On October 12, 2025, a small but powerful transformation took place behind the walls of York Correctional Institution, a women’s prison in Niantic, Connecticut. The air inside the gym buzzed not with the usual institutional routine, but with anticipation, poetry, and the scent of freshly sanded wood. At the heart of it all was the opening of the 500th Freedom Library, a milestone moment for a nonprofit called Freedom Reads—a group determined to bring books, hope, and a sense of humanity to incarcerated people across Connecticut.
Freedom Reads, founded by poet and former prisoner Reginald Dwayne Betts, has set out on a mission that’s both literal and symbolic: to build and deliver beautiful wooden bookcases, filled with carefully chosen books, into the stark, metal-and-concrete environments of Connecticut’s prisons. But these are no ordinary bookshelves, and the people assembling them are far from ordinary craftsmen. Many, like Michael Byrd and James Flynn, have served lengthy sentences themselves. Their work is a testament to the idea that redemption and growth can flourish where few expect it.
At the organization’s headquarters in Hamden, Connecticut, the process begins with the soft rasp of sandpaper. Michael Byrd, reflecting on his journey, shared with NPR, “I’m doing a lot of things that I never thought I could do. First of all, I’m making furniture that’s beautiful. I never worked with wood before.” The bookcases—crafted from maple, oak, walnut, or cherry—carry with them the earthy scent of forests, a stark contrast to the sterile, metallic odor that dominates prison corridors. For those inside, this simple sensory detail can be a profound reminder of the world beyond the walls.
James Flynn, another Freedom Reads craftsman, knows the prison system intimately. He entered prison at the age of 20 and spent more than 30 years incarcerated. Flynn described his experience of being reduced to a number: “I’ve been stocked on a shelf in Amazon. I’m just a serial number.” But books, he said, offered a bridge to his lost humanity and to others. “You know, I don’t know how to be a husband, so I’ll grab the Harlequin romances, and I’ll read them.” For Flynn and many others, reading was a lifeline—a way to learn, to dream, and to connect.
The 500th Freedom Library’s debut was marked by a poetry reading led by Betts himself. Standing before an audience of more than 100 incarcerated women, all dressed in maroon shirts and blue pants, Betts held his latest book and spoke candidly: “And I have to tell you that I once lived in a prison, too.” The crowd followed along, books open, occasionally prompting Betts for the right page number when he lost his place. The atmosphere was electric—a rare moment of shared creativity and reflection in a place where such moments are scarce.
After the reading, the group moved to a common room in one of the prison’s housing units, where the new bookcases—Freedom Libraries—waited, empty and expectant. The walls bore a mural painted by incarcerated artists, including Petra Rivera. The image is striking: a blooming tree, vibrant butterflies, and a pair of hands breaking free from handcuffs, emerging from an open book. Rivera, visibly moved, told the crowd, “This is more of a gift to me than you guys can possibly imagine to be a part of this, to be a part of this history, to be able to honor such an amazing movement.”
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. Cardboard boxes were opened, and books were eagerly shelved by both incarcerated women and Freedom Reads staff. The energy in the room was unmistakable—this wasn’t just a ceremonial gesture. It was an act of reclamation and community. As one participant remarked, there’s something special about having “something that wasn’t built by the state.” These bookcases, handcrafted by people who had once been behind bars themselves, brought a piece of the outside world in—a tangible sign that those who have served their time are not forgotten, and that they care deeply about those still inside.
Among the Freedom Reads team was David Perez DeHoyos, who shared his own story of transformation through literature. “When I was locked up, I read 143 books, but there’s probably, like, five that I still remember, like, holy—where I’m like, oh, they changed me.” Beside him, Abigail Wood, an incarcerated woman, chimed in: “I’m at 617 right now.” The numbers are staggering, but the real impact lies in the way these books have shaped lives, offering solace, inspiration, and sometimes, a path to self-discovery.
Freedom Reads is about more than just access to books, though that alone is a lifeline in most prisons, where reading material is often scarce and heavily censored. It’s about visibility and dignity. The organization’s efforts send a powerful message: people who have finished their sentences are returning to prison not as inmates, but as helpers and creators. They are building more than furniture; they are building bridges—between the inside and the outside, between the past and the possibility of a new future.
The project’s impact is visible not only in the numbers—500 libraries and counting—but in the personal stories that emerge from each installation. For Flynn, Byrd, DeHoyos, and countless others, the act of building and sharing books is a way to reclaim agency and purpose. For the women at York, the arrival of the Freedom Library is a reminder that they are seen, that their growth and humanity matter, and that even in confinement, their stories are still being written.
As the books found their places on the shelves and the mural’s painted hands reached toward freedom, the meaning of the day was clear. The Freedom Libraries are not just about reading—they are about hope, connection, and the enduring belief that everyone deserves access to the tools of transformation.
Moments like these—quiet, determined, and deeply human—are changing the narrative about incarceration in Connecticut, one bookshelf at a time.
