kentucky, a brotherhood of 18 men, Black, white, old, and young, are gathered together to study and rehearse Shakespeare’s “The Tempest.” These men are incarcerated at Luther Luckett Correctional Complex for violent crimes, but during these hours, they are the actors in a group called Shakespeare Behind Bars.
Last spring, Shakespeare Behind Bars presented “Macbeth”…at the same time I was also playing Macbeth in a touring production with Kentucky Shakespeare. I had the double privilege of sharing my troupe’s “Macbeth” with these inmates and witnessing their “Macbeth” a month later.
After our show, we held a short Q&A, as they did after theirs, and one of the players asked me if it was difficult to play Macbeth due to the fact that I’ve never committed any of the violent crimes the character depicts. I said yes, and explained that there’s a world of understanding I don’t have, but it’s my job to be curious about the lives of others.
When I saw them perform, I could identify that same curiosity in them; the angle was slightly different, though no less important. They’re on a long journey toward understanding themselves, and when they embody this vulnerable space of being emotionally affected by these words and in front of their peers, that’s when breakthroughs happen.
First-year member Bryce Lochlan is an excellent example. Through the medium of theater games and the support of his peers, Bryce learned how to project his voice without reliving the trauma of his abusive dad yelling at him. His mother, along with many other mothers, was in the audience the night I saw them perform. A couple of former Shakespeare Behind Bars members, now reintegrated, also showed up to support their brothers.
The connections and interpersonal skills developed in programs like Shakespeare Behind Bars can be game changers in fostering successful reintegration and preventing recidivism. In learning their lines, these men practice literacy and academic curiosity, and I met several members taking college courses while serving time. In rehearsal, they’re learning to collaborate in a theatrical environment where sensitivity and empathy are valued more than machismo or self-reliance.
I find it particularly meaningful that they cast their roles in an open conversation that takes individual growth into account. Marcus Findlay, one of the players, talked openly during the Q&A about the group challenging him to take on the role of Macbeth. Findlay was incarcerated for homicide, and playing Macbeth forced him to confront the darkest parts of himself with truthfulness and vulnerability. Findlay gave a spectacular performance and ended the show knowing, and accepting, more about himself than when he started.
“Macbeth” is a play rife with violence, betrayal, and guilt, and I think all these men confronted themselves somewhere in the text. Next year, when they perform “The Tempest,” they’ll have the chance to find themselves again in a story about forgiveness and redemption.
There’s a poignant epilogue to this story. Programs like Shakespeare Behind Bars – which foster literacy, friendship, and hope – have become increasingly endangered the last few years due to a national increase in administrative lockdowns. These are extended periods of time when prisons, often due to overcrowding and understaffing, have to shut down their programs and restrict those incarcerated to prolonged isolation and boredom. The result: individuals losing touch with their friends and the outside world, burrowing deeper into themselves, and antagonizing staff. It’s worse for everyone.
Right now is a good time to celebrate these little circles of hope, like Shakespeare Behind Bars, and to build more.
Henry DelBello is an actor living and working in Chicago. He’s an advocate for prison reform and people with disabilities. Shakespeare Behind Bars participants’ names have been changed to protect the peace of all involved.
