When I graduated from SFU, I didn’t immediately look for work where I could apply what I had learned. During my 4 years at the university, I had put in quite a lot of time with Dad in his landscaping business. My role had mostly been to operate a John Deere front end loader and deliver top soil, sand, and gravel with a dump truck. Knowing Dad had more work than he could look after alone, I decided to stay with him temporarily.

I arranged a meeting with Doug McGregor to give him a copy of the paper I had written, based on my research at Matsqui Institution. I told him about M2/W2 and asked if he would consider having the organization set up a program at Matsqui.

“Do you think this is the answer to problems with inmate rehabilitation?” he asked. I wondered later if this had been his way of ascertaining how naïve I was in regard to prison issues.

“We don’t claim it will solve all problems,” I replied. “I do believe though that if an inmate has a friend in the community, he won’t feel as isolated from mainstream society. An M/2 Sponsor would commit to visit him once every two weeks. He and his family and friends could be a positive influence in his life. When the inmate is paroled, the sponsor might be able to assist him in finding employment.”

Although he didn’t say anything, I sensed that Doug was listening intently. “In cases where a solid relationship is developed,” I continued, “ the man doing time has someone of good character in his life. This means he doesn’t have to feel as dependent on his past criminal associations. Some men recognize that they need to sever those connections completely, but that certainly doesn’t happen in every case.”

Doug asked a few more questions and then agreed to meet with Ray Coles, the executive director of M2/W2. Several weeks later Ray asked if I would consider coordinating the program at Matsqui in a volunteer capacity. I had derived considerable satisfaction from doing the research at the institution, and although there would be no remuneration, I felt this was a good move for me. It would enable me to gain further experience in corrections. My interest was in the realm of rehabilitation, not in becoming part of the bureaucracy and being enmeshed in its often stifling web.

A few days later I requested a meeting with interested inmates. The staff liaison, who coordinated the activities of the various groups coming into the institution, recognized the benefit of having inmates interact with citizens from the community. She advertised the program among the inmate population and invited interested individuals to attend an informational meeting with me. This meeting took place in one of the institutions’ classrooms. At the time inmates were able to upgrade to a high school level education, something they frequently lacked. Several university courses were also offered.

The meeting attracted just over a dozen men. Some were simply curious or looking for a break from prison tedium. Others desperately hoped for something that would halt the downward trend of their lives. The men straggled in, usually one at a time, all clad in the drab grey prison uniforms. As though hoping not to be noticed, each cautiously took a seat as close to the rear of the room as possible. Prison life had tutored them in the art of distrust.

They observed me furtively. Only two or three made even minimal eye contact. These were hardened, discontented, discouraged men who had known mostly failure. Sexual and physical abuse was a common thread in their history. Feeling alone, unappreciated and unloved, they desperately needed a miracle. Of course, they didn’t have the capacity to believe in miracles.

For these desolate men heroin, cocaine and alcohol were the only means of escaping from the sorrow and rage that simmered deep within.  Even for the younger ones, the time had passed when they would willingly make the effort to change and grow. Looking into these disconsolate faces and sensing their lack of ability to believe, I felt a powerful urge to bring into their lives men who might be able to help them accept that good things were still possible.

Several days later, I received seven applications for a sponsor. Among them were three I particularly recall.

One was Steve, a large sombre man of about 55 who had two times killed a prostitute in a drunken rage. He was doing life. He’d need help if he was to get out of prison before he was too old to care. The damage done to his psyche in earlier years was immense. In the time I knew him, I never saw him smile.

Also in attendance at the meeting was Roy, a balding, barrel chested stocky man of about 40. He had come early to secure a seat at the very back of the room. He sat through the entire meeting with his arms folded across his chest and his face radiating distrust. Everything about him suggested extreme skepticism, lack of hope and a strong measure of defiance. I doubted he’d want anything to do with our program but I instinctively felt that if he did, he would be difficult.

Al, doing significant time for an armed robbery in which he had shot a policeman in the leg, also applied for a sponsor. His most recent contact with his parents had been a 45 minute visit six years ago at Stony Mountain Prison in Manitoba. Although he was only 36, he already thought of himself as a hard core con. He spoke out of the side of his mouth and his attitude and values were those of a man who has spent many years behind prison bars.

Looking through the applications, I was mystified when I saw the name of Roy, who had placed an impenetrable wall of reserve and skepticism between himself and me. He did prove to be a handful, as I guessed, but not in the way I had expected. In fairness to him, each of the others also proved to be extremely difficult. In spite of the challenges though, several of the relationships that developed from this first meeting would last a decade or more. As in every other prison, miracles at Matsqui Institution were scarce, but at times we got close.

