A Good Place to Do Time? Detailing the Construction of Symbolic Social Boundaries in Correctional Boot Camps

Abstract

Drawing on qualitative interviews with 51 incarcerated adult men and nine correctional officers in a Western Canadian prison system, we ask why some incarcerated people find it appealing to be placed on correctional boot camp units and what such appeals tell us about broader conditions of incarceration. Participants on three boot camp units drew on narratives relating to (a) extrinsic benefits, (b) discipline and structure, (c) teamwork and positive relationships, and (d) an opportunity for self-improvement to construct symbolic boundaries between “normal” units and boot camps, as well as their former self and their transformed current self. By drawing symbolic boundaries between the past and present and between other units and their boot camp unit, our participants create narratives that allow them to partially mitigate some pains of imprisonment.

Introduction

Controversial since their introduction in the mid-1980s, prison boot camps remain contentious in the 21st century. Yet, they continue to be a feature of corrections in the United States and Canada. Two main ways of understanding boot camps have emerged. The first focuses on whether they reduce or prevent crime (MacKenzie, 1991; MacKenzie & Lattimore, 2018), while the second line of commentary focuses on the symbolic value of these programs, connecting them to how they appeal to “tough on crime” political sensibilities (Tonry, 2001).

Neither of these approaches provide much insight into how boot camps operate on a day-to-day basis. Consequently, we do not have a good understanding of how incarcerated individuals might perceive the values of these programs independent of any possible influence on recidivism, particularly in contexts where boot camp participation does not lead to a reduced sentence. The central questions we address in this article are: Why do some incarcerated people find it appealing to be placed on boot camp units characterized by harsh discipline and strenuous exercise? What rewards do they perceive deriving from such a highly structured and militarized placement? What might such appeals tell us about the broader condition of incarceration? We address these questions by drawing on 51 in-depth interviews with incarcerated men serving time on three boot camp units in Western Canada and nine correctional officers (COs) working on these units. In addressing these questions, we provide what may be the only qualitative examination of the subjective experiences of individuals on prison-based boot camps.

Correctional Boot Camps

Correctional “boot camps” are discipline-based programs modeled on basic military training (Armstrong, 2004). Originally referred to as “shock incarceration,” correctional agencies label modern examples as “accountability programs” and “leadership camps,” reflecting a focus on program delivery within the para-military structure of the traditional boot camp design (MacKenzie & Parent, 2004). Program participants typically wear short-cropped haircuts and distinctive clothing, sometimes resembling military fatigues, visually setting participants apart from other incarcerated people (Wilson et al., 2005). Boot camp staff typically reinforce orders through yelling and physical activity (Cullen et al., 2005; Franke et al., 2010), and strongly emphasize unit cleanliness, using it as evidence of increased discipline among participants.

Modern correction boot camps emerged in the 1980s when they became a popular program in the American South (Armstrong, 2004). Policies relating to the War on Drugs massively increased the number of incarcerated people (MacKenzie & Lattimore, 2018), and prison officials, overwhelmed by large populations of bored young men, embraced boot camps as a method to reduce costs and recidivism. The programs also appealed because the disciplinary lessons of military boot camps resonated with the millions of Americans for whom military service was a key formative experience (MacKenzie & Parent, 2004). Likewise, the harshness of these programs allowed them to serve as valuable political symbols for advocates of tough-on-crime approaches (Tonry, 2001). Consequently, prison boot camps quickly became a favored programming option for non-violent justice-involved adolescents and expanded to the United Kingdom and Canada (Cullen et al., 2005; MacKenzie & Parent, 2004).

Soon thereafter, critical research demonstrated that boot camps had little impact on recidivism. In some cases, boot camp graduates had higher re-offense rates than people in “normal” prisons (MacKenzie, 1991; Wilson et al., 2005). For justice-involved youth, boot camps were a worst-case scenario, as they interrupted “aging-out” processes while placing youth in contact with criminally involved peers (Cullen et al., 2005; Tonry, 2001; Wilson et al., 2005).

Recent modifications have tried to address these shortfalls by focusing on therapeutic interventions delivered within the disciplinary structure of the boot camp format. These programs, which have a greater focus on programming, have also produced mixed results. For instance, research studying boot camps focused on substance abuse treatment found little to no difference between them and other prison-based substance abuse programming (Wilson, 2016; Wilson et al., 2005). Likewise, MacKenzie et al. (2007) compared randomly selected individuals detained in a therapeutic boot camp against a control group on a regular prison unit. They discovered no difference in recidivism levels, nor in participants’ “criminogenic attitudes.” The authors concluded that therapeutic boot camps were ineffective but also suggested these initiatives were less harmful than other carceral options (MacKenzie et al., 2007). Critical assessments of boot camp programs, combined with high-profile instances of camp staff abusing participants, prompted many jurisdictions to reduce or abandon such programs by the early 2000s (Cullen et al., 2005; Meade & Steiner, 2010). While there are no current statistics on the number of such camps in either Canada or the United States, such programs continue to operate (Bartfield-Cottledge, 2014), with there being 51 traditional boot camps in the United States in 2003 (Department of Justice, 2003; MacKenzie & Gover, 2014).

The scholarly attention dedicated to identifying boot camps’ effects on recidivism, substance misuse, and criminogenic attitudes has overshadowed efforts to understand how individuals relate to these programs while incarcerated. Focusing on such subjective experiences can help us understand why incarcerated people may be drawn to correctional initiatives that external observers view as unjustifiable. Such findings are particularly important in contexts where there are concerns about the detention of large numbers of people in inhumane conditions. Focusing on lived experience provides insights into how these programs’ structures might mitigate everyday hardships in prison (Bucerius et al., 2021) while providing opportunities for self-valorization and personal transformation (Maruna, 2001). Such an analysis unlocks opportunities to discuss redesigning prison programs in ways that might mitigate some deleterious aspects of incarceration. Moreover, our findings contribute to the expanding knowledge about the diversity of incarceration experiences, particularly in non-conventional carceral settings.

