Copyright is owned by the Author of the thesis.  Permission is given for 
a copy to be downloaded by an individual for the purpose of research and 
private study only.  The thesis may not be reproduced elsewhere without 
the permission of the Author. 
 



 

 

 

 

 

 

On LIFE within the Society-of-Captives: 

Exploring the pains of imprisonment for real 

 

 

 

 

A thesis presented in partial fulfillment of the  

requirements for the degree of 

 

 

Doctor of Philosophy 

In 

Psychology 

 

 

 

 

At Massey University, Manawatū, 

New Zealand 

 

 

Daniel John Luff 

 

 

2024



 

ii 

 

Abstract 

Institutional and social discourse upholds the prison as an effective 

rehabilitative solution to crime, but more recently there has been increasing criticism 

of the prison as a producer of harm rather than healing. Despite such criticism, 

discussions of the rehabilitative potentials of prisons predominantly exclude and silence 

insider, incarcerate voices in criminal justice debates and literature, and often do not 

describe what those ‘inside’, like me, are living and experiencing.  

The primary aim of this project is to theorise twenty years of lived experience 

of incarceration in the hope of contributing to the work being done to problematise risk-

averse, harmful correctional practices. Through a deeply reflexive autoethnographic 

performance, the reader comes with me beyond prison walls, into the largely closed off, 

inaccessible world within. Through navigation of my lived experience of imprisonment, 

I reflexively theorise memories of incarceration that are usually only speculated upon 

through objective, exclusionary research. The account that emerges from theorising 

incarceration ‘for real’ analyses the constraints of political narratives and risk averse 

policy and practice produced within our prison system, and within the bodies that 

system contains.  

Through an interweave of autoethnographic field noting, performance and 

analysis, the research unpacks the connections between the structural, socio-political 

issues, and the pains of incarceration. Using Arrigo’s Society of Captives (SOC) thesis, 

the harms being produced are theorised with regard to subjectivities constituted through 

prison – the prisoner, their guard, and society at large. Theoretical storying shows how 

socio-political issues are having considerably detrimental impacts on correctional 

policy and practice. Prisoners are neither seen nor heard, and their keepers too are held 



 

iii 

 

captive, unable to engage with their charges ethically lest they be reprimanded for doing 

corrections differently. Through this multi-layered harm, a society of captives is being 

perpetuated within which the very harm and risk it proclaims to alleviate is reproduced. 

Embedded in a pursuit of social justice, I argue for a relational, ethical praxis 

wherein people are seen, and heard, for real. The change is not only theorised but rare 

instances of it, and the healing power it produces, demonstrated. 

Through autoethnography’s theoretical praxis, and embracing of the SOC 

thesis’ pursuit of becoming, my research also involves considerable personal 

movement. It illustrates how, through the utilisation of autoethnographic methodology, 

in particular reflexive process, it becomes possible to ethically resist harmful 

representations and risk-focused correctional practices. In making these movements the 

research brings us out of prison, and provides in-depth consideration of my bodily 

attempts to reintegrate into the community after two decades of largely harmful carceral 

experiences. In these, the narrative contributes to a growing consciousness, global 

debate, and movement regarding prison, rehabilitation, and how community safety is 

best served. And it contributes to a process of becoming within me, a bodily movement, 

a transition into a place where humanness can be done differently… 

  



 

iv 

 

Acknowledgments 

Well, we’ve made it. I say ‘we’ because, without the long-term support provided 

by many, this research would never have happened. That is even more so given that it 

begun, and was largely written, behind prison walls. There’s no doubt about it, it took 

a community for my research, and the present me, to become possible.  

Pivotal within that community has been Massey University. First and foremost, 

my Supervisors: Professor Leigh Coombes, Professor Mandy Morgan, Dr Stephanie 

Denne, Distinguished Professor Paul Spoonley, and Prison Education Officer, Jayne 

Waugh. Collectively, you have taught me the importance of relational ethics, and of the 

power of working together. It really is the only way to ethically overcome injustice. 

You all agreed to take on the witheringly-frustrating challenge of supporting a person 

to do a PhD from the inside. And it was hard for you – the prison lockdowns, lack of 

computer access, the countless cancelled phone calls... Perhaps most significantly, you 

absorbed my pain and stress without complaint. Indeed, you held me in a safe place 

when I no longer had the strength to do so. My gratitude is beyond explanation. 

I’d also like to extend a special thanks to Associate Professor Damien Rogers. 

You were with me every step of the way, during my first ever visits to a university 

campus. And you supported me despite the risk of there being reputational impacts for 

you. Thanks for your commitment to justice, mate. A heartfelt thank you is also due to 

Massey University as an institution. From the start, the University has stood by me, 

never balking at my criminal past. Even when I erred on the inside, the University’s 

support remained steadfast. So much so that it saw fit to grant me a Doctoral 

Scholarship. In doing that the University not only made it financially viable for me to 



 

v 

 

study, but saw me. And in that seeing, it helped me believe in myself when others were 

telling me there wasn’t much (in me) to believe in. 

Sitting between the University and prison has been a mix of academics, prison 

volunteers, and friends. I want to make special mention of Hazel, and Marie. Hazel, 

your editing skills are remarkable. Marie, you kindly took home and painstakingly 

typed the many hundreds of pages of handwritten field notes, thus helping me stay 

afloat amidst the constraints regarding computer access. And to Emeritus Professor 

Greg Newbold, and Dr. Paul Wood, cheers guys. Having both done what I was doing, 

you provided living proof that what often felt impossible was, in fact, doable. 

And then there’s the Prison. As destructive as it can be as an institution, there 

are many amazing people within. My academic journey began at the same time as I was 

trying to learn how to begin a life sentence. Yet, right from those early, undergraduate 

days there were prison staff who walked alongside me. From Prison Officers to Case 

Managers and Education Tutors, you all worked to make the impossible possible. At 

times you encountered withering adversity, trying to keep my study going. I cannot 

name everyone. But Jayne, you were with me the longest, and fought the hardest. 

Somehow, amidst the ever-tightening bureaucratic constraints on how you could do 

your job, you found a way to keep providing support. Without your efforts, this 

doctorate and my becoming in and through it, would not have occurred. In the efforts 

you provided, you are a representation of the caring, relational, different rehabilitative 

approach I advocate for. Indeed, you stand as an example of precisely what the 

Department of Corrections should be aspiring to achieve. 

Remarkable as all these people are, so much depended upon the support of my 

family. Nan, Tim, Mum and Aunty Kate… In all honesty, I’m not quite sure what to 

say. But, Nan, your consistency and loyalty was at times the only dependable, sure thing 



 

vi 

 

in my life. And Kate, you helped me resist when the system tried to suffocate my 

studies; you were my voice in a world where I was otherwise voiceless. The level of 

support provided by you all is, really, unquantifiable. In short, I survived prison, and 

did so without losing myself. Actually, we survived because there were many a day 

when each of you was walking those corridors with me. Thank you for your love and 

loyalty. 

Now that I’m home, there is hope. And Hope. Thank you for being so accepting 

of my past. And thank you for teaching me so much about this new world I’m in. It has 

not been easy for you. You have had to endure the burden of loving someone who 

carries the burden of incarceration upon their soul. And, in that sense, you have been 

denied a part of me. You have also had to endure another part, the stress that has come 

with my research. You’ve made the sacrifices quietly, without complaint. That matters 

to me, and I appreciate you very much. 

It would be inappropriate for me not to acknowledge those I harmed. I am sorry 

for the pain I inflicted upon you. No amount of effort, research or whatever else can 

atone for my actions that day… 

As with the PhD itself, there is more that could be written here. But one must, 

at some point, lay one’s pen down. All most of you ever asked of me is that I make it, 

get the PhD done and prove that change is possible. Well, lovely community of people 

who have helped me get this far, the Doctorate is done. And I am home. I can only hope 

my research, and I, have done your efforts justice… 

  



 

vii 

 

Table of Contents 

On LIFE within the Society-of-Captives: Exploring the pains of 

imprisonment for real ............................................................................................. 1 

Abstract .............................................................................................................. ii 

Acknowledgments............................................................................................. iv 

Table of Contents ............................................................................................. vii 

Table of Figures ................................................................................................ ix 

Prologue ............................................................................................................ xi 

On a journey into madness... ......................................................................... xi 

The carceral conditions producing my pain… ........................................... xvii 

Chapter One - Introduction ................................................................................ 1 

Stabbing ......................................................................................................... 3 

Chapter Two - On the Society-of-Captives, and life within… ........................ 19 

An epistemological turn… ........................................................................... 22 

The Society of Captives thesis and I… ........................................................ 29 

Putting my body on the line… ..................................................................... 33 

Chapter Three - On Autoethnography... .......................................................... 80 

Fumbling to understand… ........................................................................... 83 

Contemplating my autoethnography… ........................................................ 91 

A reflexive turn, and the embodiment it enables… ..................................... 98 

Autoethnography as theoretical praxis…................................................... 108 



 

viii 

 

Chapter Four - On ethics … ........................................................................... 118 

The Eddie story – a production of violence… ........................................... 123 

Accounting for myself in pursuit of ethical non-violence… ..................... 126 

Chapter Five – On an emergence from captivity… ....................................... 158 

Becomings….............................................................................................. 158 

Chapter Six – On locks, locking, and the potential for more… ..................... 205 

The Dan that couldn’t be seen… ............................................................... 216 

The Dan they saw… ................................................................................... 238 

Potentials for freedom from captivity… .................................................... 265 

Being seen for real… ................................................................................. 270 

Making dreams real… ................................................................................ 277 

Epilogue ......................................................................................................... 294 

A journey out of madness: from one container to another… ..................... 294 

References ...................................................................................................... 307 

 
  



 

ix 

 

 

Table of Figures 

Figure 1 ............................................................................................................ 73 

Figure 2 .......................................................................................................... 180 

Figure 3 .......................................................................................................... 196 

Figure 4 .......................................................................................................... 222 

Figure 5 .......................................................................................................... 269 

Figure 6 .......................................................................................................... 289 

Figure 7 .......................................................................................................... 291 

Figure 8 .......................................................................................................... 293 

  



 

x 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...identities within a society of captives are 

marginalized for one and about all. This is how the 

social person is reduced in being and repressed in 

becoming.... Overcoming the harm of this social 

dis-ease requires a journey through captivity’s 

madness. (Arrigo, 2013, p. 684) 
  



 

xi 

 

Prologue 

On a journey into madness... 

