INNER LIVES

PA U L A C . J O H N S O N

INNER LIVES
Voices of African American Women in Prison

With a Foreword by Joyce A. Logan

and an Afterword by Angela J. Davis

a
New York University Press • New York and London
N E W YO R K U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S
New York and London

© 2003 by New York University

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Johnson, Paula C.

Inner lives : voices of African American women in prison /

Paula C. Johnson ; with a foreword by Joyce A. Logan.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-8147-4254-8 (cloth : alk paper) —

ISBN 0-8147-4255-6 (pbk : alk paper)

1. Women prisoners—United States—Biography.

2. Women prisoners—United States—Interviews.

3. African American prisoners—United States—Biography.

4. African American prisoners—United States—Interviews.

5. Discrimination in criminal justice administration—

United States. I. Title.

HV9468 .J65 2002

365'.43'08996073—dc21 2002014118

New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper,

and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents

Foreword by Joyce A. Logan vii

Preface ix

Acknowledgments xi

Introduction 1

1 Analysis of African American Women’s

Experiences in the U.S. Criminal Justice System 19

1I Profiles and Narratives of African American

Women in the U.S. Criminal Justice System 51

A Currently Incarcerated Women 55

1 DonAlda 57

2 Cynthia 64

3 Mamie 78

4 Elizabeth 89

5 Rae Ann 96

6 Donna 107

7 Martha 116

8 Marilyn 124

B Formerly Incarcerated Women 131

9 Bettie Gibson 133

10 Joyce Ann Brown 142

11 Betty Tyson 158

v
 vi CONTENTS

12 Karen Michelle Blakney 167

13 Ida P. McCray 175

14 Millicent Pierce 183

15 Joyce A. Logan 190

16 Donna Hubbard Spearman 195

C Criminal Justice Officials and Support Networks 205

17 Judge Juanita Bing Newton 207

18 Assistant Warden Gerald Clay 220

19 Grace House Administrators: Rochelle Bowles,

Mary Dolan, Annie González, and Kathy Nolan 227

20 Sandra Barnhill, Director,

Aid to Children of Imprisoned Mothers (AIM) 237

21 Rhodessa Jones, Director, Medea Theater Project 243

22 Professor Brenda V. Smith 252

23 A Family Story: Renay, Judy, Debbie, and Kito 261

III Conclusions and Recommendations 273

Afterword by Angela J. Davis

285
Appendix A: Self-Study Course

on African American Women’s History

289
Appendix B: Resource Directory
293
Notes
305
Bibliography
325
Index
335
About the Author
339
Foreword

Joyce A . Logan

W H E N I WA S A S K E D to write the foreword to Inner Lives: Voices of

African American Women in Prison, I was humbled and overwhelmed by
the request. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I
would meet and have an opportunity to work with and assist a law pro­
fessor in such an endeavor as a book about African American women in
prison. Although I was a “writ writer” in prison, even obtaining a re­
versal of a conviction for a fellow inmate, as I began writing this intro­
duction I worried that my words would not be adequate for such a dis­
tinguished publication. Part of my resolve since my release, however,
has been to try to live up to the expectations and encouragement of
newfound friends and acquaintances. Professor Paula Johnson has mo­
tivated me to reach even higher.
All of us who are featured in the pages of this book have had our
lives transformed because of our incarceration, our removal from soci­
ety. We were taken from our families, friends, and communities and
placed in environments that were strained and artificial. But, as the sto­
ries contained in Inner Lives: Voices of African American Women in Prison
illustrate, we remain your daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, and
nieces. We have been separated, but we are not gone. We may be dis­
tant, but we are a part of you. We may be absent, but we are very much
present.
This book poignantly conveys this message from African American
female prisoners and former prisoners. Being locked up does not elim­
inate our need to believe that we have something to offer and contribute

vii
 viii FOREWORD BY JOYCE A. LOGAN

to others. It does not end our need to be productive. It does not destroy
our need to feel connected to something good and positive.
When I was a young person growing up in Dallas, Texas, education
was not emphasized. Though my parents punished me for skipping
school, I somehow did not grasp just how critical education was to a
person’s success in life. I have since learned that education does not
occur just in formal classrooms. Self-education for me began in the
county jail as I refused to accept what I viewed as an unjust sentence. To
save myself, I sought out the law library, reading cases and learning
how to do research, looking for a way to get my sentence reduced. Even
though I was never able to accomplish this goal, fighting, reading, and
helping others in their legal struggles kept me alive in prison. Being
able to help people gave me a sense of self-worth that I had never felt in
the free world.
The stories shared in this book will educate people in all walks of
life who have never been personally touched by someone who has been
incarcerated. Our voices speak loudly of our upbringing, families,
crimes, and imprisonment. But most resounding are our words of hope
and anticipation, the excitement of a brighter future.
While my transition to freedom has been challenging, it has proven
to be a most rewarding and satisfying part of my life. The strength and
courage that we as African American women maintain in prison allow
us to tackle the new situations and technologies that we encounter upon
our return home. The endurance and patience that African American
women must learn in prison carries us through our anxiety and our
fears of readapting to society. The lessons that we learn, and hopefully
will teach upon our return to society, are ones of faith, determination,
and humanity. We are the history, the present, and the future. That is the
message that I see in this book—one I hope you will embrace.
Preface

I H AV E B E E N intimately involved in the criminal justice system on the

grassroots and professional level for twenty years. As a former prose­
cutor, I worked closely with women and children who had been physi­
cally and sexually abused. In battered women’s and emergency shel­
ters, I worked closely with women who were beaten, homeless, jobless,
hungry, and alone. They sought safety and refuge for their children and
for themselves, and relief from the strife in their lives. For survival, they
sometimes became perpetrators of crimes.
Despite my years of involvement on criminal justice issues related
to women’s lives, the intensity of my meetings with African American
women in prison was repeatedly humbling. Ultimately, what im­
pressed me about the women I interviewed for Inner Lives was their re­
fusal to remain permanently in despair. The women with whom I spoke
were more honest than many people in the “free world” about their per­
sonal flaws, naiveté, wrongdoing, and responsibility for harms they
caused or contributed to. Even when I was despairing about the mag­
nitude of the difficulties and disadvantages that the women experi­
enced, I was buoyed by their refusal to concede their humanity under
such dispiriting odds and conditions. I recognized, however, that the
women’s perseverance often came at a high price for themselves, their
children, other family members, friends, victims, and others affected by
their actions.
My desire to communicate my belief in the value of Black women’s
lives impelled me to begin this project. At times, I identified with Deb­
orah Gray White, who sometimes found the work on her historical

ix
 x PREFACE

account of twentieth-century Black women’s struggles in defense of

themselves to be captured in the title of her book, Too Heavy a Load.1
Throughout it all I also have learned something more about persever­
ance. I share with the women who participated in Inner Lives a vision of
U.S. society that is more dedicated to prevention and wellness than to
retribution. Their visions impelled me to complete this work. Foremost,
then, I thank all the women who participated in this book project and
who constantly reminded me of its importance.
Acknowledgments

I N A D D I T I O N TO all of those who participated in Inner Lives, includ­

ing those whose narratives are featured in the book and those whose ex­
periences are reflected in the data summaries, I thank many others who
helped to make this book a reality. I thank the numerous administrators
and staff members at Departments of Correction and women’s correc­
tional institutions in Arkansas, Connecticut, Florida, Louisiana,
Nevada, New Jersey, New York, and Ohio for granting permission to in­
terview participants in facilities in these states. With apologies to those
whom I may forget to mention, I especially thank Heather Ziemba,
Connecticut; Linda Guidroz, Sheidra Traveler, and Helen Travers,
Louisiana; Christine Bodo, Loy Hayes, and Jerry Alexander, Nevada;
Charlotte Blackwell, New Jersey; Elaine Lord, Theresa McNair, and De­
lores Thornton, New York; and Norman Rose, Maralene Sines, Joe An­
drews, and Valerie Aden, Ohio, for their pivotal assistance in making
this project possible.
Several people helped me during the preparatory stages of this
book. During my visit at the University of Arizona College of Law, Pro­
fessor Barbara Atwood and now-Dean Toni Massaro made helpful sug­
gestions on my book proposal and expressed much enthusiasm for the
project. They also shared their infectious love for Arizona, a place that
provided the physical and psychic space for further honing this project.
I also valued the assistance of the staff at the Center for Contemporary
Photography at the University of Arizona who allowed me to pore over
their photography collections.

xi
 xii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks go to the Syracuse University community. First, spe­

cial thanks to Dean Daan Braveman of Syracuse University College of
Law. I have been very fortunate to work with him, first as a colleague
and then as our dean. For this project, he provided generous financial
and moral support. Associate Deans Arlene Kanter and Leslie Bender,
too, were ardent believers in this project and provided meaningful as­
sistance. I also thank my faculty colleagues, the staff, and students at
S.U. College of Law. Throughout this project, any one of them would
stop me to inquire, “How’s the book coming?” Their words of interest
and encouragement helped see this project to completion. Also, I thank
my “sistaprofs”—Africana women professors at S.U.—for their belief in
my work.
I have benefited from excellent and enthusiastic research assistance
over the course of this project from Nellie Abdallah, Tylyn Bozeman,
Laura Clemens, Julinda Dawkins, Susan Grimes, Kathleen Guinses,
Kirstin Keel, and Martine Voltaire. Our secretarial staff also provided
expert skill and advice in completion of the manuscript. I particularly
thank Theresa Coulter for remaining flexible, and for typing, proof-
reading, and making important editorial suggestions on the text.
I thank Ellen Barry, Jon Getz, Abbe Jolles, Bonnie Kerness, Andrea
D. Lyon, Deborah Waire Post, Monica Pratt, Beth E. Richie, Dorothy
Roberts, Katheryn Russell, Sister Patricia Schlosser, Brenda V. Smith,
Gail Smith, Cheryl Wattley, and Cathy McDaniels Wilson for sharing
their time, knowledge and constructive suggestions for the book.
Everett Green provided an early opportunity for me to present this
work and receive valuable feedback at his colloquium at the New
School for Social Research, New York. I also received important feed-
back from my colleagues in the Clinical Legal Education Section of the
American Association of Law Schools, where I also presented the work.
Of course, without a publisher, the book would not find the public
and the public would not find the book. Here I am grateful to Niko
Pfund, former editor in chief of NYU Press and now at Oxford Univer­
sity Press, for his profound excitement upon receiving my book pro­
posal, leading to my relationship with NYU Press. I am also grateful to
Steve Maikowski, current editor in chief at NYU Press, and Alison
Waldenberg, my editor for Inner Lives, for their care and commitment to
this project.
My friends also sustained me throughout this project, especially
Althea Henry, Roxanne Hill, Michelle Johnson, Elena Levy, and Masani
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xiii

Tyler. Theodora H. Brown-Greene provided friendship and legal coun­

sel, and Michelle Johnson and Dana Davis were also early believers.
My family supported me throughout completion of the book. My
parents, Wanza N. Johnson and Ed Beasley, nurtured me and encour­
aged all of my educational goals. My partner, Delores M. Walters, sup-
ported me in innumerable ways so that I could complete this book. And
I thank all of my extended family for their love and encouragement.
Finally, I thank all of those whose work preceded mine and who
continue to raise critical questions and seek effective responses to the
social dilemmas in our society.
Yet the question remains, What is different about Black women? What
makes them worthy of separate and distinct study? All women, in all
times and places, have been concerned about family, education, and
religion. Black women are no exception. Yet Black women are differ­
ent, and the source of their difference is best reflected through exami­
nation of their inner lives. How can we really come to know and un­
derstand their culture of struggle and resistance? The best means is to
record and listen to their own personal voices. Here, among the im­
ages, are the words of Black women, completing the picture, so to
speak.
—Darlene Clark Hine, The Faces of Our Past: Images
of Black Women from Colonial Times to the Present
Introduction

I would always be the song struggling to be heard.

—Maya Angelou, “The Reunion”

Dear Professor Johnson,

I pray that you’re doing well. I have been thinking a lot
about my life since the interview. I felt nervous and did my
best to answer your questions, but now I feel that there were
more details I should have mentioned. It’s sort of hard for me
to trust people, so I was hesitant about some of the things I
said. But after getting back to my cell and contemplating the
day, I felt like there was more I wanted to say so that you can
have a clearer picture of the makings of who I am today and
what I was before this experience. . . . Where do I begin?
My childhood was surrounded by violence. My father
was always fighting with my mom, especially when he got
drunk. Growing up, my mother always beat me a lot. She
used anything she got her hands on. I was very withdrawn as
a child. I was never talked to, only talked at and never asked
how I felt about anything.
I loved music, especially gospel. I sang in the church
choir, played in both the elementary school band (recorder)
and in high school (clarinet). I taught myself how to play the
organ, piano, guitar, bass, and violin. Music just always made
me feel better about things. I also liked looking at things
through a microscope and experimenting. Science, biology,
chemistry, and similar subjects interested me. Studying them
helped me take my mind off my environment.
Through all my childhood experiences, I still tried to treat
people the way I hoped they would treat me. I have risked my

1
 2 INTRODUCTION

life on many occasions to save someone’s life. These were peo;

ple I did not even know most of the time. For example, when I
was about twelve years old I saw an old man getting mugged
and the guy was about to stab him after already cutting off his
pants pocket. I started yelling and ran to help the old man,
which stopped the man from sticking the knife in him. In No;
vember 1985, I was walking down [the street] and saw the
building on fire. I went into the burning building and woke
up everybody. The hallway didn’t even have lights in it but I
ran all the way up to the top floor. The newspaper wrote
about the fire but no one knew it was me who woke those
people up.
So, although I committed a terrible crime, it doesn’t really
describe the type of person I am on the inside. There were
times when I witnessed people getting shot or stabbed and
stood by them and tried to stop their bleeding until the para-
medics came. I’m not trying to sound like a hero, but I have
done a lot more good in my life than wrong. Most of the time
prisoners are only defined/judged by their crime and nothing
else matters.
My experiences in prison have been like living in hell, es;
pecially for the first seven years. It has also been a very pro;
ductive experience because I have learned so much about who
I really am. . . . While enduring hardships, I learned just how
strong I was and the importance of staying focused on long
term and short term goals. I took courses from five different
schools at one time. Some of the courses took two to three
years to complete and one took eight years. I felt proud of my-
self. For the first time in my life, I never gave up when things
were not going well.
So, as you put everything together for your project I pray
that you will put together the whole picture about who I am.

