A night at the Opera.

Everything about this is surreal. Waiting patiently to pass through I the metal detector, we glance upward through the concertina wire to see a rainbow reaching out from an otherwise forbidding sky.

The guards instruct us to surrender our driver's licenses. We are then ordered to turn over anything else in our possession that might be fashioned into a weapon. Uneasy giggles punctuate the air. We, too, it seems, are being processed into the penitentiary.

Once through the metal detector, chaperones escort us to a holding area and invite us to help ourselves to coffee, punch, and cookies. It is a curious mix of people. By their dress and demeanor, several guests appear to be aficionados of the opera. Several others, judging by their badges and serious demeanor, appear to be prison staff. We meet a reporter from Miami's New Times. He is conspicuous by his yellow legal pad and probing nature. Beyond that, it is hard to tell just who the rest of these people are. Relatives of the chorus, perhaps?

In a few minutes, the chaperones lead us to another part of the complex -- the prison chapel. Here we find ourselves rubbing elbows with several inmates in their prison garb, as well as camera crews from local and national television stations. An interview with one of the leads, Mabel Ledo, a mezzo-soprano, unfolds before us. She glows on camera and talks reflectively about the meaning of her involvement in the evening's production. She is soft-spoken and delicate-looking, a stark contrast to the convicts surrounding her. There is an electricity in the air, a buzz that suggests something important is about to happen. It is opening night at the opera.

Cavalleria Rusticana, a melodrama in one act by Pietro Mascagni, was first performed in 1890 in Rome. Tonight's performance features five professional opera singers and a chorus of inmates from the Dade Correctional Institution, a maximum-security prison. The inmates have refined their operatic talents under the tutelage of Rolando Valdes, the prison librarian and chorus director. Valdes, an opera buff, introduced the inmates to opera more than a decade ago. To his surprise, they not only learned to appreciate opera, they aspired to sing it. Ever since, he has worked with them in his free time, honing their skills. Thanks to a grant from the Miami-Dade County Cultural Affairs Council and the generosity of a handful of professional opera singers who lent their time, voices, and expertise to the learning process, tonight is the culmination of a dream: a public performance.

After a synopsis of the plot and a warm-up of the chorus under the direction of Valdes, we are ready to begin. The leads are in costume; the chorus is not. The lights stay up. Nevertheless, once Turiddu (played by tenor Edgardo Sensi) begins a plaintive love song offstage to his mistress Lola (played by Ledo), the harsh circumstances surrounding the opera recede, and the audience is left to contemplate the beauty of the tenor's voice. As he sings, "O, Lola," one can almost feel a stretching, reaching, uplifting quality. Soon the prison chorus enters and adds its voice to the developing drama. The members of the chorus are stiff at first and appear uncomfortable. But, of course, they are amateurs. As the opera proceeds, they relax and begin to enjoy themselves. The audience reinforces their efforts. Everybody in the room wants them to succeed.

As the performers sing their way through a plot filled with longing, infidelity, and revenge, some members of the audience look past the prisoners to see the "people" beneath the uniforms. In this frame of mind, it is easy to forget just why these inmates have wound up in their current situation. Other more inquisitive audience members continue to ask themselves, "Who's in for what?"

The opera builds to its climax and then, all too soon, it is over. The audience breaks into resounding applause. The leads take their bows, as do the chorus, the pianist, and Valdes. Before handing out roses, Valdes thanks the Miami-Dade County Cultural Affairs Council, prison superintendent Willie Floyd Sr., and several other prison officials for making this evening possible. Television interviews with chorus members follow. It is all very curious. This has been a celebration, it seems, of life's possibilities.

Amid the festivity, the prison staff look concerned. This is a time when people may relax, let down their guard, and forget where they are. A burly official takes command of center stage and announces in a distinct, forceful voice, "Civilians to the right, and prisoners to the left!" There is no doubt that he means business. He has, in his own way, brought down the final curtain.

We are quickly escorted out of the chapel to the holding area. Through a series of remote-controlled gates, we finally reach the entrance station and retrieve our driver's licenses and other belongings. Then, while the prisoners file back to their cells, we are bid a cordial farewell and turned loose into the Florida night with the daunting task of putting all that we have just witnessed into perspective.

The Search for Meaning

There is a risk of reading too much into this. Nonetheless, it seems remarkable that felons doing hard time for crimes ranging from armed robbery to drug dealing to rape to murder would find something in opera that captures their imagination. Even more remarkable is the contrast of the harsh conditions of prison life to the soft qualities of classical music and the beauty of the human voice. What is going on here? How do the inmates perceive this situation? Is it simply a diversion from the monotony of everyday prison life? Or is there more to it than that? Is it somehow therapeutic? Could it even be redemptive?

