Some of them had tucked the fabric under their mattresses the previous night to smooth out the creases in their pressed prison blues. They had immaculate sneakers. For a long time, they had been anticipating this or something similar.

Inside that facility, Darvin Henderson, who is pursuing a college degree, told Johnson something that didn’t sound like the words of a man the world had forgotten. Henderson remarked, “Those opportunities never even was available,” alluding to occasions such as this one—hanging out with influential people—that, as a child, seemed to belong to someone else completely.

Henderson is participating in the Northwestern Prison Education Program. Additionally, he is among the less than 2% of the more than 30,000 prisoners in Illinois who are enrolled in any college-level coursework. When you take a moment to consider that figure, it is truly hard to justify.

There are thirty prisons in Illinois. Ten of them have college programs. This indicates that higher education is just not an option in 20 prisons throughout the state. This isn’t because there isn’t a need for it, but rather because the infrastructure, funding, and possibly political will haven’t kept up. One could contend that 12 programs across 10 facilities signify advancement. The statistics that show the vast majority of Illinois prisoners lack access to even one college course are more difficult to dispute.

For decades, the research on this topic has been remarkably consistent. Recidivism is decreased by education. Individuals who obtain credentials while incarcerated have a much higher chance of landing a steady job after their release and a much lower chance of going back to prison. Since nearly 68% of people incarcerated nationwide do not have a high school diploma, many of them arrive at prison facilities already struggling with fundamental literacy and numeracy gaps.

These gaps compound over time, making reintegration into the workforce, a family, and a community seem nearly impossible. However, access is still uneven, and in Illinois, it can be almost nonexistent depending on the facility a person ends up in.

The teachers who work in these facilities talk about something that doesn’t often make the news. There are differences between teaching in a prison and teaching anywhere else. There is ongoing surveillance, an institutional culture centered on control and compliance, and a set of unspoken guidelines dictating appropriate behavior for both teachers and students. Teachers who choose this line of work frequently talk about feeling excluded because they work in environments where security procedures frequently take precedence over their professional judgment.

However, the classroom can transform into something else. Teachers who “will not give up on me,” “will not shout at me,” and who don’t humiliate their mistakes have been described by students. It’s difficult to overstate the significance of that specific dynamic—the patient teacher, the second chance—for men who attended institutions that failed them for years.

What happens when someone leaves is another issue. The so-called “check the box” requirement, which asks about criminal history on college applications, is one of Illinois’s policy issues that isn’t always mentioned explicitly. That checkbox can effectively prevent people who are released from prison with a new degree or a few completed courses from pursuing further education in the free world.

After serving their time and doing everything correctly, they run into another obstacle—one that is composed of paperwork and institutional resistance. The cruel irony there is difficult to ignore.

Through its Prisoncast! program, a radio broadcast that directly reaches incarcerated listeners via vintage FM radio and tablet apps in Illinois facilities, WBEZ Chicago has been conducting some of the most persistent public journalism on this issue.

The show’s basic but profound premise is that the people inside those walls have stories, questions, and opinions that the public should be able to hear. In certain respects, it’s the kind of transparency that a publicly funded prison system ought to produce on its own.

Although it’s still unclear if Mayor Johnson’s visit to Sheridan represents a real change in Illinois’s perspective on education for prisoners or if it was more symbolic than structural in terms of political visits, it did signal something. The pupils there appeared to be aware of the distinction. Henderson was aware of it. He knew where he was and what the odds were.

However, he was in that room, pursuing a degree, dressing in pressed clothes for class, and taking advantage of a chance that 98% of his fellow Illinois prisoners just do not have. That seems to be both an affirmation of his resolve and a critique of a system that doesn’t allow for it.

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