I received the above letter from Cynthia, an African American woman

whom I had interviewed two weeks earlier in a maximum-security
prison in New Jersey. She is serving a life sentence for murder. Our in;
terview was rather lengthy by prison visit standards and we discussed
a great deal. Still, it was clear that there was more on Cynthia’s mind, as
she struggled to communicate the depths of her feelings about her life
 INTRODUCTION 3

prior to incarceration and during her prison experience. The letter she
sent to me after our visit indicated that our conversation remained on
her mind and prompted continued reflections on her life. She also
stated that she thought it essential that I understand the most difficult
experiences of her life, as well as the internal changes that she under-
went during incarceration. She wrote about her acquired self-awareness
and perseverance and stated: “I never thought that I would even be able
to express the things I’m saying in this letter, so I came a long way.”
Cynthia is one of numerous African American women whom I in;
terviewed about their lives and experiences in U.S. prisons and jails. As
an African American woman, she is a member of the largest percentage
of incarcerated women in the United States. Further, as an incarcerated
African American woman, she is also among the most invisible mem;
bers of American society. African American women’s voices, such as
Cynthia’s, are rarely heard on crucial concerns about social policy, crim;
inality, and the administration of the criminal justice system in the
United States. Instead, these women are often absent from academic
and social policy discussions relating to their lives.
Such omission results from the general exclusion of incarcerated
women’s voices. As researchers Sharon McQuaide and John Ehrenreich
wrote, “This lack of knowledge presents both a problem and an oppor;
tunity. There are few media images or academic studies of these women
to guide or misguide researchers. The task of deconstructing popular or
academic images is barely an issue.”1 Despite the growing body of lit;
erature about women in prison, McQuaide and Ehrenreich’s observa;
tions are particularly relevant regarding the lack of research and preva;
lence of stereotypical written and visual images of African American
women who have experienced incarceration. In this regard, bell hooks
has written:

I found that when “women” were talked about, the experience of

white women was universalized to stand for all female experience and
that when “black people” were talked about, the experience of black
men was the point of reference. . . . It was clear that these biases had
created a circumstance where there was little or no information about
the distinct experiences of black women.2

In response to the situation that hooks describes, this book focuses

on the lives of African American women. Their views on important
 4 INTRODUCTION

social issues are considered significant and authoritative, particularly

as they are informed by the women’s direct experiences within U.S. so;
ciety and the U.S. criminal justice system. Black feminist analysis pro;
vides the appropriate methodology for examining the criminal justice
system in light of the women’s knowledge and experience. According
to sociologist Patricia Hill Collins, “[B]lack feminist thought consists of
specialized knowledge created by African-American women which
clarifies a standpoint of and for Black women. In other words, Black
feminist thought encompasses theoretical interpretations of Black
women’s reality by those who live it.”3 In addition, Collins states that
among the core themes of Black women’s outlook is recognition that “in
spite of the differences created by historical era, age, social class, sexual
orientation, or ethnicity, the legacy of struggle against racism and sex-
ism is a common thread binding African-American women.”4
Thus, relating to the circumstances of African American women
generally, and incarcerated African American women specifically, the
continuing struggle for personhood, freedom, and justice comprise core
themes of Black feminist thought. As such, Black feminist analysis has
examined African American women’s resistance to prevailing stereo-
typical or negative images, disenfranchisement, and social restraints
from Black women’s perspectives. Beyond focusing on African Ameri;
can women, however, Black feminist theory offers a path toward a dis;
tinctly humanist vision of society.5 In this vein, the theory offers insight
into the particular situations of African American women’s lives, but it
also provides a critique of the social and legal systems that purport to
advance legitimate and equitable treatment throughout American soci;
ety. Therefore, this study of African American women’s experiences in
U.S. criminal justice and correctional systems fills a void in the critical
analysis of legal and social policies as informed by African American
women’s insights.
This book is organized into three parts that include a legal and em;
pirical analysis, narratives of incarcerated and formerly incarcerated
African American women and others who have relevant perspectives,
and conclusions and recommendations based on information and in-
sights from parts 1 and 2. Part 1 examines historical and contemporary
issues with regard to African American women in the U.S. criminal jus;
tice system. Consequently, this section addresses the race, gender, and
class-based determinants of criminality and punishments during the
early and recent periods of American history. In addition, in part 1 I an-
 INTRODUCTION 5

alyze prevalent criminal law doctrine and sentencing reform in the face
of the unprecedented rise in the U.S. prison population. Specifically,
this examination focuses on drug laws, three-strikes laws, and manda;
tory minimum sentencing schemes for their influence on the increase in
African American women’s incarceration rates.
Part 2 presents the narrative voices of African American women
concerning their life experiences, events leading to their involvement in
the criminal justice system, their relationships with children, family
members and friends during and subsequent to incarceration, and their
perspectives about the criminal justice and correctional systems. This
section also includes perspectives from family members, legal profes;
sionals, correctional administrators, community volunteers, and transi;
tional program administrators in order to better understand the institu;
tional dynamics and community connections that affect the women’s
lives. In addition, part 2 includes photographs of those who are featured.
Finally, in part 3 I examine the larger societal implications revealed
by the narrative discussions and analyses of contemporary criminal jus;
tice policies. Here I also include recommendations for alternative ap;
proaches to address criminality and punishment in U.S. society.

WHERE WE ARE

The United States entered the twenty-first century with an incarcera;

tion rate of two million people, thereby garnering the dubious distinc;
tion of having the largest imprisonment rate in the world.6 Moreover, in
recent years the number of women in U.S. prisons and jails has grown
more sharply and more quickly than the male prison population during
similar time periods.7 Noting the increase in women’s supervision
within the criminal justice system, the Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS)
reported that between 1990 and 1998, “the per capita number of women
under probation supervision climbed 40%; the jail rate grew 60%; the
imprisonment rate increased 88%; and the per capita number of of-
fenders under parole supervision was up 80%.”8 In an earlier report,
BJS found that the total state prison population had grown by 58 per-
cent between 1986 and 1991.9 During this period, the number of women
in prison increased by 75 percent, while the number of men increased
by 53 percent.10 Similarly, BJS noted that between 1986 and 1991, the
number of female arrests grew by 24 percent, while the number of male
 6 INTRODUCTION

arrests increased by 13 percent.11 In 1998, the Federal Bureau of Prisons

reported that, “since 1988, the number of [federal] female inmates has
increased by 182 percent, compared to a rate of growth of 158 percent
for male inmates during the same period.”12
Even more disturbing than the overall increase in the number of in;
carcerated women is the fact that over two-thirds of women who are
confined in local, state, and federal institutions are women of color—
mostly African American women.13 BJS projections of future incarcera;
tion rates for African American and Caucasian American women reveal
expectations of even greater disproportionate representation of African
American women in these ranks. Thus, while BJS projected a 15 percent
increase in Caucasian women’s incarceration rate, it projected a 95 per-
cent increase in the incarceration rate for African American women dur;
ing the same period.14 Moreover, the Government Accounting Office
(GAO) reported that across all age groups, “[I]n 1997, black non-His-
panic females (with an incarceration rate of 200 per 100,000) were more
than twice as likely as Hispanic females (87 per 100,000), and eight
times more likely than white non-Hispanic females (25 per 100,000) to
be in prison.”15 Updating their seminal 1990 report, Young Black Ameri-
cans and the Criminal Justice System, Mark Mauer and Tracy Huling, of
the Sentencing Project, noted that “African-American women have ex;
perienced the greatest increase in criminal justice supervision of all de;
mographic groups.”16 Finally, BJS concluded, as it must, that “[w]omen
in State prisons . . . were most likely to be black.”17
As we will see in part 1, the overwhelming majority of incarcerated
persons are committed for nonviolent offenses. Moreover, the growth in
the U.S. prison population is related to changes in criminal justice and
sentencing policies rather than to differential rates of offending; indeed,
crime has decreased in virtually all categories.18 Notably, during an era
of declining crime rates, increased criminal penalties for drug-related
offenses and lengthier sentences for a broader array of crimes has re;
sulted in unprecedented levels of incarceration, including stark rises in
the incarceration of African American women.

I NEEDED A MIRROR (I)

Charlotte Pierce-Baker’s book, Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Sto-

ries of Rape, chronicles the seldom-heard voices of African American
 INTRODUCTION 7

women and their experiences of rape. Her book recounts how the rapes
she endured instantly shattered her and her family’s well-being. She
tells her own story and includes those of eleven other Black women. On
the need to write her book, Pierce-Baker states:

I entered therapy for the first time immediately after my rape. Some-
how I did not believe that I could go through such a trauma and come
out unharmed. I was assigned a counselor by a Philadelphia organi;
zation. It was not a satisfactory arrangement, so I kept trying until I
found the right match. But it was not just a therapist I needed and was
searching for; I was looking for another black woman—another rape
survivor—who could understand the intricacies of my life and
trauma, to whom I wouldn’t have to explain my dilemma of being
black and a woman. I needed a mirror. The ones available were all distorted.
I now know that I was not as alone as I thought. There were, in fact, other
black women looking for themselves in mirrors—equally without success. All
of us were looking in the glass silently.19

Charlotte Pierce-Baker’s discussion of African American women’s

experiences of rape and their need to connect with one another and see
themselves in the others’ reflections mirrors the experiences of many in;
carcerated African American women. In 1997, for example, the GAO
reported that approximately 40 percent of female inmates in federal
prisons and approximately 57 percent of female inmates in state insti;
tutions had histories of physical or sexual abuse prior to their incarcer-
ation.20 Sixty-nine percent of women under correctional-system author;
ity reported that physical or sexual abuse occurred before they reached
eighteen years of age.21
A joint study by the National Institute of Justice and the Centers for
Disease Control and Prevention on violence in the general population
estimated that between 2.1 and 6.8 million women in the United States
are raped and/or physically assaulted annually, mostly by intimate
partners or others known to them.22 The study found that over half of
the women who reported being raped (54 percent) were raped before
they were eighteen years of age.23 Significantly, the researchers also
found that victimization as a child doubled the risk of physical or sex;
ual abuse as an adult woman.24 These data indicate that the incidence of
violence in women’s lives is staggering. The data also reveal that while
estimates of physical and sexual violence against women in the general
 8 INTRODUCTION

population is high, even greater numbers of incarcerated women report

experiences of such violence as children and adults. Thus, the need to
address violence against women throughout the society, and with par;
ticular regard to women who become at risk for incarceration, appears
patent and paramount.
Silence often enshrouds the pain of incarcerated women who must
deal with traumatic abusive experiences. As is also applicable to the
participants in Inner Lives, Pierce-Baker writes about the women in her
book: “They represent the myriad voices that wait to be heard. In their
chorus perhaps you will catch a hint of the pain but also the wonder;
ment of their survivals and a glimpse of the diversity that constitutes
our lives, our worlds, our traumas—our silences—as black women.”25
Clearly, the absence of African American women’s voices in much
of popular and academic discourse transcends class and other charac;
teristics and social distinctions in American society. Such exclusion
highlights the importance of narrative to inform and critique existing
social structures, legal doctrine, and imbedded biases in institutions
such as the criminal justice system. For example, narrative has been ef;
fectively employed in legal scholarship, adding the distinct voices and
experiences of women, people of color, gays and lesbians, and others
who are frequently marginalized or objectified in the law. In 1990, for
example, the Berkeley Women’s Law Journal published a symposium
issue that featured the narratives of African American women faculty
members. As described by Emma Coleman Jordan:

The story of black women law professors in the legal academy has yet
to be told. This collection of essays begins the process of creating a
record of our experiences as teachers, scholars, administrators and
participants in the law school culture . . . the articles contained in this
volume represent at once individual and collective efforts to under-
take the difficult task of self-definition. For many of us, the process of
self-disclosure represents a painful, but necessary, first step in achiev;
ing the larger task of identifying and sustaining a coherent research
agenda that embraces the problems of black women. We offer a
glimpse of our inner lives.26

The value of the women’s narratives in this book, as Mary Frances

Berry suggests, is that “they also show how stories change and how
 INTRODUCTION 9

they remain the same. They should help us to understand how justice
and injustice are dispensed.”27

I NEEDED A MIRROR (II)

Inner Lives includes a visual component in addition to narratives and

legal analysis—women who consented were photographed for the
book. In this respect, the need for a mirror also speaks to the disturbing
prevalence of stereotypical images of African Americans in U.S. media.
Thus, visual images are integral to this book in order to include realis;
tic and recognizable images of African American women who are or
have been incarcerated.
Photography has contributed to the inculcation of negative im;
agery of African Americans in U.S. society. According to photographer
Chester Higgins, who is African American, “Photographers and editors
are socialized by our society, which sees nothing wrong with looking at
people of African descent through the distorted lens of otherness.”28
Laura Wexler notes that “[p]hotography was part of the master narra;
tive that created and cemented cultural and political inequalities of race
and class.”29 Katheryn Russell provides an illustration of this point
using an example from filmmaker Lewis Payton, Jr.:

Lewis Payton, Jr.’s film, The Slowest Car in Town, centered on a young
Black man’s elevator ride. In the short film, a Black man dressed in a
business suit and carrying a briefcase enters an elevator on the eigh;
teenth floor of an office building. The elevator makes four stops before
reaching the lobby. With each stop someone White enters the elevator.
Each White passenger sees something different. At the first stop, a
White woman gets on the elevator and upon discovering the race and
sex of her fellow passenger, she makes a quick exit. Two White people
get on at the next stop. They look at the Black man and “see” an
African bushman holding a spear and “hear” roaring African drum
beats. The next Whites who board the elevator envision the Black man
as a shackled convict, wearing prison stripes. Other passengers visu;
alize him as a drooling crack addict, who looks like a homeless beg-
gar. By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, the Black businessman
no longer exists—he has been reduced to the image projected onto
 10 INTRODUCTION

him by the White passengers. [P]ayton’s short film captures much of

what Black men and women face today—entrapment by media im-
agery.30

For Black women, “entrapment by media imagery,” represented as

authentic, generally results in typecasting of African American women
as subservient, inept, oversexed, and undeserving. According to Laura
Wexler:

The valorization of the visual image of the middle-class white woman

as the signifier of the category “woman” that makes other social rela;
tions invisible took shape in the early nineteenth century. . . . Photog;
raphy, invented in 1839, was an even better technique than drawing or
painting for making images of “nature,” and photography was there-
fore conscripted for the sentimental cause. The idea was, if you could
take a picture of something, it must exist. To the middle-class nine;
teenth-century viewer, a photograph was a “mirror” of nature, and not
only that but unlike other mirrors it had a “memory” too. Photogra;
phy inscribed, therefore, a very powerful image of the “real.”31

Rarely do African American women see positive images of them-

selves as multidimensional beings in early or contemporary media.
Controversy surrounded African American photographer Renée Cox’s
portrayal of the Last Supper, with a nude African American woman as
the spiritual center, in her self-portrait, Yo Mama’s Last Supper. Claiming
religious offense, New York City mayor Rudolph Guiliani threatened to
cut off funding to the Brooklyn Museum of Art, where the exhibit was
shown in 2001.32 It seems unlikely, however, that the mayor’s response
would have been as vehement had the artist presented yet another sala;
cious image of an African American woman. In this regard, photogra;
pher Chester Higgins states, “People of African descent are most often
portrayed, projected, stigmatized and demonized by our lowest com;
mon-denominators of behavior. Our humanity is often disfigured by
people’s victimization and the lamentable behavior of those on the
fringe.”33 Thus it becomes offensive when African American women are
portrayed as divine, rather than as derelict. Hence, historian Darlene
Clark Hine expresses the particular importance of presenting realistic
images of Black women:
 INTRODUCTION 11

Creating and disseminating a visual history is perhaps more impor;

tant with Black women than with any other single segment of the
American population. We know all too well what this society believes
Black women look like. The stereotypes abound, from Mammy to the
maid, from the tragic mulatto to the dark temptress. America’s per;
ceptions of Black women are framed by a host of derogatory images
and assumptions that proliferated during and in the aftermath of slav;
ery, and with some permutations, exist even today. We have seen Black
women’s faces and bodies shamed and exploited. What we have not
seen nearly enough is the simple truth of our complex and multidi;
mensional lives.34

In approaching the photographic component of this project, I was

inspired by the work of African American photographers such as Gor;
don Parks, Carrie Mae Weems, Marvin and Morgan Williams, and
Chester Higgins. I especially valued the work of Roy DeCarava, whose
black and white photographs of Black Harlem residents confirm my be-
lief in the power of black and white photography to convey the spec;
trum of African American life.35 DeCarava’s renderings of African
Americans in everyday life appear deceptively unremarkable. How-
ever, his work is exquisite, as he deftly portrays his subjects in the avail-
able (often dark) light of their surroundings. Therefore, one must look
closely and attentively at the faces and environments in his photographs
in order to appreciate the details and nuances that one might otherwise
overlook. Like Ralph Ellison’s “invisible man,” the subjects in DeCar;
ava’s photographs would ordinarily be relegated to invisibility but for
the photographer’s belief in the intrinsic importance of his subjects.
Of course, distorted images also abound in representations of those
who are involved in the criminal justice system. As criminology profes;
sor and photographer Howard Zehr observes: “We tend not to see vic;
tims or offenders as real people. We seldom understand crime as it is ac;
tually experienced: as a violation of real people by real people. Rarely
do we hear the experiences and perspectives of those most involved.”36
In the words of researchers McQuaide and Ehrenreich, “To see [incar;
cerated African American women] only as the prison creates her is to
falsify her and to reduce her to her current social status.”37
The women’s willingness and courage to be photographed in Inner
Lives provide additional opportunities for understanding beyond
 12 INTRODUCTION

stereotypes and nondescript statistics. It demands more than a glance,

however; one must actively look to see the human dimensions and
complexity of their lives.

METHODOLOGY

This book is a multifaceted analysis of African American women’s ex;

periences in the U.S. criminal justice and correctional systems. It is in-
formed by past and present criminal doctrine and practice, as well as by
over one hundred interviews conducted over a three-year period with
incarcerated and formerly incarcerated African American women, their
families and friends, prison personnel, prison activists, and members of
the bench and bar. The book features twenty-three extensive narratives
of a broad range of individuals who participated in this project. Unfor;
tunately, every participant’s story could not be presented in the book;
however, their experiences and perspectives are reflected in the data
analysis of the Inner Lives participants, as well as in summarized ac;
counts of the issues that many women raised.
I conducted extensive outreach in the latter part of 1998 to obtain
participation of currently and formerly incarcerated African American
women in this project. Potential participants were notified through
mailings and e-mail postings to inmate organizations, prison newslet;
ters, lawyers, law professors, grassroots and professional advocacy or;
ganizations, and individuals or organizations having related interests.
The response was swift and encouraging, as incarcerated and formerly
incarcerated African American women wrote to express their interest in
Inner Lives. Most of them expressed surprise that their views were
sought. Rarely, they said, had they been asked to discuss their own
lives, the lives of loved ones, the offenses for which they were con;
victed, the experience of incarceration, and their visions and hopes for
the future.
I endeavored to make this project as diverse as possible. In this re;
gard, I sought to include African American women across geographic
regions and ranges of personal and institutional experiences. Thus, I in;
terviewed women in prisons, jails, transitional housing, and private res;
idences in the East (New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Washing-
ton, D.C.), Midwest (Michigan, Ohio, and Illinois), South (Arkansas,
Georgia, Louisiana, Florida, and Texas), and West (California and
 INTRODUCTION 13

Nevada). In addition to geographical diversity, the women represent a

wide range of age groups, offense categories, and degree of correctional
system oversight. I interviewed women currently incarcerated in max;
imum, medium, and minimum-security facilities; women participating
in residential programs; and other women who resided in private
homes while they completed parole/probation or after they completed
it. In part 2 I provide more detailed descriptions and data analyses of
the Inner Lives participants.
Despite my attempt to create a diverse and representative work,
this book is not a scientifically devised statistical study. Rather, the
women and other subjects in this study volunteered and thus represent
a self-selected group, although they were initially targeted largely at
random. Instead, the central technique with respect to the women’s per;
spectives employs “life history” methodology.38 As sociologist Beth
Richie has described it, this method “offered a more intense opportu;
nity to learn about subjects’ backgrounds, opinions, feelings, and the
meanings they give to the mundane events and the exceptional experi;
ences in their lives.”39 Life history methodology complements the Black
feminist analysis applied in this context. As such, Gwendolyn Etter-
Lewis states:

Oral narrative offers a unique and provocative means of gathering in-

formation central to understanding women’s lives and viewpoints.
When applied to women of color, it assumes significance as a power;
ful instrument for the rediscovery of womanhood so often over-
looked and/or neglected in history and literature alike. Specifically,
articulation of black women’s experiences in America is a complex
task characterized by the intersection of race, gender, and social class
with language, history, and culture. It is oral narrative that is ideally
suited to revealing the “multilayered texture of black women’s
lives.”40

It is important to note that life history methodology, underscored

by Black feminist analysis, need not entail direct comparison of African
American women’s experiences with those of, say, Caucasian American
women. As the center of this analysis, the intrinsic value of African
American women’s experiences and perspectives are not predicated on
comparisons or distinctions from others’ life experiences. Instead, as
Etter-Lewis articulates:
 14 INTRODUCTION

[B]lack women . . . are constantly expected to prove that their situations

are radically different from those of white women. If not, then their
lives are considered unremarkable. . . . In readers’ minds, black
women must earn credibility by claiming features unique to their own
embedded subgroup. Otherwise, they are viewed merely as white
women in blackface. Such attitudes are uninformed and counterpro;
ductive. Whether or not black women measure up to such superficial
standards has little to do with the reality of their struggles and the
quality of their lives.41

Thus, whether or not sharp distinctions can be drawn between the

women whose life histories are presented here and others who may
have had similar life experiences, the critical issues involve the author;
ity accorded to African American women about their lives and the op;
portunity to express their self-knowledge in authentic voices.
In order to employ life history methodology effectively, I identified
several major topics through a literature review of studies and inter-
views with women in prison, and through writings relating to African
American women’s life experiences. Many of these sources are listed in
the bibliography.
Thus, the topics explored during our interviews included discus;
sion of early years and adolescence, adulthood, onset of criminality, ex;
periences during criminal adjudication, imprisonment experiences, re;
sistance efforts, and release and transition back to the community.
Within these basic areas, the women discuss their perceptions of the
context and meaning of their life experiences and the crimes that led to
their imprisonment. They also discuss the resistance strategies they em;
ployed to cope with seemingly impossible odds as youths and adults,
including paying attention to their physical health, mental health, spir;
itual needs, and political awareness. In addition, the women discuss
their preparation for release from prison and the challenges they face
upon return to the community outside of prison.
While there is considerable diversity within their individual cir;
cumstances, the women often experienced similar traumas that began
in childhood or developed later in adulthood. Invariably, their traumas
resulted from family dysfunction; an inability or disinclination to make
wise decisions about friends and intimate companions; the realities and
perceptions of limited or nonexistent life choices; and a lack of alterna-
 INTRODUCTION 15

tives for productive, fulfilling and economically viable lives. The per;
sistent impact of structural gender, race, and class oppression that af;
fected the women’s ability to achieve or project an image of value as a
productive member of society undergirds these difficulties. Thus many,
although not all, of the women might identify with Beth Richie’s defi;
nition of “gender entrapment”: “African-American women from low-
income communities who are physically battered, sexually assaulted,
emotionally abused, and involved in illegal activity.”42
While our interviews covered specific areas related to the women’s
incarceration and earlier stages of their lives, they also encompassed
broader issues and concerns. The women expressed concern for their
families, for the victims of their crimes, and for young people, espe;
cially young African American women, who need direction and sup-
port in order to avoid a similar fate. They expressed disappointment for
unrealized dreams; remorse for self-inflicted harms and harms done to
others; anger at real and perceived injustices in their lives; and deter;
mination and hope for self-improvement, betterment of their quality of
life, and the betterment of society, despite the past. Strong yet vulnera;
ble, the women revealed these innermost thoughts. In striving to ex-
press themselves, they risked further misunderstanding in the effort to
contribute to greater understanding.
At the end of each interview, I asked each woman the same ques;
tion: “Why have you participated in this project?” All gave thoughtful,
personal responses as they seemingly rewound their histories in their
minds and searched for the words to articulate the circumstances of
their lives to themselves and others. When the women answered, how-
ever, invariably they spoke of meaning beyond their own lives and
hope that others would benefit from their hard-won lessons.
Inner Lives participants had the option of using their real names or
pseudonyms in this book. Almost all of the women who were inter-
viewed chose to be identified by their actual names. I have honored this
request with some modification. In the narratives in part 2, incarcerated
women are identified only by their first names to provide a greater de;
gree of privacy for them and their families. However, the formerly in;
carcerated women are identified by their full names, as each of these
women has been active publicly on issues regarding women in prison.
In some cases, the rules of the institution dictated the degree to which
the women’s identities could be revealed. Despite extensive discussions
 16 INTRODUCTION

and assurances, for example, attempts to interview women in federal

institutions and to allow use of their names were stymied by inordinate
concerns of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
Women also chose whether or not to be photographed for this book
project. Ultimately, the choice of being photographed or not was also
determined by institutional policy. Where the women agreed, and
where the institution permitted, I took photographs during the course
of the interviews. Individual interviews lasted from one and a half to
three or more hours and were usually taped if the institution allowed it.
My equipment choices were fairly spare. It was important to travel
lightly into the facilities, particularly since I had to go through personal
and equipment searches at several junctures. I entered the facilities with
one or two bags at most, containing camera bodies, lenses and flash,
notepads, a tape recorder, and cassettes.
Cynthia and the other women who were interviewed and pho;
tographed for this book entrusted me with sharing with readers the
painful and embarrassing details of their lives. None of the women as;
pired to incarceration. The stories recounted here are the life histories of
African American women whose dreams and promise were derailed at
critical points in their lives. Without resources or recourse, however,
prison became the inexorable endpoint for them when individuals and
institutions ostensibly in place to prevent such outcomes failed. Thus,
these stories consist of multiple levels of neglect and betrayal by family,
friends, and social institutions. As the women are quick to point out,
however, self-sabotage due to low self-esteem and poor decision mak;
ing frequently contributed to their predicaments as well. Several
women adamantly maintain their innocence of the charges that resulted
in their incarceration; others acknowledge their criminal involvement
and responsibility. In either case, as African American women, they are
keenly aware of the disparities in their treatment and experiences
within the criminal justice system and within American society.
Taken together, these stories attest to the entrenched devaluation of
Black women’s lives and to the corrosive forces of racism, sexism, clas;
sism, and multiple interlocking forms of oppression within African
American women’s lives. Invariably, the stories presented in this book
are circular tales of the victimized becoming victimizers, who are in
turn revictimized. It is important to note, however, these are also stories
of triumph, resistance, self-awareness, and change. For some of the
women, incarceration was an important step toward self-realization.
 INTRODUCTION 17

For these women, prison provided an opportunity for contemplation

and commitment to more productive lives. For other women, the prison
experience only compounded their difficulties in finding stability, good
health, and new directions in life. As our prisons currently exceed two
million people, disproportionately populated by African American
women, it is imperative that we hear all of these stories.
If Cynthia’s and the other women’s trust in sharing their stories has
been justified, this book will succeed in stimulating reconsideration of
the near-exclusive reliance on incarceration for crimes in our society. To
this end, the analyses of the women’s experiences, empirical data, legal
theories, and social policies will inspire greater commitment to alterna;
tives to incarceration and the creation of safer spaces for African Amer;
ican girls and women in U.S. society. Our society must consider the par;
ticular circumstances of African American women in order to adopt ef;
fective approaches to crime prevention and public safety that are more
rational and more fair. Whereas African American women’s criminality
very often is in response to harms or neglect committed against them, I
argue that such alternative measures ultimately will better serve the
public interest, enhance African American women’s potential, and ad;
vance the democratic ideal for all citizens.
 PART 1

ANALYSIS OF AFRICAN AMERICAN

WOMEN’S EXPERIENCES IN THE
U.S. CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

In recent years, African American women have experienced the great­

est increase in criminal justice supervision of all demographic groups in
the United States. However, the disparity in African American
women’s representation in the U.S. criminal justice system is not with-
out historical precedent. Indeed, throughout American history, Black
women, like Black men, have always been disproportionately repre­
sented in the U.S. criminal justice system. It is also important to note
that while incarceration has supplanted other forms of criminal pun­
ishment in recent years, this was not always the case. In fact, in the his-
tory of punitive apparatuses the prison is a fairly modern creation that
was perfected and used in greater measure in America than in Europe,
where it had its origin. The advent of the prison as the primary mecha­
nism for criminal punishment became characterized by its racial dis­
parity in these institutions. In this section I present an overview of these
developments, followed by an analysis of data and legal trends in the
current era.