Interviews with chorus members, published in the Miami Herald, offer some clues. Raymond York, 29, in prison for murder, said: "My cell has two bunks, a toilet, a sink and a mirror. It looks like a bathroom with two beds in it. But I can sit back, close my eyes, sing--and put myself somewhere else instead." Another, 37-year-old Scott Phillips, incarcerated for selling drugs, added: "I'm angry at myself. Singing helps me release that anger and forgive myself." Jorge Pedrera, 49, also in for murder, said: "Before in my prison life, I was involved in a lot of drugs and a lot of violence. But opera has gotten me out of all that." Other members of the chorus used words such as escape and liberation to describe the feeling that comes with operatic singing. Is it possible that people who have had their physical freedom taken away can transcend their confinement through song? And if so, is that desirable?

Advocates argue that transcendence is, indeed, desirable, and any program that rehabilitates prisoners or gives them a taste of something good and positive in life can only be beneficial. The more that inmates can emulate socially desirable behaviors, the better. The more they can learn to appreciate what makes life within the law worth living, the more inclined they will become to live within the law when released. Despite their crimes, these people are not to be abandoned; punishment is not the sole purpose of incarceration. Prison should also prepare the incarcerated for another chance.

Skeptics will question the wisdom of programs such as this. Do we really want to relieve prisoners of their moral guilt, make them feel good about themselves, help them feel psychologically free? Indeed, the presence of television cameras at the opera -- and subsequent interviews with the inmates -- conveyed a celebrity status that seemed inappropriate to many in attendance.

Still others reason that regardless of the Inmate Opera Club's therapeutic value, it simply behooves society to treat prisoners with civility. Just because some among them have treated others brutishly, it does not mean others should treat them in the same fashion. In fact, it is this "civilized nature" that separates civilians from prisoners. Eugenia Grimaldi, a professional opera singer and supporter of the club, concluded that however one feels about what is going on in the Dade Correctional Institution, "music, especially classical music, is good for the soul."

Recreation in Correctional Settings

For those who devote their lives to parks and recreation, the Dade Correctional Institution's Inmate Opera Club provides much food for thought. Unlike other settings where services are offered, this one is ominous. Unlike other settings characterized by lightheartedness, freedom, and choice, this one is largely devoid of such qualities. Fundamentally, the correctional setting is the antithesis of what we are about as a profession. While we focus on what is right with people, prisons focus on what is wrong with people. While we focus on the positive side of life, prisons focus on the negative. Depending upon one's point of view, prisons are places where our services are either most or least needed.

As previously noted, while some people find the opera program wonderful, there are others who question the logic of catering to individuals who have shown so little regard for their fellow man. Of course, these differences of opinion mirror larger questions posed by society regarding the purpose of prisons. Are they institutions of punishment? Of rehabilitation? Or a combination of the two? Should offenders be given a second -- or even a third or fourth -- chance in life?

In this case, the opera program does seem to demonstrate the potential of recreation to nourish what is good in people and, in some respects, serve a therapeutic function. If the Inmate Opera Club helps prisoners move toward more socially desirable and responsible behaviors, that is certainly positive. One club member, bolstered by a newfound confidence that came with learning to sing opera in French, German, and Italian, has since earned a college degree. If this inmate eventually finds success outside prison, would this not be considered a beneficial outcome of the opera program?

Questions of a different nature arise redarding inmates who will spend the rest of their lives in prison. For them, the value of the Inmate Opera Club must be measured in terms other than rehabilitation for life after prison. For these inmates, operatic singing is limited to a form of catharsis, an assuaging of guilt, a way to temporarily escape what otherwise is destined to be a life of confinement.

On Making a Difference

The Inmate Opera Club is also testimony to the impact one person can have on the lives of others. Valdes has volunteered his time and energy for more than a decade to enrich the lives of inmates in the Dade Correctional Institution. He strives to see the person beyond the prisoner. His willingness to treat inmates with dignity and respect has led to accomplishments that would have otherwise been nearly impossible. Those who aspire to make a difference with the work they do can surely profit from his example.

And finally, would earlier contact with a person such as Valdes have meant a different direction for some of these inmates? Is there a preventive power in recreation programs that can thwart the onset of antisocial behavior? If so, what unrealized benefits might society reap by allocating more of its resources to programs such as these before -- rather than after -- problems arise?

"We hope P&R readers will ponder the therapeutic potential of leisure programs in correctional settings, as well as reflect on the nature of the `freedom' we so often think is indispensable to leisure pursuits," muses Daniel Dustin, co-author of "A Night at the Opera," which begins on page 85. Professors Dustin and Alexis McKenney, both with Florida International University's Department of Health, Physical Education and Recreation, detail an intriguing performance of Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, a melodrama first staged in 1890 in Rome. The chorus? Inmates from the Dade Correctional Institution, a maximum-security prison.