To understand why boot camps appeal to some incarcerated people, we must remember that prisons are oppressive spaces, holding people against their will and stripping them of their self-worth. Sykes (1958) famously laid out five painful aspects of imprisonment (see Haggerty & Bucerius, 2020), and two of Sykes’ pains, the deprivation of goods and services and the deprivation of autonomy may help illuminate how incarcerated people perceive their boot camp experiences.

Prison units such as boot camps, which offer goods and services beyond what usually is available, may mitigate some of the deprivations of incarceration. This includes access to physical items, but such units may also provide a space where participants can exercise circumscribed autonomy, develop a positive self-image, and gain respect for themselves and from others. Such a situation helps people obtain certain forms of social status and may help moderate the mortification of the self produced by incarceration (Goffman, 1961). This process often involves the creation of symbolic social distinctions, a process Lamont (2000) calls boundary work. Boundary work involves individuals demarcating between themselves and others in ways that help create a positive sense of self. Lamont’s work—originally conducted with blue-collar laborers—suggests that such work is especially important in groups where there are few visual markers of social status and where group membership is not immediately apparent to external observers (Lamont, 2000; Lamont & Molinàr, 2002). In prisons, where people’s personal identity and individual autonomy are suppressed, performing such boundary work is difficult as markers of success, group membership, and personal expression are stripped away as part of the incarceration process (Goffman, 1961; Sykes, 1958). Consequently, the performance of boundaries that allow incarcerated people to express autonomy, perform belonging, and differentiate themselves from others takes on increased importance, allowing individuals to reclaim a sense of purpose and individuality (Lamont, 2000).

Research typically characterizes boot camps as harsh and coercive spaces (MacKenzie & Lattimore, 2018). However, the boot camps we studied differed significantly from this portrait. Incarcerated men learned about these specific programs from prison caseworkers or incarcerated peers and applied to serve their sentence on boot camp. Although officers could expel people for misbehavior, individuals could also voluntarily leave without consequence at any point. In other words, these boot camps were a choice and something of a privilege—a direct contrast to better-known models from the United States, where people are sentenced to do their time on a boot camp and where leaving the program is either impossible or deemed to be a “failure” that negatively influences a participant’s sentence.

To gain admission, individuals had to complete an application form, be interviewed by a prison caseworker, be reasonably fit, and display positive behavior for at least 30 days. Placement officers automatically excluded gang members who were actively recruiting or feuding with rivals, those with extensive recent behavioral problems, and individuals facing a severe risk of assault, such as police informants and those with sexual assault charges. Even with these caveats, the boot camps accepted a wide range of participants, including ex-gang members, individuals with long-term stays in maximum security and historical behavioral problems, and people facing charges of serious violence. Importantly, participants did not receive an official sentence reduction for participating. COs also applied to work on the units; many were former Canadian military members who drew on their experiences to shape and operate the camps.

The boot camps were held on dedicated units situated inside larger prisons. The structure and layout of these units were indistinguishable from the other units, including the presence of locked doors, barred windows, cameras, and constant CO oversight. Participants performed military-style drills, marched in lockstep around the prison, stood at attention when addressed by COs, and participated in strenuous physical workouts several times a day. Participants had close-cut hair and wore distinctive clothing, kept their cells spotless and meticulously organized, and were expected to strictly obey staff orders reinforced through yelling and physical activity.

The remand institutions in which these programs were located provided few programs for incarcerated people (Pelvin, 2019). These institutions were not therapeutic in a traditional sense, and nor were the boot camp programs under study. However, compared to other units, boot camp participants received higher levels of structured activities, including parenting and substance misuse courses. They could also access a building cleaning certification program that paid them a nominal sum to clean other parts of the institution.

Method

The data for this article are drawn from the University of Alberta Prisons Project, which has interviewed 131 COs and 587 incarcerated people (492 men and 95 women) in four provincial prisons in Western Canada (Research Ethics Board approval Pro00061614). Canadian provincial prisons detain the largest proportion of the country’s incarcerated population (Statistics Canada, 2023). Although provincial institutions vary, they generally consist of sentenced and remand prisons. Sentenced institutions house adult men and women sentenced to less than 2 years in prison, while remand facilities, which are similar to U.S. jails, detain people awaiting trial. Because of court backlogs across Canada (Pelvin, 2019), remand centers are usually larger than sentenced facilities. Importantly, all remand centers operate as maximum-security institutions, as they can detain individuals arrested for minor offenses such as petty theft or impaired driving, but also those accused of serious crimes including murder, armed robbery, or terrorism.

Researcher Description

We entered each prison as a team of between six and eight people. The two principal investigators (Bucerius and Haggerty) were experienced researchers who had done previous work with marginalized communities (Bucerius, 2014) and were conscious of the structural inequalities present in the prison system. The remaining researchers were PhD and MA students. One of these students (Schultz) was a former CO. After collaboratively discussing his positionality with the broader research team, he primarily focused on interviewing officers, as all team members were concerned that his positionality might impact how incarcerated participants discussed their experiences (Schultz, 2022). During analysis, the principal investigators worked with four research assistants, each of whom had different backgrounds, perspectives, and experiences. The broad range of positionalities involved helped ensure the analytical coding scheme reflected the data rather than any pre-existing perspective or bias.

Recruitment and Interviewing

We recruited participants by making announcements on the living units. We outlined our project and asked for volunteers. Most incarcerated people were eager to participate despite receiving no incentives to do so. We conducted the interviews one-on-one in private rooms within the prison, usually in living units. Interviews covered a range of topics relating to life experiences in prisons, including gangs, drugs, and violent extremism. We digitally recorded the interviews and offered our participants strict anonymity.

Although we used a generalized prompt guide to help structure interviews across the prison, we developed specific questions for boot camp participants—for example, “What is a day like on boot camp?,” “How is it similar or different to other units you have been housed on?,” and “Are there disadvantages or advantages to being on boot camp, and, if so, what are they?” Importantly, we also allowed our participants’ unique perspectives and experiences to shape the conversation (Charmaz, 2014; Maxwell, 2013). This ensured that participants could bring their own experiences and views to the table and provide a broad range of insight into what day-to-day life on boot camp looked and felt like. Interviews averaged approximately 80 minutes in length.

