When the COVID-19 pandemic threatened to suspend Salt Lake Community College’s prison education program in the spring of 2020, the school rushed to expedite a way it could continue to offer classes should future shutdowns occur.

It came in the form of 100 new laptops.

The devices, slated to arrive at the Draper prison this summer, will allow students to study from their cells, type papers, access educational resources and contact their professors, said David Bokovoy, SLCC’s director of prison education. Students will not have access to the internet.

The school purchased the laptops after an anonymous donor made a gift in March that made it possible, said Lexi Wilson, an administrative assistant for the program. Providing students laptops had been on the wish list for years, but the pandemic made it a more pressing issue, said Wilson.

Before COVID-19 appeared in Utah, about 250 students were taking classes each semester, but the pandemic forced the program to stop classes until last fall.

“We had no clue if we were going to continue or end the classes all together,” Wilson said. “This was not by choice, but the prison wasn’t allowing any programming during that time.”

The number of students currently taking classes is down to about 80.

The laptops are a fairly simple addition, but Bokovoy said its impact increases access to education significantly when classes are curtailed due to a global pandemic or forced lockdowns.

The prison education program at SLCC has become one of the biggest in-person prison education programs in the country, Bokovoy said. Since its inception in 2017, the program has served more than 600 students, per SLCC.

While most prison education programs are run off site through correspondence, Bokovoy said holding face-to-face classes remains a priority because they provide students with a positive social environment where topics of importance can be discussed with classmates and trained instructors.

The classes through the prison, he said, are no different than those offered at any one of SLCC’s 11 campuses across the Salt Lake valley.

“It is every bit as academically rigorous and demanding as what transpires on our mainstream campuses, if not more so, because of the unique challenges our students face in taking courses in that sort of environment,” Bokovoy said.

Through the program, students 18 and older who graduated high school or have a GED can pursue an Associates of Science or a general education certificate, according to Wilson. Students who are unable to perform at college level can take preparation courses in math and English.

One student, who has been incarcerated for 20 years and is required by the program to speak anonymously, said the education program makes an impact that goes beyond those taking classes.

“The presence of higher education in prison gives us a chance to radically change our lives for the betterment of everyone,” he wrote in a testimonial that Bokovoy shared. “A fully functioning higher education program creates an atmosphere of striving for knowledge and improvement. It has ripple effects that permeate the rest of the prison population.”

Many students are their first in their families to go to college, including one man who has yet to tell his mother he’s pursuing an Associates of Science degree.

“I’m about two more semesters away from that big day, and I have not told my mother because I would love to give her my degree as a Mother’s Day surprise,” he said, again in a testimonial. “I want her to be proud of me.”

Broadening access

In April 2020, SLCC was invited by the U.S. Department of Education to participate in the Second Chance Pell experiment, which is a pilot program that allows incarcerated students to qualify for need-based federal Pell Grants to help pay for postsecondary education.

This experiment, initially created in 2015, nearly doubled last year, allowing incarcerated students to use Federal Pell Grants at 130 schools located in 42 states and Washington, D.C.

In December, Congress passed the Coronavirus Response and Relief Supplemental Appropriations Act of 2021. The stimulus package included the FAFSA simplification act, which allows incarcerated people to qualify for Pell Grants, previously banned in the Clinton-era Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act of 1994.

According to Prison Policy Initiative, “the average of the minimum daily wages paid to incarcerated workers for non-industry prison jobs is 86 cents.”

This has made college education for incarcerated people practically unattainable unless their prison was a part of the very recent Second Chance Pell experiment according to the Vera Institute of Justice.

A 2019 study by the Vera Institute of Justice estimates that nearly half a million inmates would be eligible for Pell grants if the ban were lifted.

Bokovoy thinks the recently passed legislation will help broaden access and reduce recidivism rates, which is the rate at which previously incarcerated people go back to prison. High recidivism rates in the U.S. have consistently been an issue.

According to a study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics that followed 404,638 state prisoners that were released in 2005, 83% “were arrested at least once during the 9 years following their release.”

Additionally, 44% of the prisoners were arrested at least once within their first year of being released.

Reducing recidivism rates, particularly for low-level drug offenders is a goal of Utah lawmakers, who passed extensive criminal justice reform in 2014. Their goals haven’t been met entirely. An audit conducted last fall “found that in 2013, the recidivism rate for low-level drug offenders was 29%” and in 2018 “that number jumped to 37%.”

Prison education has proven to be one of the best ways to combat recidivism, according to corrections experts.