RACIAL, GENDER, AND CLASS DISPARITIES IN EARLIER ERAS

In the colonial era, the criminal laws were especially harsh toward en-
slaved persons, servants, and women and were heavily influenced by
existing religious ideals.1 During this period, race gradually signified
criminality among groups that previously had been considered rela­
tively on par. For example, historian Winthrop Jordan noted that in the
early seventeenth century, the terms “slave” and “servant” were used
synonymously, suggesting only marginal distinctions between these
two disfavored and disenfranchised groups.2 This attitude changed,

19
 20 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

however, as Africans were deemed unfit to join the community of “civ­

ilized, Christian Europeans” because of their race.3 As Judge Leon Hig­
ginbotham observed, “As it became increasingly evident that the sup-
ply of indentured servants and redemptioners was inadequate for the
colonists’ maximization of their profits, a far more cruel system of
human bondage was chosen—slavery, where one’s darker skin became
a justification for Whites to subject Blacks to a depravity that had never
been used against indentured servants.4
As greater distinctions were drawn between the servant-slave
classes, criminal penalties became more disparate as well. Thus, while
the typical punishments of shaming, whipping, and the death penalty
were seemingly neutral potential criminal sanctions for all groups, they
were meted out more frequently against enslaved persons.5 This dis­
parity in the implementation of harsh criminal punishments occurred
in both southern and northern colonial America,6 and increasingly race
became the sine qua non for determining criminality and punishment.
As such, early American legislatures designated behavior that may
have been legal for Whites as criminal if committed by persons of
African descent. As Paul Finkelman notes, “early America developed
separate criminal procedures, protections, and punishments for blacks,
whether slave or free. Race became the key to a fair trial and an impar­
tial administration of the law.”7 As southern and northern colonies
adopted comprehensive race-based criminal-law regimes, the notion of
people of African descent as being naturally criminal was further incul­
cated into the evolving national consciousness. Such government-sanc­
tioned racially discriminatory treatment also further legitimated the
subordination of people of African descent in all areas of American so­
ciety, not just within the criminal justice realm.
In addition to race-based punitive distinctions during the colonial
era, gender also formed the basis for differential treatment. While Cau­
casian men and women generally received punishments such as public
whippings or hangings for similar offenses, women were punished
more harshly on gender bases. For instance, the punishment for adul­
tery was more severe for White women than for White men.8 Women of
African descent were not thought to possess the virtues reserved for
women of European descent. Therefore, Black women were not pun­
ished more severely than Black men on the basis of gender in this re­
gard. While gender distinctions rarely applied in the punishments
meted out to enslaved men and women, the offense of miscegenation
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 21

was substantially defined by one’s status as a woman of African de-

scent.
In 1662 and 1692, for example, Virginia passed laws that outlawed
interracial marriages between Whites and men and women of African
descent. With respect to African American women, the 1662 act pro­
vided that “[c]hildren got by an Englishman upon a Negro woman shall
be bond or free according to the condition of the mother, and if any
Christian shall commit fornication with a Negro man or woman, he
shall pay double the fines of the former act.”9 African women and their
offspring suffered severe punishment under such statutes, as violations
included physical punishment for the women and enslavement for the
children determined by the mother’s status. In most instances, White
men were simply fined for violating miscegenation laws.
It was clear as early as 1643 that African women occupied the low­
est social status in society, as exemplified by Virginia labor tax statutes.
In 1629, Virginia had designated that “tithable persons” included all
those who worked the land. In 1643, however, tithable persons were re-
defined to include all adult men and Black women. The distinction was
significant because servant women of European origin were deemed
appropriately employed in domestic settings, while Black women were
accorded no such regard. Instead, as John Hammond of Virginia wrote
in 1656 in reference to African American women, “Yet som wenches that
are nasty and beastly and not fit to be so employed are put in the
ground.”10 While this was not a criminal sanction, it clearly penalized
Black women on the basis of their race and gender and consigned them
to harsher working conditions in the fields. In 1662, Virginia enacted a
statute extending the tax on women to all “persons [who] purchase
women servants to work in the ground.” Again, the racial distinctions
were such that White women were tithable only if they were servants
and actually worked in the fields, while women of African descent were
tithable whether or not they were free.11
Once the system of chattel slavery was firmly in place in colonial
America, new dimensions of race-based differential criminality and
punishment emerged. Sweeping slave codes were enacted to regulate
every aspect of personal status and social interaction involving en-
slaved persons. Black women were treated just as harshly as Black men
under these provisions. In an oral history account, for example, a for­
merly enslaved woman named Elizabeth Sparks recalled: “Beat
women! Why sure he beat women. Beat women jes’ lak men. Beat
 22 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

women an’ wash ‘em down in brine.”12 Under the elaborate slave code
system, the racial, gender, and class status of offenders and victims de­
termined whether cases would be heard in designated White or slave
forums.13
Further, under the perverse reasoning of slave codes, enslaved per-
sons were considered property for some purposes and persons for oth­
ers. This paradox is exemplified in United States v. Amy,14 in which an
enslaved woman, Amy, was accused of stealing a letter from the U.S.
mail. Her attorney objected to her prosecution by arguing that she had
to be considered a “person” subject to the penalties of law. Upon con­
viction, Amy’s appeal was heard by Chief Justice Roger Taney, who ex­
plained the enslaved person’s dual status: “He is a person, and also
property. As property, the rights of [the] owner are entitled to the pro­
tections of the law. As a person, he is bound to obey the law, and may,
like any other person, be punished if he offends it.”15
Significantly, persons of African descent were targeted for inhu­
mane public and private punishment by governments and slavehold­
ers, and official law or law enforcement rarely protected them. Thus,
most slave codes permitted Whites to “beat, slap, and whip slaves with
impunity.”16 If Whites faced punishment for harms to enslaved persons,
it was based on the excessive cruelty of the act. Under such circum­
stances, however, the violation was not against the enslaved person but
against the White slave owner’s property interest. Thus, fines, if as­
sessed, were paid to the slave-owning family, not the family of the in­
jured or murdered slave.17
Sex offenses provide the starkest example of double standards in
the penalty and protection provisions of the slave codes. Under such
schemes, Black men having sex with White women faced the severest
penalty (hanging or castration), while White men having sex with Black
women faced the lightest penalty (fines, public penance).18 Black
women were completely unprotected under these legal schemes. Rape
of Black women was not recognized under most slave codes and con­
sequently could be done with impunity, whether the perpetrator was
enslaved, free, or White. In George v. State,19 the court unequivocally
ruled “the crime of rape does not exist in this State between Africans.”
To the extent that such offenses were recognized at all, it was due to al­
leged property damage to slaveholders, not injury to enslaved women.
Following the end of the Civil War, African Americans fared
scarcely better under new racially discriminatory criminal law provi-
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 23

sions, as “Black Codes” replaced “slave codes.” Although the Recon­

struction era reforms promised independence and self-determination
for freed slaves, southern states responded by enacting laws that rein-
scribed the perceived racial inferiority and inherently criminal status of
people of African descent.20 Mississippi led the way by passing its laws
in 1865. It became a crime there for free Blacks to commit “mischief”
and make “insulting gestures,” and its Vagrancy Act defined “all free
Negroes and mulattos over the age of eighteen” as criminals unless they
could furnish proof of employment upon demand.21 Other states fol­
lowed suit and created a variety of vaguely defined offenses directed at
freed Blacks. Like the slave codes of the previous era, Black Codes were
replete in their regulation of Black activity.22 As W. E. B. Du Bois stated:

All things considered, it seems probable that if the South had been per­
mitted to have its way in 1865 the harshness of negro slavery would
have been mitigated so as to make slave-trading difficult, and to make
it possible for a negro to hold property and appear in some cases in
court; but that in most other respects the blacks would have remained
in slavery.23

In the wake of Reconstruction era failures, Jim Crow legal schemes

ushered in a new era of racially biased criminal laws and other regula­
tions restricting Black life. Characterized by apartheid-like segregation,
Jim Crow laws restricted Blacks’ movement throughout the society and
limited their social mobility and political exercise.24 The prospect of
Black liberation and full participation in American society unleashed an
especially ominous threat by the Ku Klux Klan and other White ex­
tremists, as lynching became prevalent in American society. The lives of
thousands of African American men, women, and children were extin­
guished by lynch mobs. Officially, over three thousand lynchings were
recorded between 1882 and 1964, while unofficially the figure is esti­
mated at above ten thousand.25
While lynching was an extrajudicial punishment for supposed
criminal offenses or social transgressions by African Americans, it was
often carried out with tacit or express official approval. One writer
notes: “Whatever the cause of lynching’s demise, the law had little or
nothing to do with it. Throughout the Progressive Era, lynching re­
mained a brutal crime that went largely uninvestigated, unprosecuted,
unpunished, and undeterred by the agents of law at every level of
 24 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

government.”26 Offenses for which lynching was the prescribed pun­

ishment included perceived insults to White persons, to the more com­
mon allegation of rape by Black men against White women.27 Although
African American men were the most frequent targets of lynchers,
African American women were also targeted for mob cruelty.28 The New
York Tribune reported one such incident involving the lynching of a
woman:

Mississippi 1904: Luther Holbert, a Doddsville Negro, and his wife

were burned at the stake for the murder of James Eastland, a white
planter, and John Carr, a Negro. The planter was killed in a quarrel
which arose when he came to Carr’s cabin, where he found Holbert,
and ordered him to leave the plantation. Carr and a Negro, named
Winters, were also killed.
Holbert and his wife fled the plantation but were brought back
and burned at the stake in the presence of a thousand people. Two in­
nocent Negroes had been shot previous to this by a posse looking for
Holbert, because one of them, who resembled Holbert, refused to sur­
render when ordered to do so. There is nothing in the story to indicate
that Holbert’s wife had any part in the crime.29

In another instance, The Crisis reported:

At Okemah, Oklahoma, Laura Nelson, a colored woman, accused of

murdering a deputy sheriff who had discovered stolen goods in her
house, was lynched together with her son, a boy about fifteen. The
woman and her son were taken from the jail, dragged about six miles
to the Canadian River, and hanged from a bridge. The woman was
raped by members of the mob before she was hanged.30

Regarding these vile events, which were committed in celebratory

and carnival-like atmospheres, Randall Kennedy correctly notes,
“Along with the unpunished raping of black women, lynching stands
out in the minds of many black Americans as the most vicious and de­
structive consequence of racially selective underprotection. . . . Nothing
has more embittered discussions of the criminal justice system than the
recognition that among those who have insistently demanded ‘law and
order’ are those who have been unwilling to take effective action to
deter antiblack racially motivated crimes.”31
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 25

Thus, enactment of racially specific criminal laws, discriminatory

application of purportedly neutral criminal laws, and official failure to
enforce legal protections on behalf of African Americans have created
an enduring ethos of distrust of the U.S. criminal justice system within
many Black communities across America. This distrust is reinforced by
present circumstances in which African American men and women are
disproportionately incarcerated under harsh criminal law penalties in
the United States. Many share the disillusionment expressed by civil
rights and antilynching advocate Ida B. Wells in 1887, which prompted
her to ask, “O God, is there no redress, no peace, no justice in this land
for us?”32

RESISTANCE

Discussion of the historical uses and abuses of criminal law to unfairly

punish and disenfranchise Africans and Americans of African descent
would be incomplete without recognition of their determined efforts at
resistance throughout these periods. Throughout the assaults and in-
dignities of the slavery era, for example, Black men and women resisted
their capture in Africa and challenged the conditions of bondage once
transported to the Americas.33 Both Black men and women worked pri­
marily in the fields during slavery, although it is often perceived that
Black women worked under less arduous conditions. As scholar-ac­
tivist Angela Davis writes, “Where work was concerned, strength and
productivity under the threat of the whip outweighed consideration of
sex. In this sense, the oppression of women was identical to the oppres­
sion of men.”34 Yet, women also experienced slavery in uniquely inhu­
mane ways that were gender specific. Indeed, once Congress prohibited
further importation of Africans into the United States for enslavement,
Black women’s reproductive capabilities became especially important
to the slaveholders’ economic interests.
Like Black men, Black women protested their enslavement and
sought freedom through various means, including “stealing, burn[ing]
gin houses, barns, corncribs, and smokehouses.”35 Resistance efforts
also included poisoning, arson, escape, mass revolts, and the use
of physical force to kill masters.36 Historian Deborah Gray White
notes that women generally had a more difficult time escaping than
men.37 Nevertheless, women often employed gender-specific means
 26 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

to undermine their enslavement, such as avoiding or terminating preg­

nancy, or took other opportunities to obtain freedom.38
After emancipation, African American women remained largely in
domestic service, as racism excluded them from more skilled employ­
ment opportunities. In 1881, the Atlanta washerwomen’s strike demon­
strated Black women’s collective strength in demanding better pay for
their work.39 In addition, African American women were prominent in
the fight against lynching. Ida B. Wells, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper,
and Anna Julia Cooper, for example, were ardent advocates for African
American women and men; they demanded better living and working
conditions and government action to eradicate lynching.40 Black
women also sought vindication of their rights through the court system,
such as Ida B. Wells’s 1884 lawsuit against the Chesapeake, Ohio and
Southwestern Railroad, which denied her the purchase of a first-class
seat. Earlier, Eliza Gallie, a free woman in Virginia, fought her accusa­
tion of petty theft in court. Historian Suzanne Lebsock writes:

In November 1853, Eliza Gallie . . . was arrested and charged with

stealing cabbages from the patch of Alexander Stevens, a white man.
She was tried in mayor’s court and sentenced to thirty-nine lashes.
There was nothing unusual about this; free black women were fre­
quently accused of petty crimes, and for free blacks as for slaves, whip-
ping was the punishment prescribed for by law. What made the case a
minor spectacle was that Eliza Gallie had resources, and she fought
back.41

The racial hierarchies established during the slave era still persist in
the contemporary social policies and institutions of American society,
including the law. Negative stereotypes of African American women
emanating from this era have also persisted.42 These images provided
justifications for Black women’s continued subordination and have re­
duced their chances to lead healthy and successful lives. This even
when in all periods in American history, African Americans have resis­
ted negative imagery43 and demanded recognition of their political,
civil, and economic rights.44 Black women led many of these early
struggles and continue to assert their rights to human dignity and fair
treatment within the legal and social systems in U.S. society.45
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 27

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE U.S. PRISON SYSTEM

The ubiquity of prisons in American society belies the relatively recent

ascendancy of this institution.46 Before the eighteenth century, prisons
were only one part of the punishment system in the United States.47 Be-
fore the increased use of prisons, punishments consisted of mostly
physical acts inflicted in public in order to instill humiliation and re-
store morality through penitence. Prison use increased in the late eigh­
teenth and early nineteenth centuries after reductions in the use of cor­
poral punishment and the death penalty, and as shaming became less
effective.48 After reducing the types of offenses that were punishable by
death, the states determined that offenders should instead serve long
prison terms.49
In the 1820s, New York and Pennsylvania developed competing
models of the penitentiary, which continue to form the core philosophy
and architectural structure of prisons in the United States. The New
York model (Auburn Plan) was centered on the congregate system of
imprisonment. Under this plan, inmates were isolated in cells, coming
together for meals and work details; even then, they were forbidden to
look at each other or converse.50 In contrast, the Pennsylvania model
(Cherry Hill Plan) was known for its near total separation of inmates. In
this regard, inmates were housed singly in cells throughout their entire
confinement; they ate and worked apart from others and were allowed
only selected visitors during imprisonment.51 Despite the contrasts in
physical structure of the respective models, the New York and Pennsyl­
vania models emphasized rehabilitation of the inmate by dint of a strict
prison life routine. While both systems had staunch proponents, the
New York model ultimately prevailed nationally as the less expensive
and more profitable model.
By the post–Civil War era, overcrowding, brutality, and disorder
characterized the growing prison system throughout the United States.
Even in New York, inventor of the Auburn Plan with its emphasis on re­
flection and rehabilitation, an 1852 report to the New York legislature
noted the problems associated with imprisonment. The report recog­
nized that while prisons successfully removed the offender from soci­
ety, thereby preventing further crimes during incarceration, “[i]f the ob­
ject is to make him a better member of society so that he may safely min­
gle with it . . . that purpose cannot be answered by matters as they now
stand.”52 Further, just after the Civil War, African Americans comprised
 28 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

75 percent of prison inmates in southern states, a clear effort to replicate

the conditions of slavery from the previous era. Indeed, as Edgardo Rot-
man notes: “The result was a ruthless exploitation with a total disregard
for prisoners’ dignity and lives. The states leased prisoners to entrepre­
neurs who, having no ownership interest in them, exploited them even
worse than slaves.”53
African Americans bore the brunt of the convict lease system, based
on their massive rate of imprisonment under the Black Codes. In some
states, African Americans comprised 80 to 90 percent of inmates and
were the majority of inmates leased to plantations, coal mines, canal
companies, brickyards, railroad companies, sawmills, turpentine
farms, and phosphate mines in Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Geor­
gia, Florida, and the Carolinas.54 Leased convicts worked under de­
plorable conditions that drastically shortened their life expectancy. Fi­
nancial incentives further spurred criminalization of former slaves, as
the fee system enriched local deputy sheriffs, police, and judges who re­
ceived per capita payments for arrests and convictions. Upon request,
former slave owners, construction companies, labor contractors, or the
state itself were supplied leased convicts’ cheap labor. When such needs
arose, African American men and women were summarily arrested, im­
prisoned, and convicted. When they were predictably unable to pay
their fines, they became leased convicts. As historian Bruce Franklin
notes, “The convict lease system had a big advantage for the enslavers:
since they did not own the convicts, they lost nothing by working them
to death.”55
Key prison reforms occurred during the Progressive Era of the
1920s. In one instance, prison reform was informed by adherence to be­
havioral science theories, as prison reformers applied therapeutic mod­
els to inmate rehabilitation. The medical or therapeutic model was
based on the belief that inmates suffered from physical, mental, and so­
cial pathology or illnesses. Despite its asserted advantages, any prom­
ise of a distinctly therapeutic approach to criminality was undermined
by inadequate investment of professional resources and research on the
uses of therapeutic regimens in this context. In this regard, Edgardo
Rotman has noted that “the ratio of professionals to inmate (one psy­
chiatrist or two psychologists per five hundred or one thousand cell in­
stitutions) was so small as to render the programs ineffective.”56 Addi­
tional prison reforms during the Progressive Era included increased use
of indeterminate sentencing, probation, and parole. Despite these
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 29

promising reforms, the therapeutic model failed due to inconsistent and

ineffectual implementation.
After World War II, penology was inspired by rehabilitative opti­
mism. Reflecting this sentiment, the American Prison Association
changed its name to the American Correctional Association and ad-
vised its members to redesign their prisons as “correctional institu­
tions” and to label the punishment blocks in them as “adjustment cen­
ters.”57 Further, this optimism was formalized in the 1955 United Na­
tions Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners, which
provided in Article 58 that a sentence of imprisonment can be justified
only when it is used “to ensure, so far as possible, that upon his return
to society, the offender is not only willing but able to lead a law-abiding
and self-supporting life.”58 Prison reformers, lawmakers, and prison of­
ficials shared these principles.
The continued influence of the therapeutic model led to abuses that
generated general opposition to rehabilitative ideal in the 1970s. As dis­
cussed, however, the attempts at meaningful rehabilitation were super­
ficial at best. In addition, the prevailing indeterminate sentencing
statutes led to disparities, arbitrariness, and disproportionately high
penalties. After 1960, various forms of behavioral modification pro-
grams were used in American prisons. Many of these putative thera­
peutic programs in reality were abusive and violated inmates’ civil
rights and civil liberties.
Dispelling popular perceptions, criminology professor Norval
Morris states: “It would be an error to assume that most of these late-
twentieth century mutations of the prison tend toward leniency and
comfort. The most common prisons are the overcrowded prisons prox­
imate to the big cities of America; they have become places of deaden­
ing routine punctuated by bursts of fear and violence.”59 Despite their
proliferation from the 1800s to the present, the efficacy of the prison has
been questioned during every historical period. Norval Morris and
David Rothman assert that “most students of the prison have increas­
ingly come to the conclusion that imprisonment should be used as the
sanction of last resort, to be imposed only when other measures of con-
trolling the criminal have been tried and have failed or in situations in
which those other measures are clearly inadequate.”60
 30 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMEN’S EXPERIENCES

WITHIN THE HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT

OF WOMEN’S PRISONS IN THE UNITED STATES

Women as well as men were held in the nation’s early prisons. By the
mid-nineteenth century the female prisoner population had increased
in several states such that women required accommodations of their
own. However, while some of the stringent rules of men’s institutions
did not generally apply to women, “Lack of concern, or worse, system­
atic exploitation meant that women often endured much poorer condi­
tions than men convicted of similar offenses.”61
Women’s prisons lagged behind the theoretical advances of men’s
prisons. For example, the Mount Pleasant Female Prison for female
felons in New York was built in 1839 on the grounds of Sing Sing men’s
prison nearly two decades after New York constructed the innovative
male prisons at Auburn and Sing Sing.62 Mount Pleasant represented a
major turning point in the development of women’s prisons because it
was the first prison where women were housed in a separate building
apart from men and supervised by a staff of women.63
Completely independent women’s prisons did not appear until
1870, however, when Michigan opened a “house of shelter” for
women.64 In 1874, the Indiana Reformatory Institution opened as the
nation’s first completely independent and physically separate prison
for women. Eventually, two models of independent women’s prisons
developed: custodial institutions that replicated the male penitentiary
structure, and unwalled reformatories that consisted of small residen­
tial buildings strewn throughout expansive rural tracts.
Until 1870, the custodial institution was the only type of penal unit
for women. According to historian Nicole Rafter, “The custodial model
was a masculine model: derived from men’s prisons, it adopted their
characteristics–retributive purpose, high-security architecture, a male-
dominated authority structure, programs that stressed earnings, and
harsh discipline.”65 By the late nineteenth century, nearly every state
operated a custodial unit for women.
While the custodial female prison model continued to develop, re­
formatories for women also emerged. In the late 1860s, the reformatory
movement grew out of the social reform activism of middle-class
women who had been abolitionists and health-care workers during the
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 31

Civil War. They became interested in the concerns of incarcerated

women. Their reformist philosophy was reflected in the architectural
design of women’s institutions, rejecting the foreboding congregate in­
terior and walled exterior style of men’s institutions. Instead, reformers
believed that unwalled facilities were more suitable for women in-
mates, who required fewer restrictions. This resulted in the prevalence
of “cottage” plans among women’s institutions, in which groups of ap­
proximately twenty inmates resided in small buildings with a motherly
matron in a familial setting.66
Women’s reformatories initially housed misdemeanants and tai­
lored the late nineteenth-century penology of rehabilitation to percep­
tions of women’s unique nature. As originated by the Indiana prison,
other women’s reformatories adopted the premise that women crimi­
nals should be rehabilitated rather than punished. Accordingly, it was
believed that obedience and systematic religious education would help
the women form orderly habits and moral values.67 In this regard, do­
mestic training was emphasized rather than vocational skills. During
their sentences the women were taught to cook, clean, and wait on
table; upon parole they were sent to middle-class homes to work as ser­
vants. Hence, women’s reformatories encouraged gender-stereotyped
traits of female sexual restraint, gentility, and domesticity.68
The women’s reformatory movement met its demise by 1935,
after a great expansion in women’s prison building during the Pro­
gressive Era. As the population of female inmates changed, there was
less sympathy for them: they were perceived as hardened offenders,
unlike their young, vulnerable predecessors. Overcrowding and
worsening conditions resulted from financial cutbacks while the fe­
male inmate population increased significantly. In addition, increas­
ing numbers of African American women garnered less compassion
than the previous, largely White inmate populations. Further, con­
cerns about interracial sexual relations between inmates prompted an
investigation at the Bedford Hills Reformatory for Women, in New
York, forcing the institution to recognize that it was no longer per-
forming its original reformatory purpose.69 By the 1930s, it became
too expensive to operate reformatories and custodial prisons for
women and most states discontinued constructing them by the time
of the Great Depression. Therefore, existing reformatories assumed
greater numbers of more serious offenders and adopted greater puni­
tive aspects in their overall operation. Thus, former reformatories
 32 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

became conventional custodial institutions upon the demise of the re­

formatory ideal.70
Race and class were starkly implicated in the development of
women’s penal institutions. “Women’s prisons required obedience not
only to prison rules . . . but also to cultural standards for femininity that
fluctuated by race and social class.”71 These different standards regard­
ing gender meant that racial imbalance already existed at the beginning
of the growth of women’s prisons. In reality, there were two bifurcated
prison systems in the United States. One system was divided along gen­
der lines, creating different institutions for men and women; the other
was subdivided along racial lines, such that men and women’s institu­
tions were populated predominantly by African American men and
women.
After the Civil War, African American women filled prisons at
numbers far exceeding their representation in the general population in
all geographical regions, but particularly in the South.72 White women
were systematically channeled out of prisons, while African American
women were systematically channeled into them. Negative racial
stereotypes justified these disparities by advancing the view that White
women were victims of circumstance, while African American women
were captives of lesser morals and uncontrolled lust. The convict leas­
ing system best illustrates the disparities in treatment of White and
African American female offenders. For an offense such as prostitution,
for example, a White prostitute normally did not receive jail time while
her African American counterpart usually was sent away to hard
labor.73 One example is Jane Jackson, a “colored” woman who was sen­
tenced to ninety days, a ten-dollar fine, and court costs of fourteen dol­
lars. When her jail term expired, she still faced and additional 240 days
on the road gang to work off her twenty-four dollar debt. Historian
David Oshinsky notes, “After three more brutal months, a white patron
helped win Jackson a pardon by claiming, among other things, that a
Negro could not be expected to control her sexual drive.”74 “I submit,”
said her patron, “that she has suffered sufficiently in view of the tropi­
cal origin of her race.”75
In his study of Mississippi’s notorious Parchman Prison Farm,76
David Oshinsky notes:

Like everything else at Parchman, the women’s camp was segregated

by race. The blacks lived in a long shedlike structure, the whites in a
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 33

small brick building, with a high fence in between. The black popula­
tion ranged from twenty-five to sixty-five women each year, the white
population from zero to five. . . . So few white females reached Parch-
man that a clear profile of them is impossible. Their crimes ranged
from murder and infanticide to grand larceny and aiding an escape.77

As Oshinsky further notes, “[M]ore remarkable were the white

women who were spared a prison term after committing a heinous
crime.” The cases of Marion Drew and Sara Ruth Dean exemplify this
point:

In 1929, [Drew] confessed to killing her husband, Marlin, in Ashland,

Mississippi, near the Tennessee line. . . . The judge had never sent a
white woman to Parchman. After conferring with the district attorney,
he accepted a guilty plea from Mrs. Drew and then released her with-
out bond. She would remain free, he ordered, if she behaved herself in
the future.78

A few years later, Sara Ruth Dean went on trial in 1934 for killing
her married lover, J. Preston Kennedy:

The trial received national attention because both parties belonged to

Mississippi’s social register, and both were physicians. Dr. Dean was ac­
cused of slipping poison into Kennedy’s whiskey glass during a
“farewell midnight tryst.” . . . It took thirteen hours for the jury to find
Mrs. Dean guilty of murder. “We hated to send a woman to prison,” said
the foreman, “but we had no choice. It was either death or life impris­
onment.” Another juror agreed. “We wanted to make the punishment
less severe, but we could not under the verdict we had to decide on.”
Ruth Dean remained at home during her appeal. When that failed,
Governor Mike Conner issued a full pardon on July 9, 1935, after being
bombarded with mercy requests. Though Conner claimed to have new
information “not available to the courts,” he never said what it was.
His decision rested on politics and chivalry, Conner told friends. He
just could not send a woman like Ruth Dean to Parchman, no matter
what she had done.79

Underlying the differential treatment of women on the basis of race

in the convict leasing system was the fundamental belief that some
 34 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

members of U.S. society were more deserving of criminal labels and

harsher punishments under criminal laws. As the Parchman examples
illustrate, even the most heinous offenses were deemed unsuitable for
correspondingly harsh punishment if they were committed by White
women. By contrast, the most minor offense alleged against or commit­
ted by African American women garnered severe punishment. In the
convict leasing context, this often amounted to the death penalty, as
many leased convicts were literally worked to death. Reform finally
came to Parchman Farm in 1972, after the federal court, in Gates v. Col­
lier, found numerous violations under the Eighth and Fourteenth
Amendments at the prison.80 Despite important rulings such as Collier,
which ordered improvements in prison conditions and outlawed racial
segregation and discrimination in prison operations, racial disparities in
the U.S. criminal justice and prison systems continue to flourish. Indeed,
as discussed below, such disparities in women’s incarceration rates and
treatment have grown rather than diminished in modern times.

AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMEN AND CURRENT CRIMINAL

LAW AND PUNISHMENT

Modern Demographic Trends

In general, women comprise a small proportion of the total U.S. prison
population. As the following data reveal, however, women have been
the fastest-growing segment of the prison population in contemporary
times. African American women are the largest percentage of incarcer­
ated women. As figure 1 shows, women’s overall imprisonment in state
and federal institutions is characterized by sharp increases over the last
twenty years. Women’s imprisonment rose from just over 13,000 in 1980
to nearly 92,000 in 2000.
Moreover, as figure 2 reveals, African American women currently
comprise the majority of incarcerated women in the United States. Al­
most half (48 percent) of female inmates across the nation are African
American, one-third (33 percent) are Caucasian, 15 percent are His-
panic, and 4 percent are women of other racial backgrounds. In the fed­
eral prison system alone, African American women comprise 35 percent
of inmates, Caucasians 29 percent, Hispanic women 32 percent, and
women of other racial backgrounds 4 percent.
 Number of Female Inmates in State and Federal Prisons

100,000

90,000

80,000

70,000

60,000
# of Inmates

50,000

40,000

30,000

20,000

10,000

0
1980 1982 1984 1986 1988 1990 1992 1994 1996 1998 2000
Year

FIG. 1. Number of Female Inmates in State and Federal Prisons

Sources: GAO, Report to the Honorable Eleanor Holmes Norton, House of Representa­

tives, Women in Prison: Issues and Challenges Confronting U.S. Correctional Systems,

December 1999, at 3, 19; BJS Bulletin, Prison and Jail Inmates at Midyear 2000, March

2001, page 5; and BJS Bulletin, Prisoners in 2000, August 2001.

35
 Percent of State and Federal Female Inmate Populations by Race

120

100

35
80

48

Black
Percent

White
60
Hispanic
Other

29

40

33

20 32

15

4 4
0
State Federal
Prison

FIG. 2. Percentage of State and Federal Inmate Populations by Race

Sources: BJS Bulletin, Prisoners in 2000, August 2001.

36

 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 37

Figure 3 further reveals African American women’s disproportionate

representation in U.S. correctional facilities.
Next, figure 4 shows clearly that women are incarcerated primarily
for nonviolent offenses. Violent crimes by women were at their highest
levels in 1980, decreasing markedly since then. Property crimes also
were at their highest levels in 1980 and experienced substantial de-
creases between 1990 and 1999. Significantly, drug-related offenses
were at their lowest level in 1980; however, incarceration for drug-re­
lated offenses reached their highest level between 1980 and 1990 and
continued to climb between 1990 and 1999. Similarly, public-order of­
fenses were lowest in 1980 and faced sharp increases between 1990 and
1999. These data correspond to changes in sentencing policy that insti­
tuted longer sentences for all offenses, particularly mandatory mini-
mum sentences for all levels of drug-related crimes.
Finally, figure 5 shows extreme differences in regional incarceration
rates for women. Although all regions experienced increases between
1990 and 2000, the Northeast consistently has had the lowest number of
female inmates in state and federal prisons compared to other geo­
graphical regions. The Midwest has a female population slightly

Number of sentenced female prisoners under State or Federal jurisdiction per 100,000
residents, by race, 1980, 1985, 1990-2000
250

200

150

White female inmates

Black female inmates
100

50

0
1980 1985 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1999 2000

FIG. 3. Number of Sentenced Female Prisoners under State or Federal

Jurisdiction per 100,000 Residents, by Race, 1980, 1985, 1990–2000
Sources: U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Bulletin: Prisoners in
2000; U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Bulletin: Prisoners in 1999;
U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Correctional Populations in the
United States, 1997; U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Bulletin:
Prisoners in 1994.
 Type of Offense of Female Inmates in State Prison by Percentage

60

50

40
Percentage

1980
30 1990
1999

20

10

0
Violent Property Drug Offenses Public Order
Type of Offense

FIG. 4. Type of Offense of Female Inmates in State Prison, by Percentage

Sources: BJS Special Report, Women Offenders, December 1999, at 6, 14; BJS Bulletin,
Prisoners in 2000, August 2001.

38

 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 39

greater than the Northeast, at approximately 7,000 inmates. The West

had an increase of 10,000 female inmates between 1990 and 2000, plac­
ing it above both the Northeast and the Midwest. The most dramatic in-
crease in the female prison population occurred in the South. Although
there were more female inmates in 1990 in the South than in other re­
gions, the increase climbed from just over 15,000 to nearly 37,000 incar­
cerated women in 2000.

Modern Legal Trends

Why has the imprisonment of women reached such unprecedented lev­
els? Some researchers attributed the sharp increase in women’s impris­
onment to changing social mores regarding American women’s roles.81
However, the “women’s liberation theory” of women’s imprisonment
ignores salient factors such as discrimination, race, poverty, and other
social deprivations that account for African American women’s incar-
ceration.82 By now, such theories are roundly discredited, as most ex­
perts acknowledge that the rise in women’s incarceration is the result of
changes in the criminal laws and sentencing practices over the last
twenty years. As a recent Harvard Law Review symposium stated, “[T]he
reasons for the dramatic rise in women’s incarceration, both in absolute

State and Federal Prisons Female Inmate Populations by Region, 1990 v. 2000

40,000

35,000

30,000

25,000
Number

1990
20,000
2000

15,000

10,000

5,000

0
Northeast Midewest South West

Region

FIG. 5. State and Federal Prisons Female Inmate Population by Region, 1990

and 2000

Sources: BJS Bulletin, Prisoners in 2000, August 2001.

 40 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

terms and relating to that of men lie not primarily in changes in the se­
riousness of female-committed crime, but rather in changes in criminal
justice policy.”83 Thus, rather than representing liberation theory, in-
creased willingness by law enforcement to arrest and imprison women
for longer periods of time represents what sociologist Meda Chesney-
Lind has called “equality with a vengeance.”
These trends also reflect society’s continued willingness to equate
African American women with criminality, which in turn justifies dis­
proportionately harsh treatment of them in the criminal justice system
and throughout American society. Criminologist Norval Morris recog­
nized that the gross demographic disparity throughout the criminal jus­
tice system “may reflect racial prejudice on the part of the police, the
prosecutors, the judges, and juries, so that, crime for crime, black and
Hispanic offenders are more likely to be arrested by the police and are
more likely to be dealt with severely by the courts.”84 The legal response
to drug-related offenses provides the most glaring example of racial-
gender-class bias within the criminal justice system. These issues are ex­
amined with regard to their particular impact on African American
women’s lives.85
One of the hallmarks of the U.S. constitutional system is the right
every American enjoys to be free from government intrusion without
sufficient cause. In the area of Fourth Amendment rights, sufficient
cause for government searches and seizures must be based on “indi­
vidualized reasonable suspicion” of wrongdoing by law enforcement
officers. These rights apparently do not extend to African American
women, however, as racial-gender profiling has rendered them auto­
matically suspect as drug couriers. While racial profiling is most often
discussed in terms of affronts to African American and Latino men, ex­
perience suggests that African American and Latina American women
are at greater risk for government abuse in this regard.86 One particu­
larly egregious example of such government excess involves the U.S.
Customs Service.
In March 1998, Denise Pullian returned home from a business trip
to Northern Ireland, where she helped establish a program for troubled
youth. A U.S. Customs agent stopped Pullian upon her arrival at
O’Hare International Airport, whereupon she was told to follow the
agent. Pullian was told that she was targeted for a pat search because
she was wearing “loose clothing.” Upon being escorted to a small in­
vestigation room at O’Hare, Pullian’s pat search transformed into a
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 41

strip search. She finally cleared customs upon being forced to remove
all clothing and a tampon to satisfy customs agents that she was not car­
rying illicit drugs.87 When Pullian informed the Chicago NBC affiliate
about her treatment, numerous African American women came for-
ward to describe similar experiences:

WOMAN #1: I had arrived at Chicago O’Hare.

WOMAN #2: I was asked to step aside in another line.

WOMAN #3: He went through all of my luggage.

WOMAN #4: Then she told me to step this way.

WOMAN #5: “We have to go to this room because we have to

search you.”
WOMAN #6: She asked me to take my clothes off, take my hair
down, spread my legs apart.
WOMAN #7: And she had this great big gun strapped to her hip.
So I did as she told me to do.
WOMAN #8: I took down my shorts, took down my underwear,
and I had to bend over.
WOMAN #9: And then I was told to remove the pad, remove the
tampon.
WOMAN #10: And then she said, “Pull up your panties and get
out.” Those were her words.
WOMAN #11: You just wanted it to be over as quickly as possi­
ble.
WOMAN #12: And you feel stripped of your rights. And you get
no explanation.
WOMAN #13: I felt like I was being raped.88

The Chicago-area women’s experiences were not unique. Particu­

larly harrowing was the account by Janneral Denson, of Fort Laud­
erdale, Florida. Denson and her young son were stopped in February
1997 upon returning from Jamaica to Fort Lauderdale. Denson was
nearly seven months pregnant at the time. She testified before the
House Ways and Means Subcommittee on Oversight that she was
stopped as she walked toward the exit with her luggage, then was
searched. After being asked a series of questions about the purpose for
her travel to Jamaica, she provided several pieces of documentation to
verify her statements to the officers. Denson was left with another cus­
toms officer and waited, uninformed about the basis for her detention,
 42 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

for over an hour. Having not eaten all day, her request for food was ig­
nored. After some time passed, she asked to go to the bathroom. She tes­
tified that she was escorted to the bathroom by two agents “where they
had me lean against the wall, spread my legs, so that they could search
me.” The agent then read her some legal rights from a piece of paper,
which she refused to sign. Her request to speak to a lawyer was denied.
Instead, she was handcuffed and driven to Miami.
Upon arrival at a Miami hospital, Denson was told to change into a
hospital gown. The planned vaginal examination was not conducted
because a doctor decided she was too far along in her pregnancy. In-
stead, she was handcuffed again and taken to the Labor/Delivery ward.
After long waits, she provided blood and urine samples. She then was
put on a bed and handcuffed to a bed rail. The first customs agent and
the doctor returned to the room. The doctor had a portable sonogram
machine to conduct an internal check. This check revealed a difficulty
with Denson’s pregnancy, but it also revealed that Denson was not car­
rying contraband. Denson was then taken off the bed and handcuffed
again. She reminded the agent that she didn’t have anything in her lug-
gage and had nothing inside her body cavities and asked if she could go
home. Again, without explanation, her request was denied.
When Denson requested something to eat, she was told that she
would not get anything until morning. The doctor then brought in a
substance called “Go Lyte” and Denson was ordered to drink it. She
was told that she had to pass three clear stools before she could leave.
She testified, “I was scared to death for my child. I told the agent, that’s
a laxative and pregnant people should not take a laxative. I refused to
drink it. They again handcuffed me to the bed; I laid there that night
crying for a long time.”
The next morning they gave Denson a cold breakfast that she was
unable to eat. She testified further, “I had some orange juice and water.
At that time, I heard the first agent outside my door call me a ‘thing.’
She said ‘that thing’s been here since Friday and she won’t eat.’” That
afternoon, Denson decided to drink the laxative to obtain her release.
“There I was, one hand handcuffed to a bed, so scared that I drank a lax­
ative that might hurt me and my child. I threw up. By the next morning,
I passed two clear stools. About four hours later, the first agent returned
to take me back to Fort Lauderdale.” Denson was held incommunicado
for two days: “They say they called my mother. The truth is that they
never called my mother. My mother had been calling hospitals until she
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 43

found me and then an agent told her I would be at the Fort Lauderdale
airport in a couple of hours. I was taken to the Fort Lauderdale airport.
Nobody was there. They just left me.”89
Ms. Denson concluded her congressional testimony: “The very fact
that I am here, speaking before you, points to the greatness of our
country. But what I, and many other African Americans, have gone
through, points to a great failure in our country. Conduct such as this
is both illegal and Un-American, and, in the long run, can only serve to
drive a wedge between you, the government, and the citizens of the
country.”90
Aside from sharing racial heritage as African Americans, the
women subjected to such searches came from wide-ranging back-
grounds, including age and occupations. In defense of the agency’s ac­
tions, Customs Commissioner Ray Kelly advanced the “source coun­
try” explanation for the number of stops of African American women.91
Accordingly, travelers, presumably of all races, from countries known
to produce illegal drugs are theoretically targeted in greater numbers. A
number of the women had traveled from Jamaica, which is on the
source country list, so this explanation may be true. However, many of
the women had traveled from cities such as Barcelona, Beijing, Frank­
furt, and London and were still strip searched. Therefore, it seems more
plausible that the Black women were searched by U.S. law enforcement
agents based on their racial and gender identities as African American
women. A Harvard University statistical report determined that
African American women were stopped by customs at a rate eight times
greater than that for White males, even though White males far out-
number any demographic group of travelers.92 Customs’ own study re­
vealed that in 1997, an incredible 46 percent of African American
women were strip-searched at O’Hare Airport.93 Even so, Black women
were found to be the least likely to be carrying drugs: at 80 percent, the
percentage of negative searches was greatest for African American
women.94
To add insult to injury, the Customs agency’s form letter explaining
its policy to those who had been searched stated: “To be frank, we are
not at all sorry. As a matter of fact, we are pleased that you have com­
plied with our laws.”95 Not surprisingly, over ninety African American
women in Chicago joined a class-action lawsuit against the U.S. Cus­
toms Service, alleging constitutional violations. According to the plain-
tiffs, damage awards were not their primary motivation for bringing
 44 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