It is so cold this evening. Although it is only 8.30 pm, I’ve spent the last few 

hours in bed. With the light off. Procrastinating, dreading having to get up and make a 

start. As I toss and turn in the darkness the light outside my room comes on and, 

squinting out from beneath the covers, I see a guy I get along with really well pass by. 

I get on with him because beneath his body armour is a heart. And, unlike many, he lets 

me see and feel it. It’s lonely here and most of the time it is hard to see into or imagine 

other, better worlds. Under such conditions one descends into a monotone, existential 

state. Knowing that the guy will be here for the night, somewhere, everywhere, made 

me feel a little better. He represents hope and, in here, hope is life. For me it is sanity 

and non-institutionalisation. Years have turned into decades, with hope becoming ever 

harder to grasp. When he walked past, though, I was reminded of a better world, a place 

where I could be with nice people – or at least be able to avoid tortured ones. His 

fleeting presence was enough to get me up. I am now sitting at my bench. 

It’s very dark and is raining heavily. The physicality of my surroundings 

prevents me from hearing the rain on the roof. However, several metres beyond my 

window is the roof-edge; I can hear the water cascading over it, falling three stories to 

the cracked concrete pavement below. The odd rumble of thunder in the distance breaks 

the silence between bouts of rain. Weather has always moved me and I thus cannot help 

but ponder the appropriateness of tonight’s storm to my long doctoral journey. As with 

the one tonight, many storms lay ahead and, by the time we’ve navigated the madness, 

it is my hope that you will know and understand me. It is my hope that we’ll have 

grown, each becoming something more through our meeting, 



 

xii 

 

metaphorical/distanced/strained as it may prove to be. But that point is many seasons 

distant. Vast swathes of mountainous terrain stand between here and there. 

 

This journey will be so much more than just academic... 

 

For real. I need to develop understanding of myself. I occupy space in a place 

that very loud voices claim is about growth, about healing. The public are regularly 

reassured of this, as am I. Yet I am uneasy about these correctional and political meta-

narratives; my body often does not feel cared for or grown, except perhaps in a 

musculature sense, a prisonised sense. In order to move, to rehabilitate, I need to know 

why. Why is there this gap/tension between what is supposed to happen to/with me and 

what is happening to me? Why is rehabilitation a fight? Why do I not feel like the 

person the dominant narratives tell me/us I am? What do those narratives mean for my 

rehabilitation? How can I speak back to these and have more say in my creation?  

These are some of the key questions with which this research is concerned. As 

I embark on it, however, I worry... Do I have the tenacity to see the journey through? 

Do I possess the requisite academic prowess to do what has never before been done in 

this country – a doctorate from the inside?1 By virtue of my acceptance and scholarship, 

the University certainly thinks so. But I’m wary of institutions. And besides, mistakes 

happen, so the University’s confidence in me is not enough. I want to do this research. 

With all of my heart and soul. It is just that the latter has become so habitually wary, 

cynical and constrained that it is suspicious of the feasibility of possibility... 

 
 

                                                 

1 Dr. Paul Wood began a PhD in prison, but did the majority of it upon release (Skelton, 2012). 



 

xiii 

 

Is  

                      it  

                                            really  

                                                                 possible  

           for  

                 the  

                     research  

             of  

a  

     k      i      l      l      e      r 

                                                                                                                                                         to  

                                                                                                                                                contribute  

                                                                                                                                  to  

                                                                                                              positive  

                                                                                         change  

                                                                      within  

                                                           the  

                                        criminal  

                      justice  

sector? 

  

I am hypervigilantly aware that there are powerful experts who will assert that, 

no, it is not. When I think of this, I begin feeling very small. And, as will become clear 

throughout this journey, there are also other obstacles continually washing up against 

my body, threatening to overwhelm me. Sitting amidst the pain, I wander to where I’d 

like to be... 

 
A cabin 

 

Perched high up on windswept cliffs, perhaps somewhere overlooking  

the English Channel. 

I’ve never actually been to the Channel, 

or many other places. 

But tattered issues of National Geographic enable many dreams. 

My cabin is old, small and plain. 

It consists of one room. 



 

xiv 

 

One door. 

Rough-hewn planks provide a floor. 

Walking across an unkempt field toward the cliff edge, 

I enter, 

walk across the small room, 

seat myself at the worn wooden desk standing in a corner. 

There is a window in front of me, 

another to my left. 

I can hear and feel foamy seas bursting against black rocks far below. 

The sky is dark, 

rolling, 

angry. 

Rain occasionally splatters against thin panes of glass. 

The cries of a solitary gull float in over wind-weary grass. 

Quietly resisting nature, 

a small open fire, 

halfway along the wall behind me, 

graceful as a choir. 

As I sit writing, Macrocarpa spits and glows.2 

The fire eases my woes, 

calms my body’s throes, 

helps me confront the stories of institutional pain that will inform my 

autoethnographic flow. 

 

Feeling the cold leech into my arms through the steel bench, looking at the 

names of past residents etched into its tired surface, I long for that cabin. Dreaming of 

                                                 

2 Yes, thanks to reviewers’ comments (including yours, Paul) I now know that there’s no 

Macrocarpa in the United Kingdom. But, within a prison cell dreams are all I have. I can feel Ellis and 

Bochner (1996) whispering in my ear, pointing out the extent to which the inaccuracy of my dream 

illustrates its authenticity. And Arrigo (2013) whispering in the other, telling me how illustrative it is of 

the realness of my captivity. 



 

xv 

 

it, I glance up at the porous blocks surrounding me, hoping to see the warm flickers of 

orange that I know are not there. Within the cabin’s soft wooden walls lies peace. 

Within its atmosphere would rest the stability and safety necessary to entering the 

‘stream of consciousness’ that, as will be seen, my methodology requires. I would feel 

considerably less overwhelmed by my personal and doctoral voyage were I sitting in 

the cabin, safe and with the soft glow of a computer screen to help ease the pains of 

academic labour.3 Of course, this journey I am embarking on would not be what it is 

were I not where I am. Alas, I must embrace my demons and face what is coming. 

Contributing to my dis-ease are the practical difficulties. To type, I have a pen. 

To Email, I have envelopes. To discuss the complexities of postmodern, post-structural 

theories of psychological research, prisonisation and rehabilitation I have only myself, 

and the many voices lying therein. I am, though, used to talking to myself and, because 

I have no choice, cannot afford the luxury of diagnosing it as unhealthy.  

Combined with these concerns regarding practical barriers such as my inability 

to type my work or converse with other students, there is the arguably more consuming 

issue of my cowardice. I’m scared. This research requires that I explore my body, 

analysing its movement in relation to institutional treatment. Such work necessitates 

that I attend to poor decisions that have been made, both by me and about me. I must 

analyse the places and spaces I have occupied throughout the state’s occupation of me. 

I balk at the prospect of this. I have control over very little. But my stories, secret little 

moments, they’re mine. Even the shrinks, with all their expert powers of persuasion, 

                                                 

3 Much of the writing for my thesis was completed long-hand in my cell at night. Precious 

computer time was reserved for producing final drafts. 



 

xvi 

 

haven’t succeeded in getting there. I fear letting anyone in because, once they’re in, the 

stories are out and I lose the shred of agency I presently hold.  

Living in a contested, dangerously coerced space I have become adept at 

negotiating various selves, being the right person at the right time. For example, I have 

manipulated – pretended to be friends with people I do not like. I’ve worked to convince 

people in a particular space that I enjoy being a part of that space, when in fact I despise 

it. But this has all been okay as it is behaviour only I am aware of. This research will, 

already is, forcing me to shine light into hidden crevices I never believed would be 

exposed. I now face the prospect of not only having to re-visit them, but to share what 

I find. It does not feel good. I attempt to embolden myself through consideration of the 

importance of my research. For one, my narrative is focused on discovering and 

illustrating how correctional policy and practice works for real. Through the telling and 

analyses of my experience, I hope to show what it is doing. This is very important as 

there are few firsthand accounts of such issues in the literature (Austin & Irwin, 2012; 

Buck et al., 2024; Fassin, 2015/2017; Gaucher, 1998; Irwin, 2003; Jewkes, 2015; 

Newbold, et al., 2014; Ross & Richards, 2003). As I aim to demonstrate, such accounts 

are needed in order to develop more efficient, jurisprudent correctional policy. My 

research is also significant in terms of personal growth. Certainly, through its process I 

hope to grow bodily. I hope for the increased self-awareness, cognitive and emotional 

development that must surely come with deep analyses of one’s self.  

Despite these social justice and personally rehabilitative possibilities I am 

worried. I fear that in revealing various selves, I will put myself at risk of shame and 

criticism. There are moments and decisions that I am deeply ashamed of, others that I 

am ashamed not to be ashamed of. I fear what may eventuate in telling these. Certainly, 

many of my past selves and decisions are long-buried. Revisiting them is going to make 



 

xvii 

 

them real again, forcing me to acknowledge me. I suspect that engaging in this process 

is going to challenge current conceptualisations of myself, of my self-image. However, 

all I can do is suspect because I am embarking on the unknown. And that, perhaps, is 

the most disconcerting issue of all. 