In 2016, the Rand Corporation conducted a study that found that “inmates who participate in any kind of educational program behind bars—from remedial math to vocational auto shop to college-level courses—are up to 43 percent less likely to reoffend and return to prison.”

Although the initial cost of investing in prison education programs can be high, the same study found for “every dollar invested in correctional education, they save nearly five in reincarceration costs over the next three years.” Rand noted the per-person cost of prison educational programs is between $1,400 and $1,700.

For this reason, Bokovoy believes “it makes sense for taxpayers to prioritize higher education in the prison system” from a financial perspective.

Going forward, Bokovoy noted he hopes to expand the prison education system in Utah by broadening program offerings to juvenile detention centers, possibly as soon as 2022.

With the first buildings of the new Salt Lake prison facility opening near the airport by the end of this year, Bokovoy said the educational resources will also receive a sizeable upgrade for “all incarcerated individuals in the state of Utah.”

But more than anything, Bokovoy said empathy for incarcerated students is crucial.

“All of these men and women have a story,” he said. “Everyone deserves a chance to better themselves by pursuing education, and that would certainly include those who have made mistakes in the past, like we all do.”

Two Salt Lake City theater groups have worked recently to help people with disabilities experience live performance — as actors and audience members, giving them accessibility and representation.

In recent months, Salt Lake Community College’s Black Box Theatre produced a play that included actors with autism in the lead role of a character who also has autism, and Salt Lake Acting Company has remodeled its space to better accommodate actors and audiences with disabilities, and offered shows catering to these audiences.

In November 2021, the Black Box Theatre presented “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time,” the play by Simon Stephens based on the book of the same name by Mark Haddon. The play centers on Christopher, a 15-year-old boy who has autism, as he unravels the mystery of a neighborhood murder. Two of the three actors cast in the role of Christopher for the Black Box Theatre production are on the autism spectrum.

“We are able to switch between [actors] at the moment that Christopher might be overwhelmed with emotions,” said Zac Curtis, associate professor of theater at SLCC. “It’s symbolizing for us the way a person experiencing these deep emotions might say, ‘This is too much for me right now,’ and then they need another piece of themselves to fill in.”

Seth Howell, a general education major and one of the actors who portrayed Christopher, has previous experience with the play and said the Black Box’s approach is unique.

“I’ve helped out in ‘Curious Incident’ before, with how those shows interpreted autism, because their actors don’t have autism, but I do,” he said. “It’s pretty cool to get to be a part of a show that I’ve always been a part of and helped before.”

Those involved with the Black Box Theatre production said they appreciated the challenges of showing the perspective of someone with autism.

Cameron Westland, a theater major who played several parts, said the show gives the audience “a little glimpse into struggles that people deal with, that aren’t always noticed or go unspoken, like autism, and trying to fit ... into society sometimes becomes challenging for those people.”

Over at Salt Lake Acting Company, whose theater is a converted Latter-day Saint meetinghouse in Salt Lake City’s Marmalade neighborhood, the performing arts organization supports casting actors with disabilities or actors living similar experiences to the characters they play.

Representation matters,” said SLAC Accessibility Coordinator Natalie Keezer. “Who would be better to tell this story than a person who has navigated the world in a way that is similar to Christopher?”

Casting for people with disabilities shouldn’t be limited, however, she said. “Actors with disabilities — visible and invisible — should be represented on stage in every type of role.”

The challenge for such inclusivity goes beyond casting choices, to cover providing accessible spaces in the theater, both onstage and off.

In May 2020, SLAC launched the Amberlee Accessibility Fund, launched in memory of patron Amberlee Hatton-Ward, who died in 2019. Hatton-Ward used a wheelchair and frequently attended holiday productions, which were presented in SLAC’s Upstairs Theatre. Without an elevator available, friends and family had to carry Hatton-Ward into the theater.

A fund drive raised more than $1 million to renovate SLAC’s theater lobby to install an elevator that is now operational, taking patrons who need it to the second floor. The fund also is paying to remodel SLAC’s dressing rooms to make them accessible to all.

“If theater companies work to make artist spaces such as dressing rooms and backstage areas accessible to everyone, actors with disabilities will know that they are welcome to audition at that theater company,” Keezer said. “If audition rooms are a safe space for actors… to disclose information about their disability and safely ask for accommodations, there will be more actors with disabilities auditioning.”

Salt Lake Acting Company’s next production, the Utah premiere of the play “Egress” by Melissa Crespo and Sarah Saltwick, runs Feb. 2 to March 6. It will feature an open-captioned performance on Feb. 20, an audio-described show on Feb. 23, a sensory-friendly performance on Feb. 26, and a performance interpreted into American Sign Language on March 5.