Although I did not gain a deep sense of satisfaction or fulfillment from the Oakalla experience, it did foster within me an interest in prisons and prison life. I was asking questions such as, “what is the role of personal choices in producing men and women who spend years of their lives behind prison bars and high perimeter fences?” “What part does the family play in this?” “What about societal factors?” “And how does prison life influence and impact the thinking, attitudes, actions and futures of inmates?”

At the beginning of 1971 I needed to write a major paper to complete the requirements for an Honours BA. I discussed my interest in prisons, and especially inmate culture, with one of the SFU profs who would supervise me in this. Fortunately he had an acquaintance who was a department head at what was then the Regional Psychiatric Centre. He readily offered to make arrangements for me to meet him.

On arriving at the Psychiatric Centre, which was actually a high security prison, I quickly realized that the emphasis was definitely on security. An electronically controlled steel door slid open to admit me. I understood at once that from this point on, I would not be master of my own fate until someone opened this door for me again and allowed me to exit. I was buzzed into a small building where an aging, very thin officer was waiting for me. A sheet of glass with a metal aperture separated us. He pushed a book through the opening at the bottom of the glass and said “fill in the blanks, print your name and then sign.”

When I had provided the requisite information, he appeared grudgingly satisfied and said, “wait here, someone will escort you to your appointment.” A young security officer appeared from somewhere behind him. He smiled and said, “follow me”. I gathered that unlike the older man, he was not yet institutionalized and not bored.

Although it was much newer than Oakalla, the place had an intimidating institutional personality. It occurred to me that I probably would not be able to walk anywhere along these halls without being tracked by a camera. My psyche felt under siege and I questioned my wisdom in wanting to do a study in this forbidding place.

The department head was middle aged, balding and experienced. He very likely understood immediately that the high level of security and the nature of their inmates might be overly daunting for me. “We deal with extremely difficult cases,” he said, evidently feeling a need to establish a direction for our conversation. “Our clientele includes a number of sexual offenders.” Possibly he didn’t want to discourage me so he allowed some time for discussion. As we talked, I had the sense he was considering where my request might be looked upon favourably. After about 10 minutes he seemed to have come up with

a possible plan. “I think Matsqui Institution would be a more appropriate place for you to do what you have in mind,” he said. “They have the type of clientele you should be talking with. There is more of a cross section of inmates. The Superintendent is Doug McGregor. I’m quite certain he would be open to this. I’ll give him a call and ask him to talk with you.”

Matsqui Institution is a federal medium security prison on the same tract of land as the Psychiatric Centre. I knew it had a reputation as a prison that dealt with a high number of drug users and traffickers. Many were incarcerated for crimes that supported their habit.

I had read in the local papers that at some risk to his own career, Doug McGregor was experimenting with a Day Pass system for inmates. Some in the Fraser Valley community were experiencing considerable anxiety at the idea that federal prisoners were being granted either escorted or unescorted passes.

When I entered Doug’s office, he greeted me cordially and gesturing toward a chair, invited me to sit down. He was wearing slacks, and his shirt was open at the neck. Very relaxed and confident, he helped me to feel at ease. I liked him immediately. For nearly half an hour we talked about prisons, especially his experimentation with the Day Pass System.

When I explained the nature of the research I hoped to do, he listened intently, breaking in occasionally to ask a question. His alert mind quickly grasped what I was requesting. The idea of a study of inmate culture interested him. “Go ahead and do it,” he said. “Just give me a copy of your paper when you’re finished.”

For almost three months, several days a week, I sat in a small room interviewing men doing time for crimes such as break & entry, trafficking in heroin and cocaine, armed robbery, murder, etc. Their sentences ranged from 2 years to life. A life sentence did not mean they would never be released. Occasionally, a man died in the prison as a result of being stabbed, hit over the head with a metal pipe, an overdose of heroin, or some other unnatural cause.

I also spent time talking with counsellors, living unit officers, the warden, and others. Sometimes I was invited to have lunch in the prison dining room and I observed inmates serving food to staff. A senior security officer gave me a tour of the living units. Occasionally counsellors invited me to attend group sessions they were doing with inmates. I had numerous discussions with counsellors and also at times with the prison psychologists.

When I completed the research paper, I gave Doug McGregor a copy, as promised.

Now, more than 40 years later, I still appreciate the prof who arranged my meeting with the department head. I also value the department head for introducing me to Doug McGregor. And I am thankful to Doug for opening the many doors of Matsqui Institution so I could move about virtually without restraint.