 

The carceral conditions producing my pain… 

At the time I began this research, in 2018, I was still incarcerated. I’d served 

nearly sixteen years by then. Although having since been released on Life parole, I 

remain intensely connected to the pains of my incarceration. And, as is the case for 

most long-term prisoners I know, I fear I always will be. It is from those pains, and an 

ever-increasing concern regarding the state of our correctional system, that this research 

emerges. During my imprisonment, I experienced harmful outcomes both around and 

within me, and bore witness to numerous elements of that system, from educational 

policy to assessment practices to prisoner work schemes, being adversely affected by 

fear of risk. Further, conditions within the system have, in my experience, declined to 

alarming levels. And numerous Ombudsman’s inspections, conducted at prisons around 

the country, strongly suggest that those conditions are a serious concern at a systemic 

level. For instance, it has been found that issues such as lack of programming, levels of 

institutional violence, long hours of lock-up, and poor facilities are of significant 

concern in many prisons within the Correction’s estate (e.g., Boshier, 2017, 2019, 

2020a, 2020b, 2020c, 2022, 2023. See also: Harris, 2020; Miller, 2022; Sommerville, 

2022; Whitten, 2021). Many of these issues have received national media attention (i.e., 

Cornish, 2022a; Dennett, 2021; Whitten, 2021). Such has the severity of the situation 

become that, at Waikeria Prison, one of the nation’s largest jails, complaints regarding 



 

xviii 

 

living conditions led to a serious incident; over a six day period in December 2020, the 

entire high-security facility was destroyed by twenty prisoners amid protests over living 

conditions (Redstall, 2022). Despite Corrections’ subsequent denial of the prisoners’ 

claims, and characterisation of their behavior as riotous, wanton destruction, numerous 

other prisoners' from the jail have, since, substantiated the claims of the men who led 

the uprising. Perhaps most telling, however, is observations made by the Chief 

Ombudsman. Having conducted an unannounced inspection of the prison only twelve 

months earlier, his staff expressed significant concern, noting that, “Most tāne in the 

high security complex (HSC) were double-bunked in cells originally designed for one, 

and living conditions were poor. Tāne in the HSC were subject to a basic yard-to-cell 

regime and limited activities” (Boshier, 2020a, p. 1). The prison system’s public 

discourse, following the Waikeria prison riot, is just one example of many I have 

witnessed wherein official narrative sanitises and strongly minimises the pain of lived 

reality behind prison walls. But, as will later be discussed, so rarely does long-term 

lived experience of our prisons make it over the wall that society largely knows no 

different, and so is captive to these dominant narratives. 

These experiences and ‘I-witnessings’ are accompanied by alarming statistics. 

For instance, Aotearoa/New Zealand’s prison muster reached an unprecedented 10,695 

in February 2018, forcing the Department of Corrections to announce emergency 

accommodation measures, including plans to house prisoners on the floors of prison 

gymnasiums and in police cells (Stewart, 2018). And, indeed, by March 2017 the 

situation was becoming critical: the muster had ballooned to 10,820, with the nation’s 

eighteen prisons then being so full that there were less than 50 vacant beds left across 

the entire prison estate (Walters, 2022). The financial cost of prisons is also of 

considerable concern, and long has been. In 2011 then Minister of Finance, Bill English, 



 

xix 

 

stated that New Zealand’s prisons were “a moral and fiscal failure” (Fisher, 2018, p. 1). 

Yet, despite numerous senior Cabinet Ministers endorsing his statement and 

committing to address the issue, since 2005 the annual cost of operating our prisons has 

doubled (Gluckman, 2018), with prisons costing the country $938 million to run in 

2017 (Gattey, 2018). And, in the five years since the current government took office, 

these costs have not decreased. Indeed, the annual operating budget has risen $140 

million since 2018, being $1.3 billion in most recent figures. Within this rise is the cost 

per prisoner, which had ballooned by 2022, to around $150,000 per year. That is up 

$30,000 per prisoner, per year, compared to 2018/2019 figures (Dahmen, 2022). 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, in 2023 Police Minister, Ginny Anderson, drew attention 

to Mr English’s characterisation of our prison system, again stating that it is failing as 

a cost-effective solution to social problems (Truebridge, 2023). And, certainly, if rates 

of reoffending are anything to go by, the prison is surely failing. Despite the promises 

of successive governments, rates of reoffending have long remained unacceptably high, 

with around 37 percent of prisoners being reimprisoned within two years of release, 

and 50 percent of all prisoners within five years (Bakker & Riley, 1999; Department of 

Corrections [DOC], 2024; Johnston, 2016; Khanna, 2021; Mills et al., 2022; Ministry 

of Justice, 2023; Nadesu, 2009; Newbold, 2007; Radio New Zealand [RNZ], 2018). 

Further, less than a decade ago we had the second highest rate of incarceration in the 

OECD, with only the draconian penal policies of the United States producing a per-

captia rate of incarceration higher than ours (JustSpeak, 2014; Khanna, 2021). Although 

it has since reduced, the rate at which New Zealand incarcerates its people continues to 

far surpass that of other Commonwealth nations (Boomen, 2018). Speaking in 2018 

about the state of the prison system, Justice Minister Andrew Little described it as 

“stretched to breaking point” (Gattey, 2018, p. 2). MP Rawiri Waititi has gone even 



 

xx 

 

further, noting in the wake of the Waikeria protest that “…the current system is broken 

and…continues to feast on the dysfunction it creates” (as cited in Rutherford, 2021, p 

3). Combined with my insider experience of it as destructively risk-averse and harmful, 

these outcomes suggest that the prison is dangerously under-performing with respect to 

its obligations to society, rehabilitation in particular. 

And, since my release, it appears the situation is only worsening. I was paroled 

in 2022, during the Covid outbreak in prisons. At that time, incarcerated life was dire: 

all visits and reintegration activities had long been suspended, along with almost all 

prisoner employment and programmes (Maher, 2022; Sherman, 2022; Smith, 2022). 

And, alarmingly, due largely to severe staff shortages, the amount of unlock time was 

drastically reduced. In some cases, prisoners were only getting out of their cells for an 

hour every few days (Burrows, 2022; Espiner, 2020a; Hunt, 2022; Leask, 2023). This 

received significant media attention and has been characterised as amounting, 

essentially, to solitary confinement (Espiner, 2020, 2020b, 2020c; People Against 

Prisons Aotearoa [PAPA], 2023). Corrections strenuously defended its position, 

pointing to the pandemic as the sole reason for the intense control measures (Burrows, 

2022; Espiner, 2020c; Small, 2022). However, it is becoming clear that the ‘rolling 

locks,’4 lack of visits, and cessation of rehabilitation activities are no longer due to 

                                                 

4 ‘Rolling lock’ is a term used by both officers and prisoners to describe a particular style of 

regime. A rolling lock occurs when there are not enough staff available to unlock all prisoners within a 

unit at once, as would normally happen. Due to the need to maintain staff-inmate ratios, prisoners will 

be unlocked in small groups, each getting an hour out before staff ‘roll out’ the next group, and so on. In 

severe cases, one group of staff will move through not just one Unit doing this, but across several Units. 

For example, in one eight hour shift, they will progress though two separate Units, giving the forty men 



 

xxi 

 

Covid but are, in fact, symptomatic of a far more complex situation. I continue to 

communicate with people locked in the system, both prisoners and veteran prison staff. 

Having careers spanning three decades, the latter assure me that the prisons are in the 

worst state they’ve ever been, and are at breaking point. It is, they say, managerial 

dysfunction, staff retention and shortages that are the real problems, not the pandemic. 

And, indeed, as the country moves on from the Covid restrictions, largely returning to 

normal, the staff shortages in our prisons remain. They’re crippling, and it is not simply 

a matter of officers being on leave due to Covid: there are over 500 full-time prison 

officer positions unfilled (Cornish, 2022a; Sherman, 2022; Small, 2022; Walters, 

2022). Corrections' Association Union head, Floyd du Plessis, has defined the staffing 

crises as the worst it’s ever been (as cited in Walters, 2022). With turnover at around 

fifteen percent it is, evidently, an issue of retention (Cornish, 2022a; Owen, 2024; 

Walters, 2022). Corrections’ is losing prison officers faster than it can recruit them 

(Galuszka, 2022b). Indicative of the extent of the issue, when questioned in mainstream 

media as to why it has not got enough staff to facilitate family visits, Corrections’ 

Deputy Chief Executive – Māori, argued, in 2022, that they are working harder on 

recruitment than ever before. Amidst this he mentioned that, “Last month was the first 

time, ah, in, in, in a number of months, that we’ve had, uh, more people recruit and stay 

with Corrections than we have leave” (Rameka, as cited in Forbes, 2022). And yet, 

eight months on, the staff shortages remain critical. Visits for many remain suspended 

(Smith, 2022). And certainly, the staff I’ve recently talked to are saying that institutions 

                                                 

in each an hour of unlock, in groups of ten. When on such a regime, it is excruciating. The staff will 

normally start with cell one, so will let out cells one to ten first. For the person who occupies a cell 

somewhere within the 31-40 range, it is a long wait) 



 

xxii 

 

still do not have enough prison officers to allow prisoners to be unlocked more than a 

few hours daily, let alone to facilitate rehabilitative activities such as employment and 

weekly family visits.5 Entire units in various prisons have had to be closed as there are 

no staff to secure them. The prisoners from these units are sent out across the prison 

estate to wherever beds can be found (Gourley, 2022; Pennington, 2022, October 9). 

This happened in the last unit I was in, at Auckland Prison. It, Unit 9, was the prison’s 

only reintegration and working unit, and had thus been opened with considerable 

fanfare and anticipation. However, with Management subsequently removing the staff 

to fill gaps elsewhere, the unit was closed down, only a year after it opened.  

We hear of the media reports of these issues, of the FACTS. But what of the 

stories from behind the walls, the lives? Imagine being told you have to pack your 

belongings and, within a few hours, leave your house… As you pack, you’ll be wracked 

with pain, thinking of the friendships you’re losing; friendships often carefully 

cultivated over many years, and that provide a semblance of normality, and safety. 

Suddenly, and without compassion, you are ripped from all these and sent off into a 

world of others’ having, once again, to navigate the painful, damaging process of 

integrating, socially, culturally, politically, into a foreign cell-block, an environment 

almost certain to receive you with hostility. And lying in bed at night knowing that, 

now being many hundreds of kilometers away from your family, your children, you are 

unlikely to see them for a long time. Educational courses you were doing will end, no 

                                                 

5 At Auckland Maximum-Security prison, for example, due to severe staff shortages the entire 

maximum- and high-security divisions of the prison continue to be denied contact visits (Leask, 2023). 

