Last December, I and the other members of the Cantigas Women’s Choir of Hoboken gave our first performance ever for the maximum-security prison inmates at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women.
Originally, our four-year-old choir was supposed to continue its annual tradition of performing folk and classical music for the Minimum Security Division of the Clinton-based facility. But a prison clerical error prompted us to sing instead to the Maximum Security Division, comprised of 172 inmates, for which no one prior had ever performed.
“We were first scheduled to sing for Minimum,” said choir founder and Director Joan Isaacs Litman of Jersey City. “But then the prison informed us that another group was already scheduled to perform that day, before we were also penciled in for the same day. It was too late to re-schedule, so we got bumped to Maximum.”
Litman said she wasn’t concerned. “I had no misgivings,” she said. “I have known the prison administration for years, and I respect and trust them. I was encouraged that they asked us to go.”
Weehawken resident and choir member Frances Marsh said, “This is the best thing I’m doing for Christmas. It’s better than the consumerist role; it’s from my heart.”
A bit nervous
Although I, a first-year Cantigas member and Jersey City resident, shared in the enthusiasm, I confess to being among those who were understandably spooked by the upcoming experience. Flitting images from the haunting television drama Cell Block H, about the trials of incarcerated women, visited my consciousness. After all, Litman said in a rehearsal before the event that we might be subject to hoots and hollers from the inmates.
And could we sincerely sing to the hardened criminals in the audience lyrics like:
How could anyone ever tell you/
you are anything less than beautiful/
how could anyone ever tell you/
you are less than whole?
(From “How Could Anyone Ever Tell You” by Libby Roderick).
Arriving at the prison grounds inflamed my trepidations. What first struck me was the difference between fictional forays into prison life and the hardscrabble reality of it. We first went to the Check-in Station, a tiny, eerie makeshift structure on a desolate stretch of grassland. There, we turned in all our belongings, including any IDs and jewelry.
“Nothing’s allowed except gold wedding bands and gold fillings,” joked Litman at a prior rehearsal.
After the guards searched us over one at a time, we were bussed to the Maximum Security Compound. Without being watched through the safe filtering of a television camera, the horrors of prison culture were viscerally felt.
The starkness of the land, the high fences and barbed wire, the cube-shaped building monoliths, and the clusters of prisoners being shepherded by armed guards connoted a life of intricate deprivation.
When we gathered in front of the prisoners seated in the performance space, their dehumanization was more apparent. At first glance, in their shapeless, off-white prison garb, they looked indistinguishable as rows of crated eggs.
A-caroling
As we launched into our program of wintry folk pieces, Christmas carols, and even a Yiddish song, it was relieving that my fears of bad behavior were unfounded. The women, of widely varying ages and ethnic backgrounds, were abundantly respectful and appreciative. Their receptivity had a faintly longing quality, and the malaise in their faces spoke of suffering unendurable tragedies.
But well into the performance, joy became evident in their demeanors and many stood up and clapped to the upbeat spirituals we sang.
Even though only half of the choir participated in the event, we gave an astute, impassioned performance of many colors, and our audience was very aware of the quality. I perceived that every choir member was just as devoted to the well being of these women for the evening as to musical excellence.
The maximum-security prisoners have their own Gospel choir, which also gave a spirited performance as we clapped and showed our support. It was gladdening to see how some women nurtured their spirituality as a sustaining force.
The most fervent response from the inmates came when we sang “I am his Child” by Moses Hogan, a striding, gently paced Gospel piece of lush harmonies. The inmates clapped uniformly when we came to Hogan’s lyrics, “So don’t use me or abuse me/ for I am [the Lord’s] child.”
We got rousing applause at the end. As we were quickly ushered out of the room, most of the inmates beamed as they waved good bye and looked on forlornly as we left.
The synergy of a performance well done and a mutually enriching, courageous voluntary act led to an unforgettable experience for all of us.
The upshot
“I thought the performance worked both musically and emotionally,” said Litman. “I was aware that each member of the choir was responding to musical direction, but also sending out her own message of hope to these women. The women in our group had constant eye contact with the inmates, which is very important in this setting, and each woman came to this realization individually.”
Choir member Cassandra Hinnen, 18, of Union City, dynamically performed several solos for the inmates and was happy to fortify their lives with art.
“It was great to bring a bit of art to people who don’t get it often,” said Hinnen.
Ultimately, we sought to infuse the inmates with the hope for a fulfilling quality of life.
“I hope the women enjoyed the concert and could be lifted out of their difficult lives, even if only for a minute, and that the beauty of music making gave them strength,” said Litman. “And I hope the music connected them with the good aspects of their own pasts and gave them hope for the future.”
The Cantigas Women’s Choir has 50 members. For more information, e-mail joan_litman@yahoo.com.