Salt Lake Acting Company has been offering ASL-interpreted performances since 2015, which started with a production of “Tribes,” which featured a deaf actor playing a character who is deaf.

“It was through ‘Tribes’ that we started to become more aware of the experience we were or weren’t providing to members of the deaf community or others with visible or invisible disabilities,” Keezer said.

SLAC also has been producing sensory-friendly performances for individuals with sensory needs, including people on the autism spectrum. Light and sound levels remain low, and the intensity of any startling or loud sounds or strobe lighting is reduced. The show is modified to allow for patron movement and there are designated quiet spaces within the theater. “Accessible performances will become more and more common,” said Keezer. “Theatre should be accessible to everyone.”

Curtis said he, too, is eager to provide more opportunity and representation at the Black Box Theatre for people with disabilities, including those with autism.

“Hopefully, in future shows, we can keep thinking ... about ways in which every voice can find a place within a show,” Curtis said. “It’s time for us to be putting stories on stage that represent everybody.”

 Mike Adamson wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune. 

###

NOTE TO MEDIA PARTNERS PUBLISHING WORK We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text:

This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Mike Adamson wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.

When someone transitions to the gender with which they identify, they usually pick a new name. And their birth name becomes their “deadname.” Generally, others should stop using it. For many transgender people, it is associated with deep trauma, though for others it holds less emotional weight.

For Diana Wilson, hearing her deadname wasn’t so bad at first but became more difficult over time.

“When it had lost the simple ‘someone is addressing me’ meaning and picked up the ‘reminder of the time when life was worse than now most of the time’ meaning, I became less comfortable with it,” said Wilson, an adjunct humanities and history professor at Salt Lake Community College. “It is also inherently misgendering, which never feels good but feels more jarring when being misgendered has become rare.”

Kenny Smith has attended SLCC for two years, majoring in video and audio production. Smith changed their name more than 20 years ago and they also have a jarring, emotional response to hearing the name they left behind.

“If someone calls me my deadname, I find it surprising, especially if I didn’t know them before the change,” Smith described. “Some might say my response to this can be feisty because I have yet to respond really well when it happens. I almost want to shrink up and disappear and it can ruin an entire day.”

Psychologist Jean Twenge found a link between disliked first names and psychological dips in a 2006 Journal of Psychology study. Although, she did not discern if the lack of self-confidence stemmed from the undesired first name, or if the first name became associated with a lack of self-confidence and then became disliked.

A Williams Institute survey found that thoughts and attempts of suicide were significantly higher among transgender adults than the general U.S. population. The data also shows a significant drop in attempts and thoughts of suicide from respondents who were not rejected, invalidated, or attacked as often.

For some, their deadname is not weighed down with such negativity. They don’t prefer it, but there’s still some fondness associated with it.

Emma Yates, who lives in Salt Lake City and began transitioning three years ago, said she doesn’t mind her deadname. Her new name, Emma, came from her nickname, which stemmed from her old name.

“I have a unique experience with mine. I don’t mind the name I was given at birth very much because it is somewhat androgynous,” she said. “There are a few people who still call me by my birth name, which sometimes feels right to me. But that’s not the experience most trans-folks have with their names.”

Yates recalled a friend who has a masculine deadname and has seen firsthand the emotional strain it causes when forced to hear and use it regularly.

“There’s a lot of stupid things where you are forced to give your deadname. Like PayPal cash app and anything online, getting things shipped to you properly, this and that,” Yates said. “There are just all these times you have to give that name and I just saw this person’s heart get destroyed a little bit every time.”

Felix Patterson, a senior in high school, started his transition less than a year ago.

“I guess it’s odd that a name can hold so much power that you want said name dead entirely. While I don’t like being referred to by my old name, I still appreciate it and hold it dear in my heart,” Patterson said. “My parents gave me that, and they gave me that name with love and purpose the day I was born.”

Patterson said his deadname isn’t dead. Not to him. “It just really isn’t as accurate as it once was.”

Patterson wishes more people would treat transgender people like people, not an enigma.

“I don’t think people realize that transgender people don’t mind answering questions if people would just ask,” he said. “Some of them may seem uncomfortable and inappropriate, and maybe they are, but you won’t know unless you ask.”

Editor’s note: If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or the UNI CrisisLine at 801-587-3000. LGBTQ-specific support is available through THRIVE.

Leilani Miller wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune. 

###

NOTE TO MEDIA PARTNERS PUBLISHING WORKWe also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text:

This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Leilani Miller wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.