The men confined there have not been able to see their families in person since 2021. As of writing, 

2023, staff sources tell me there are seventy unfilled full time positions at the prison. 



 

xxiii 

 

longer able to be completed once you are torn from support networks you, and others, 

have worked so hard to establish. I’ve been through this, and watched countless other 

prisoners have to go through it. When news of such moves come, the entire Unit will 

become tense. People gossip, pester staff, try and find out whether their name is ‘on the 

list.’ Those who aren’t breathe very quiet sighs of relief. The less fortunate, however… 

Well, some will attempt to physically resist being moved, doing such things as 

barricading themselves in their cells (Wickcliffe, 2018); once staff get the door open, 

usually by tearing it off its heavy hinges with a hydraulic jack, the prisoner will be 

chained and carried out to the waiting escort van. Others will submit complaint forms, 

and/or call the prison complaints line. In my case, I enlisted the help of family, who in 

turn engaged the assistance of a local MP. I was fortunate: the MP contacted 

Corrections’ Head Office, who saw the injustice that was occurring and promptly 

instructed the Prison Manager to leave me right where I was. But such intervention 

should not have been necessary. Just as it should not be necessary for a group of women 

incarcerated at Arohata Women’s prison to have to file a High-Court lawsuit recently 

in an attempt to have their forced transfer blocked (Gourley, 2022). Their lawyers noted 

that the forced relocations (due to staffing shortages) were "discriminatory, 

disproportionate and contradict the department's policies on the treatment of Māori and 

women prisoners" (as cited in RNZ, 2022, p. 2).  

Without doubt, these forced transfers are damaging. I will never forget the fear 

I felt when given orders regarding mine; the thought of being extricated from the safe 

haven I’d spent years creating for myself... And my study: any transfer away from 

Auckland Prison, whose education staff had established the relationships with Massey 

University necessary for a person with no internet or computer access to do 

postgraduate study, would have been obliterated. That Prison Management considered 



 

xxiv 

 

it morally and ethically legitimate to manage me in a way that would destroy my 

rehabilitative progress is deeply concerning. Yet, such are the conditions for those 

living within the dysfunction of our totalitarian, political and risk-focused system. And, 

indeed, I was one of the lucky ones. Very few have access to strong outside social and 

political support and so are unable to have unjust correctional practices overthrown. 

Lacking access to any voices other than their own, these people are far more vulnerable 

to the whims of the correctional machine.  

Contemplation of these conditions raises many important, and worrying, issues. 

How is it, for instance, that prison management have no time for the voices of their 

charges, yet suddenly seem to care when their own superiors do? That local Managers 

alter their decisions when National Office becomes involved strongly suggests not only 

that the validity of the decisions they’re making is questionable, but that there is a strong 

disconnect between prison management at local and national levels. Certainly, given 

their overturning of local directives, it appears that Corrections’ top bureaucrats are 

somewhat unaware of the happenings and lived realities of the prisons they oversee. Of 

most concern, however, is that the aforementioned complexities also indicate that 

prisoner management is being driven not by rehabilitative ideals and policy but by 

agendas and power relations. And yet, for the most part, we do not see this in 

mainstream media representations of the prison system. Rather, we are fed stories of 

factual excuses, of staff shortages, of health and safety factors, of any reason that creates 

the perception that, when it comes to their imposition of harsh, damaging and inhumane 

conditions, the hands of the captors are tied. Indeed, I intend to argue, and will illustrate, 

that those dominant representations, co-produced and intensely reified through 

mainstream news media, are purposefully used to render invisible other stories, of 



 

xxv 

 

political agenda, power, ambition and risk-adversity, that lurk in the shadows. Those 

conditions, we will see on this journey, infect every part of the prison, for one and all. 

 It is in this sense that the staff shortage narrative, employed so extensively by 

Corrections, is used to legitimise various restrictions, and has become so widely 

accepted. As other narratives/stories indicate, however, the staff shortages are merely 

a symptom (a serious one, nonetheless) of a complex, systemic dysfunction. A senior 

officer told me, soon after Corrections’ implementation of the Covid-related 

restrictions, that “Management will be loving this” (Confidential source, personal 

communication, March 23, 2020). Although I had a fair idea what he meant, I asked 

him to elaborate. “Because they hate having to allow you lot things like visits, and 

programmes,” the officer continued. “They see them as security risks and as too much 

of a privilege. Any excuse they can get to stop them, they’ll jump on it and milk it for 

all it’s worth. As they’re doing now.” The officer is not wrong. Two long years later, 

they’re still ‘milking it,’ refusing to re-commence visits in many prisons, continuing to 

cite safety, and staff shortages. Further indicative of the underlying attitudes and risk-

adversity fueling harmful prison policy and practice, well-known critic of the prison 

system, former prisoner Arthur Taylor, has spoken about the issue. He says that: 

 

"I'm going to put it this way, if they wanted to get visits back tomorrow they 

 could and would." 

"I was in prison when we had the prison officers all go on strike. The navy came 

 into Pāremoremo [Prison] and normal visits carried on exactly as before.” 

"The prison officers went on strike, the navy supervised it very well. So, it's not 

 rocket science." (as cited in Smith, 2022, p. 2). 

 



 

xxvi 

 

Of course, Corrections hates Taylor, according to inside sources, since he 

speaks such truths publicly. And that is not surprising: institutions of power often take 

a dim view of any discourse that questions their legitimacy (Arrigo, 2013; Foucault, 

1977; Lyotard, 1984). Indeed, it is a key reason why prison staff so seldomly speak out 

against their conditions. And when they do, it is often only when those conditions have 

become overwhelming. It would appear that the situation at Auckland Prison has 

reached this point. Officers I’ve recently spoken with suggest that the staff retention 

problem there has a lot to do with working conditions, and a “toxic” management 

culture (Confidential source, personal communication, March 7, 2023; See also, 

Coughlin, 2023; Galuszka, 2022a; Keogh, 2023; Miller, 2022). It has been said, by 

those on the ground, that the Management and culture is so fractured the prison is a 

“powder-keg,” ready to go off (Confidential source, personal communication, March 

7, 2023; Confidential source, personal communication, May 18, 2023). All of these 

issues, I’m told, are contributing to significantly higher levels of tension and violence 

within the prison, and also to very low staff morale. And, indeed, the situation for 

Corrections Officers has been described by their Union as dire: “They’re tired, their 

exhausted, [and] they don’t feel valued…” (du Plessis, as cited in Small, 2022, p. 1). 

Just this week, families of prisoners in Auckland Prison spoke to media, saying that 

conditions there continue to be so severe they fear a Waikeria-like protest is inevitable 

if widespread reforms do not happen soon (McConnell, 2023). Bearing in mind that 

Auckland Prison is the country’s only Maximum-Security facility, these issues are, 

quite frankly, deeply concerning. 

As I hear these things, I feel so relieved that I got free of the place when I did. 

Such was the disastrous, dysfunctional and chaotic state of the system in the year 

leading up to my release that I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Yet all indications are 



 

xxvii 

 

that it is. And so, my concern has actually increased since being home. However, 

hearing of the worsening conditions is not the only reason for my growing concern. 

Rather, in now being in the world outside prison fences, I am closer to the political 

rhetoric proclaiming efficacy in our system. Through this new location, wherein I am 

free of the information constraints prison imposes, I am gaining another perspective on 

just how misrepresentative that rhetoric is from my experience behind the walls of our 

nation’s prisons. For example, now having access to that incredibly powerful tool 

known as Google, I was recently able to watch a video clip in which a top Corrections' 

executive went to lengths to deny that the staffing issue was either a crisis, or 

symptomatic of deeper underlying issues (Sherman, 2022). How is it that there are such 

counter narratives, and such denial, by officials, of the conditions within the facilities 

they oversee? And how/why is it that mainstream media so readily peddle these 

damaging narratives? Narratives that deny, and render invisible, the harmful 

experiences of so many, staff and prisoners alike… It is issues such as these that 

motivate me to draw on particular poststructural theoretical frameworks to delve into 

the murky politics, power relations and media representations producing such harm and 

dysfunction.  

It is so scary, and so concerning, to be bearing witness to narratives that are so 

far from describing the world I have just spent twenty years in. Certainly, the harms I 

witnessed during my incarceration, and that continue to plague the correctional system 

and the lives of those imprisoned within it, are occurring within a context of apparent 

penal reform and continued political emphasis on the prison as an effective 

rehabilitative solution (Bhamidipati, 2022; DOC, 2018, 2022; Gluckman, 2018; RNZ, 

2024; Taylor, 2024). Indeed, the current Government ascended to power amidst 

promises of sweeping reforms. Both correctional and government narratives are 



 

xxviii 

 

saturated with reform and efficiency-related rhetoric regarding policy improvement and 

offender-centric approaches to rehabilitation. Proposed changes included abandoning 

the idea of a $1 billion Mega-Prison (Stewart, 2018), increasing the focus on 

rehabilitation and making drastic reductions to the burgeoning prison population, 

decreasing it by 30 percent over the next 15 years (Gattey, 2018). In 2019, Corrections 

launched a five-year strategy, Hōkai Rangi, through which it planned to achieve those 

objectives (Devlin, 2019; DOC, 2019). Extensive emphasis was given to Hōkai Rangi, 

and it continues to be applauded, at every turn, by the executive (i.e., DOC, 2022; Los’e, 

2024; RNZ, 2020; Smith, 2021; Walters, 2022). Even amidst the misery discussed 

above, and the decimation of rehabilitation programmes and activities that is so clearly 

occurring, the official narrative refuses to make any meaningful acknowledgement of, 

or take any accountability for, Hōkai Rangi’s failings (i.e., Johnsen, 2020, 2021; RNZ, 

2020; Trafford, 2022; Walters, 2022). Instead, a narrative of great success stubbornly, 

and somewhat ridiculously, persists. In sharp contrast, reform advocates argue that 

Hōkai Rangi exists on paper only, and that ‘sweeping’ reforms are needed that go well 

beyond what the failed strategy proposes (Cornish, 2022b; Johnson, 2020). 

