Miss Heidi’s Work

Leslie Ball, a Minneapolis musician, teacher, and activist, has also known Arneson for years. Of Direct Action, Ball says, “People often become what we tell them they are—if we tell people we respect them, it’s easier for them to bring value into the world. People need to experience respect before they can give it. Most of the people in prisons are already disenfranchised and left out and given so few resources, and [our solution is to] lock them up.

“I’ve spent a night in jail. I can’t even describe the hatred that came out of [my] fear. I was lucky enough that I was able to articulate [my situation] and that I could make the judge understand what my story was. If I was a person of color or English wasn’t my first language, I could still be locked up.”

Ball says Arneson’s project is akin to restorative justice work. “Hopefully, Heidi will be able to find funders who understand that the long-term benefits are much more significant than the short-term benefits [such as getting a job],” she says. “There’s no way to measure the gift that narrative healing gives. Our culture is so driven by the calculator that the spiritual part is neglected, and it’s what we need more than anything else.”

As with the GED tutoring, ESL classes, and AA meetings prisons offer to inmates, Direct Action is optional. Arneson admits ten to twelve students into each class. Over the five-week workshop, she helps her students confront and understand their own pasts during ten intense, two-hour sessions involving physical exercises, writing, short solo performances, and ensemble collaborations. Her authenticity, quirkiness, and wisdom infuse her students with a sense of camaraderie and fearlessness. The environment she creates is safe and supportive (hard to do anywhere, but especially so in a prison), and the men eventually open up. They talk about the abuse they’ve suffered, the things they’ve done wrong, what they value, and their hopes for the future. They learn how to deal honestly with themselves. For many, it’s liberating.

In and out of prison for the past twenty years, Hassan said participating in the workshop was the first time he ever felt listened to. Another student, Darnell, said he felt comfortable with Arneson because “you could see she wasn’t fake. She really cared about us and what we did. She made us not feel ashamed. She made us feel no embarrassment, because she wasn’t embarrassed.”

In mid-March, when the Direct Action students performed their company-created This Is My Story, it was for an audience made up of the correctional facility’s volunteers. The hour-long performance filled the prison gym with poetry, music, and monologues—some angry, some regretful, but most were about the importance of faith, God, trust, and love. Julio, twenty-two, spoke tenderly about his family, the lessons he’s learned, and the role Arneson played in opening his soul to a greater purpose. “I didn’t think going to jail was going to be this fun,” he joked after the show. Turning to Arneson, he said, “You have given me a second chance and shown me love. This class is amazing.” He hopes to become a preacher after his release.

Another participant said, “I had so much anger in me. But after this class, I’m the most peaceful person in the world.” Raymond, a twenty-one-year-old who was convicted for possession of a firearm, explained, “There’s some ‘code’ that we have living on the street. People don’t talk about things. The first week, two weeks, I just opened up and I just let her know.” By the time he left the correctional facility in April, he had obtained his GED, a college scholarship, and a mortgage on a house. All of the men I spoke with were smart, articulate, and optimistic about the future. Some even said they would keep doing “Miss Heidi’s yoga” because it cleared their heads in stressful situations.

After the show, Arneson’s students surrounded her in a small circle, unable to contain their giddiness, the high that comes with performing. Arneson smiled back and asked them, for the last time before the workshop ended, to stand on their tiptoes, take a deep breath in, and reach toward the sky.

Jaime Kleiman is the theater columnist for Mpls.St.Paul Magazine.