Participants

Two prisons in our study operated boot camp units. Rocky View Remand Center (RVRC), a large remand center housing 1700 men and women, had two camps, each holding 72 incarcerated men. Silverside Correctional Center (SCC), a smaller hybrid sentenced/remand center housing around 450 men and women, had a single camp that held 48 men. Women were not offered a boot camp option. We interviewed 51 boot camp participants and 9 officers who worked on those units. The officers were divided between the two facilities. Thirty-five incarcerated participants were housed at the large remand center, and 16 were housed at the smaller prison, detaining sentenced and remanded prisoners. This represented over 26% of the 192 total boot camp participants. Participants ranged from 20 to 55 years of age. Half of the sample self-identified as White, while almost 47% self-identified as Indigenous. This profile is representative of the prison demographics in the province where this research occurred. Notably, over 56% of participants self-identified as either gang members, gang associates, or former gang members. Of the nine officers, one was a woman, one was a BIPOC man, and the other seven were White men. Service time varied from 6 months to 40 years but averaged about 10 years.

Analysis

Epistemologically, we approached our research using a grounded theory framework (Charmaz, 2014), a strategy successfully used in other prison research and built into the initial design of this project (Schultz et al., 2021). We remained open to emerging findings and theoretical concepts and re-adjusted our prompts as themes emerged from our interviews. Our initial interview protocol included a subset of questions related to how incarcerated people thought about and experienced the unit they were on. Participants’ perspectives about boot camp organically emerged through answers and discussions around these questions and prompts. We subsequently adjusted our interview protocol to ask more specific questions about boot camp and our participants’ experiences. While we adjusted and refined our research protocol during the initial stages of data collection, we systematically coded and analyzed our data after completing the data collection at each prison. Before starting the systematic coding phase, we transcribed each interview verbatim and assigned randomly generated pseudonyms to individuals and institutions. Our analysis applied to all participants within this study (n = 587).

We began by using the open and axial phases of grounded theory (Charmaz, 2014), reading randomly chosen interviews and allowing themes to emerge from the data. Throughout each stage of data collection and analysis, we used a constant comparative method, regularly checking our initial themes and codes against new data and emerging concepts. We identified holes and patterns in our initial coding scheme and created new conceptual categories to ensure these were properly addressed (Silverman, 2011). This process became even more important as we entered new prisons and encountered contextual differences between institutions that required changes to our initial coding scheme.

Our inductive analysis of boot camp began by exploring how incarcerated people experienced prison units. Boot camp was a common theme, and individuals on and off the units frequently brought it up. We tabulated participant themes, identifying common motifs and identifying the overall strength of patterns. This method also helped us identify cases that deviated from our observed patterns. We developed these basic data to create a systematic coding scheme, with 66 main codes based on the most common themes our participants discussed. One of these codes was “Boot camp” (n = 72, with 294 references), containing sub-themes such as “Negative perceptions” (n = 22, with 31 references), “Positive impressions” (n = 53, with 146 references), and “Boot camp codes” (n = 42, with 101 references). Once we completed the coding scheme, we tested it against six randomly chosen transcripts to determine whether it needed further definition, editing, and refining to fit against new transcripts. We eventually reached between 85% and 90% overlap on any given interview through repeated tests and edits, thereby establishing interrater reliability. We then coded all remaining interviews.

Results

Incarcerated people in and outside the program voiced strong opinions about the boot camps, drawing social boundaries between themselves and other groups (Lamont, 2000). These narratives, especially from people outside the program, provide important context to understand how boot camp participants engaged with boundary work, as individuals drew specific social boundaries about boot camp to clearly demarcate both in- and out-group membership within the social context of prison (Lamont, 2000). Influential men detained on other prison units drew firm social boundaries to excoriate the boot camp units, referring to them as “hideout units” or “rat camps,” and insinuated that most people in boot camp were hiding because they faced sex charges or were ex-gang members afraid to live on general population units (Ievins, 2023). Olivier, a boot camp participant who had spent time on these more traditional units, described the extremely negative attitudes these individuals had toward the program: “Guys don’t like it [boot camp] because they think it’s worse than PC [protective custody]. They say, ‘What’s worse than PC is BC—boot camp.’” In short, non-boot camp participants built clear social boundaries to excoriate the program (Lamont, 2000). These units contained individuals like gang leaders and “shot callers,” whose views were influential and shaped perspectives across the broader prison setting. Many of these individuals were ineligible for boot camp due to current gang activities and behavioral histories. Yet, although roughly 40% of the 492 men we interviewed opposed or criticized the boot camp, such negative views were less apparent on what could be characterized as more relaxed units. The people detained on those units generally supported boot camp, with about 60% indicating that they wanted to leave their regular units and join the program. Prison officials informed us they had dozens of individuals on the waiting list.

Boot camp participants expressed a robust level of commitment to the program and described it as providing intrinsic and extrinsic benefits that helped to mitigate certain hardships associated with incarceration. For instance, Derek was a middle-aged man who had lost his toes and parts of his feet to frostbite years previously. Despite having little more than stumps for feet, he told us that he had applied to SCC’s boot camp 13 times before the prison director “took a chance, and let me come [onto boot camp] . . . I [still] do the [physical training]. Then I try to motivate myself by talking with younger inmates in the unit.” Despite being in constant pain, Derek participated in the physical aspects of the program and expressed joy at the opportunity.

How can we explain the appeal of an initiative where officials offer participants no sentence reduction for enduring a program characterized by physical exertion, emotional mistreatment, and condemnation from incarcerated peers? Extrinsic benefits certainly played a role, as participants received small advantages that mitigated some of the painful characteristics of imprisonment (Crewe et al., 2014; Sykes, 1958). However, such benefits did not account for “the full story,” as our participants performed explicit boundary work to establish meaningful symbolic distinctions between themselves and those incarcerated on other units, as well as between their “current self” and their “past self.” As part of that process, participants repeatedly referred to four characteristics of boot camp: (1) extrinsic appeals, (2) discipline and structure, (3) relationships and teamwork, and (4) opportunity for self-improvement. In combination, these factors created a space that participants perceived to be qualitatively different from other prison units and where they described creating a pro-social sense of identity and belonging.