In pursuit of these reforms, high profile criminal justice summits were held in 

2018. And a panel of the nation’s ‘leading experts’ has been convened to have an 

ongoing, national conversation about improving all aspects of the criminal justice 

system (Safe and Effective Justice, 2018). Whilst these efforts are important, I am 

concerned that they will fail to address a long-standing and significant void in the 

discussions and research regarding incarceration and rehabilitation. The ‘expert’ panel, 

for instance, is comprised of academics, lawyers, and a former policeman/politician 

(Safe and Effective Justice, 2018). What of those who are actually living in prisons, 

who are subjected to incarceration and ‘rehabilitation’? Should not their perspectives 



 

xxix 

 

be given considerable space in the discussions? After all, it is reasonable to argue that 

their raw experiential knowledge of being locked in prison cells, being assessed for risk, 

and being positioned as dangerous, can make contributions of at least equal value to 

those of outside ‘experts’. Unfortunately, however, prisoners’ voices regarding 

experiences of imprisonment and rehabilitation are rarely heard in criminal justice 

debates (Ross & Richards, 2003). The situation in the academic literature is no better, 

with Bullock and Bunce (2018; see also Blagden et al., 2016; Morgan, 1999) noting 

that studies of prisoner rehabilitation “do not deal explicitly with how prisoners 

experience [it]” (p. 2). 

My research seeks to write into this empirical gap. Utilising a critical, 

performative autoethnographic methodology, I will produce an account of life behind 

prison walls. This will connect stories of imprisonment and rehabilitation to dominant 

correctional and rehabilitative practices to show how they are experienced by a 

prisoner. Drawing on the Society of Captives [SOC] thesis (Arrigo, 2013) to interpret 

my experiences, it will be argued that the prison and all connected to it is/are being held 

captive by both a preoccupation with risk and a culturally-mediated fear of 

dangerousness. This, it will be proposed, is limiting the correctional focus to one of 

reduction and control in which the prisoner and their pains become invisible. I intend 

to develop connections between this focus and everyday prison life to illustrate 

particular ways in which the risk-focus is undermining the possibility of rehabilitation. 

Specifically, I will attempt to identify particular linguistic, symbolic, material and 

cultural forces/processes through which correctional risk-adversity is producing 

harm/prisonisation. Part of this work will involve a poststructural interrogation of the 

connection between dominant correctional and media narratives, and my body and 

identities. I aim to demonstrate that the misrepresentation of identity is one of the key 



 

xxx 

 

ways in which the prison is producing harmful outcomes. Through these discussions I 

will also work to show how the dysfunction of the prison, as seen in such issues as the 

staffing crises and restrictive conditions, connects to, and is being produced by, a 

complex interweave of competing political, social, financial and personal agendas. 

As concerned as I am with producing knowledge that may contribute to the 

improvement of the prison as a means of rehabilitation, my research is also concerned 

with my own development. For example, in arguing that my identity has been 

appropriated I hope to not only reveal a process through which harm is being inflicted 

but to create movement within myself. Primarily, I aim to reconstruct elements of 

myself through being able to draw on interpretations and discourses other than the 

totalising correctional ones that have long positioned me as a dangerous, criminalised 

other. And that, as will be shown, heavily restricted my knowing of the (my) prison 

world to that of a convict. This autoethnographic process of contributing to the literature 

via the narration of my experiences aims to be empowering and healing, allowing my 

pains to be heard ‘for real’.6 Certainly, through problematising the construction of my 

‘criminal’ identity, the research will show how risk and dangerousness are culturally 

constructed commodities rather than stable actualities. Such knowledge can contribute 

to freeing us from the totalising power of “hardened discursive forms and practices” 

(Park-Fuller, 2000, p. 25) and may help enable the correctional focus to move toward 

recognition and privileging of people and their pains for real (Arrigo, 2013). As I will 

argue, and as I expect my bodily movement/growth will illustrate, such a focus is 

fundamental if the prison is to be made more effective as a means of lowering criminal 

                                                 

6 Discussed by Johnson (2013) as essential to rehabilitative movement and recovery, I will be 

developing the ‘for real’ concept during my argument for an ethical, efficient approach to rehabilitation. 



 

xxxi 

 

risk. These aims/arguments require attending to a number of questions, several of which 

I have already posed. Others will be introduced as this journey unfolds. Such is the 

embodied character of an (my) autoethnography that one’s (my) story “almost certainly 

changes and grows as the author authors and re-authors their writing” (Grant et al., 

2013, p. 2). Consequently, I know not the precise path my analysis will take. 

  



 

1 

 

Chapter One - Introduction 

I have to say, it is unnerving, not knowing just where I, and this research, will 

go. Having spent so long in prison, I’m no stranger to uncertainty. Still, I avoid it where 

I can. Uncertainty is stressful. The idea of not knowing the areas, academic or 

otherwise, one must navigate through… Yeah, that is stressful. But it is also, as I have 

learnt through being exposed to things like sudden prison transfers, unavoidable.7 Alas, 

I just do my best, grasp on to whatever slither of assurance/safety I can, and pray things 

will work out. And what I can get some sort of momentary grip on, at this point, are the 

methods, analytical frameworks and processes my research draws on. Giving life to my 

research and making possible the possibility of becoming, it is important to now turn to 

consideration of these. Accordingly, the following chapter will discuss the society-of-

captive’s thesis. This will lead into consideration of autoethnography. Through 

discussion of these theories, I will explore the epistemological understandings that both 

inform them and enable them to work together as my metho… 

 

 

 

Fuck 

 

 

                                                 

7 Transfers of prisoners, from one prison to another, often occur without warning. Particularly 

with well-settled, long-term prisoners, the system tends to worry they’ll resist if given warning of a 

transfer. And so, whether due to prison capacity issues, or because staff just don’t want that prisoner 

there anymore, transfers of individual prisoners tend to take place suddenly, and in the early hours.  



 

2 

 

 

 

I’ve been robbed of my place… 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck  



 

3 

 

Stabbing 

The above paragraph was written on a Friday morning, when I was still up in 

‘Parry.’8 I had planned, as I began saying above, to move into the methodology of my 

research, beginning with a discussion of Arrigo’s (2013) SOC thesis. This work was to 

begin around lunchtime, after getting out for some fresh air in the exercise yard. 

However, those plans were obliterated shortly after walking out of my cell door. I will 

return to the story of my methodology. But first, a story of the world within which the 

chapters regarding it were produced… An introduction to my world… What happened 

when I left my cell illustrates the chaos of prison, of how your body is never allowed to 

relax, to be at peace. 

Fridays are always a short day for prisoners in New Zealand’s prisons as the 

afternoons are reserved for staff meetings and administrative work. Every Friday (even 

public holidays) all prisoners except those with jobs are locked up at 11.30am and often 

left locked until Saturday morning. Consequently, things like our one-hour minimum 

unlock entitlements all have to be crammed into the morning. With the 48 prisoners in 

each cell-block divided into groups of 6, it is hard for the staff here in maxi to get 

everyone their turn in the yards between 9.30 and 11.30am.  

It is a hectic regime. The yards are a 200 metre walk down three flights of stairs, 

along a fifty metre mesh-covered walkway, with six gates to pass through along the 

way. Intensifying the process even further, prisoners must be moved to and from the 

                                                 

8 ‘Parry’ is the term used by most within Aotearoa New Zealand’s prison system, staff and 

prisoners alike, when referring to the nation’s Maximum-Security prison. It is short for ‘Pāremoremo.’ 

Known as Pāremoremo Prison for decades, the institution’s name was only changed to Auckland Prison 

in more recent times. Alas, although I make use of the various names, I am referring to the same prison. 



 

4 

 

yards individually. There are four yards so the screws9 have 24 prisoners in the yards 

– six in each – whilst the other 24 still inside are showered. The men are let out in 

groups of three to shower, for ten minutes. Once everyone has had their turn, we are 

swapped over. That is, everyone who was in the yards gets brought in for showers whilst 

those inside go out for yard time. Provided no-one stops along the walkway to yell out 

to their bros in the adjacent cell-block, we get 45 minutes in the yards. Usually, though, 

a half-dozen will stop to talk and on these occasions movements slow to a trickle. Yard 

time gets reduced to thirty minutes or so. It isn’t much when there are six of you in the 

yard, all wanting to use the payphone. In such instances the physically strongest and/or 

most dominant egos of the yard will get on the phone first, with the quieter guys – the 

‘peasants’ or ‘chumps’ – missing out. The latter will have to wait around 27 hours until 

yard time the following afternoon. 

There have been moments/times where I’ve been a peasant. It’s a long wait. 

I dislike the Friday regime here in maxi. For me it is a morning of frustration, 

a quick breakfast of two Weetbix at 8.15am followed by pacing back and forth listening 

to countless doors clanking open and shut around me. Three paces forward, turn, three 

back, turn... Waiting for my door. One can follow each guy’s progress to the yards 

because each of the six gates has a unique sound, with the fifty-year old remote-

operated locks making a loud clang. Some of the grill gates squeak, others rattle. I think 

about the morning’s writing as I pace. I’m happy with what I wrote. Three months into 

                                                 

9 ‘Screw’ is the term, widely used amongst prisoners in Aotearoa New Zealand, when referring 

to prison officers. The name came about due to the primary job of the prison officer being to turn, or 

‘screw,’ their key in the locks of cell doors (Looser, 2001). Interestingly, many prison officers also refer 

to themselves, and colleagues, as ‘screws.’ 



 

5 

 

my Doctorate, it is the first proper drafting I have done; such has been the struggle to 

find my autoethnographic voice. I have fought to move beyond the traditional scientific 

research practice of separating everything into chunks, to do a conventional, linear 

write-up of my research. Gradually coming to terms with my methodology, 

autoethnography, this struggle is becoming more about traditional research habitus 

than lack of knowledge of alternative methods. It’s still an issue though and I know that 

I’ll attempt to retreat back into the comforting, familiar folds of positivist, realist 

rigidity during future struggles with my methodology. The present moment, however, 

can be characterised by a feeling of everything being ‘all good’. I’ve got the tune, for 

the first time. And it feels great! 

