The scariest part for me was waiting to be let in, expecting to be strip-searched, looking at the razor wire and the heavy, magnetic remote-controlled doors.
Once we were inside, I felt more relaxed, though I had to keep reminding myself where I was – a state prison on the East Coast of the US, and why I’d come – to share Nonviolent Communication (NVC) with a group of prison inmates.
We sat and waited in the ‘Chapel’ – a large high-ceilinged room with a glass window along one side and a uniformed CO (Correction Officer) sitting outside. Men in brown prison uniforms came in and filled up the circle of chairs around me. Twelve or fifteen of them, mainly middle-aged, three or four in their late twenties.
The purpose of NVC is connection
I introduced the purpose of NVC – to create the kind of connection that would lead to get everybody’s needs being met – and led through some exercises to help us get to know each other.
To my relief, the men seemed relaxed with each other, and were willing to share their experiences. I talked about feelings, and how feelings give us information about our needs (what’s important to us).
We made a list of needs on the flip chart. I remember being surprised how easily the men identified them: safety, peace of mind, trust, honesty, independence, comfort, connection, safety (again).
What happens when we’ve screwed up?
Then I raised the issue of what happens when I’ve screwed up or done something that I’m not happy with. I talked about the need for mourning, for grieving lost dreams, lost lives. I said that this part of NVC had been a revelation for me.
For the first 40 years of my life, I’d tried to throw feelings of grief out with the rubbish – because I couldn’t see any meaning to them. This had led me to depression. NVC had helped me to understand that grief is a need – a natural part of human life, just as much as celebrating when things go well.
In fact, for me, mourning and celebration are two sides of the same coin of honouring our needs. I said that by honouring grief and mourning, the process had become integrating and healing for me.
A sense of shared humanity
And as I talked about mourning for lost dreams and lost lives something happened that I found deeply moving – every man in the room made eye contact with me, silently. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that, or the sense of shared humanity I felt at that moment.
After a few moments silence, one man in his forties talked about his wife and son – both had died since he’d been ‘inside’. I asked him, guessing empathically, if he was sad because he would have liked to have been there to support them. He looked at the carpet and nodded.
Later, he said he wanted to remember some other things about them – not just the ‘bad’ things. He talked about the ‘fun’ things they’d done together – going to Burger King, days out to theme parks, to the Coast. He realised he didn’t have a picture of his wife and son in his cell. He decided to ask his brother to bring a picture of them the next time he visited.
While he spoke, the other men sat quietly, listening. I realised that I felt touched by his honesty and openness. When he finished, I thanked him for bringing this part of his life into the room.
How to continue
If you want to enjoy this quality of connection wherever you go, we invite you to join us at one of our trainings. Our next Life-Changing Communication in-person weekend is in Bristol, 17-18 May.