Extrinsic Appeals

Many participants told us that the extrinsic benefits provided by boot camp were what initially convinced them to apply. Participants received formal and informal privileges not available on regular prison units (Ibsen, 2013), such as comfortable white-and-blue t-shirts and sweatpants rather than uncomfortable, poorly fitting orange jumpsuits. They received slightly more food than on other units, had better exercise equipment, and had a few more recreation opportunities, including occasional movie nights. While still in prison and deprived of many things, boot camp offered them access to some goods unavailable on regular prison units, which helped mitigate some of the usual “pains of imprisonment,” such as the deprivation of goods (Sykes, 1958). Such access proved to be a strongly attractive factor.

Boot camp participants also had access to more activities than individuals on regular prison units. One major appeal of such pursuits was that they helped to pass the time. This was a significant consideration for incarcerated people, especially in remand institutions, where programming was typically deficient and hard to access, and incarcerated individuals often spent their days idly on their units (Pelvin, 2019). However, on the boot camp, participants had access to a wider range of activities. Colin, a 41-year-old Indigenous man at SCC, told us “You get first choice for the programs here.” These programs ranged from skills training to specialized, participant-run initiatives designed and administered by boot camp members themselves. Ashton, a 36-year-old gang associate at RVRC, praised boot camp programs:

This unit is completely different. This is where change happens drastically. The programs here, there’s a lot of good programs. We started this PEAK thing [Positive Energy, Action, and Knowledge]. It’s like a positive energy program. That’s amazing. There’s another one that I haven’t went to yet that starts tonight. We facilitate. [They] teach a couple of the more adept inmates to facilitate the program [at school]. Then, we basically facilitate it ourselves. (Ashton)

Participants celebrated these initiatives and recounted their progress in various courses, describing them as key steps in helping individuals change “drastically” into what they portrayed as a new, improved self. A subset of participants could also earn up to $50 a week by working as building cleaners or in the laundry—opportunities that were only available only on boot camp.

More instrumentally, individuals were also optimistic that participating in boot camp might help them receive shorter sentences. Such reductions were not a formal part of the program, but several of our interviewees hoped that they might receive a lighter sentence if they could give a judge a “boot camp letter” that attested to their participation:

Because of the charges I’m looking at—they’re pretty serious. I heard if you come to boot camp and stay here for a while, you get a boot camp letter. It looks good in court. Some guys have been known to get a reduced sentence. For those reasons, I was like, sign me up. It’s better than doing dead time on a different unit. (Oliver)

Incarcerated people and prison staff had varying opinions on whether judges considered boot camp participation in determining sentencing. And while such calculations helped draw some individuals to the program, a surprisingly large number of boot camp participants denounced such a transactional orientation, believing that it diminished the value and ethos of the unit. Instead, they highlighted other aspects that contributed to the appeal of boot camp.

Discipline and Structure

Participants described boot camp as demanding, irrespective of extrinsic advantages. Early wake-up times and mandatory exercise structured weekdays, with a slightly less regimented routine operating on the weekends. Officers insisted that participants have their cells spotlessly clean, be showered, and organized the unit by early morning. They collectively punished failures to do so:

This unit is run different. Like, we have to basically get along because we’re on a system where if he fucks up we all do 50 push-ups. If that tier screws up, like if the guy in the top fucks up and doesn’t make his bed—the guy below him, on the bottom’s gotta make it, do the same thing . . . so we learn real quick, you know what I mean? Who wants to be doing burpees and push-ups all day long? (Elijah)

Elijah, a 38-year-old SCC camp participant, identifies the influence of collective punishment on the culture of the unit. COs reinforced teamwork by punishing everyone for individual failures, usually via demanding workouts. Jaroslav, an influential leader on the RVRC boot camp, describes in detail the strict expectations of the CO who led the program:

People are walking by, and their hair is not brushed. They come out in the morning, and they didn’t wash their face. He’ll stand there, and if you don’t smile at him, it’s 50 push-ups . . . Now they know, before I come out of my cell, I’m washing my face, brushing my teeth, and combing my hair before I go out for breakfast.

Officers could not physically discipline individuals but employed a wide range of techniques to punish or motivate camp participants. Push-ups were a routine example. We also observed harsher penalties, including when an officer had a participant run stairs while carrying weights until he was utterly exhausted—which the individual did without protest. Those who did not want to fulfill such expectations could leave the unit at any time without penalty.

Despite frequent disciplinary measures, boot camp participants rarely complained about the program’s strict nature. Instead, most considered the discipline, structure, and heightened behavioral expectations to be desirable. Soon after making his comments above, Jaroslav gave us some indication of why that was the case: “People are [initially] so mad that they’re getting push-ups, but . . . you can see how people change, and it gets people on a routine . . . [the boot camp officer] is building people to be more responsible, to be more self-disciplined, to have more thought of themselves, to give them more confidence.” Jaroslav echoed most participants in seeing such punishments as central to the program’s ethos. They framed the disciplinary expectations of boot camp as a component of a larger project of self-improvement rather than a form of blunt order maintenance or capricious mistreatment (Crewe, 2009; Schultz, 2023). In their estimation, it helped them to transform into a “new person,” learning new skills they did not possess. This, they hoped, would prepare them for life outside (for example, by becoming accustomed to waking up early):

The days pass by real fast. We’re not allowed to sleep until lunchtime. It teaches you to get up early. We’ve got to work out. When you get out, you’re used to getting up early. You automatically wake up. You’re used to working out, so getting ready to go to work [outside of prison] shouldn’t be that much of a problem. It’s great. (Peter)

Participants developed personal routines that allowed them to distance themselves from their old habits and lifestyles. More importantly, they also drew symbolic boundaries between themselves and incarcerated people on other units by contrasting the discipline in boot camp with the “regular” punishments they experienced on other units. In doing so, they stressed the purposeful and constructive ethos of penalties on boot camp. Larry, a 32-year-old former gang member, told us that “The staff [on boot camp]—if they’re going to give you shit, they do it to a point where it’s just giving you shit. It’s not going to be taking away everything you have and then giving you more shit.” As everyone in boot camp had been detained at least once on a different prison unit, they frequently depicted the punishments on those units as petty and unnecessarily harsh. In contrast, while on boot camp they were subjected to far more discipline but seemed to embrace this situation as a component of a more extensive personally transformative process. Jaroslav provided an example: “We don’t talk back. No matter what they tell us to do, we just do it and don’t ask questions [. . .] I’ve obviously done something wrong, or else they’re not going to move me down [punish me]. So I’m just going to go do it.”