Embracing these new understandings, I was not as frustrated with the slow 

Friday regime as I would be normally. I planned to go to the yard, make a phone call 

to my Nan, then carry on writing once back in my cell. I used the time pacing to think 

about what I needed to do. Having at last found the beginning to my research, I know 

that I now need to attend to issues of methodology. I must describe the SOC thesis, 

autoethnography, and discuss the specifics of my approach to them. As I paced the 2.5 

metres from the back wall of my cell to the barred cell-front, I decided that the best way 

to start all of this was with a discussion about my methodology emerging as part of a 

response to concerns regarding the realist knowledge assumptions underlying 

traditional ethnography. I expect to outline the issues with those traditional 

assumptions, before unpacking the poststructuralist and postmodernist context/theories 

within which both the SOC thesis, and autoethnography, are located. First, though, 

some fresh air… 

With a loud metallic clang the locking mechanism above my door released and 

it rattled open. My turn had come. The trip to the yard was uneventful, indistinguishable 



 

6 

 

from the hundreds of previous ones. Three guards are always stationed at the landing 

exit. One works the heavy iron grill gate that gives access to the landing, one operates 

the antiquated crank-handle mechanism that moves the cell doors, and the third screw 

conducts a frisk search of each body as it passes through to head down the stairwell. 

We exchange pleasantries as I approach. Opening the gate with a huge brass key to let 

me through, I take a few steps, turn and place my hands against the concrete wall. I 

have done this so many times that I could almost say that I am used to another man’s 

hands rubbing themselves all over me. Almost. Rub-down done, the guard reaches over 

his shoulder and pulls the ‘wand’ (metal detector) from where he stores it, wedged 

down inside his stab-resistant-body-armour (SRBA). Pushed in there against his back, 

with the handle sticking out, it gives him the look of a sword-wielding Ninja. He waves 

the wand over me, front and back. I then kneel to put on my shoes, which have just been 

checked to ensure that there are no shanks hidden inside. I dislike these practices but 

do not begrudge the screws for carrying them out.  

They are necessary where I live. As will soon become evident. 

Cleared to go to the yard, I head down the stairs, through the double-gate sally-

port in the basement, and down the long walkway that runs parallel to the cell-block. 

Guards follow my movements via CCTV and remotely open each gate as I approach. 

Everything around me is dull and grey, both the steel and concrete. The external walls 

of the towering cell-blocks either side of me have never been painted. The one exception 

to the drabness are the thick steel bars covering the ground-floor windows. Decades of 

rust and baking in the sun have forced most of the paint off but, if one happened to look 

closely, they’d see a bit of light blue colouring; a final stand amidst years of abuse and 

neglect. Within a minute I’ve reached the three guards stationed outside Yard 1, the 

last yard to be filled. As mechanical ‘good mornings’ are exchanged, the steel bolt 



 

7 

 

securing the yard gate shoots back, allowing one of the screws to pull the gate open. A 

heavy bracket mounted above the doorframe prevents the gate opening more than two 

feet so one has to turn sideways to pass through. In the past, those in the yards have 

rushed the gates as the screws unlocked them, trying to force their way out, to take 

control. The recently-fitted brackets eliminate this, permitting only one body through 

the narrow gap at a time. 

I’m the last of our ‘six’ to get to the yard. With me safely inside, a screw slams 

the solid gate closed and they head back up to the block to help run the showering 

regime for the 24 prisoners still locked up. Someone is already on the payphone so I 

pace the yard, killing time. The yard is a perfect square, about ten meters from one end 

to the other, with 24 foot high concrete walls and galvanised steel mesh enclosing the 

top. There is a dirty steel toilet in one corner behind a metre-high barrier, the phone is 

bolted to the wall in the opposite corner. There are two foot-wide, three-foot long solid 

concrete seats nestled against one wall. About halfway along the wall from these seats 

is a pull-up bar and directly opposite that, a dip bar. A basketball hoop is also affixed 

to one of the walls. The hoops are rarely used though as only a couple of the four yards 

have balls – and they’re pretty flat. It takes ten seconds or so to pace from one end of 

the yard to the other, but it is still good exercise. The endless turning gives one's legs a 

pretty good workout. Think of a Lion pacing up and down in its cage at the zoo… 

My turn on the phone comes around quickly. I ring my Nan. Nothing particular 

to talk about today. I just check-in and see what is happening on the outside. As routine 

as these calls may be, they are significant to me. They remind me that there is a world 

beyond prison and that there are people in it who care about me. Many prisoners, most 

actually, are not so fortunate. I wonder how it feels for them, watching those of us who 

are lucky enough to have people to ring. I should spend more time considering their 



 

8 

 

plight, but I don’t. I think the other struggles I have prevents me seeing theirs: We are 

all stuck in our little worlds of pain and deprivation. Phone call over with, the next guy 

in the queue jumps on and I resume pacing. Beneficial as the turns are for my leg 

muscles, I must take care because, being winter, the concrete floor is slippery, with 

puddles dotted here and there. I did not talk to the boys in the yard much this morning. 

My mind was on autoethnography. I knew that, whilst it has infinite variations, I had to 

find an approach to introducing and overviewing the field that did not generalise. That 

did not silence autoethnography’s diversity. To attend to this it is important to focus on 

what the various examples share. I need to look for principles. During my engagement 

with numerous pieces, including research on workplace experience (i.e., Grant, 2013), 

gender marginalisation (i.e., Briggs, 2017) and experiences with bulimia (i.e., 

Tillmann- Healy, 1996), it became clear that autoethnographers are working from a 

similar set of assumptions around knowledge and its access. These are very different to 

the traditional positivist notions of truth and reality that postgraduate study of 

dominant research methodologies and 33 years of mainstream Western citizenship have 

instilled in me. As I thought of this, I realised that deconstructing those learnings will 

require attending to my self, to those parts of me involved in the maintenance of 

problematic epistemological views and assumptions. And, to do this, I recognised that 

I would, first, need to go into the society of captives theory [Arrigo, 2013], to draw on 

its focus on the connection between body, agency and governance. Exploration of those 

connections would/will help me understand how it is that I am moving – and being 

moved – in certain ways, sometimes problematic ways. Hmmm, just when I think I’ve 

lifted the lid on my self, I find that, under that lid, is another… 

At some point amidst these thoughts I suddenly became uneasy and glanced at 

my watch. I saw that we had been in the yard just over an hour. This was very unusual; 



 

9 

 

the tightness of the Friday regime does not permit additional unlock time. As thoughts 

of study rescinded I became aware that it was rather quiet – those around me had 

obviously noticed, earlier than I, that something was up. The yards are bunched 

together in a row and normally quite noisy, with the sounds of intense cardiovascular 

and combat training emanating from them. You can always tell when the guys are doing 

this as the dull thuds of human bodies colliding carry from one yard to another. The 

usual routine is for men to pair up and take turns kicking each others’ thighs and 

stomachs. This allows them to not only refine technique but also to condition themselves 

for fighting. It hurts and each strike is often followed by a strong exhalation. But not 

today. My first thought was that the screws must be doing a raid, tipping the cells for 

contraband and weapons. I then realised that this was unlikely given that half of the 

prisoners were still in their cells. Not long later I heard the buzz of the walkway gate 

as three screws arrived to begin shuffling us back inside. When my turn came, I asked 

why they were late. 

“There’s been an incident”, one replied. 

“Up or down?” I ask as I step out and adopt the position, ready to be frisked. 

Assuming the incident to be in our block, I wanted to know which of the two levels it 

had occurred on (the block is three-story, but the basement level consists of empty 

recreation rooms rather than cells). Having been in C Block for a year, I am pretty 

aware of the personalities and politics of the place. So the apparent ‘incident’ surprised 

me as I had not known something was afoot.  

“Nah, D Block” a different screw replied. “Most of our staff have been over 

there responding to it”, he continued. “That’s why the routine’s all fucked up.” Giving 

furtive glances to one another, and running late, it was clear the officers were 

uncomfortable and did not want to elaborate. No matter. I knew I could extract specifics 



 

10 

 

from a screw upstairs so, taking my hands from the wall, I turned and headed up the 

walkway. 

How does one find their autoethnographic voice amidst such chaos, I wonder? 

How do I maintain a process of shifting from a binaristic/separatist relationship with 

my methodology to an embodied, holistic autoethnographic self? It is possible that what 

I require to achieve such consciousness (clarity, space to be) can be found in what I 

dream of having? I dream of peace a lot. In particular, what it would feel like to live 

without fear of violence, what it’d be like to begin a week of study certain that the 

likelihood of witnessing violence, being violent, being smashed in the face, is very low. 

I wonder how much easier it would be to concentrate on my study? I could at any time 

be a witness, target, and/or perpetrator of prison violence. Today’s incident will ensure 

that I do not forget this. It is never possible to ascertain where it may come from, or 

when. Living in such uncertainty for so long has shredded my nerves: I tend to get 

paranoid and am easily frustrated. Most prisoners around me are paranoid. I 

participate in their paranoid fantasies (but they could be true) weekly. And the screws 

are suspicious of my/our paranoia. So it is important to be paranoid. You will never see 

the fists and shanks coming if you are not. I am lucky that, having lived this way for so 

long, I rarely recognise it as twisted or fucked up. Opening up and acknowledging the 

twistedness of my life would, I fear, be too stressful as I would want to resist and avoid 

a reality that cannot be avoided. Well, at least for as long as I have to maintain that 

particular life. So I normalise it. 

How I am going to get through this autoethnography, then, I have no idea... 

In these early stages, wanting to introduce my research methodology and work 

through the conditions of its emergence, I console myself with the knowledge that I do 

not have to ‘go there’ just yet. But I know the requirement to open up, to turn inwards 



 

11 

 

(Rodriguez et al., 2017; Tarisayi, 2023), is coming and I fear it. It is going to mean 

showing you my various selves, which means I will have to re-know all of them too. So 

we’re not going too deep too soon. And besides, at this point, I doubt that I have the 

necessary awareness to get us there. Damn, I have become erratic and have lost my 

place. But I am not apologising for what some may call unscholarly incoherence. Three 

days ago I had a plan and I had found the tune needed to begin presenting my 

methodology. But it was taken from me.  

