“My reputation is what I’ve done. But my character is who I am.”

This is how the listener meets Theron Hall, a 35-year-old man serving a life sentence at the Oregon State Penitentiary. At first, Hall is explaining how he got his prison nickname: Pit Bull. But he quickly elevates his story, from a chronology of events to an exploration of remorse and his intent to live a better life.

“I’m learning,” he tells his interviewer, “that Theron is actually a very compassionate person.”

That kind of reflection forms the foundation of “,” a podcast released in January and created by , the Mark Torrance Professor of Law, Societies and Justice at the 91̽��. Herbert taught and audio-recorded a class on atonement at the Oregon prison in early 2020; he also conducted one-on-one interviews with several class participants. The podcast provides a storytelling medium for the individual reflections of six men, and the sharing with a wider audience themes of harm, regret and the capacity for change.

The stories of these six men mirror those of thousands of other people who are incarcerated, Herbert explains. Given the number of people incarcerated in the United States — — these stories also reveal larger societal attitudes toward wrongdoing and punishment.

“We have 2 million people whose stories we largely ignore, and many have very compelling stories. Many are wracked with remorse. Many want to be something other than the worst thing they’ve ever done, and they are trying hard to be that person,” Herbert said. “But we don’t make it as easy for them as we should and we don’t recognize that change as often as we should. Nobody benefits from that. We’re not safer, we’re not a better society by ignoring those stories.

“We could have a more cost-effective, and a more generally effective, criminal justice system if we took these stories seriously.”

The podcast is the culmination of years of teaching and outreach inside prisons for Herbert, primarily at the Monroe Correctional Complex northeast of Seattle. After writing on life-sentenced prisoners, he sought to find another medium to tell stories of prisoner change. He ultimately found an entry point for an audio storytelling project, via the Oregon Department of Corrections’ maximum-security facility in Salem. And while the COVID-19 pandemic cut his time a bit short at the prison last winter, Herbert determined that he had enough to create an eight-episode first season.

Herbert sat down with 91̽��News to discuss the experience of “Making Amends.”

How did you combine your role as an academic with that of a podcast interviewer?

Inside every prison I’ve done work in, there has been a community of like-minded prisoners who are supporting each other in their efforts to live a better life and to be a better person, and so for the podcast, I was looking for a way to get those stories and try to get a sense of whatever community might exist.

For each of the classes I taught, I wrote a five- or six-page reading that was a summary of a lot of the literature that explores the nature of wrongdoing: What are the ways that we harm each other, how do we feel about ourselves when we recognize that we’ve harmed somebody else, how do other people feel about us when we harm them. If we’ve done damage, what are the different strategies available to us for repairing that damage? It enabled me to draw upon what I knew — and needed to learn a little bit better — in terms of the philosophy of punishment, the nature of wrongdoing, and the nature of repair. I would start teaching first thing in the morning on Tuesdays, and then do my interviews before jumping on the train back to Seattle.

How did you settle on whom to interview, and what do you know of them now?

The chaplains’ area of the prison has a long history of bringing in outsiders for classes, bringing in students from Willamette University, Oregon State University and the University of Oregon. So that area was used to having outside people come in, but I was the first person, to my knowledge, to have permission to do audio recording.

I started teaching this class the very first part of January. I had gone in the previous June and September, and each time met with the chaplains and some number of the men, many of whom ended up in the class. So they had met me, had heard what I was trying to accomplish and understood what my goals were. They made a conscious decision to be part of the podcast, and they knew that I was going to ask them specifics about their crimes. They were under no illusions about what I was trying to accomplish and were eager to participate. Some of them were a little bit more comfortable because they had told their story more often, and some of them were a bit less practiced and were more shy.

[Since then,] I’ve been in sporadic email contact with two of them. They’ve heard the podcast, and I’m very happy to say they like it very much. My biggest worry was that they would feel that I hadn’t done their stories justice, so I’m very relieved and honored to hear they feel like I did.

What did you learn about the podcast format?

That the audience is listening, rather than reading. I learned a lot about audio storytelling, how to collect audio recordings, how to write for the microphone instead of for the page. Weaving stories together was perhaps the biggest challenge.

The feedback I had from people who listened to the first cut of the first episode was that my tone was all wrong. I was too professorial. My words were too long, my sentences were too long, I sounded a little stilted. I had to learn to write as if I was in conversation with someone, rather than being read by someone.

Doing a podcast certainly drew upon my skills as an academic researcher: Analyzing the interview data for the podcast was the same as if I was doing it for a book or an article, and so certainly my prior experience as a researcher was indispensable. With the podcast, I’m excited to reach a wider audience than I could if I were only writing books.

Is there anything you wish you’d been able to include?

I couldn’t interview everyone as often as I wanted. We had planned a culminating event, where the men were going to write some reflections of their experience and invite people from outside. We were in the process of fleshing out what that would look like when the pandemic hit. I left one Tuesday, as usual, and was told two days later I couldn’t come back. So I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, or wrap up the experience with them. It still feels unfinished, and I’m hoping that I’ll get back in there, maybe by the end of the summer.

Do you have plans for additional seasons?

I am in active conversations with relevant parties about two potential follow-up series. But each will require access to prisons. As it starts to look possible for prisons to reopen to visitors, my plans will hopefully take clearer shape. There are many stories about our criminal justice process that the podcast format lends itself to telling. I am excited to explore these additional possibilities.

