When Chavez Aldridge first heard about Missouri’s prison tattoo apprenticeship program, he wasn’t sure he belonged. Serving a 12-year sentence at the Algoa Correctional Center, he began teaching himself portrait drawing from a library book. Tattooing felt like a different world.
“I didn’t necessarily have the confidence to become a tattoo artist,” he said. But he knew he loved seeing someone’s face after he drew a portrait of their family member. That love and curiosity motivated him to complete the 45-minute drawing test required for entry.
Acceptance into the program changed his outlook on his future post-incarceration.
In 2022, the Missouri Department of Corrections introduced the first prison-based tattoo apprenticeship program in the country at the Western Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in St. Joseph. By 2024, the studio was ready for instructors and apprentices.
Karen Pojmann, communications director with the Missouri DOC, said the idea spawned after current Director of Corrections Travis Terry learned about a similar program in Canada.
“It reduced the spread of blood-borne diseases at the time, so he brought it to the executive team,” Pojmann said.
The program also protects inmates against contracting diseases such as hepatitis C and HIV by providing proper tattooing materials.
The DOC selected the program’s first class of students in November 2025 at Algoa to give inmates an opportunity to participate once instruction began in January.
Other states in the U.S. began adopting similar prison tattoo programs, often citing public health as a primary motivation. The Delaware and Minnesota DOCs have launched tattoo apprentice programs in order to reduce infections tied to unsanitary tattooing practices.
Every day, Deakin O’Connor, the tattoo instructor for the Algoa program, makes an hour-long drive to work inside the prison.
Once inside, the workspace looks like any other tattoo parlor — state-certified equipment and materials line the room as residents stretch out fake skin for practice. Every detail is designed to mirror a traditional training experience as much as possible.
Before becoming a tattoo artist, O’Connor spent a decade incarcerated at another prison in Missouri, often doing contraband tattoos just like some of the current program participants did.
When he was released in 2018, O’Connor had to unlearn many of the bad tattooing habits he had picked up. He said having a program like this would have helped him excel in his career.
“This is a career for the rest of their life,” O’Connor said. “This program gives these guys (a chance to) express their artistic creative freedom in a way that doesn’t make them feel like criminals anymore.”
Before anyone picks up a needle and works on real skin, every apprenticeship starts the same way. In order to master the basics, residents study tattoo history, build art portfolios, attend one-on-one sessions with O’Connor and log hours of practice on fake skins.
From there, apprentices must go through first-aid, CPR and blood-borne pathogen training before becoming fully licensed tattoo artists, able to take clients for $10 an hour.
Harlan Shaver spent years tattooing contraband tattoos at Algoa. Now, the program offers him a way to learn best practices and have a future career.
“I don’t even have to worry about getting in trouble doing it, and I can actually do something I love,” he said. He added that the program provides an escape. “We come down here and do this and don’t even feel like I’m in prison.”
For Eric Higgins, the program offers him an opportunity to pick up where he left off. Prior to his incarceration, he apprenticed at a shop where his former mentor never logged Higgins’ hours or sent his paperwork to Jefferson City. He never got his license.
“It’s different with Deakin because of the simple fact that he’s been on this side of the fence before,” he said.
The apprenticeship is also pushing Higgins beyond his comfort zone. A self-described “art-nerd” with a deep love for Japanese traditional tattooing, Higgins has to resist the pull of specializing too soon.
“It’s broadening that spectrum and going a little further, adding nuances and new things to the stuff that I didn’t know could be done,” he said.
Luke Scammell, a graduate of the apprenticeship program in St. Joseph, said finding an artist willing to take a formerly incarcerated apprentice is difficult. “You learn so many bad habits from contraband tattoos,” he said.
Tucked away on the bottom shelf of Scammell’s workstation is a binder with his work from the St. Joseph program. Fake skins with various tattoo styles, art sketches and even the approval form he received when he was admitted into the program.
Scammell was released from the St. Joseph prison more than nine months ago. He now works at a shop in Springfield, where he has gained repeat clients and has even won awards at tattoo conventions. Scammell said the program changed his outlook on life post-incarceration.
“I would have been lost,” he said. “I needed that to get out and have that purpose and know what I’m doing.”
Tattooing in correctional facilities has a long history internationally. Matt Lodder, a tattoo historian who has written several books on the subject, said the relationship between tattooing and incarceration stretches back thousands of years.
In ancient China, there were 500 crimes for which a person could be tattooed as punishment. In ancient Greece and Rome, tattoos were imposed on prisoners as a form of stigma. Lodder said the resilience of tattoo culture inside prison walls points to something fundamental about the practice itself.
“When tattooing is suppressed, when tattooing is banned, when tattooing is difficult, people will find a way to do it,” he said.
Josh Gaines is the deputy program director at the Council of State Governments Justice Center. He said Missouri’s apprentice program isn’t something you’d typically associate with correctional programming, but it has a significant impact.
“It allows people to learn skills that are in demand, and it creates real opportunities to support themselves once they leave prison,” he said.
The tattoo apprenticeship program goes beyond teaching the trade — it reshapes how inmates see themselves and how the system sees them.
“It’s really about giving people an outlet and showing that there is potential for stability on the outside,” said Erica Williams, education manager at Algoa Correctional Center.
For participants, the program has changed how they view their time in incarceration.
“Being enrolled in the apprenticeship has changed my day-to-day processes a lot,” Aldridge said. “Now that I’ve been in the program, they see me more as an artist and less of a troublemaker. It’s nice to finally get seen as something more than a criminal.”
Higgins framed the program as a rare opportunity for expression.
“It’s not even about the freedom as much as it is being able to create your own expressionism and do things that have a voice,” he said. “You feel less like a number and more like a person again.”
What begins as a chance to learn tattooing becomes a pathway to confidence, purpose and a future beyond prison walls. “It’s about second chances, about letting someone start over and see themselves differently,” O’Connor said.