The suspicion, apprehension and anxiety I began to feel as I headed in from the 

yard was not misplaced. As I walked into my cell and the door slid shut behind me, I 

thought about how tense and preoccupied the officers were. With the exception of the 

kitchen workers from A Block, the entire institution was locked down by 11.40am. There 

will be no general unlock until 1.00pm tomorrow. I’m lucky, though. Being a ‘mess 

man’ I was allowed out at about 3.00pm. My job involves filling the hot water jugs, 

making the tea, and carrying the 48 hospital-style dinner trays up from the basement to 

each of the four landings. I set about doing this. Most of the staff throughout the prison 

had been called to D Block to shift ‘crims’10, and to carry out a full search of that unit. 

Only two staff had been left behind to sort dinner, and they were stressed out. There 

was no peace. The block had gone very quiet over lunch and into the afternoon. But 

once the men detected a bit of activity following my unlock, they stirred. The most 

accurate indicator of impending activity is the slamming of the sliding grill that leads, 

from the stairwell, into the top-floor landing. Whenever there is an incident and 

                                                 

10 A slang term, used by some old-school staff and prisoners, to refer to prisoners by their status 

as criminals. 



 

12 

 

lockdown, we always listen for it. If one listens carefully enough, the grill can be heard 

from any of the 24 cells on the top floor. The guys were pretty hyper – no doubt agitated 

at the disruption to the routine, and feeding off of the negativity and tension saturating 

the atmosphere. A few kicked their cell doors and yelled out. I suggested to Matt that 

he and Steph feed-out on the middle landings whilst I do the top two. Normally the six 

staff assigned to each Block distribute the meal trays but, circumstances being what 

they were, Matt agreed. 

As I served the trays and hot water, the men bombarded me with questions. We 

prisoners have an intense need to know what is happening when something goes down. 

This interest is largely self-centered: does the incident involve me? Can I benefit from 

it? Could there be consequences for me? 

“Lion11 got stabbed-up bro”, I replied to his question as I slid a tray in to the 

man in the first cell. 

“By who?” one of the guys further down the landing asked.  

“The C”, I said as I moved down the landing, pushing the dinner trolley. Some 

of the men were crouched down at their food slots talking, and those in cells further 

down were calling out. Aware that information relating to the incident was now 

approaching, they were desperate to know. Everyone was talking over everyone else, 

clamouring to ask others what I’d said before I’d even finished saying it. Some sounded 

contemplative. For others it was just a buzz. I did not feel the same way. I have 

committed serious acts of violence and have been walking prison corridors longer than 

most of these prisoners. But I want something more. Something beyond violence and 

                                                 

11 All people appearing in stories, throughout my research, are given pseudonyms. 



 

13 

 

incarceration. Having reached cell twelve I turned and headed back down the landing 

to do the other side. Near the front, a guy stopped me and asked, again, what had gone 

down. I reiterated all that I’d managed to find out earlier in the day, when I’d come in 

from the yard. He knows The C and, wanting to indicate that he is ‘in the know,’ 

commented that The C’s home-made knife was a long one and that he’d have “gone 

hard”, going for “eye and face shots”. As I went around and reloaded the dinner 

trolley, I felt troubled at the interest with which I received his comments. I resented the 

stabbing. I do not like that sort of thing, least of all because it makes me feel as though 

positive growth is impossible. As though peace is impossible. It has reminded me of the 

fragility of my existence, that anything can, and does, happen in here and that I must 

never allow myself to become too relaxed or at peace. This, as will become clear to me 

through this research, has consequences for who I can be. 

I have been around, and occasionally engaged in such chaotic behaviour for so 

long that it is seems normal to me. It is, I think, within this normalisation that the above 

paradox resides: I don’t like the violence and want something better, yet was still 

interested – intrigued even – to hear about it. Given the years of proximity to it, I can 

function relatively unaffected by it. Several incidents over the last week convince me of 

this. For one, there is a big shank on our landing somewhere – one of two prisoners 

has it. But that is okay. I know enough about them and am vigilant enough to handle 

any issue there. My paranoia serves me well. Secondly, just the other day one of the 

five other prisoners I mix with exploded into a rage during medical-round, smashing 

his chair up against the bars of his cell door and screaming at the screws outside to 

“open the fucking door”. Interestingly, this man has named himself after the brand of 

knife he used to attack his victim. On several occasions, I’ve heard him boasting, in the 



 

14 

 

yard, about his actions. It largely unaffected me.12 Further indicative of my 

conditioning to the violence, about four days ago a guy on the landing behind us refused 

to get locked up. Additional staff had to come upstairs to get him into his cell and it 

created a bit of a scene, a lot of yelling and aggression. But whatever. I see how far I 

have come, or how dehumanised I have be-come (depending on perspective), when 

inexperienced prisoners are sent here. They ask to go to the At-Risk Unit; they cannot 

deal with the violent events, with the constant noise the place creates in one’s body. I 

went to the At-Risk Unit once. 

But not anymore. 

Sometimes I can even study through such chaos, getting myself into that special 

place in which real academic flair emerges. I suspect, though, that there is some 

psychological price to pay for being able to continually absorb craziness and stress 

without obvious affect. Surely I have to have lost or relinquished some part of myself to 

be able to maintain sanity amidst insanity? I do wonder, though, if one would actually 

be able to tell if they’d gone insane? The sliver of reflexivity I can muster here suggests to 

me that were I taken and placed amidst people outside of prison, they’d fairly easily see 

the losses that my coping strategies are hiding from me. 

Having taken all the empty trays back downstairs for the kitchen staff to collect, 

I have a quick shower and am then locked up. The two staff head off to D Block to assist 

with the drama. It is about 4.20pm. Normally I would eat my dinner, watch The 

Simpsons at 5.00pm, then study. I love that show. The light-heartedness and utter 

                                                 

12 In an earlier draft, I mentioned the crime specifically. However, the brutality of the story far 

exceeds any value that breathing it could offer. 



 

15 

 

ridiculousness of it helps me shift the part of myself that I have control over into the 

more civilised, calmer space I need to be in to study. But there will be no transition into 

peace tonight. The day’s events have me firmly in their grip, reminding me that, 

whatever else I may want and try to be, I am a convict first. Sometime around 9.30 this 

morning three gang members in D Block attacked Lion. As told to me by staff who 

responded to the incident, one attacker king-hit him whilst another tackled his legs. The 

third, the main assailant, then went at him with a shank, stabbing him in the eye, neck, 

and arms. Word is that he may lose his eye, and the tendons in one arm were hacked 

through, almost severing the limb. Lion has already had a limb amputated as a 

consequence of criminal violence, so the arm would have been his second. There was 

blood all over the landing and Lion was down when the screws arrived. He was rushed 

to hospital by ambulance and is expected to be there some time. 

My plan to come in from the yard and begin writing about the theoretical 

frameworks of my research is over. It has been taken from me, very much against my 

will. The clarity and tune I’d found earlier are gone and with it the ability to write about 

anything other than how I feel. It frustrates me to lose something I worked so hard to 

find. I do not think, though, that the loss of one day’s clarity is the salient issue right 

now. More pressing is that I am back to questioning the wisdom of enrolling in a 

Doctorate. How can I possibly expect to get through one in here given the chaotic shit 

that characterises incarceration? 

Am I deluding myself in thinking that I can get my mind away from prison whilst 

in prison? 

I’m tired. My thoughts are fleeting; coherence seems impossible. I am literally 

writing these sentences as they come to mind. And they will not be edited for dramatic 

effect – a convention autoethnographers’ do engage in when appropriate. I should be 



 

16 

 

making more of an effort to employ these conventions. As I keep saying, I should be 

weaving together discussions of the society of captive, and autethnographic theories. I 

should be delving into the epistemological assumptions informing them, and discussing 

the ways the two theories intertwine and work together, beautifully, to enable my 

methodology. But I just cannot. I am too disturbed by the loss of my agency. 

The stabbing of Lion has not touched me at all but has also touched me deeply. 

I’ve been stabbed by the madness too. In this moment I’m super-conscious of my 

mortality, of my limited ability to protect my life and sanity from those society holds to 

be the nation’s most dangerous men. I mean, if Lion’s not safe, who the hell is? Referred 

to by most of us here in the maximum-security prison as ‘Lion’ due to his hulk-like size, 

Lion is serving two life sentences and is one of the most feared convicts in the system. I 

have heard screws speak of him as ‘untouchable’. So I am being consumed by a state 

of hypervigilance at the moment, thinking I could be invaded at any time, wondering 

how I will be able to achieve my goals in such conditions. I feel like the civilian citizen 

who, bombarded by continual reports of rising crime in the media, becomes 

preoccupied with the possibility of becoming a victim. But at least the outside citizen 

can go and buy more locks for their doors and can rely on neighbours to help with 

surveillance. I’ll just have to keep doing combat conditioning in the yard, keep running 

my own one-man surveillance operation... 

Ah, surveillance… Yes. Instead of studying, I monitor the atmosphere for 

possible conversations. If I detect one, I will listen. There are various methods of cell 

to cell communication. In some prisons one can talk through the air vents or drain 

pipes. Another effective method is for both parties to empty the water from their toilet 

bowls and then talk into the bowl. This makes for a very clear conversation, even if your 

cells are far apart. Whether it involves scooping the water out of my toilet or crouching 



 

17 

 

at my air-vent for hours on end, I will attempt to monitor all that is said. Prisoners do 

not talk about the weather during those conversations. And, for this reason, nor will I 

be the only person listening. During the quieter periods – sometimes months – the 

conversations become less frequent and the need to monitor less intense. Today’s 

stabbing, however, has increased the danger-level and the need to run surveillance is 

high. This behaviour is an embodiment of paranoia and loss of agency. I need, not want, 

to do it. I am powerless in this moment. It is not nice to sit on the floor, huddled over 

the stained toilet bowl, head turned sideways to hear better. As I process the echoing, 

far-away whispers, another part of me sees across to my bench where my books and 

pad are sitting. Where I should be sitting. I want to be there, but I need to be here.  

