Last August, an incarcerated friend of mine asked me to help him get into contact with his counselor, whom he hadn’t been able to reach. From that point on, I became an advocate and messenger. My friend had the support of his community; his loved ones sent money to deposit into his commissary account and to make sure they could talk to him via the kiosk system. But what about those who don’t have support?
My friend is just one of almost 2 million people incarcerated in this country and the numbers only seem to be increasing. In the South, the number of incarcerated people increased by 127% between 1990 and 2019, with Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida making the list for highest prison populations in that part of the country. Those demographics are disproportionately people of color—imprisonment of Black men is 5.8 times greater than white men, while the rate of Black women is 1.8 times greater than white women.
Dior Dickerson Jr., who has served 12 years of a 17-year sentence within the Michigan state prison system, shared his personal experience with Daily Kos via email. “The most challenging part is not knowing what really happens. That when you enter prison, you’re literally about to endure the most complicated adjustment, [an] absolutely racist, belittling, stereotypical, and of course, most degrading, maybe even depression-causing atmosphere known to be.” And while experiencing all that you’re trying to “serve your sentence without tickets and fighting.”
Though there are people from various walks of life serving time, incarceration disproportionately affects people of color and people who live in poverty. A 2020 study from the American Action Forum reported that almost half of the total U.S. prison population is people affected by poverty. The number of people who have not been convicted of any crime is one-fourth of the incarcerated population; most of these individuals simply cannot afford bail.
This statistic is especially troubling when stories, such as that of Kalief Browder, are taken into account. Browder was accused of stealing a backpack in 2010 and his bail was $3,000, but his family couldn’t afford to pay it. Browder was held at Rikers for three years as he awaited trial. During that time, he spent 17 months in solitary confinement and suffered abuse from prison guards and other incarcerated individuals. Following his release, Browder shared his experience, which captured national attention. Rosie O'Donnell and Jay-Z befriended him. He enrolled back in school. But the trauma Browder endured throughout his incarceration stayed with him. He was hospitalized several times and attempted suicide. Browder died by suicide in 2015 almost three years after he was released. There was never any evidence that he had stolen the backpack.
Browder’s death could have been avoided. Cash bail is a system that causes harm to people who cannot pay. It’s an unfair practice and should not determine whether or not a person is released pending a trial. Once bail is set, if a defendant is unable to pay, they have the option of private bail bonding companies. The private companies “cover” the bail amount. Their clients pay 10-15% of the bail to them, and the rest is accepted via collateral (house, jewelry, car, etc.). Defendants must attend court to receive their possessions back or lose them for failure to appear.
Pretrial detainees are four times more likely to be sentenced to prison than those who posted bail. They are also more likely to make the hasty decision to plead guilty for lesser time as opposed to standing trial and potentially receiving a harsher sentence. In Maryland, Black people are given bond premiums in amounts more than double the amounts of bond premiums of other races. The practice isn’t just predatory, it’s discriminatory and a violation of the constitutional rights of those accused of committing a crime. The fault in the cash bail system has greatly contributed to overcrowded prisons, which impose health and safety risks.
Unfortunately, a family’s income determines how much support can be provided to an incarcerated loved one, and cyclically that person being in prison results in a loss of income for a household. For low-income families, depositing money for the commissary, which sells items such as food, hygienic products, and other basic necessities may not be an option. My friend’s support system was sending up to $100 weekly over the course of a few months.
Dquan Hamilton, who is serving out a seven-year sentence in the state of Michigan and is set to be released soon, shared with Daily Kos via email, “I usually spend $100 to $150 a month, because I have a [little] support that can send me money, but even with that it’s hard to keep up with the store items and health care prices.”
Commissaries can be particularly pricey, especially since incarcerated people don’t make much money. Wages for prison jobs vary by state. In Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, Alabama, Texas, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and Arkansas, incarcerated people are paid absolutely nothing for their labor, but they may work because it increases their chance of being released on parole. In other states, wages can be between 14 cents to $2 per hour. Those who become firefighters make 50 cents, which goes up to only $1.50 per hour when they are doing the dangerous work of fighting wildfires. They receive no benefits and cannot use that training to become firefighters outside of prison.
