Rosalind Early In 2002, Patty Prewitt saw a flyer for a theater class at Women's Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Vandalia, Missouri, and "thought it was a bunch of hooey." "I thought it was going to be like a prison talent show, and everybody was going to put on one glove and act like Michael Jackson," she says. She did not go to the class. But two women who did came to Prewitt and told her it was the real deal. A professional actor and director had come, and they were going to do Shakespeare. "And I was like, 'Oh my god, I'm getting in the middle of this,'" Prewitt recalls. That real-deal actor and director was Agnes Wilcox, a theatermaker who had founded the New Theatre in St. Louis. She'd also worked in New York on films and taught theater at Webster University. In 1999, her theater company was doing a play about incarcerated people, and she decided to take the show to carceral facilities. The residents at the men's prison in Pacific, Missouri, loved it, and New Theatre continued bringing back plays. St. Louis sports radio show accused of spreading false rumor about Ole Miss student Procter & Gamble ends sponsorship for St. Charles County Pride festival Anti-Musk protests gather across St. Louis region. 'I've got family members threatened.' MoDOT to dismantle Chesterfield curb islands. 'We heard the community's feedback.' Mercy hospital left mom pushing for 12 hours. It caused baby's brain damage, jury finds St. Louis-area business openings and closings in March Clayton elementary school teachers pull April Fools' Day prank on students Grandmother grieving St. Peters boy is 'livid' he was on a motorcycle Missouri's Josh Hawley splits with GOP to support cap on bank fees McClellan: The legacy of a woman and her 22 babies 5 traits from the Cardinals' opening sweep to watch. 'Every at-bat is a damn dogfight.' As Trump supporters claim election fraud, St. Charles County moves to keep 2020 ballots Sparse crowd sees Cardinals misplace lead in 7th, tumble in 10th for first loss, to Angels Busch Stadium food: Our critic takes you on a tour of what's new (and what's good) Missouri 'Chimp Crazy' woman admits she lied to feds, claiming her ape was dead One of the inmates kept asking when they were going to put on their own production, and Wilcox eventually decided to try Shakespeare. Their first play was "Hamlet," and Prison Performing Arts became its own nonprofit focused on bringing literary and theater arts to prisons. Wilcox told St. Louis Magazine in 2008 that she visited a women's prison as a teenager and "everyone there looked like me," which inspired her to start working in prisons herself. She also visited the prison in Sing Sing, which had a similar theater arts program (and had an Academy Award-nominated movie made about its program in 2023). The National Public Radio show "This American Life" caught up with Wilcox in 2002 and devoted an entire episode to the prisoners in Pacific working on Act V of "Hamlet." (In prison, the performances can only be about an hour, so Wilcox divided each act of Shakespeare into its own show.) By 2002, Wilcox had expanded into the women's prison in Vandalia. "The first thing we did was 'Macbeth,'" Prewitt recalls. They took months to stage the first act, in part because the prison only allowed performances every six months, but there were other reasons. "We were slowly doing it because we all had to learn the language," Prewitt says. Wilcox was a master at teaching them to understand Shakespeare. "It opened up everybody's eyes, even girls who weren't involved," Prewitt recalls. Prewitt played all kinds of roles in "Macbeth." In the first act, she was a witch, which Wilcox told them to do hip-hop style. "There were two Black girls and me," says Prewitt, who is white. "And they did their best to let me get in touch with my inner Black woman." She recalls how she played Banquo, who gets murdered in the play but reappears as a ghost. Through a bit of stagecraft, Prewitt seemed to pop out of nowhere. "Everybody gasped," Prewitt says. "It was great." She even played Lady Macbeth and did the "Out damn'd spot" monologue. Another actor was supposed to play Lady Macbeth but had just found God and couldn't curse, Prewitt says. "I said, 'What cursing are you talking about? Damn? That's in the Bible.'" The woman still objected. "I turned to Agnes, and I said, 'I can curse all over the place. Let me play it.'" Prewitt reports with glee that every time she rehearsed her scenes as Lady Macbeth, Wilcox's direction was "crazier, crazier." "It opened up the eyes of people who had never been exposed to classics and people who didn't think they could act," Prewitt says. "Most