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We landed in a beautiful city. But it was the wrong city. A dozen hours in the air, a butter-soft landing in Lisbon, and then I realized we needed to be in Porto, a three-hour drive away. By the time we’d gotten to Porto (my sons, my love, my guilt for adding hours onto a long trip), I’d half forgotten I was there for the Babell Festival, but would be reminded of the power of holding a book in your hands.

Jessup Correctional Institution was the 9th stop on the 2026 Inside Literary Prize Tour, and it was another amazing experience. Twenty-three men participated and had a great discussion about each book. The discussion stood out for the agency the men exhibited throughout the hours we held space with them. They relied less on the outside facilitators for either guidance or correction when the talk had the potential to go left. Respect moved equitably throughout the circle, which made room for any judge to lead at a particular moment and fostered a rich exchange of ideas as opinions and perspectives shifted.

This is the first in a three-part series about my struggles with technology and human connection.

My main fear came from knowing that everything is connected, and pushing the wrong button could cause an unintended consequence I would not be able to undo. My other fear was knowing that nothing I did would be private; all my mistakes would be recorded, no matter how many times I pressed delete. I believed the number of times I hit delete would be recorded. Sitting in front of this powerful and evolving mechanism was as intimidating as standing on a ledge over the entirety of everything.

James is a storyteller and a bridge between worlds — and as Freedom Reads' Communications Associate, he brings that gift to life every day through content, storytelling, and connection. From reading and responding to letters from our library patrons to writing essays and capturing photos and video on the road, his days are full and rarely go as planned. Whatever the task, James keeps the people Inside at the center of it all.

I read the Iliad in three days. The reading launched me into a fever dream, where instead of binge-watching Netflix, I lost myself in the familiar and unfamiliar world of Homer. I read while lying in bed, while riding in cars, while sitting in restaurants. Though there were parts of the story I knew, the Fagles translation was a wholly new landscape of sound and layering of ideas that I’d only glimpsed. The book-length poem that asks a reader to sit with an entire world on nearly every page teeming with the dead, the men they were on and off the battlefield, and the homes that war would prevent them from returning. The book became my companion. I didn’t read while sleeping but read while walking nearly 30,000 steps one Sunday afternoon. I read instead of eating, instead of sleeping. When Priam knelt beside the man who’d killed his son in combat, and kissed his hands, and begged for his departed son’s body, I wept.

Taking the train from New Haven to Grand Central Station for the first time was the first step of my journey to Tribeca. Then again, maybe my first step was getting out of prison last July. Or maybe it was two years earlier, when I was granted a commutation and my 48-year sentence became 30. Being outside gave me access to a kind of freedom that Dwayne talks about throughout March Forth, a documentary about his incarceration as a juvenile. The film also raised questions that I still cannot answer: When does freedom truly begin for those of us released from prison? And what does it mean to be free when you carry prison with you wherever you go?

We are so excited to welcome this year's incredible cohort of interns to the Freedom Reads family. Each of them brings a unique perspective, a passion for storytelling, and a deep commitment to the communities they come from and the ones they're building. Get to know them below!

I had to learn the hard way that you just don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. And not just gone for a little while but for decades. Had to learn then, relearn some more, that there are freedoms so common that most people walk past them without ever noticing their radiance.

The thing about suffering is that when it’s over, you sometimes forget the depth of the cave you’re still emerging from. And by suffering, I mean depression. By depression, I mean 2024 when I found myself spiraling down a staircase that led me through all of Dante’s hells. A different way for me to admit this is to confess again: the best thing that you can do when hurting is find someone to talk to, but sometimes, the need to ask for help masks itself. You believe you’re asking for a life raft, but never articulate the word help. You emote. You weep. You learn what taciturn means. Around you, too often, people see your pain and it troubles them. They run to their comfort.

The dashboard clock glows a soft 4:15 am as I navigate the pre-dawn streets. At this hour, the city belongs to the early risers and late-night thinkers. Most passengers are content with the silence, but occasionally the conversation takes a turn towards the things that actually matter. We'll be cruising along when a rider will ask a question, "How long have you been Ubering?" "Do you enjoy Ubering?" "Have you met your fair share of weird riders?" That's usually the "tentacle" which can lead us into a deeper conversation. It's the perfect opening for me to share where my heart is during the daylight hours: Freedom Reads. I share my experiences working with Freedom Reads and the mission we're pursuing. The responses are a kaleidoscope of genuine curiosity. People lean forward, their faces illuminated by the passing street lights, asking the questions that show they are truly listening: "What do the libraries look like?" "How do you decide which books they get?" "What are the libraries made of?"

Autumn is a storyteller and brand champion — and as Freedom Reads' Senior Communications Associate, she puts those talents to work every day through branding strategy and oversight. From crafting press releases and media advisories to shaping our editorial strategy, her days are spent making sure the voices of people Inside reach the world outside. She brings years of storytelling experience to every piece of content, always keeping the people transformed by books at the center of the narrative.

He looked at me and said, “Thank you. Thank you for looking me in the eyes. No one looks me in the eyes. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to connect with the outside world.” This is how Dy’shawn, Inside Literary Prize judge at Shawnee Correctional Center, shared his appreciation for the opportunity to participate in the only US literary competition judged exclusively by incarcerated readers. This is how he shared his appreciation for the opportunity to simply be seen.