Charlie Rosario promised his mother he would get an education. 

Three years ago, at age 38, he stood wearing his cap and gown in front of a crowd of peers, instructors, his family, and correctional officers, as he gave a speech at the first Emerson Prison Initiative commencement ceremony at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Concord. He dedicated those words—and his degree in media, literature, and culture—to his mother.

“There was not a dry eye in the house, not even mine,” Rosario said in an interview with The Beacon.

EPI launched in 2017 as a higher education credit-bearing program for people who are incarcerated and follows a similar structure to the Bard Prison Initiative, which allows a number of incarcerated individuals to attain a bachelor’s degree behind bars. Since then, the EPI program has expanded, and students can now earn their bachelor’s degree from Emerson College while in prison. 

The EPI program first began in MCI-Concord with a cohort of 20 students—Rosario among them. Shortly prior to Concord’s closure in 2024, EPI relocated to MCI-Norfolk, where cohorts two and three are currently taking classes. 

EPI classes mirror those offered on Emerson’s Boston campus with slight curricular adjustments depending on what physical materials and resources are allowed to be brought into the prison. Taking classes like media criticism or theater helped shift Rosario’s approach to education. 

“I wanted to absorb and obtain as much information and learn as much as I possibly could, get my bachelor’s degree and put myself in a better position parole-wise and work-wise when I come home,” Rosario said. 

He explained how the program provided stability in uncertain times. During the COVID-19 pandemic, incarcerated people had to remain in their cells without receiving much information about vaccines or who was getting sick. EPI students could sustain a routine by referring to their syllabus. He added that the students were “hungry to learn” and that the classroom environment itself enriched him intellectually. 

EPI students are often some of the most prepared Emerson scholars. Cohorts often read the class material multiple times prior to sessions and facilitate discussions among themselves. When in class, Rosario said, the students are able to challenge each other and the instructors in discourse. 

“We needed to engage in these conversations with each other and get our different opinions out in a room with somebody,” he said. “You bash the idea, not the person.” 

At EPI, all the students in a given cohort take all of their classes together. The environment created a tight-knit community, Rosario said. 

“We built a camaraderie that did not exist before EPI,” Rosario said. “We were going through the ringer with each other. There were classes that challenged us to dig deeper and be vulnerable amongst other individuals.”

In an acting class, Rosario explained, he felt vulnerable during an exercise that he thought was going to turn into a fist fight because of instincts he developed while incarcerated and experiences that punished vulnerability rather than rewarding it. Instead of fighting, that class forged bonds with fellow students who he now sees as his “brothers.” 

“EPI became a sanctuary for us,” he said. 

About a year after his release, Rosario became the first graduate to join EPI’s staff as a program coordinator. He oversees the newly created Reentry and College Outside Program (RECOUP), where he assists EPI alumni in their transition back to society.

“I’ve been through the same situation, so it’s going to make them a lot more comfortable to open up and share with me [their own] situations,” he said. 

Rosario speaks with former EPI students on the phone on weekly check-ins in his capacity as an employee of the college. He assesses the support incarcerated students need in their search for housing and employment and connects them with organizations, often nonprofits, that can offer resources to help them navigate their transition. 

Helping his former peers is the most satisfying element of the job, he says, especially if it means hands-on assistance. 

He recalled a time when a former EPI student’s father experienced a stroke while driving the student home on the day of his release. The former student, who did not have a driver’s license, immediately called Rosario for help. 

“Being able to get in the car, help them get home, and have them appreciate me like that, it felt mad good,” Rosario said. “That’s the type of stuff I envisioned my job being.” 

Growing up in Worcester, Rosario spent much of his early life with kids in his neighborhood. His mother, who immigrated to the U.S. from Latin America, worked long hours each day, and his stepfather physically abused him. He attended a bilingual school to learn English and was often picked on by his peers. 

To get the other kids’ attention, Rosario said, he began stealing from corner stores, throwing rocks at cars, and being a “troublemaker” in school. 

“You don’t want to be the target for [bullying] no more,” he said. “You want to be in with them—be considered cool.” 

Rosario was 14 years old the first time he was taken into custody by law enforcement. His mother filed a Child In Need of Services (CHINS) on him, which allows the court to intervene in cases where a child misbehaves or runs away from home as a supervising figure. Rosario spent a week in custody, but that did not deter him from the habits he began developing. 

“Eventually it took on a life of its own,” Rosario said. “I started to revel in the attention [of my peers]. Even though I was going through all that stuff, I felt like it was serving me at the end of the day because my goal was to earn these people’s respect and validation.” 