the lawsuit; rather, they sought government accountability for their loss
of dignity and fundamental civil rights in the unbridled war on drugs.96
Another aspect of the war on drugs has adversely impacted African
American women as their bodies became battlegrounds for ideological
wars regarding reproductive rights and drug law enforcement. Dorothy
Roberts addressed this systemic bias in her groundbreaking piece, Pun­
ishing Drug Addicts Who Have Babies: Women of Color, Equality, and the
Right of Privacy.97 Roberts argued that prosecution of drug-addicted
mothers violated constitutional privacy and equal protection rights.
Noting the government’s extensive involvement in poor African Amer­
ican women’s lives, as well as the women’s limited options for birth
control, safe abortions, prenatal health, and drug-abuse treatment,
Roberts found that “[p]oor Black women have been selected for pun­
ishment as a result of an inseparable combination of their gender, race,
and economic status,” based on the “historic devaluation of African-
American women’s lives and roles as mothers.”98
The problems Roberts had previously identified reappeared re­
cently in the Medical University of South Carolina’s (MUSC) agreement
to work with police and prosecutors in an effort described by Vivian
Berger as “[a]n unsavory amalgam of bad law, unethical medicine, and
unsound policy.”99 In 1989, MUSC devised a “test-and-arrest” scheme,
according to which patients whose urine tested positive for cocaine
were referred for substance-abuse treatment, and those who failed to
comply or tested positive a second time were immediately taken into
police custody.100 In Ferguson v. City of Charleston, S.C.,101 the U.S.
Supreme Court found that the hospital’s coercive procedure to test
women without a warrant, individualized suspicion, or special circum­
stances constituted a violation of the women’s Fourth Amendment
rights. While the hospital claimed that the policy was necessary to as­
sist doctors in treating potentially difficult or dangerous pregnancies,
the same ends could have been accomplished more effectively without
the specter of criminalization and unnecessary governmental intrusion.
Such was the disregard for the African American women’s lives that
“[s]ome were removed in hand-cuffs and shackles, still garbed in hos­
pital gowns, bleeding and in pain from childbirth.”102 At least one
woman was held three weeks in an unsanitary prison cell to await de-
livery of her baby.103 As Berger states, “It is hard to believe that the au­
thorities would behave so callously if the vast majority of affected pa­
tients were not impoverished women of color.”104
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 45

While dire predictions about the harms to fetuses occasioned by

maternal drug use have been overstated,105 concerns about the health of
unborn and newborn babies should not be minimized. Effective re­
sponses to such concerns need not entail further criminalization of
African American women’s lives, however. Notably, in Ferguson, the
professed concern about African American women’s infants, if not the
women themselves, occurred when “[t]here was not a single residential
drug-abuse-treatment program for women in the entire state [and]
MUSC itself would not admit pregnant women to its treatment center.
And no outpatient program in Charleston provided childcare so that
pregnant women with young children could keep their counseling ap­
pointments.”106 In emphasizing arrest and imprisonment, the MUSC
policy’s absence of resources to facilitate African American women’s ac­
cess to prenatal care and drug treatment exposed its punitive and
racially discriminatory design.107
The Customs Service has significantly changed its search proce­
dures according to the recommendations of an independent investiga­
tion of its practices. The new procedures emphasize behavioral indices
rather than racial or ethnic factors.108 Similarly, the Medical University
of South Carolina ended its racially discriminatory drug test-and-arrest
policy.109 While these are welcome developments, it remains doubtful
that such embedded racial biases against African American women will
cease rather than resurface in new guises. Indeed, racial profiling has
assumed expanded proportions in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks
of September 11, 2001. As such, U.S. citizens, immigrants, and travelers
of Middle Eastern descent have come under increased scrutiny within
heightened concerns for national security.110 In this context as well, civil
liberties cannot be jettisoned in finding the balance between security
and liberty.111
Another area of drug-war enforcement that directly impacts on
African American women’s incarceration exists in the drug sentencing
disparities. As previously noted, the U.S. incarceration rate has risen
faster than the crime rate; more aggressive law enforcement efforts and
longer punishment for drug-related offenses help to explain this anom­
aly. Mandatory drug laws and minimum sentencing, three-strikes laws,
and sentencing guideline schemes have resulted in a greatly increased
female prison population. In New York, for example, the Rockefeller
Drug Laws require mandatory prison sentences of fifteen and twenty-
five years to life.112 The federal government’s adoption of mandatory
 46 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

sentencing for drug offenses provides the clearest example of the racial
disparities that lead to African American women’s disproportionate in­
carceration.
Under drug laws enacted in the late 1980s, sentencing for minor
roles and low-level participation in drug activities resulted in severe sen-
tences and long incarceration for many African American and Hispanic
offenders.113 On the federal level, the disparity is built into the sentenc­
ing scheme. As such, possession of five grams of crack cocaine results in
a mandatory five-year sentence. In contrast, the mandatory minimum
sentence for possession of 500 grams of powdered cocaine results in a
five-year sentence.114 This represents a 100-fold differential in sentencing
disparity between pharmacologically identical substances. The critical
difference is that crack cocaine is predominant in Black and Hispanic
communities and powdered cocaine in White.115 Beyond this, nothing
rationally justifies the great disparity in sentencing for the two varia­
tions of this substance. Indeed, the irrational basis for the crack-powder
cocaine sentencing scheme is evident in the absence of a legislative his-
tory on this crucial matter. As one commentator concluded, “Read as a
whole, the abbreviated legislative history of the 1986 [Anti-Drug Abuse]
Act does not provide a single, consistently cited rationale for the crack-
powder penalty structure. In fact, there is evidence that Congress was
simply pandering to the anti-crime attitude of the nation.”116
The life-altering consequence of Congress’s thoughtless action in
consigning so many young men and women of color to prison under
these laws is unconscionable, especially as the commission that recom­
mended the scheme to Congress in the first place acknowledged the in­
herent unfairness of the sentencing disparities. In May 1995, the U.S.
Sentencing Commission submitted a report to Congress strongly rec­
ommending abandonment of the one-hundred-to-one quantity ratio.117
The commission unanimously agreed that the ratio should be abolished
but disagreed as to the appropriate ratio. A four-member majority of the
commission believed that the base sentence for crack and powder co­
caine should be the same.118 However, a three-member minority of the
commission rejected the majority’s one-to-one recommendation, find­
ing that substantially different “market, dosages, prices, and means of
distribution” enhanced the harmfulness of crack and warranted a
greater sentencing differential.119
While the three-member minority did not view the issue as having
racial implications,120 others provided strong arguments to the contrary.
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 47

In U.S. v. Clary,121 Judge Clyde Cahill found that the sentencing dispar­
ities for cocaine offenses evinced unconscious racism against African
Americans in violation of the Equal Protection Clause. Judge Cahill
thoroughly reviewed the racialized history of U.S. drug policies and the
pharmacological similarities between powder and crack cocaine, and
concluded that Congress’s “[f]ailure to account for a foreseeable dis­
parate impact which would effect black Americans in grossly dispro­
portionate numbers would . . . violate the spirit and letter of equal pro­
tection.”122
Despite the strength of the analysis in Clary and the obvious dis­
proportionate impact of the cocaine sentencing laws on African Ameri­
cans, neither Congress, the executive, nor the courts have deigned to re-
dress their fundamental unfairness. In U.S. v. Armstrong,123 the Supreme
Court rejected petitioners’ request for evidentiary discovery to establish
their asserted equal-protection violation resulting from prosecutors’ se­
lective drug law enforcement. The federal public defender’s office ar­
gued that African American men were selectively prosecuted under the
harsher federal crack-cocaine statute. Evidence revealed that in 1991, all
twenty-four federal crack-cocaine cases involved African American de­
fendants. The public defender sought to establish that White crack-co­
caine offenders were deliberately prosecuted in California state courts,
where the penalties were comparatively lighter. The Court ruled that
petitioners must offer minimal proof of racial discrimination prior to re­
quiring the prosecution to disclose case records. The petitioners’ burden
required “clear evidence” that the prosecutor’s selective enforcement
policy “had a discriminatory effect and was motivated by discrimina­
tory purpose.”124 As Katheryn Russell observes, “The Armstrong deci­
sion does not mean that the U.S. Attorney’s office is not selectively pros­
ecuting Blacks in federal court. Rather, it means that the prosecutor can
withhold evidence of it.”125
In addition to the basic unfairness of mandatory drug sentences,
they fail to consider extenuating circumstances pertinent to women’s
lives. For example, even though women generally play subordinate
roles in drug operations, they often are sentenced more harshly than
their more culpable male counterparts. A 1994 Department of Justice
study on low-level drug offenders in federal prisons found that women
were overrepresented among “low-level” drug offenders who were
nonviolent, had minimal or no prior criminal history, and were not
principal figures in criminal organizations or activities; nevertheless,
 48 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES

they received sentences similar to “high-level” drug offenders under

the mandatory sentencing policies.126 Further, the majority of incarcer­
ated African American women are single parents of one or more minor
children. Thus, the impact of their incarceration inures beyond the in­
dividual inmate to her children and other family members (usually ma­
ternal grandmothers), who must care for young children during the
mother’s incarceration.127 African American women rarely receive
lighter sentencing based on their familial relationships.128 They are also
at greater risk than White women for loss of custody under the Federal
Adoption and Safe Families Act of 1997 (ASFA), due to the length of the
drug-related sentences.129

CASUALTIES OF WAR

Casualties of the war on drugs extend throughout American society, not

just for African American women and members of other marginalized
communities. In this regard, the erosion of basic constitutional rights
through the enforcement of harsher criminal laws and penalties com­
promises the democratic system itself. As David Rudovsky argues, the
very use of the “war” metaphor indicates tacit approval of the fact that
such processes sacrifice rights.130
In addition to racially disparate legislative policies that erode our
Fourteenth Amendment rights to equality and due process,131 other
freedoms guaranteed by the Bill of Rights are also implicated. For ex-
ample, the First Amendment’s respect for religious liberty is subordi­
nated where religious practices conflict with the objectives of the drug
war.132 The Fourth Amendment, which generally prohibits warrantless
and unreasonable searches and seizures by the government, has been
severely undermined, permitting law enforcement practices that regu­
larly exceed “reasonableness” in terms of citizens’ privacy rights. In this
context, in addition to the widespread use of drug-courier profiles that
associate African Americans and Hispanics with drug use and traffick­
ing, there are excessive and widespread drug-testing policies in schools
and workplaces.133
Basic due process rights and the right to counsel are implicated in
this war, as guaranteed by the Sixth and Seventh Amendments. As the
courts are inundated with drug-related cases, the speedy trial guaran­
tee of the Sixth Amendment and the right to a jury trial for civil matters
 PART 1: ANALYSIS OF EXPERIENCES 49

in federal court under the Seventh Amendment are both seriously com-
promised.134 These developments jeopardize every citizen’s right to a
fair trial.
Finally, laws that permit preventive detention and draconian pun­
ishment for drug possession denigrate the Eighth Amendment rights to
bail and to sentences that are not cruel and unusual. The Bail Reform
Act of 1984 similarly erodes key protections under the Eighth and Four­
teenth Amendments, as the act fundamentally changed the bail system
by authorizing the pretrial imprisonment of a person innocent of any
crime on the theory that he or she would likely commit other crimes
while awaiting trial,135 presuming that a drug offense charge carrying a
ten-year sentence makes one automatically dangerous. Accordingly, the
act authorizes pretrial imprisonment based simply on a finding of prob­
able cause for certain drug offenses. These provisions have resulted in
the incarceration of thousands of drug defendants.
Predictably, the ill-advised war metaphor and its real-life conse­
quences indeed generate casualties of war—predominantly among
poor African American women who have been imprisoned in unprece­
dented proportions. Law and legal institutions have also suffered, how-
ever. And, while compromises to constitutional liberties may affect
communities differently, the abandonment of constitutional rights has
broader implications for the entire society. According to one expert,
“We may soon discover that rather than freeing ourselves from drugs,
we have simply given up our freedoms . . . our Bill of Rights and our po­
litical freedom will be the ultimate casualties of our war on drugs.”136
 PART II

PROFILES AND NARRATIVES

OF AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMEN IN

THE U.S. CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM

PROFILES OF INNER LIVES PARTICIPANTS

Eighty-four current and former women inmates participated in Inner

Lives. Table 1 provides comparisons between Inner Lives participants
and incarcerated women in the state prison system nationwide. The
data for Inner Lives participants include currently and formerly incar­
cerated women. The comparisons are apt, however, as the data in the
chart categories relate to the participants’ experiences during their pres­
ent or last incarceration. Therefore, the relevant information remains
unchanged for both groups of Inner Lives participants.
The average age of Inner Lives participants at the time of interview
was forty years. For Inner Lives participants, the average term for non-
violent offenses is eight years and for violent offenders it is twenty-five
years. Fifty percent of violent offenses carried the maximum possible
sentence of life imprisonment. Not shown in the table is the statistic that
drug use is implicated in 84 percent of the nonviolent offenses commit­
ted by Inner Lives participants. Of the violent offenses, homicide com­
prises 60 percent, with the other 40 percent being crimes such as simple
assault, aggravated bank robbery, and child endangerment. Within the
60 percent homicide offenses, domestic violence was involved 40 per-
cent of the time. Seventy percent of Inner Lives participants reported
physical and sexual abuse during their childhood or adulthood, and 56
percent reported dropping out of school before the twelfth grade, prior
to incarceration. The majority of Inner Lives participants are parents (88
percent), with an average of three children.

