This article was originally published in North Carolina Prison News Today out of Nash Correctional Institution. It won first place for Best Long-form Magazine Story in the 2025 American Penal Press Contest.
In Raleigh, North Carolina, Andrè Smith and Steven Killion get in a car and drive due east on I-40 towards Nash Correctional Institution. Smith is the father of a son lost to senseless violence; Killion, a divorcee and father whose unwise decisions nearly put him on a collision course with the justice system.
Both men are scholars and teachers. They share their stories of overcoming their struggles with anger, depression and addiction with the practice of meditation with the incarcerated.
When they arrive at Nash, an escort leads them to Unit Three, a plain red-bricked building on the yard. Inside, a room full of men have transformed the line-up room into a meditation hall. There are old red and blue gymnastic mats covering the bare floors. Upon the mats lie a dozen round pastel-colored cushions that have been haphazardly thrown. Several armless, hard plastic chairs line the walls for those unable or unwilling to sit on the floor.
As Smith and Killion enter, students, new and returning, stand and gather around the teachers giving and receiving handshakes and heartfelt hugs.
If you are meeting Smith for the first time, he will ask your name with his bourbon-smooth baritone and look deeply into your eyes while you answer. Because of his hearing loss, you may find that you need to repeat yourself a time or two. Yet, he will continue holding your hand until he learns your name. And the intimacy of it will not feel awkward. Instead, it will feel like a handshake from an old friend, because that’s exactly what it is.
Despite the empty chair set for him at the front of the class, Smich prefers to sit on a meditation cushion on the floor. At 72 years of age and suffering from a painful disability that requires the use of a cane, he needs assistance lowering himself. Once seated, Smith folds his legs and pulls a set of meditation chimes, called “tingshas,” from his pocket and holds them by the thin leather strap that tethers them together. He sets them on the mat and waits for the students to find their places. He pulls his sleeves up to his elbows revealing two recently inked tattoos on his bare forearms: The Buddha sitting on a lotus flower on his right, the mantra “om mani padme hum” written in Sanskrit on his left. The room settles. Smith picks up the tingshas. He strikes them against each other three times. Their clear, high tones resonate throughout the room. The students close their eyes and are transported from the confines of the prison, into the vastness of their minds.
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Andrè Smith was born and raised in Raleigh. He dropped out of school in 1969 and joined the army to escape his father, an abusive alcoholic. After Basic Training and Advanced Individual Training, he deployed to Vietnam.
“The military was very difficult for me,” Smith said. “Because of my motivation for joining, I was filled with so much anger.” Instead of escaping his father’s anger, Smith found himself surrounded by mirror images of the abusive man.
In Vietnam, he saw Buddhist monks wearing brown robes and carrying alms bowls through the war-torn villages. Despite widespread devastation, Smith witnessed the kindness and humbleness of Vietnamese people. Although he was not ready to pursue his interest at the time, the Buddhist monks made a lasting impression on his mind and heart. A seed was planted.
Eventually, the military gave Smith a general discharge and sent him home from the war lost and addicted to heroin. The discharge and loss of his stripes further exacerbated his turbulent relationship with his father.
Smith eventually went back to school. He graduated from Wake Technical Community College and NC State where he majored in psychology. While attending classes at NC State, Smith rediscovered Buddhism and meditation. Although he grew up in a Christian household, he had many questions that the church could not answer to his satisfaction. He began searching other faiths and joined the Unification Church. He did missionary work for 25 years. Although the work helped him to understand many things, there was still much that puzzled him. Plus, he still held on to a lot of anger.
“I was a Christian, but I was an angry Christian,” Smith said. “No one in my church said anything was wrong with that, or that I could change.”
He left the organization still seeking answers. It was not until 2006 that he joined the Kadampa Center in Raleigh and began to explore Tibetan Buddhism and meditation. It was there that he found the answers he was looking for.
“The catalyst for change in my life was that I became sick and tired of suffering and causing the people that I loved to suffer. My wife, my kids, and even my pets didn’t know how to be around me.”
Smith started studying meditation and working on his anger. He was still struggling with addiction, including a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. Through his diligent practice, he began letting go of his self-destructive behaviors. He learned to communicate better with his family. Instead of yelling at them to be heard, he spoke calmly. Step by step he found happiness, and those around him saw the difference.
After taking his refuge vows — a formal ceremony for becoming a Buddhist — Herb Cunningham, the director of the Kadampa Center Prison Project (KCPP), encouraged Smith to begin working in prisons. Cunningham had already been teaching at Nash CI and Caledonia CI, which is now known as Roanoke River. He told Smith that he would know if this was the right path for him after his first visit. Smith’s teacher, Robina Courtin, the founder and creator of the Liberation Prison Project in Australia, also encouraged Smith to work with the incarcerated. When he first began, Smith was nervous and reserved, but he soon found his voice.