By embracing the boot camp regime, participants could reframe its strict expectations as a privilege. Many said they appreciated the structure and physicality of discipline. For instance, Judd, an RVRC participant who was struggling with an extensive substance use disorder, noted that when he returned to the community, he would have to pay a physical trainer to subject him to a comparable exercise regime:

Interviewer: A lot of the stuff you guys do here other people might view as punishment, like the crazy physical fitness and working drills.

Judd: That’s exactly it. It’s just straight discipline. It’s like a trainer coming in to train you in jail. Fuck, I’m going to pay for this when I go out.

Judd referenced the “straight discipline” he experienced on boot camp, thereby creating a social boundary between himself and people on other units who (in his estimation) were unwilling or unable to do the work needed to succeed in boot camp (Lamont, 2000). Participants drew a picture of a space with a structure and routine they believed served some larger purpose—something not available on other prison units. Lyle, an Indigenous man at SCC, highlighted this:

Some people come here, and they don’t wanna change at all, just come here and expect it to be easy time. Boot camp shouldn’t be easy, it should be hard. It should be more challenging. Other units make fun of us, [but] that doesn’t really bother me because they’re not doing anything with their life, right? When they decide to do something more productive with their life besides coming to jail, maybe they’ll check out the program (emphasis in original).

Participants regularly pointed to unit discipline (and the attendant behavioral expectations) as a factor that set them apart and made them better than others in prison (Lamont, 2000). As Lyle specifies above, our participants described boot camp as a program for people “who want to do something with their lives.” This framing allowed them to draw clear boundaries between themselves and other incarcerated people, who they portrayed as not having the same goals or ability to comply with regular discipline. Some incarcerated individuals even held officers accountable for reinforcing the ethos of boot camp and could express disappointment verging on betrayal if an officer failed to enforce a rule.

Relationships and Teamwork

The relationship between officers and incarcerated participants further highlighted the productive role of boundary work in boot camp. Officers and incarcerated people modified the hostile relationships common in prison and evident on other units within the institutions we studied (Sykes, 1958; Sykes & Messinger, 1960). This was clear in one notable boot camp ritual we repeatedly observed, described here by one of the program’s leading COs:

When a new candidate walks through the door, I have all these guys trained to applaud. To clap their hands and welcome him. And you can see their faces, like—they come in, they get applauded, they get welcomed. Then I turn them over to a mentor from the top tier. So, if you’re on the top tier, you have to mentor these new guys. (Officer Fabian)

The program structure allowed for far more positive relationships between officers and incarcerated persons than was apparent on any other unit. Most participants commented on this fact. The effect was noteworthy, as our participants presented the relationships between staff and incarcerated people as productive, open, and friendly—something that stood in distinct contrast to what they portrayed as hostile relationships on other units (Eriksson & Pratt, 2014).

The ability to develop positive relationships with prison staff allowed participants to craft narratives of self-improvement and maturation. Such accounts regularly drew boundaries between their current and past selves, something Archer, a 42-year-old Black man at RVRC, expanded on: “I came in here very guarded, and for a long time, I felt very alone. But gradually, you build connections with people. You build connections with the staff . . . when I came here, it was about the way I want to live: early mornings, exercise every day, clean environments.” As Archer describes, boot camp participants narrated a process of growth and personal development fostered through the crucible of boot camp. They envisioned this, resulting in a more pro-social personal identity that stood in contrast to what they presented as their prior views. This change was so dramatic that participants often portrayed COs as mentors rather than adversaries. In Enzo’s (38 years old, RVRC) words, “we don’t call them guards. We call them staff here because this unit is based on respect. We show them respect, and they show it back to us.”

Participants spoke admiringly about the officers on their units. Larry described “the coordination we have with the guards. There’s more seeing each other eye to eye [. . .] There’s more respect. It’s given if you show respect. It’s a two-way street. We both get something out of it that way.” Discussing his first day on boot camp, Fletcher (a 28-year-old Indigenous man facing a penitentiary sentence) said, “when you first come in here, everyone claps and makes you feel welcome [. . .] The guard will shake your hand. ‘Welcome to boot camp.’ At any other jail, you can’t shake hands with the guards.” Jaroslav went even further. The most influential participant on RVRC’s boot camps, Jaroslav had served over a decade in maximum-security prisons and had considerable street capital across the prison, even with gang leaders (Sandberg, 2008). He described boot camp staff in unexpectedly emotional terms:

When I started talking with the staff, I realized these guys are not guards. They’re actually staff members who are really good people, who want to come in here every day and do a job they’re proud of and help us do whatever, not lock us up . . . I don’t want to let the staff down. How much they put into you [. . .] If you come back in [jail], you feel like you’re letting them down. [Begins crying] They put so much into you and put in so much effort, respect, and trust. (Jaroslav)

The trust and personal relationships between COs and boot camp participants created an environment where incarcerated individuals frequently described officers as crucial members of the boot camp “team.” Officers said that they wanted to build and maintain a positive ethos—and consequently frequently exceeded their normal job expectations. For example, during our research, we observed several instances where officers participated in the corporal punishments they had given to the unit:

Field note: [The prisoners made two mistakes during] the unit count: the first individual messed up his number, saying 40 instead of 30. The second individual was in the shower during the count. As a result, the entire unit had to do 20 push-ups—and even though it was not their fault, the two officers joined in and did the push-ups alongside the prisoners in the middle of the unit.

