On an overcast October morning in 2025, inside the high walls of Oregon State Penitentiary, the air was charged with anticipation—not for a prison riot, but for something far more constructive: a debate tournament. The Capital Toastmasters, the prison’s long-running debate club, was hosting its annual college debate championship, and the event had become a highlight not just for incarcerated participants, but for outside guests as well.
This year, four teams advanced to the championship round: two made up of inmates and two from a local university. The topic on the table? Whether society should eliminate social media with the push of a button. The question was timely, provocative, and—let’s face it—one that could spark heated arguments anywhere, let alone inside a maximum security prison.
Lewis & Clark College senior Isabella Moore opened the debate by warning of the dangers of censorship. According to NPR, she argued, “What tool do oppressive regimes use time and time again when something they don't like is happening? They shut off the internet.” Her words hung in the air, echoing a concern that’s all too real in a world where digital access can mean the difference between liberty and repression.
But the inmates were ready to counter. Andy Chappell, the president of the Capital Toastmasters and a man with a story as compelling as any, led his team’s charge. “Our team line basically is, hell, yes, push the button,” he declared, drawing a ripple of laughter and surprise from the crowd. Chappell explained, “We kind of disagree with social media being this great outlet that they talk about.” For Chappell and his teammates, the debate was more than an intellectual exercise—it was a chance to flex skills honed over years behind bars, skills that had, in some cases, changed the very course of their lives.
Chappell’s own journey is a testament to the transformative power of debate. About 15 years before this tournament, he’d stood in front of an appeals judge, freshly sentenced to 30 years for property crimes. “The judge asked me, do you have anything you want to say about the sentence that I just gave? She gave me 30 years for property crimes, and I was pretty angry. I was a pretty angry guy. And I told her, yeah, why don't you come down off that bench and fight like a man,” Chappell recalled in an interview with NPR. His rage, understandable but unproductive, did nothing to help his case at the time.
But prison, for all its hardships, offered Chappell an unexpected opportunity. He joined the Capital Toastmasters and began to learn the art of debate—how to organize and present ideas, how to listen, and how to advocate for himself. Five years ago, those skills paid off. “I told her the things that I'd been doing with this club and in my own personal life, with my education and with my work. And due to the skills in communication that I had learned in this club, she ended up giving me 10 years off my sentence,” Chappell said. It’s a rare story of redemption, and one that underscores the value of programs like these in correctional settings.
Research backs up what Chappell experienced firsthand. According to NPR’s reporting, studies consistently show that practicing debate helps people develop critical thinking and communication skills. These are the very tools that can help incarcerated individuals not only survive, but thrive—both inside prison and, hopefully, once they re-enter society.
Theron Hall, another inmate and Capital Toastmasters member, put it plainly: “There's a lot of people who are genuinely trying to transform and make amends for all the things that led them here. And Toastmasters is one of them things to help communicate, to be leaders, to be better people.” Hall emphasized that debate forces participants to argue for ideas they may not personally support, a skill that builds empathy and understanding. “I think that takes a skill, legitimately, to say, you know what? I don't really agree with this position but let me try to understand,” he said.
It’s easy to forget, in the heat of political polarization and social media outrage, that civil discourse is an art—and one that’s alive and well in places most people never see. The Oregon State Penitentiary’s debate club has been nurturing this art for more than 50 years, making it one of the oldest prison debate programs in the country. But it’s not alone. Daniel Throop, founder of the National Prison Debate League, has helped support eight prison debate teams across the United States. “We're teaching folks how to be able to be their own best self-advocates long after our cohorts are over, both in and out of prison,” Throop told NPR.
The tournament itself was a study in contrasts: the sterile walls of the prison, the nervous energy of the competitors, and the surprisingly playful banter between teams. After the closing arguments, the judges deliberated. The room buzzed with anticipation—just like at any college debate championship, except that here, the stakes felt even higher.
When the results were announced, it was Chappell’s team that emerged victorious. The inmates erupted in cheers as Chappell, grinning ear to ear, accepted the trophy. His joy was palpable. “It feels fantastic. I've been looking for this for years. I'm going to take it back to my cell. I'll probably go to the hole because I'm not allowed to have it, but that's my trophy,” he joked, drawing laughter from both inmates and visitors alike.
But for Chappell and many of his peers, the real victory wasn’t the trophy. As he told NPR, “It’s about incarcerated people like myself taking steps to reform their lives.” Debate, he insisted, isn’t just about winning arguments—it’s about becoming a better communicator, a better advocate, and, ultimately, a better person.
As the tournament wound down and the prison returned to its usual rhythm, the echoes of the day’s debates lingered. In a world where civil discourse can feel like a lost art, the inmates of Oregon State Penitentiary are keeping it alive, one argument at a time. Their stories remind us that growth, redemption, and even a bit of humor can flourish in the most unlikely places.