For more information, contact Herbert at skherb@uw.edu.

On a rainy December afternoon, a group of students in the 91̽��’s Law, Societies & Justice program sit in a classroom discussing what elements might be included in a restorative justice program.

The conversation is lively, the comments thoughtful. But this isn’t any ordinary classroom, and it isn’t your usual group of university students. The 91̽��students were taking the autumn quarter class on culture, crime and criminal justice alongside 10 male classmates who brought more than theoretical knowledge to the table — all are serving time at the Monroe Correctional Complex northeast of Seattle.

For the inmates, the “mixed-enrollment” course held at the prison was a rare chance to study alongside fourth-year 91̽��students in an academically rigorous setting. For the 91̽��students, it was an equally rare opportunity to get a sense of how issues discussed in class play out in real life. To meet with their classmates, they had to undergo security checks, pass through metal gates and walk by an outdoor recreation area secured with razor-wire fencing.

“We talk about mass incarceration — we talk about 2.2 million people in the U.S. imprisoned — but getting to know these people, that’s completely different,” said 91̽��student Meron Fikru.

“We’re taught to fear prisoners. We’re taught to distance ourselves from them,” she said. “But these guys are brilliant. They’re funny and they’re humble and they’re so respectful. It’s been a really humanizing experience.”

Classmate Becky Womelsdorf plans to attend law school and said the course provided something a traditional classroom setting could not.

“It’s really beneficial to learn about these issues from a perspective that’s different from what we’re usually exposed to,” she said. “This is not something you can get anywhere else.”

The class was taught by , a 91̽��professor and director of the program. It’s the third mixed-enrollment class that Herbert, a past recipient of the UW’s distinguished teaching award, has taught at the prison. The topics have varied, but all have been fourth-year courses.

Herbert’s goal is to provide an intellectually stimulating experience for all students, and he said the 91̽��students are often taken aback at how prepared their prison counterparts are.

“They’re very good classmates,” he said. “There’s a very clear expectation that the students are meant to carry the load of the conversation, and the [prison] students are very well-prepared.”

Hannah Schwendeman welcomed the challenge. “You need to be prepared for class,” she said. “Having partners for learning who are so passionate and so informed has been great.”

Inmate Noel Caldellis, 28, had no college education when he came to prison in 2008 on a first-degree murder conviction. He’s now working on a bachelor’s in history and said taking Herbert’s classes instilled confidence in his abilities.

“It’s helped me understand just how close we are to college students who are on the outside,” said Caldellis, who is scheduled for release in 2029. “Besides circumstance and education, we are just as capable of doing college-level work.”

The 91̽��class is offered through , a Seattle nonprofit that provides college courses for prisoners. The organization offers about 30 classes at the in Monroe, including a Saturday night arts and lecture series, college courses for students pursuing associate degrees, and non-credit courses.

The 91̽��courses are made possible through the , named in honor of a Law, Societies & Justice alum who was impassioned about prison issues. They are non-credit, since the university’s tuition fees would be out of reach for inmates. Washington law currently prohibits using state funds for higher education courses in prison, but state lawmakers have considered a bill that would eliminate the ban.

University Beyond Bars aims to address educational inequity, improve inmates’ chances of employment after release and reduce recidivism rates. A 2013 found that inmates who participate in prison education programs have 43 percent lower odds of returning to prison than inmates who do not.

The 91̽��classes emulate a regular classroom experience as closely as possible, with the same expectations and course load for everyone, said Stacey Reeh, University Beyond Bars’ executive director.

“Our students want to be held to the same standards,” she said. “Our goal is to recreate the university classroom, and these classes really do that. They really feel like they are taking a 91̽�� class.”

Prison is often a racially segregated environment, Reeh said, but the classes bring together inmates from diverse backgrounds. Students learn skills that are important on the outside, she said, like critical thinking and effective communication. Some become leaders across the prison, communicating with upper-level administrators and even state legislators.

Devon Adams, who is serving time for first-degree murder, sits on the program’s 19-member . He works as a UBB teaching assistant and tutors fellow inmates in college prep math courses. He’s just two courses away from completing a bachelor’s degree through Ohio University, but it’s been a long road to get there.

In his early days of imprisonment, Adams said, he saw no path forward. Education gave him something positive to focus on. He first took an English class, and to his surprise, got a B.

“I was used to Cs and Ds and barely passing, so I thought, ‘man, maybe I can do this,'” said Adams, 36, who is scheduled for release in 2024. “I began to build this confidence, and now I’m thinking about what possibilities life has to offer.”

Adams has taken two of Herbert’s classes and plans to pursue a graduate degree. He wants to be a positive role model for his daughter, who is graduating from high school in the spring and hopes to attend UW.

“I can tell her, ‘This is what your daddy’s doing,'” he said. “I’m not in here squandering opportunities away and disregarding the pain I put my family through,” said Adams.

“A big part of my rehabilitation, a big part of my transformation, has to do with wanting to make my family proud of me in some way. That’s really a motivating factor for me,” he said.

At the end of the class, the last of the quarter, the students gather to share their suggestions for developing a restorative justice program. Then 91̽��student Nathan Bean presents the inmates with cards their classmates signed that morning.

“It’s an understatement to say that these are the very least we could provide for you,” he said. “This experience is going to stay with us, and it means a lot more than these cards are going to convey. It has been an honor for us to be here and learn alongside you.”