female prisoners -- I don't know much about male prisoners -- but the female prisoners, for the most part, have been abused all their lives or have not been seen all their lives, and they have very little self-worth." The program let the women imagine themselves as something different. "I've seen girls that couldn't even talk up in class with a dozen of us, couldn't even raise their hand and answer a question because they were too shy," Prewitt says. "And in a year or two, they're up on stage, talking, doing soliloquies, and just chewing up the set." Prewitt "is someone who encompasses everything," says Rachel Tibbetts, artistic director for Prison Performing Arts. "She's a very good actor (and) people respect her. She would give folks hard talks. And people respected her so much they would really listen." Prewitt stuck with the Prison Performing Arts Program, which, after "Macbeth," did "Midsummer Night's Dream" and other Shakespeare plays. They eventually branched out into other works. In 2015, Wilcox retired from Prison Performing Arts. She died unexpectedly in 2017. Tibbetts and John Wolbers, the executive director, now lead the program. Prewitt, who had been in Vandalia since 1986 after she was convicted of murdering her husband, was transferred out in 2020. The pandemic had already halted the Prison Performing Arts Program, and the Chillicothe Correctional Center, where Prewitt went, didn't have any theater program. Prewitt participated in other programs -- she was known to sign up for almost anything the prison had to offer, including working as a coder, teaching 4H and doing the Puppies for Parole program, which saw her training dogs for adoption. Prewitt returned to Vandalia in 2021. By then, Prison Performing Arts had returned, and Prewitt jumped right back in. "One thing about PPA is you know you're going to be treated with respect and your opinions are going to be heard and considered," Prewitt says. "And that's really unheard of in prison." 'He found out he could wear pants and hug his mother' What Wilcox started in 1999 is now not only celebrating its 25th anniversary, but has also expanded into four adult prisons, three juvenile detention centers, a transition center and a division of probation and parole. (Not all of those facilities put on plays; in many, PPA runs writing and spoken-word workshops.) Plus, there's an alumni company, which offers reentering citizens from the program a chance to earn some money and continue performing. Working in prisons is not always easy. Wolbers, PPA's executive director, says one person didn't want to participate in the program because he was afraid of being attacked. "But when he found out he could wear pants and hug his mother -- he hadn't been able to hug his mother in 20 years -- he was like, 'that's worth it,'" Wolbers says. "And now he's a regular and absolutely loves theater." PPA productions allow prisoners to wear costumes and get out of their prison clothes for a few hours, and the audience is typically made up of the incarcerateds' family and friends. "They're actually able to be in the same room without that pane of glass between them for the hourlong cast party afterward," Wolbers says. For many, it's the first time they can hug their family. "For that one brief moment, they're able to be just an actor." Beyond theater, PPA also helps inmates relearn how to be vulnerable. "To survive in a facility like that, you have to be guarded," Wolbers says. "You have to be constantly aware. And when you're working with PPA, when you're creating artwork together, it's all about being open and sharing and vulnerability." A big job of the teaching artists that work with PPA is getting the incarcerated artists to open up with writing exercises, discussions, warm-ups and more. PPA comes into each facility about once a week -- two times a week right before showtime. And it faces all sorts of hurdles to mounting a production. "Everything has to be approved months in advance, every pencil, every paperclip," says Wolbers. "Some places don't allow paper clips. It can be challenging." Also prison can be a transitory place. Prisoners lose permission to participate due to bad behavior, get released or paroled weeks before a performance, or get transferred to another prison without notice. Wolbers says it's worth the challenges. PPA's presence usually improves behavior across a facility. "We go in with that focus of seeing everyone, seeing their humanity, and that sort of rising tide lifts all boats," Wolbers says. It inspires inmates to relate differently to each other. Also, prisoners are incentivized to behave better to see the show. PPA's productions include at least one