Then, in 2007, Smith’s 20-year-old son, Daniel, was murdered at a nightclub after Daniel bumped into another man causing him to spill his drink. He speaks with painful candor about the loss of his son with the men in his classes. “There are not adequate words to describe the loss of a child,” says Smith. “I did not lose my son… He was taken from me.” Yet, he does not have anger towards the man who killed Daniel. Smich believes that his practice, his volunteer work with prisoners, as well as his efforts in past lives allowed him to forgive Daniel’s murderer. Only one month later, Smith found himself back in prison teaching the incarcerated, some of whom had admitted to Smith that they themselves had committed murder. For Smith, it helped him heal. For his students, it taught them the true meaning of forgiveness and compassion.
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While Smith rolls into a room like thunder, Steven Killion glides in like a breeze. He is a keen observer with pensive eyes and a smile that could be easily mistaken as sardonic. He greets everyone in the class with genuine warmth. Hе is Smith’s compass. But, trying to keep Smith on task is like trying to herd butterflies — difficult, and in the end, often unsuccessful.
Killion jokes that he was born at a very early age in Houston, Texas. His father’s work required the family to move all over the country. Finally ending up in North Carolina, Killion graduated from Myers Park High School in Charlotte. Hе then started college at USC at Lancaster in South Carolina. He later transferred to UNC at Chapel Hill where he earned a PhD in Medieval British Languages and Literature. “Which means I know mostly about heroes, lovers, and the church,” Killion said. He ended up teaching Writing and Literature at UNC and then at a small liberal arts college in New York.
Killion comes from a background of mixed religious ideologies. Although he was born into a Southern Baptist family, the denomination didn’t appeal to him. He now pursues a spiritual life without labeling the endeavor. If pinned down, he labels himself ‘Buddh-ish.’
Killion didn’t explore meditation until later in life. His first awareness of the practice came in the 70s when transcendental meditation was becoming a fad. Killion and his now ex-wife, began meditating while living in New York. The practice continued after he moved back to North Carolina. Killion first explored Buddhism as a historical and cultural interest in the 90s and later focused on meditation. In 2013, in need of a spiritual awakening and inspiration, Killion came to the Kadampa Center. He became involved with the KCPP when his ex-wife encouraged him to start volunteering. The project’s goal was to bring Buddhism and meditation into the North Carolina prison system. The KCPP was a natural fit because he was concerned how some of his “lifestyle choices had attracted the attention of the legal system.” Killion met Smith while interviewing KCPP volunteers for information to be posted on the KCPP website. He began teaching with Smith a short time later.
Smith and Killion use their respective life lessons to teach the practice of meditation. Through meditation, they ask their students to take a break from the thoughts that plague them and to rest their minds in the present moment. They teach the men that they can too let go of the guilt and the shame of their crimes. “You are not what you have done,” Smith teaches. “You may have done things that have hurt others. But you are not your crimes.” For his students, this message is a revelation.
“What took me by surprise was it seemed he read the invisible badges of pain and anger on my sleeves,” said Willie Brown, a student in the meditation class. “He began by telling us how his anger almost consumed his life. This guy was reading me without even knowing my story.”
Each semester of the meditation class focuses on a different book. Each week, a different student is encouraged to lead the class, which involves guiding the meditation — if the student chooses — and reading one or two chapters from the book, followed by a group discussion of the topic at hand. Smith and Killion listen intently as the men describe their struggles of trying to lead a spiritual life within the confines of prison. Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Wiccans, Humanists, and the non-affiliated are among those present. Religion, Smith and Killion insist, is irrelevant to their teachings. The point is to be aware, be present, and to let go of emotional baggage. True happiness does not come from without, but from within. They teach that happiness is a matter of choice. As the Buddha taught: Nothing will make you happy until you choose to become happy. They also warn that the journey is not a ‘one and done’ endeavor. Rather, it is a lifestyle change that requires patience with oneself as much as with the difficult personalities of those the students will encounter in their daily lives. “Andrè and Steven provide practical, compassion-driven advice,” said Albert Ramos, another student and Buddhist practitioner, “which, when sincerely utilized, naturally results in a rehabilitated mind frame.
Much like housebreaking a puppy, the training must involve patience and loving kindness. Learning to be gentle and forgiving of oneself is the first step in the transformation. It will be the hardest thing students have to do, but by far the most rewarding.
In many eastern religions, there exists a symbiotic and vitally important relationship between the teacher and the student. In the meditation classes, what the men on both sides of the fence receive is symbolic of that relationship. The yin and the yang flow together to create the whole. Each side pulling from their collective experiences and sharing them with the other broadens understanding and forgiveness. The goal of the class is to create better human beings who are capable of understanding where their feelings are coming from, and how best to handle them. The students in turn show the instructors how their love and compassion can change lives.
“[W]orking on behalf of others is the best way to help yourself,” said Steven Killion. “I have benefited immensely from the example, wisdom, and fellowship of the people in our meditation group. I leave each Friday recharged socially, psychologically, and spiritually having benefited far more that could possibly have helped anyone else.”
The incarcerated men at Nash Correctional might beg to differ.
