occurred when a prisoner, in the main hall, in
the hearing of other prisoners and various staff,
called him a “m——r f——r.” The deputy war-
den, Tom, a huge and very tough guy who had
been there for decades, gave a signal and moved
with several officers to administer a beating to
the man. Henry put a gentle hand on Tom’s
arm and said words to the effect, “I don’t want
any man ever beaten on my account—besides,
maybe he really does believe that’s what I am,
and I don’t think it’s right to punish a man for
his beliefs.” The deputy warden, the inmate,
and everyone within hearing were left speech-
less as Ed continued on his jaunty way with his
warm and slightly ironic smile intact.
As Warden Henry’s changes took hold, there
was a renaissance of creativity and cooperation
in the prison. Inmates, officers, and other staff
as well, who had labored quietly for years in be-
half of constructive programs and decent rela-
tionships, were identified, supported, and re-
warded. Inmates Fred Pissano and Antoine
Samuels formed their inmate-run paralegal law
clinic, which came to be recognized for its ex-
cellence in legal circles beyond the prison. In-
mate Victor Jones developed more openly a
number of consciousness-raising groups geared
to helping young, angry black prisoners substi-
tute dialogue for fratricidal violence. Aaron, a
black officer in his late forties who could alone
command a mess hall of 300 men by virtue of
the kind of respect and integrity he conveyed,
was promoted and given a staff-training role.
Other officers who had labored under a Jim
Crow system for years also emerged in creative
leadership roles. And many white officers as
well gave support.
sonal with me, call me by my rank!” The be-
fuddled inmate would then say, “Well, uh, OK,
Sergeant.” Ed would then smile and say: “That’s
better!” That initiation had more fun than bite
in it. Actually, if he thought the inmate could
handle it, he might say, “You know, I have a
name as well as a rank.” The inmate by then
would usually figure it out and say, with a
laugh, “OK, Sergeant Sergeant.” Jim used hu-
mor to establish mutuality and defuse the au-
thority intrinsic in his position and to secure
the willing cooperation of the inmates. I think
one reason he was so well liked was the absence
of self-serving ego or malice in his humor.
Previously, requests from prisoners for alle-
viation of even a modest kind were ignored
with contempt. In our second year we devel-
oped the first graduate social work intern pro-
gram in any of the state’s correctional facilities,
consisting of four student interns whom I su-
pervised. One intern became aware of how re-
sentful men in one dining area were that coffee
was always served with milk mixed in. As we all
know, it is the little things that can get to you!
This had gone on for years, but now this intern
was able to take a petition to the warden who
was receptive. From then on coffee was served
with milk on the side.
This was more than an indicator of Ed
Henry’s openness. It also spoke to a basic prin-
ciple—that of redress of grievances and the par-
ticipation by the governed in their own affairs.
Warden Henry did not simply issue an edict.
He went into the dining hall and interviewed
several prisoners himself on the subject. He also
took care to meet with the dining room stew-
ards, who, like Aaron, had the responsibility for
organizing mealtime, to make sure they felt ac-
knowledged and included.
The petition event caused considerable con-
troversy on higher levels in the state correc-
tional bureaucracy, including several meetings
and memoranda. I remember the dean at the
School of Social Work nervously asking me if I
was making trouble. Given the hierarchical
structure of the school, I could see where the
idea of participatory democracy would be
troublesome to her. Warden Ed Henry stood by
that principle and also with the student and me,
as his supervisor.
It is important to record the fact that many
of the officers, black and white, were decent,
humane, and generous human beings doing
their best at a difficult job. One of my mentors
was Jim Sergeant, a white officer in his 40s who
also held the rank of sergeant. Everyone, in-
cluding him, had fun with this. He was well re-
garded by the inmates. He played it straight,
was fair, wise, and incorruptible. He also was
funny as hell. Staff or other inmates would di-
rect a new inmate with a question to ask the
“Sergeant.” When so addressed, Ed would put
on a scowl and say, “Watch it, don’t get per-
Sternbach / Lessons Learned about Working with Men: A Prison Memoir
415