Credit: Designed by Rikki Li
In a recent computer class, our instructor asked if we knew why we had to exchange our identification cards for pens at the start of every class. After an awkward silence, I suggested, “Because the budget is tight, and you need to keep up with them?”
The instructor condescendingly smiled at my response.
“No, it’s because these pens could be used for all the wrong reasons,” he said. “You could poke yourself with them to make those ugly tattoos; you could draw on your eyelids in a dangerous attempt to enhance your eyes, or even lose your temper and stab each other in the neck.”
The class was aghast. The same exact pens were available for us to purchase through the commissary for 65 cents. They were never used for tattoos; real eyeliner was allowed and sold; and, despite the rise in violence in prison, pens had yet to become a weapon of choice. The instructor’s response was instead a clear reflection of the perception many share about incarcerated people: that we cannot be trusted with the basic aspects of human life.
Merriam-Webster’s dictionary defines “
At its core, the paternalism used within the carceral system to degrade and devalue the humanity of incarcerated people is based on a false premise and operates from a false pretense. The premise is that individuals who have violated the social agreements of society are incapable of ethical, reasonable, and mature interactions and, therefore, must be stripped of opportunities in order to prevent future failures and infractions. This justifies the scarcity, depravity, and torturous policies within corrections that deny incarcerated people everything it means to be a human being, mainly choice, participation, and power. The pretense, then, is that by removing the burden of one’s agency and therefore, one’s humanity, the incarcerated person can rebuild and improve their character up to an acceptable standard. This allows the penal system to tout rehabilitative models while engaging in abusive practices.
As an incarcerated person, the restoration of my humanity is as essential as my freedom, but also impossible due to the limitations, isolation, and deprivation I experience.
As an incarcerated person, the restoration of my humanity is as essential as my freedom, but also impossible due to the limitations, isolation, and deprivation I experience.
Every weekday between 8:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., administrators can inspect our assigned housing unit. Residents must all conform to a specific sameness, from our khaki-colored uniforms to our metal lockers. Any unauthorized item or items in excess are considered contraband and can be confiscated or destroyed, and result in disciplinary action. We are separated from civilians and staff by our uniformity in a way that can be distinguished with one glance; being “inspection ready” means that this distinction is clear at all times.
One could argue that the distinction created by our uniformity is a necessary security strategy. But it is instead another way that paternalism is used as a tool of oppression and dehumanization. The mandated uniformity suggests that incarcerated people need to be distinguished from others because we can’t be trusted to choose an identity for ourselves outside our assigned role of “criminal.” We cannot be trusted with any measure of self-esteem, confidence, or personhood, so by regulating our clothing, hair, and belongings, the prison mitigates our opportunity to choose, self-express, and cultivate any individual identity at the expense of our humanity. The erosion of self-worth that comes from these oppressive distinctions makes us easier to manage, neglect, and abuse. It also stifles all efforts toward rehabilitation and healing in exchange for shame, insecurities, and institutionalization.
In general, I avoid interacting with any nonresident within the institution. Within my community, uniformity is normalized as a part of daily life, but in the presence of especially non-security staff, the stark contrast between their appearance and mine is evident, humiliating, and impossible to overcome even after 20 years of incarceration.
The institution’s staff are trained to see us as suspects and believe their job is to save us from ourselves in the most absurd and arbitrary ways. All the while, very little is done to ensure our safety as narcotics, gang violence, and homicide rates continue to rise. This suspicion is also used to justify restrictions on our autonomy by denying us access to information and people in society. In 2011, the company JPay went into contract with corrections to provide a for-profit online platform that facilitates communication between the largely indigent incarcerated population and their friends and family. Prison communications services like JPay are censored, heavily monitored, and expensive. There is no authorized internet access for incarcerated women in Georgia, so JPay is the only alternative. News headlines can be purchased for $8.99 per month, but no other information can be accessed.
Several years ago, the company and the Georgia Department of Corrections restricted who incarcerated people could communicate with, allowing only those on approved visiting lists to use the site. In one day, my email list shrunk from 50 correspondents to only two. While protecting vulnerable populations from harm is an essential duty, doing so with extortion while destroying support networks and creating deprivation is how paternalism incapacitates incarcerated people, reduces their humanity, and exposes the pretense of rehabilitation upheld by the carceral system.
As the rest of the world never thinks twice about the safety precautions needed for a writing utensil, changing their wardrobe with fashion trends and the seasons, and enjoying unfettered internet access, the incarcerated person’s limitations in these areas perpetuate a narrative of our helplessness to the outside world. Friends and family of incarcerated people are often lured into the same beliefs that inform oppressive policies within the institutions, which question the incarcerated person’s ability, agency, and personal power. Due to our incapacitated status, there seems to be no amount of character development, maturity, or personal growth that assures the people we know and love that we can be trusted and treated as fully independent adults.
One of my cousins periodically orders me a food package from Union Supply, a private company that provides commissary services and products to corrections facilities across the country. While I believe she does this out of sincere generosity, she never tells me when she plans to order and never asks what I would like to receive. When I sent her a form filled out with my preferences and suggested using that as a guide for the next time she was willing to send a package, she didn’t order again for several years. Only recently did I receive another package from her with a note saying, “I just got you some things I thought I would want if I were you.”
It is a constant challenge to assert that we are capable of knowing who we are and what we need. Despite our skills and labor, we are unable to earn a wage. Our dependence on the state, which provides very little, and our families, who are forced to support our basic needs, prevents us from having any personal power and keeps us in a position of subordination, reliance, and inexperience. These positions reinforce that we can’t be completely trusted to know what we need, how to manage what we have, and navigate ourselves in the broader world. Those who believe in and work toward prison abolition must understand the necessity of liberation that takes place from within the system. They must accept the agency of the oppressed and facilitate—not control—our journey to free ourselves, dismantle our oppressed state, and overcome the deep trauma we have experienced for decades.