Hamilton works a job as a porter, where he earns about 12 to 15 cents an hour. “We call it slavery wages,” he said.
“I worked a job, it was a recreational worker, and … after I found out that we’d work 40 hours a week, for 17 cents an hour, I quit!” Dickerson explained. His paycheck was paltry and often late.
Commissaries are the only access incarcerated people have to many items that should be provided by the prisons. Hamilton provided a breakdown of the cost of necessities for him. Deodorant costs $3.59, while toothpaste is $3.93. Other items he purchases are just under $3. Health care is $5 per visit. He also shared, “if you wanna eat decent[ly]” the commissary is the only option but very expensive.
Additionally, it costs money to send messages and make phone calls. Sending messages to my friend through the inmateinbox.net platform cost me $20 to $30 per month. A $10 phone card can cost two weeks of an incarcerated person’s pay in Pennsylvania. For in-person visits, families spend the money for transportation to and from the prison, which is not always easily accessible since prisons tend to be placed in rural areas. “Calls are $2.60 a call, video visits are $4, and the in-person visits are anywhere from $120-$250,” Dickerson said. Loved ones may also have to take time off of work, which would impact their finances. The way the system is set up, the responsibility of remaining in contact with incarcerated people is on them and their families.
Yet, it seems counterproductive that these options for contact are so expensive when research shows that when an incarcerated individual has contact with family, their recidivism rate decreases. In research curated by Prison Policy Initiative, it was highlighted that contact with family members not only decreases a person’s rate of reoffending, but it improves the mental health and relationships of involved parties. “We can see family/friends about 7 visits a month and at the moment because of COVID it’s been difficult,” Dickerson explained. “We try to speak every day when it’s actually enough phones without having to be alarmed over the usage.”
A survey conducted in 2020 by the School of Criminology and Criminal Justice at Arizona State University showed that the relationships between incarcerated parents and their children improved when they were able to speak weekly. Children also had improved behavior following in-person visits to an incarcerated parent. With so much information proving how important familial contact is to rehabilitation, it is inhumane to place barriers on how often people who share an emotional bond are able to be in touch. It’s especially unsettling as the COVID-19 pandemic continues. “Contact during the pandemic has been the worst because we can’t see our loved ones and if we do have a visit … we’re forced to sit six feet apart,” said Dickerson.
“They would try to social distance us but they would take away more space and time for our [time outside] which makes it harder to exercise and talk to our loved ones,” Hamilton said. “All that does is make the environment hostile. It’s like picking on gorillas in a cage and if they can’t touch who is causing them pain then they go for who’s closer.”
There are organizations across the country that provide aid to current and formerly incarcerated people, and aid for families experiencing the fallout of an incarcerated loved one. The Black Inmate Commissary Fund is one of those entities which assists formerly incarcerated people in finding their footing and provides support to families in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Angel Gabrielle Alicea, the founder and executive director of the Black Inmate Commissary Fund, told Daily Kos via email that she started the fund “to sensitize people to the harms of mass incarceration and to provide mutual aid to Black people in the South impacted by” the prison system. Since its establishment in June 2020, the Black Inmate Commissary Fund has helped over 300 families and counting.
While the incarceration system in this country needs to change, we must also do our best to support those who do not have fierce advocates on the outside. Everyone can contribute and encourage local officials to improve conditions so that incarcerated people aren’t forgotten. There are also organizations across the country that provide resources. Care for community members goes a long way and can have a lasting impact. For those unsure where to begin, Alicea says, “My advice is to work with people who are directly impacted, they’ll lead you to what’s needed.”
Editorial disclaimer: These interviews have been edited and condensed for clarity.
This story was produced through the Daily Kos Emerging Fellows Program. Read more about DKEF (and meet other Emerging Fellows) here.