When the massive inner steel door at Oakalla clanged shut behind us, my heart told me we had entered an emotional wasteland. We had entered a wide grey corridor with a concrete floor and cells on one side. Each cell contained a simple metal bunk covered with a grey blanket. Steel bars enclosed each cell. The men, clad in light brown prison garb, moved about restlessly, with little discernible purpose. Seeing us, they momentarily ceased their meaningless wandering to scrutinize this troupe of “Square Johns” entering their dreary domain. If they felt surprised, they chose not to reveal it.

We were the first batch of citizens recruited by the newly minted M2/W2 organization. Each of us had already been matched with a specific prisoner in this cell block. Our assignment was to visit this man every two weeks and attempt to establish a relationship with him. M2/W2 organizers believed if a man doing time has a contact in the community outside the prison, he has a better chance of establishing healthier relationships and a more positive lifestyle when released. In time, teams of women would become involved in prisons for women. I was still a student at SFU and had decided that this prison visitation program would be interesting and might provide some insights for my sociology courses.

The first man I was matched with demonstrated little interest in anything. The years of successive terms in prison had seemingly sapped Rick’s humanity. He was never willing to speak about his family or upbringing, but almost certainly he came from an environment that did not nurture. Too many years behind bars had warped and hardened his thinking. Generating conversation with him immediately became my exclusive and difficult responsibility. He had no plans or ambitions that interested or excited him. When I asked a question or introduced a subject, he responded only briefly, his voice remaining flat and without even a hint of emotion.

Rick was paroled a few months later and quickly vanished, probably to the streets of Vancouver. In time I would learn that this was not uncommon. My next match was Pierre, who claimed he had been a lawyer in Quebec. Conversation with Pierre was easy. He loved to talk about his exploits, seemingly without pausing to catch a breath. I loaned him several prized books dealing with sociological issues. When I showed up for my next visit with him, I was told he had been sent back to Quebec. Apparently my books had made the trip with him. I hope he read them.

The men at Oakalla were doing provincial time, two years less a day (a deuce less, as they referred to it). Visiting Rick and Pierre provided me with a basic education concerning prison inmates, prison life and regulations. It also made me aware that other than resignation, bitterness and anger, this prison was indeed an emotional wasteland. These men had little experience with joy, delight or a sense of fulfillment.

Almost without exception, the men I had joined with to visit prisoners had church connections. Many were individuals with a deep faith. Knowing that Jesus had many times responded to cries for help from lepers, blind individuals, parents with sick children, people looking for a source of hope, etc. they believed they too had a responsibility to the less fortunate.

One contingent of men came from a conservative Mennonite church on Ross Rd. in what was then Matsqui Municipality. They were rigorous, resolute, caring men, farmers, teachers, trades people, businessmen. I came to respect them for their commitment and integrity. When they gave their word, it was like a signed contract with a lawyers stamp.

I got to know one of these men, Dan, quite well. A chicken farmer, he was pragmatic and discerning, a good match for Paul. Paul was about half Dan’s age and could have considered himself superior to this farmer who chose not to own a radio or television . He and Dan were at opposite ends of the spectrum in pretty much every respect. Paul had given his life to crime. Dan had devoted himself to his family, church, farm, and the local community. He valued honesty more than money.

Amazingly, a significant rapport developed between them, probably in part because Dan unreservedly accepted and valued Paul. Paul’s past criminal activities did not prevent Dan from recognizing that this young man was a human being with immense potential. When Paul was paroled, Dan invited him to live with him and his family. Paul agreed to this and over time came to see the value in Dan’s conservative views and lifestyle. Dan helped him find work and Paul was launched on the road to a productive life.

He did have to contend with temptation, though. One day he was on the freeway, intending to visit people and haunts from his unsavoury past.

Years later he said to me, “I was halfway to Vancouver. Then I started thinking about what I was leaving behind. I knew if I went there, I would never return.” He took the next exit and drove back to Dan’s farm.

At the church, he soon fell in love with a young woman who was quite happy to accept his proposal for marriage. In time he became a skilled, specialized roofer and his services were in high demand. Now, many years later, Paul and his devoted wife have three grown children and several grandchildren. Like the other men in the church he has grown a beard and, except for his quite non-Mennonite name, in faith, work ethic, integrity and appearance, he is a perfect fit.

Paul told me recently, “I never had a good relationship with my dad. Dan was like a father to me.”

Although Dan passed on some years ago, the memory of him lingers in my mind. The relationship between him and Paul, developed in Oakalla, helped me to understand that although an individual has known only crime, bitterness and failure, such a person can still experience a miraculous change.