show for inmates and two for outsiders. Outside audiences are quiet, polite, maybe a little nervous. "No matter how welcoming the officers may actually be, you're in prison. There's barbed wire," Wolbers says. The internal shows are a different matter. "They have been waiting all year to see this live entertainment," Wolbers says. "It's like going to a rock concert. So if there's a particularly funny line or a passionate delivery, people are cheering the performers. They're screaming. They're hollering. They are having the time of their lives." Prison Performing Arts has stats on how it reduces recidivism, but Wolbers says that seeing people transform has to be the best part of his job. "The arts can genuinely change lives," he says. "Can break down barriers, can help build friendships across what seems to be insurmountable divides, and help the audience understand what prison is like, the good, the bad and the very ugly." Putting your feet in grass In mid-March, Prison Performing Arts staged "Little Women Town" at Women's Eastern. Tickets are free, but audience members have to register a month ahead of time so the Department of Corrections can run background checks. The confirmation email that you were approved also gives you a long list of dos and don'ts, including what to wear (no shorts or flip-flops or bare shoulders or short skirts or hats ... the list is long) and to only bring in your car keys -- no phones allowed. Women's Eastern is about an hour and a half northwest of St. Louis. It's in a low flat building that appears suddenly after a desolate stretch of road. Inside there is no stage. The audience is gathered in a rec room, and the simple set sits on the floor. There are no stage lights. No mics. "Little Women Town" is an adaptation, but not a retelling, of Louisa May Alcott's "Little Women," a famous coming-of-age story about the four March sisters. In the play, people are sent to Little Women Town and forced to reenact scenes from "Little Women." The "warden" is Greta Gerwig, who in real life, directed a film adaptation of "Little Women" shortly before she made "Barbie." "We wanted to draw a parallel between incarceration and being forced into a particular 'story,'" explains Courtney Bailey, the playwright. Also in the show are monologues, which were written by the inmates as they responded to a prompt about what would make a nice, little life. One said watching "Jeopardy" every day. Another said hearing her kids' laughter. At the end of each monologue, each actor lamented that she couldn't take her shoes off to feel the grass on her feet. "Our incarcerated artists are not allowed to take off their shoes and socks outside of their dormitories/cells," Bailey explains. "Many of our artists have not had their bare feet touch grass in many years, maybe even decades." Prewitt was not on stage. Vandalia's longest-serving inmate had been released in December. Then-Gov. Mike Parson commuted her sentence. Prewitt and her family always maintained her innocence, saying that someone else was in the house the night her husband was murdered. She was supposed to be in the show though. "We were on a bit of a break for the holidays when we got the news that she had been released," says Tibbetts, who directed the show. "That was probably the greatest recasting that I have ever had to do." Despite her release, Prewitt wanted to come back to see the show. She got permission from the warden to be in the audience that day. "That's kind of a strange thing," she says. "People don't like to go back to prison. But I wanted to see what we came up with. I didn't get to say good-bye to all my old prison friends. It was a big celebration. I loved every bit of it." Despite the show being about life in prison, many said it helped them dream of life outside of Vandalia. "I've been here 16 years and I was terrified to put myself out there, but I'm so glad I did," Shonta Roper, one of the actors in the show, said after it was over. "I had dreams before," said Kylie Shepherd (Windsor), another performer. "I was living my dreams and then I came here and I thought I couldn't dream anymore." She said having her son and joining PPA helped. "Now I know I can exceed (my dreams) times 10,000. And we can live our best lives because we do have a right to be here," Shepherd said. "These women are so fierce," said Amanda Burns, who played Meg March. "We see ourselves as a sisterhood." At the end of the play, the women laid down some artificial grass. Though it wasn't real, they took off their shoes and felt the grass between their toes. A little act of freedom. To learn more about Prison Performing Arts, visit prisonperformingarts.org. 0 Comments