COs generally made themselves accountable to the same program expectations that incarcerated participants faced. Officers and participants both described failures in performance as a breach of the program’s expectations and ethos, rather than simple rule violations. Consequently, regular boot camp COs participated in push-ups alongside incarcerated participants.

Although teamwork between officers and participants was the most immediately obvious difference between the boot camps and other units, it was not the only relationship that mattered. Participants described a unique and positive team spirit on the units, something that stood in distinctive contrast to the violent and predatory environments of “normal” units:

It’s a total differently mentality. You don’t have to look over your shoulder here. You don’t worry about your [food] tray getting stolen. [. . .] You don’t have to worry about a phone flipped upside down because it’s saved for the next guy, over having a shower and is going to be there in 20 minutes, and then you get punched out by a [gang member]. (Judd)

Participants described interpersonal relationships on boot camp that were supportive and characterized by camaraderie, teamwork, and mutual concern. Other units, by way of contrast, were portrayed as violent, gang-controlled, and rife with serious drug use and regular overdoses (Bucerius, Haggerty, & Berardi, 2023). These factors, which officers and incarcerated individuals otherwise considered everyday aspects of prison social life (Sykes & Messinger, 1960), were almost absent on boot camp. In their place, participants described a far more encouraging environment:

Everybody treats you like you’re a brother. Sometimes they say that. If somebody’s getting out, they’ll be like, “I had a good time here with my brothers on the unit.” You don’t have to watch your back. You can do your time in a good way. It’s all positive [. . .] People help you out. If somebody is feeling bad, if somebody was down and out, one of the guys out here—just a normal inmate in boot camp—will come and talk to you and help you out. They help you through it. (Rocco, 21, RVRC)

Participants indicated that camaraderie on the units positively shaped their experiences, reducing negative aspects of the “typical” jail subculture where relationships could be distrustful or predatory. As Giovanni (35, RVRC) described, “Being on this unit, I could take a look over here [indicating a larger group of incarcerated individuals]. I could talk to anybody. It’s because there’s no cliques. Everybody’s in that mode. They’re willing to talk to you just as you’re willing to talk to them.” Officers agreed and told us that, in contrast to the routine violence on other prison units, there had only been two small confrontations across all three boot camp units over the previous year. Lower levels of violence and predation served as substantial “proof” of change that regularly appeared in the broader narratives of boot camp participants. Participants compared past examples of fights and confrontations they had engaged in on other units to how they handled disagreements on boot camp. Here, they drew upon what they portrayed as their newfound social intelligence to de-escalate and productively resolve conflicts. Such narratives allowed participants to draw distinct boundaries between their past and current selves (Lamont, 2000), contrasting their past uses of violence to their newfound pro-social and mature identities.

In a maximum-security prison otherwise characterized by violence, illicit drugs, and gang-related tensions, such attitudes were starkly and observably different from the norm. Unlike on other units, participants did not hesitate to talk to each other or officers. As Abdullah (38, RVRC) put it, “It’s just talking here. There’s nothing to rat out here. What are you going to rat out? There’s no drugs here. There’s no smokes here. There’s no nothing.” The illicit drug situation on boot camp was dramatically different from the other units where we conducted our research. Incarcerated people on other units described drug use as common (Bucerius, Haggerty, & Berardi, 2023) and we had to postpone multiple interviews on those units because participants were too high to carry on lucid conversations. Further confirming Abdullah’s point, we routinely observed participants initiating conversations with COs. In sharp contrast to other research (Ricciardelli, 2019), we also saw COs sitting in crowded shared areas chatting with participants. Boot camp participants informally policed the unit, telling new members to leave gang allegiances at the door:

With the gang status you get the sense of brotherhood and all that other stuff. But it’s all negative if you really think about it. Sure, they lure you in. You get drugs and all that other stuff, [but] in the end, these boys are—most of these boys have no one. You’re getting rolled on by your own brothers, you know. And in here, that shit don’t happen. It’s all positive. Like I said, I walked in the door, and I could feel it right away. (Clayton, 52, RVRC)

For boot camp participants, gangs—and the prison subcultural rules associated with gang culture (Pyrooz & Decker, 2019)—were a divisive and unwelcome characteristic of regular prison units. Boot camp allowed them to avoid such dynamics and, doing so, symbolically elevate themselves above other units and incarcerated individuals (Lamont, 2000).

Opportunity for Self-Improvement

Participants described the program’s promise of a broader pro-social identity and a sense of purpose as invigorating and fulfilling, something that sharply contrasted with incarceration on other units. Enzo, a 38-year-old RVRC participant, put it this way: “Being in jail, there isn’t a lot to be proud of. Being on boot camp, it gives you a sense that it’s something to be proud of, you know? I get to help people do better things with their lives. That makes me feel good.” The sense that the program provided both a sense of belonging and realistic opportunities for self-improvement made boot camps attractive to individuals who wanted to change their lives:

I told them [prison officials] I’d change. I’d try to grow up and be a man for once. So, I signed the papers and told them I’d like to try boot camp because I would like to learn discipline. After I signed it, in a couple hours they came and got me and brought me here. When I was brought in here, they were clapping for me. [. . . I told the unit and the officer,] “Yo man, my name’s Rocco. I came here to change my life.” (Rocco)

Like most of our participants, Rocco and Enzo said boot camp’s extrinsic rewards initially attracted them, but they discovered a deeper sense of meaning and purpose in the program after arriving. As this program was available to a wide range of people, it was not uncommon to hear such accounts from individuals with long incarceration histories and who had been deeply involved in serious or violent criminal lifestyles. As Rowan, a 35-year-old White RVRC participant, described, “I was very excited. I’m doing a lot of time in jail. I think I’ve done almost eleven and a half years now. This is the first time I’ve seen something like this. It’s motivated me to want to change my life.” Judd compared the boot camp to post-secondary education: “It’s like a free university education that you’re not taking. It just doesn’t make sense. Apply yourself [. . .] You’re in jail. What else are you going to do? You can sit there, or you can come here and do stuff to get better.” For men with long incarceration histories, boot camp represented one of the few in-prison opportunities they perceived as allowing them to work toward changing their lives and mindsets. Derek—the individual at SCC who had lost his feet to frostbite—summarized it this way: “I’ve never had discipline. I’ve never had integrity. I’ve never had respect. It’s easy to get here: you just have to give it a little bit.”