Only once over the years have I ever detected my name. I was a new arrival to 

C Block, Parry, in 2011. The landing (as with the whole Block) was filled with gangsters 

and, as I lay listening to several talk that night, I heard someone say something like “I 

don’t like that new fulla’s fucken face”. I etched the voice in my mind and the next day 

identified its owner, a mean-looking Mongrel Mob Rogue patch member. I was well 

aware that the majority of the twelve bodies on the landing would have heard his 

comment and that eyes would be on me at morning unlock. A conflict would surely come 

unless I devised a plan. Watching the mobster closely I saw, over the next day or two, 

that he was thoroughly immersed in prison culture and enjoyed discussing anything 

prison-related. So, despite the boundaries created by his foul-mask and my clean face, 

by his warrior-ness and my whiteness, I saw some commonality between us and 

exploited it. Looking in through my cell bars several days later, he enquired, bluntly, 

about the books on my shelf. Selecting one of the more visceral accounts of prison I had 

amongst my textbooks, I turned to the bars and asked if he’d like to read it. Although 

suspicious, he accepted it with a tight “shot bro.” That first encounter heralded the 



 

18 

 

beginning of a friendship that, seven years later, remains strong. But had I not heard 

what he said that long night in 2011, I’d likely not have engaged with him and, having 

no reason not to, he would have acted on his initial reaction of dislike and attacked me. 

So my hypervigilant listening behaviour and possession of prison literature served me 

well that day. 

Several days have passed since the stabbing. Things have settled a little, though 

we have not yet heard why it went down. Was the attack over something trivial, or was 

it a hit? Everyone wants to know, and in time we will. In the interim, I must capitalise 

on the relative peace that has descended and tell the story of my methodology. I will, 

as first said a long breath ago, begin with a discussion of Arrigo’s (2013) SOC thesis. 

From there will come chapters on autoethnography, and the ethical framework of my 

research. Whilst each has its own chapter, it will become clear that the theories 

informing my research are deeply intertwined, and share important epistemological 

principles. Through these we will come to understand how it is that one’s self is able to 

be a location for research, and how it is that that location is analysed, and knowledge 

produced through it.  



 

19 

 

Chapter Two - On the Society-of-Captives, and life 

within… 

I’m sitting here playing with one of my locks. I’ll talk more about my lock 

interest, and the trouble it caused me, later. I only mention it now as, amidst admiring 

my lock, handling it, turning the key back and forth, memories are emerging of how I 

never used to be able to entertain my interest in locks, or even mention them. That I 

can, now, is reminding me of how intensely the system often responds to healthy 

behavior, difference and human potential. And that leads me to think of Arrigo’s (2013) 

contention that we all reside within a society of captives, wherein people are 

categorised, commodified, and managed according to rigidly defined cultural and social 

rules. Contemplating this, it is hard not to wander back to prison considering that it is, 

after all, perhaps the most intrusive/powerful mechanism through which those rules are 

enforced. Indeed, when I look back over my life within our risk-based correctional 

system, I see how extensively, and with such totality, I was risk-assessed, and managed 

according to that risk. It dominated every aspect of my life, from sentencing and 

induction into prison, through to rehabilitation, ability to work, access compassionate 

visits, to restrictions on the sorts, and number, of books I could have in my cell… Even 

this PhD, as rehabilitative as it is, provoked more risk assessment and management than 

I care to think about. In every single one of these areas, life has been a desperate, often 

maddening struggle. It seemed that every step forward I tried to take was mired in 

bureaucracy, in hoop-jumping and, usually, in “DECLINED” responses from the Man. 

And the continual risk assessment and assignation to various categories of 

“dangerousness” and apparent high criminal risk led to me being known in particular 



 

20 

 

ways which, in turn, heavily dictated the extent to which I could be. Certainly, I could 

only ever move within the tightly controlled parameters of whichever category I was 

locked. Beyond the provision of vague, ‘catch-all’ reasons like ‘escape-risk,’ and 

‘unknown quantity,’ those who were doing the locking did little to explain to me why I 

was being allocated to particular categories. In that sense, my interest in locks served 

me well: I came to learn that I could gauge how the system was seeing me through the 

quality of the locks it used to contain me. 

 

It took a very long time for those locks to become smaller. 

 

For a long time, there was little understanding or reflexive consideration of these 

machinations of the system. I did not think critically, nor did I question the narrative, 

or my assessment and treatment. When prison managers said “That’s just how the 

system works,” I simply thought, well, that must be how it works. I have always been 

a free spirit but I deferred, complied (mostly), and just ran with the only other narrative 

available to me, that of my fellow prisoners, which suggested that, “The system’s 

fucked bro. Just gotta roll with it.” And so I remained ignorant, of both my docility and 

of the injustices being perpetuated. Not until 2013, eleven long years into my sentence, 

did I begin to awaken to the plight I was in. And it was a plight, I would come to learn, 

that affects us all, prisoners, prison staff, and wider society alike. 

In the final year of my undergraduate studies, I came across a course the likes 

of which I’d never encountered before. It was in the realm of psychology, forensic 

psychology in particular. Yet it did not approach issues in the typically clinical, rigid 

way that I’d become so accustomed to, both through previous study and years of 

experience of the practice of correctional clinical psychology. Instead, it took on a 



 

21 

 

refreshing criticality, amongst which it actually reasoned that through a risk-saturated 

approach, correctional psychology, in practice, is participating in the production of a 

society of captives within which multiple layers of harm are being perpetuated. That 

recognition deeply resonated with me as it was such a validation of my own experiences 

and witnessing of correctional psychology. It made new narratives possible and enabled 

me to see that my situation, and the risk/dangerousness categories I was positioned in, 

were being driven by something more than any inherent deficit or issue within me. 

Perhaps of even more importance with regard to empowering me is that the course 

encouraged me to look for the relationships between institutions and individuals, and 

the ways in which these work to produce the dysfunction and harm so rampant 

throughout our system. Indeed, it pushed me further than that, also delving into why 

those relationships and harmful productions are as they are. To do this work, the course 

took me into a world that was, then, very foreign to my hitherto captive self. 

Recognising that I first needed to understand the principles of knowledge, of what is 

considered legitimate, illegitimate, and why, before I could properly understand and 

navigate critical theories of prisonisation such as the SOC thesis, it focused on the 

epistemological and ontological principles through which those theories emerge and 

through which, I would come to learn, policy, practice and experience within our system 

is shaped. I thus embarked on what has become a long, continuing journey into post-

modernist, post-structural ways of approaching our world. All of that work, and 

resulting movement, has been so important to this research, to unpacking and embracing 

the theoretical perspectives necessary to its production, necessary to my liberation and 

ability to recognise not only myself and my production as a being of risk, but my right 

to be accountable to myself – to resist that production, to speak, and be, in other ways. 

Central as these principles are to the emergence and development of the SOC thesis, 



 

22 

 

and thus to my methodology and development, it is important we consider them. Indeed, 

it was through them that my introduction to both the SOC thesis, and autoethnography, 

occurred.  

 

An epistemological turn… 

I still remember the beginnings of my engagement with postmodern theory. The 

memories are rather vivid, both due to what I found to be the sheer complexity of the 

theory and the outcomes it would have for me once I finally managed to make some 

sense of it, and then find my place within it. My sense-making began to really develop 

once I came to understand that the postmodern approach emphasises critical analyses 

of the conditions shaping knowledge (Hook, 2008; Lyotard, 1984; Richardson, 2000). 

That theme challenged so much of what I’d learnt, and thought I knew of the world as 

a place where meta-narratives and institutions were held to be unquestionable. Yet, once 

I got my head around it, I recognised that the postmodern focus not only allows me to 

reveal the culturally constructed and partial character of the knowledge shaping my 

imprisonment and subject location but also enables me, and us, to see how dominant, 

totalising knowledge forms significantly reduce the possibility of alternative 

epistemologies and ways of being. I’m going to show you how it is through this focus 

that it becomes possible to ‘write back,’ to challenge meta-narratives through 

production of the sort of alternative account I am weaving together in this PhD. This 

‘narrative turn’ and the emancipatory potential it creates are at the center of the 

postmodern approach (Epstein, 1995; Lyotard & Brügger, 2001; McHale, 1988; 

Sparkes, 2024; Valentini, 2019). 



 

23 

 

To problematise positivist notions of knowledge as total and objective, 

postmodern enquiry draws attention to the development of knowledge. This focus is 

particularly powerful as it enables me as researcher to see knowledge as emerging 

through a combination of conditions that nullify the possibility of universality 

(Cosgrove, 2003). For example, in arguing that knowledge develops in a haphazard, 

often accidental fashion, Foucaultian theory allows us to see that it is fragile, fluid, and 

fragmented (Abi-Rached & Rose, 2010). In taking this view, postmodern theory thus 

shifts the focus from trying to capture a subject definitively to that subject’s 

‘dissolution’, whereby the various events/discourses that produce it become the focus 

of research (Denzin, 1986). Hook (2005) calls those events “vector[s] of forces” (p. 16), 

the ‘conditions of emergence’ that give rise to what traditional approaches call 

‘constructs’ or objects of study. These conditions can include any number of structures, 

be they political, social, historical, and/or technological (Arrigo, 2013; Gergen, 2001; 

Hook, 2005). With respect to this research we have already encountered many, from 

prison events and culture to correctional bureaucracy and discourse, as well as to 

technologies of incarceration that control my body (and sometimes mind), such as 

security classification. 

Poststructural theory is important here. As a “particular kind of postmodernist 

thinking” (Richardson, 2000, p. 8), poststructuralism shares a thread with social 

constructionism in its emphasis on discourse as a site of meaning-making. However, a 

specific function of the poststructural approach is that it brings a criticality to the 

analysis of language/knowledge. Indeed, it critiques the conditions underlying 

knowledge constructions, drawing attention to the cultural rules, political motives and 

power structures within which meaning is discursively formed