Although Rosario’s mother loved learning, the 13-sibling household she was raised in and her own family’s financial responsibilities prevented her from attaining a degree. That’s why it was important to her to see her own child graduate high school and go to college.

However, Rosario didn’t see the value of an education when he was younger. He was kicked out of his high school multiple times and was repeatedly arrested. He moved from one school to another and spent time in mandatory adolescent programs at the Department of Youth Services. The only reason he returned to school to graduate, he said, was for his mother. 

“I was one foot in [prison] and one foot out,” Rosario said. “I wanted to do good, but I was caught up in the streets.” 

He attended community college post-grad, but used his financial aid money to buy and sell drugs. That lifestyle, Rosario said, eventually caught up with him. 

When he was 21, Rosario was charged with first-degree murder. For two years, he bounced back and forth between county jails in Boston and Worcester while he was fighting his case. He eventually agreed to a plea bargain for a reduced sentence and pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. He was sentenced to life in prison with a possibility of parole. 

He spent the following two years at MCI-Cedar Junction, a maximum security facility near Walpole that was permanently closed in 2024. Immediately upon his arrival, he connected with people he knew from his hometown and kept himself occupied with one goal in mind: to get parole and get out. 

Incarcerated people serving a life sentence with the possibility of parole receive a hearing after serving 15 years under Massachusetts law. In the hearing, the person is expected to show remorse for their actions and a promising trajectory to return to society. The parole board then submits its decision of whether or not it believes the person should be released at that point. 

Even though he knew he had many years until he would sit in front of the parole board, Rosario wanted to develop himself as much as possible and be prepared for that day. 

“An idle mind is the devil’s playground, and I never really had an idle mind in prison like that,” he said. 

Some correctional facilities have programs that award people who are incarcerated with “good time,” meaning they earn credit toward their sentence that may reduce or ease it. The selection of programs at MCI-Cedar Junction was limited, but Rosario enrolled in what he could, including Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and anger management programs. 

After two years, Rosario was transferred to the medium security MCI-Concord, where he enrolled in programs to bank more “good time.”

One of these programs, a Toastmasters program for public speaking, did not offer any good time—those who joined did so willingly—and Rosario quickly became the president, growing the program’s size from a handful of participants to over 20. 

He also became a dog handler through the NEADS program, in which people who are incarcerated train service dogs that will work with people with disabilities on the outside. 

“I could articulate that the reason I’m doing these programs is to better myself, so when I get out I could stay out of prison and find opportunities for myself, that should translate to the parole board as somebody who was showing initiative, has good insight, and knows what it takes to be successful in the world,” Rosario said. 

He enrolled in other programs like Alternative to Violence, Restorative Justice, Nonviolent Communication, and the BRAVE program, where he mentored younger people who were incarcerated. 

Everything changed for him, however, when the EPI program was implemented at MCI-Concord.

“When EPI came in 2017, that’s when I was like, ‘Oh, this is real,’” he said. 

Five years later, Rosario graduated with his degree in 2022. He was released on May 3, 2023, after 19 years behind bars. 

His mother, sister, and a family friend were waiting for him on his release day with a home-cooked meal. He vowed that the next time he returned to prison, he would “be of service to the guys that are still in there, as an outside guy.” 

Research has consistently shown that education in prisons reduces recidivism rates (the chance of a return to prison) by almost 40%, according to a 2021 study done on the Bard Prison Initiative by the Justice Quarterly journal. 

“Even though we went through the situation we went through, we’re still supporting each other,” he said. “Guys are coming home, and they’re falling in line with something that’s positive rather than going back to what they were used to.” 

Rosario is still under the state’s supervision. He must obey strict parole laws that prohibit him from being outside of his home after a certain hour, using drugs, and from being in contact with any person with a criminal record, including his fellow EPI classmates. Rosario’s position as a program coordinator working at Emerson allows him to be in contact with EPI alumni only for reasons that fall under the job description. 

Parole in the state of Massachusetts is for life, but Rosario and other formerly incarcerated individuals have been advocating for a reform of parole laws nationwide. 

Rosario visits his mother in Worcester frequently. He dreams of running a business, having a dog, a wife, and a happy family. 

“I know what it’s like to be struggling to transition, to find your place and identity out in the world,” Rosario said. “When I have a son, I want to teach him these skills and these wisdoms.”

Editor’s note: This story has been reviewed by Mneesha Gellman, founder and director of the Emerson Prison Initiative.