The intrinsic changes participants described influenced how they chose to serve their time. For example, participants started to dedicate time to serving other incarcerated people and the wider boot camp community. As evidence of the commitment to personal transformation, incarcerated men initiated and ran many of the programs offered on boot camp, something that was rare on the other units. For example, we were initially dubious about participants characterizing the boot camps as “dry” units. This stood in stark contrast to what we knew about the drug and alcohol situation on adjacent units (Bucerius, Haggerty, & Berardi, 2023). However, both officers and participants consistently confirmed that it was rare to find alcohol and drugs on these units, with both groups pointing to the boot camp ethos as the reason. Stan, a White 29-year-old gang associate at RVRC, described the rationale behind why boot camp remained “dry”:

Stan: If you are a part of a gang, you can’t talk about it, boast about it, or rep it in any way. No repping your set. No violence at all—zero tolerance for violence. No drugs. It’s a dry unit. You can’t smoke cigarettes, do drugs, or make brews [homemade alcohol]. As soon as you do, you’re off the unit. Lots of guys here are serious about their sobriety.

Interviewer: Can’t have that temptation?

Stan: Not just that; it’s disrespect for the guys that are serious. We are here to change. This is the thing that we’ve been missing. Lots of the guys here have been in and out of the system for years and years.

As Stan implies, boot camp participants—including those with gang ties—worked with COs to eliminate drugs, cigarettes, and home-brewed alcohol from the program unit. Such behavior contrasted with the standard mores of prison codes, which generally expect incarcerated individuals to “stay out of other people’s business” (Pyrooz & Decker, 2019). Such actions served as a powerful and visible social boundary between boot camp and other units, as officer Jason, a CO sergeant, described: “I don’t even check on [boot camp]. They’re fine. The odd time I’ll walk around, but it’s like walking around a pristine thing. Nothing fucked up here.”

Boot camp also allowed participants to climb a social hierarchy within prison without resorting to violence, as was common on other prison units (Liebling & Arnold, 2012). So, our participants drew status distinctions between themselves and people on other prison units and between their improved current self and their former self. However, status distinctions also operated inside the boot camp, allowing participants to gain respect from their boot camp peers. For instance, boot camps were located on units containing three tiers of cells. On regular units, incarcerated individuals complained when officers assigned them a top-tier cell, which required them to climb three flights of stairs multiple times per day. In contrast, the upper tier was a privileged space on boot camp. COs “promoted” seasoned participants up the tiers based on their performance. Upper-tier participants were consequently influential figures on the unit. They were responsible for mentoring and monitoring the involvement, effort, and overall behavior of the individuals in the cells below them. They also led the military-style drill and group exercises and played a central role in delivering programs. Officers even solicited the opinion of top-tier participants on how best to run the unit, as Olivier describes: “Once [you’re] on the top tier [. . .] staff will ask you, ‘We’re going to be doing this. What do you think?’” Through the process of promoting individuals up the tiers, the COs on boot camp provided symbolic markers that fostered greater participation in the program. Such markers had a positive impact on participants:

It’s an incentive. You want to get from the bottom to the top. The way to do that is your cell is tidy. Your bed is perfect. The guards see you asking questions, helping other people, or cleaning. Just grab a broom and push it around. If a guard sees it, he’ll mark it down that [you’re] cleaning. (Peter)

Individuals on the bottom tiers echoed Peter’s desire for promotion. Influential top-tier participants said they were proud they had achieved this status and that they worked to ensure that other participants literally and figuratively underneath them lived up to the boot camp ethos.

Discussion

Our study set out to better understand why participants on the boot camp units in the prisons we studied found them appealing. We see this as a compelling question, as these individuals received no sentence reduction for being on boot camp—a program that is often demanding and denigrated by a subset of other influential incarcerated men. Our findings are that while individuals incarcerated on the boot camp units suffered from the many harmful consequences of imprisonment, both intrinsic and extrinsic factors associated with the boot camp program helped to mitigate some of this suffering (Crewe et al., 2014; Goffman, 1961). Our participants also experienced and constructed boot camp as an opportunity to transform themselves and their lifestyles. In doing so, they created symbolic boundaries between themselves and their “former selves,” other people housed on “regular” prison units, and between boot camp standards and “normal” prison behavior. Participants specifically drew such boundaries in relation to narratives about discipline and structure, teamwork and positive relationships, and opportunity for self-improvement. Such boundary work (Lamont, 2000) allowed participants to claim an elevated status that set them apart from other incarcerated people and develop a pro-social identity and sense of belonging while incentivizing pro-social conformity (Toby, 1957) while incarcerated.

The Realities of Incarceration

As prison scholars, we find it challenging to document the relationships participants had with these boot camps. That is because their exceptionally favorable assessments can divert attention away from two essential realities we need to bear in mind. First, like most incarcerated individuals, these men are overwhelmingly drawn from marginalized populations and are often Indigenous individuals who bear the burdens of colonialism. As a result, their personal profiles are disproportionately characterized by poverty, personal victimization, substance misuse, mental and physical health challenges, and precarious housing (Bucerius et al., 2021; Schneider, 2023). Second, they are detained in stark maximum-security institutions that deprive them of their freedom and liberties while producing daily emotional, psychological, and physical hardships.

