In many ways, Lyle Clinton May is an ordinary Ohio University student. He has a major. He has an adviser with whom he communicates regularly. He’s pursuing a bachelor’s degree.

He’s also a convicted felon, awaiting the death penalty for a double homicide committed in 1997.

He takes classes through a correspondence program. He stays in contact with his adviser over the phone -- a convenience that Central Prison in Raleigh, N.C., only afforded to its death-row inmates last year. Email isn’t available.

In a time when many lawmakers and policy wonks laud prison-education programs and potential reforms as ways to reduce recidivism and train inmates for postprison careers, May -- unlikely to ever be released, unlikely to ever “use” his degree in the real world -- is an anomaly. At a time when lawmakers emphasize higher education as a pathway to successful careers, May’s very existence as a student, and his active pursuit of a degree pose existential questions not only about prison-education reform but about the purpose of higher education itself.

The courses have helped me become completely autonomous from my environment … It also really helps me to understand the purpose of prison. A lot of people seem to think that prison is about punishment, and incapacitation. But there’s this third element that’s forgotten, or overlooked, in the rush to simply get rid of people who are convicted of crimes: That’s the rehabilitative element of the criminal justice system.

Read the full article Nick Roll about prison education from Inside Higher Ed