Confidential File

American Friends Service Committee

You just never know where you'll find a bunch of pioneers.

On wind-swept sand hills at Kitty Hawk, under the polar ice cap or in a quiet Los Angeles residential district.

I visited a rather remarkable "we're doing it first" group in the latter locale yesterday.

Its
members are former California prison inmates. Ex-cons, if you will. And
all are on parole. But unlike others of their number, they're living an
experiment conducted by the American Friends Service Committee.

Their
pioneering venture is built around a boarding house whose only
residents outside of the director, his wife and 16-year-old son — are
men who've made a mistake or more, paid behind bars and now want a
chance to prove they're fully capable of taking a productive place in
our society.

And every man pays his own way. Eighteen bucks a
week for room and two home-cooked meals a day. If a man falls behind in
his rent, he's asked to move.

"We feel a man is more likely to
find himself when he assumes responsibility," explained Tom Nelson,
who, with his wife, runs the boarding house.

 "How many former convicts live here?" I asked him.

"We have six now," he replied. "We have another due tomorrow and one on the 30th. Our total capacity is nine.

"But since the project began a year ago, we've had about 25 guests," he added.

"And how many," I wanted to know, "have failed you?"

"Well," he began, "we've only had one man go back to prison in the year."

"That seems to be a pretty substantial statistic," I suggested.

"Oh, it's much too early to tell yet," Mr. Nelson said. "But we are certainly encouraged."

It
would be difficult to say just now many paroled convicts across the
nation return to prison during their first year of freedom, but some
penologists and law enforcement officers place the estimate as high as
70%.

But even if it's half that number, it seems clear that the Friends have made a good beginning.

 "Do you exclude men from the program because of any particular offense?" I asked Tom Nelson.

"No"
he said. "The Friends make no distinction in men. Whatever a man has
done — murder, narcotics, armed robbery — he's still a man. We don't
pin any labels on those who come here."

"How did your neighbors
react to the boarding home?" I wanted to know. "I mean, did they object
to the fact that they'd be living next door to ex-convicts?"

"Not
at all," he told me. "That was one of the big worries int he beginning
though. Members of the Friends Committee went to every house around
here before we got started.

Just to Break the News

"Not
to ask permission, you understand. Just to break the news. Instead of
objections, we found that people wanted to make us feel at home.

 "The
fellow next door, for instance. He's a former Army cook and mighty
proud of some of his menus. Came over one night and fixed spaghetti for
the boys. His wife played the piano."

"And do you consider that sort of help important?" I asked.

"We
certainly do. We are trying to provide a homelike atmosphere. If
there's one thing all of these men have in common, it's the lack of a
background which included a loving home."

The Friends are the first to point out that what they've done so far proves little.

Unless, that is, that you've got to start somewhere.