Some boot camp participants we interviewed drew attention to this stark reality, and suggested such factors ensured boot camp could never be an effective form of rehabilitation. However, most individuals praised these units and spoke glowingly of their experiences. Most seemed unconcerned about any rehabilitative potential of the unit, instead describing how the program altered their day-to-day experience of prison. A subset identified with boot camp to an almost fanatical degree. Obviously, selection effects shaped these themes, as motivated participants applied to join the camp program. Within the prison, a considerable subset of individuals described boot camps as “special,” and there was a consistent wait list for admission. And while it is conceivable that motivated applicants might have disliked the boot camp once placed there, this seems to have rarely happened.

Reliability of Accounts and the Contextual Nature of “Appeals”

The atypical nature of our findings raises questions about how honest our participants were. However, as noted previously, we structured the research to provide individuals with the utmost opportunities to speak candidly. All participants knew we were independent researchers and that they would derive no personal benefits from providing a particular account. By emphasizing the anonymous and confidential nature of our discussions, we deliberately sought to reduce any inclination participants might have had toward gratuitously praising (or condemning) the program. We used identical research protocols on other units, where participants openly criticized prison staff and accentuated harmful aspects of their incarceration (Bucerius, Haggerty, & Berardi, 2023; Bucerius, Schultz, & Haggerty, 2023). In contrast, boot camp participants spoke positively about these units—something even the most cynical COs we interviewed confirmed. From our firsthand observations, participants seemed enthusiastic about the boot camp routine and displayed a high degree of camaraderie. Consequently, part of what makes our findings intriguing is that in the context of scholarly literature focused on the harmful aspects of incarceration (Crewe, 2011), our participants recount a subjectively favorable experience on these units.

So, why did our participants speak so enthusiastically about this program, even if they did not receive a formal sentence reduction for participating? To answer that question, we need to situate their assessments in the context of the wider set of deprivations they experienced. Imprisonment strips people of their freedom and limits their access to assorted goods and services. This was true for our participants. However, boot camp offered tangible benefits over other prison units, such as extra food and activities. These aspects did not negate the oppressive nature of incarceration but made our participants’ prison stay comparatively more agreeable.

We must also understand comments about the boot camp being supportive or nurturing in light of participant biographies and the institutional environment in which they were detained. Our participants regularly recounted personal histories shaped by disorder, trauma, substance misuse, and victimization (Bucerius et al., 2021). Consequently, their embrace of the boot camp structure exists in comparison to life situations that, by contrast, were disordered or chaotic. For individuals like Rocco, who wanted “to learn discipline,” the highly regulated aspect of the program was appealing in a personal context lacking order, stability, and predictability.

The benefits of boot camp derived, in part, from the fact that participants could be (and typically had been) detained on far worse units. As such, the contextual appeals of boot camp provided our participants with a stake in conformity (Toby, 1957) during their incarceration. Being on these units offered them valued advantages. But if they were transferred elsewhere for not conforming to the boot camp regime, they also risked losing those benefits. These extrinsic benefits of boot camp were reinforced by broader narratives of change and personal transformation shared by participants.

Entering prison can be degrading, as markers of individual identity are stripped away. Body searches, anonymizing prison uniforms, and the confiscation of personal items potently symbolize a person’s loss of identity (Goffman, 1961; Sykes, 1958). Although resigned to the fact that as detainees, they were subjected to such processes, these men recurrently observed that boot camp was a comparatively “good place to do time” because the unit provided them a sense of belonging and purpose. It offered the greatest prospect for negotiating the “mortification of the self” that Goffman (1961) describes as being a crucial part of “becoming” a prisoner (Terry, 2004). Such a positive framing involved an ongoing process of boundary work (Lamont, 2000) where they drew symbolic distinctions that elevated boot camp from the individuals or routines apparent on other prison units. In the process, participants claimed a higher moral and social standing than other incarcerated people they suggested were sitting idle, thereby missing the opportunity to better themselves through greater structure and self-discipline. Such processes allowed our participants to both believe and invest in reform and transformation, presenting themselves as becoming different people through what they learned on boot camps.

Boot camp offered something rare to participants: the possibility for them to elevate their status and sense of self through pro-social and productive means that are uncommon in prison (Goffman, 1961). As Rocco, a boot camp participant, phrased it, they could “grow up and be a man for once,” which differed from the typically servile and emasculating nature of incarceration (Martin, 2018). This dynamic is in line with a considerable body of scholarly research documenting how marginalized individuals can be drawn to criminally involved groups because they offer an appealing identity and sense of belonging. Researchers have most consistently detailed this situation in the literature on street and prison gangs (Bucerius, Schultz, & Haggerty, 2023; Quinn et al., 2019; Vigil, 1988), and further research comparing these topics seems to be a logical step.

Conclusion

Despite the positive tenor of our participants’ assessments, we want to stress that we do not advocate for boot camp as a programming option. Initiatives called “correctional boot camps” can take dramatically different forms, and our findings suggest that what matters to how they are received are the specifics of their organization. Supporting this, our participants said almost nothing about being attracted to the latent militarism of boot camp and made only occasional vague reference to any possible rehabilitative benefits of boot camps. Instead, what they found appealing were a series of arrangements that allowed them to avoid many of the contextual hardships of prison and to foster a relational sense of identity and pride in self while incarcerated. Policymakers and advocates with a humanitarian orientation interested in reducing some of the deleterious aspects of incarceration might consider the operation of such factors, which would entail contemplating the benefits of certain types of in-prison initiatives beyond the usual focus on recidivism, criminogenic attitudes, or substance misuse.

Overall, our research highlights the considerable influence that innovative prison programs may have on institutional environments. This extends beyond questions of recidivism and can impact broader social environments in meaningful ways. Examining programs like these from the perspective of participants may help researchers to shine new light on how prison staff and incarcerated people experience prison environments more broadly.

Biography

William J. Schultz is an assistant professor of criminology at MacEwan University.

Sandra M. Bucerius is a Henry Marshall Tory Chair, as well as the director of the University of Alberta’s Centre for Criminological Research.

Kevin D. Haggerty is a Killam Laureate, Canada Research Chair, and interim chair of the University of Alberta’s Department of Sociology. Drs. Bucerius and Haggerty co-lead the University of Alberta Prisons Project.