51
 52 PART II: PROFILES AND NARRATIVES

Table 1.
Comparison between Inner Lives Participants and Female State Inmates Overall on
Several Variants
Inner Lives Participants Female Inmates Overall

Average age 40 33
Charge 55%–NV 72%–NV
45%–V 28%–V
Sentencea 13 years 18.5 years
Criminal justice historyb 75% 65%
Substance abusec 70% 74%
Abuse historyd 70% 57%
Minor childrene 88% 66%
Educationf 43% 22%
Employmentg 63% 51%
Economic statush 51%–poor 37%–poor
49%–middle class 30%–welfare

Notes: V= violent; NV=nonviolent

a
For Inner Lives participants, figure based on the averages for the maximum possible sentence. The

computation excludes sentences for which the maximum possible sentence was life imprisonment.

b
Prior incarceration in jail or prison.

c
History of drug and/or alcohol abuse.

d
Physical and/or sexual abuse during childhood and/or adulthood.

e
Minor children during incarceration.

f
Completion of high school prior to incarceration.

g
Some work experience prior to incarceration.

h
Economic status prior to incarceration.

Sources: BJS Special Report, Women Offenders, December 1999, at 6–9. GAO, Women in Prison, Issues

and Challenges Confronting U.S. Correction Systems, December 1999.

NARRATIVES OF INNER LIVES PARTICIPANTS

This is not a small voice

you hear.

—Sonia Sanchez, “This is Not a Small Voice”

In Prison I came to know both extremes together. . . . In prison,

I remembered the way I had burst out laughing when a child,
while the taste of tears from the harshest and hardest days
of my life returned to my mouth.

—Nawal El Sadawi, Memoirs from the Women’s Prison

This section includes twenty-three narratives on issues pertaining to

African American women in prison. Most of the narratives are by
African American women who are or formerly were incarcerated in the
 PART II: PROFILES AND NARRATIVES 53

United States. The women’s narratives reveal the paradoxical situation,

as suggested by Nawal El Sadawi’s quote on the previous page, that for
some women imprisonment was an opportunity for self-discovery
while it was also the nadir of their life experiences. Although they do
not speak for all African American women who have been incarcerated,
the similarities in their experiences reflect the realities in many African
American women’s lives. These women’s narratives are followed by
commentaries of those who are active and knowledgeable on issues re­
lated to criminal justice, corrections, and advocacy on behalf of African
American women in prison.
Because of the nonlinear nature of the narratives, I have edited
them to enhance the coherence of the text without diminishing the in­
dividual’s unique voice. Participants who are featured in these life his­
tories were provided edited drafts of their narratives for their review.
They made any necessary corrections, clarifications, or elaborations
prior to publication.
Thus, speaking for themselves and about themselves, the women
were willing to share their life histories in order to inform the effort to
enhance general public safety, to devote necessary resources for vio­
lence prevention, to dismantle societal barriers, and to instill greater
self-worth in all African American women’s lives. Collectively, all of the
participants’ perspectives can aid the goal of promoting legal and social
justice and reduce imprisonment rates of African American women.
 A

CURRENTLY INCARCERATED WOMEN

 1
DonAlda

DonAlda is currently serving a fifteen-years-to-life sentence resulting

from the death of her abusive boyfriend. Although it is difficult for her
to be separated from her three children, she refuses to let incarceration
get the best of her. She continues to paint and to write and was the first
Black woman to complete a course of study at the Children’s Institute
of Literature while incarcerated. DonAlda regards education as the key
to reducing the number of Black women in prison.

DonAlda

57
 58 D O N A L DA

I A M T H I RT Y- N I N E years old; I was born in 1959. I have three children

who are now ages fifteen, eighteen, and twenty-one. That’s my whole
life, my children. Even incarcerated, they’re still my life. I live for them.
That’s what keeps me motivated in prison. I think that’s what keeps me
strong, it keeps me going, and keeps my hope alive that one day I’ll be
back home being a mother to my children.
I come from a family that has no understanding of welfare, jail, or
anything wrong or out of the ordinary. First of all, we’re Catholic. My
mom works hard. She’s always been a sales clerk. My dad’s a career of­
ficer in the Navy. They divorced when I was around eight years old. My
mom has my children. She’s raising my children, and my two grand-
children. I have a real supportive family, and that helps too, in prison,
having a supportive family. It really does.
Being Black and Catholic was very hard. I grew up on the lower
south side, which is predominantly Black, but I went to Catholic school
in the suburbs. All my friends who were White were not the friends that
I went home to. I’m an only child, so I looked good and I dressed nice
because there was only one of me. I guess I mostly wanted to be ac­
cepted, somewhere. It was hard. I was incarcerated in 1987 due to do­
mestic violence. It was my boyfriend. We had two children together. He
was a career criminal who had been in and out of jails. I guess some-
where along the line in jail he learned to beat women.
Just the attention that I received from my boyfriend made me feel
that there was a connection between the two of us. My dad was in the
service and was always away. My mom was sickly. She was always in
the hospital. I was usually with relatives, most of the time. All of my
friends were the White kids who lived in the suburbs. I was mostly
around grownups. What does a kid do around grownups? You have no
one to talk to but the dog, or the cat or the fish. It was kind of hard, just
missing out on having a friend.
I ended up suffering abuse for years. We had two children. We got
together around 1977, my senior year in high school. We started hang­
ing out and stuff. I didn’t know his other side. He was about two years
younger than I was. He had been in detention homes. He grew up with-
out his parents. His grandmother raised him. Basically, he did whatever
he wanted to do. He wasn’t violent when I first knew him. Not at all. He
just always was the type that made the promises. He always made
 D O N A L DA 59

promises, but never followed through with them. He would say, “We’ll
live happily ever after,” and “You and me against the world. So what if
we’re opposites,” and “We’ll be all right.”
I didn’t know that he was an intravenous drug user. He hid it well.
I guess with the drugs and stealing or robbing people, or whatever, to
get the drugs, I guess he was mad at me because maybe I was some-
thing that he wanted to be and couldn’t be, so he took it out on me. He
seemed to resent my education, the fact that I didn’t use drugs, or that
I had a level head. I worked. I went to work and I worked every day.
When he was high it was like a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing.
The violence started after I had my first child with him, about 1980.
I graduated from a Catholic high school, near Youngstown, a very good
high school. I even went to college, Youngstown State University. I did­
n’t finish because of him. He didn’t like me going to college. He said
things like, “If I don’t go, or we don’t have the same friends, then you
don’t go.”
I studied graphic arts at Youngstown State University. I’m an artist,
and a writer. I do my art every day. I paint every day. I use acrylics, be-
cause oils aren’t allowed in our rooms. We have to be supervised with
the oils, because of the chemicals. You have to use turpentine to clean,
and so we’re basically limited to watercolors and acrylics. Right now,
my project is pillowcases. I sell pillowcases, usually for children. I love
children, and in fact, I took a course of study from the Children’s Insti­
tute of Literature. I’d like to write children’s stories. I was the first Black
woman, while incarcerated, to finish their course of study in the Chil­
dren’s Institute of Literature. They said they had a lot of guys take that
course, but I was the first incarcerated Black woman. I don’t let my in­
carceration stop me.
In 1980 the abuse started; it was after I had the first child. He be-
came really jealous, really obsessively jealous. Shortly thereafter, I
moved out, after I was beaten really severely. I moved out, moved back
home with my mother, and, as always, you get the roses, and the apolo­
gies, and the “I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again.” Of course, I believed
it, and went back. The next time I pressed charges, though. That vio­
lated his parole and sent him back to jail.
They sent him back to jail in 1984. They gave him six months in the
county jail on a misdemeanor. That’s when he vowed that when he got
out, he was going to kill me for sending him back to jail. They wouldn’t
even charge him. I was beaten with the door molding, like the piece off
 60 D O N A L DA

the door with the nails in it and everything, from nine o’clock in the
evening till four o’clock in the morning, all because he went to jail for
stealing tape recorders out of parked cars on a busy street, and I would­
n’t go to jail and get him.
When he finally did get out he let me have it pretty good so I had to
escape from the house. He held me in the house, but I escaped and ran
about twelve blocks to my mom’s house, where I called the police. I had
to leave my children in the house, and, when the police arrived he was­
n’t there. I pressed charges, they gave him six months, and he went
back, and that’s when he said he was going to kill me for sending him
back to jail.
He got out in 1986. I hadn’t seen him, but he had been looking for
me. He’d been to my mom’s house, saying he wanted to see the kids
and different things. This one particular night, I took a friend to the
grocery store, because her child was sick and needed cough syrup. We
went to a 24-hour grocery store. While she was going to run into the
store, I got a hamburger and a shake at the nearby drive-through and
I was sitting in the car at the supermarket. Who do I see but him? He
was with a group of people, and he sent one of the guys to the car to
ask if he could talk to me. Before I could even answer the guy, he was
walking toward the car. I had bought a gun after being assaulted so
much. It was a sense of security for me. I never thought I would have
to use it. I was about twenty-one years old when I bought that gun. I
always took it out when I went out at night, and I had it under the seat
of the car.
When he walked up to the car, he had a grocery bag in his arm, and
he shifted the bag. Then I saw the butt of the gun in there. So, I reached
under my seat, and got the gun and shot out the window, and shot at
him. By now, my friend was coming out of the store, she was getting in
the car, I was shooting out the window, just scared. I took off from there
and went home and found out later he was dead. I didn’t even know
that I shot him. I knew I grabbed the gun. I knew I fired that gun. I did­
n’t think I hit him. I hit him several times, I found out. Three times, as a
matter of fact. He didn’t die instantly, but, from my understanding, ei­
ther he died upon arrival at the hospital, or on the way to the hospital.
I didn’t intend to kill him.
I was charged with Murder One. I had a trial. I had a private attor­
ney. I felt really good about the relationship with my attorney because I
knew him. I had retained him several times before to get my boyfriend
 D O N A L DA 61

out of jail. He was the only attorney I knew, only to find out that there
was a conflict of interest. I didn’t know that then. I know it now, but I
didn’t know it then. The attorney never explained that to me. He took
my money, and then got court-appointed to me, so he got paid twice for
my trial.

I never did a day in jail till I went to prison. I was out on bond a year
waiting for the trial. Having no knowledge of the law, I didn’t know
that I could go before a panel of judges, that I didn’t have to go
through a jury trial. I thought that’s how it goes, you commit a crime,
you go through a trial. I had an all-White jury. This was not a jury of
my peers. It was mostly males. There was one woman who was ques­
tioned, one Black woman, but because she had someone who was in­
carcerated in her family, she did not want to be a juror. She asked to be
removed.
Nothing went through my head during the trial. I was on Zanex
and Tranzene. I was numb sitting through the trial. My doctor gave me
that. Behind the abuse, I started taking nerve medication. They said I
suffered from high anxiety and anorexia. I weighed maybe 110 pounds,
at the height I am now, five feet, eight inches. I used to pull my hair out;
I would sit and twiddle my hair till I pulled it out. I was just a basket
case during the abuse. When I would go to the doctor and say, “My
boyfriend beat me up,” instead of talking about it, or saying “Maybe I
could refer you to someone to help you,” he would just up my medica­
tion and add another pill to it. I was on a tranquilizer and a nerve med­
ication. During the trial, of course, I abused them. I felt, “Oh, my God,
my nerves are bad, I’ll take, well, I’m taking three a day, I’ll take six a
day, or six an hour.” I was taking them like Tic-Tacs, just shaking them
out and taking them. I was aware but I wasn’t aware. I was there, but I
really wasn’t functioning like I should have been. I just felt a grave in-
justice had been done to me.
I feel that, under the law, I should be punished. But, fifteen-to-life is
a lot, that’s a lot of punishment for someone who was abused, and for
defending myself. I had the battered woman’s claim, but at that time, it
was not really known. The only thing that was out on the battered
woman was the movie The Burning Bed at that time. Even though my
lawyer questioned the jury on the battered woman syndrome, he really
did not submit a lot of evidence on my behalf as far as the years of abuse
and the different circumstances that led to that. He also had me take the
 62 D O N A L DA

stand in my own defense to testify about my relationship and the abuse

I suffered. My attorney was trying to get me involuntary manslaughter,
or manslaughter. Never once have I ever said that I didn’t do it, or I’m
not guilty of something. I’m guilty. I did it. I hadn’t even seen him. That
was the first time I had seen him since he got out of jail. The verdict that
they came back with was for murder. I got fifteen to life.
Starting to do that time was hard. It was really hard, because with
my time it makes me one of the close status, close to max status. That
puts a lot of limitations on what you’re able to do. You’re not able to go
to college. You’re not able to go places unescorted. You start at the bot­
tom of the totem pole, and you have to work your way up to minimum
status where you can get privileges. At that time, a lot of programs
weren’t offered to lifers, which is what I was. A lot of things really dis­
couraged me and made me angry, and I didn’t know how to deal with
people younger than me telling me what to do. I was not a career crim­
inal. I felt that I was just as smart or bright as some people, just as edu­
cated as some people, and it was difficult to be talked to, sometimes,
like a dog. I would curse and go off, and I’d end up in the hole a lot of
times, so it was rough on me. I did a lot of time in the hole for my
mouth, at first. It was a hard readjustment.
I couldn’t have the medicine that I had depended on for so many
years. I was not weaned off of this medicine. Then [when] I was here, I
didn’t have the crutch to lean on. I had to deal and I just couldn’t. Not
only dealing with the time, but dealing with the fact that I killed some-
body that I loved. First love, only love. Despite the abuse, I loved him.
I never had time to deal with that. I just kept taking the medication and
being numb. Now it was time to deal with a lot of things.
First of all I realized that I was not okay and that I had problems and
issues that needed to be dealt with. I think it really took me until maybe
three or four years ago to really realize that I’m not as okay as I think I
am, and I need to get with self, and need to do things to help myself. I
need to start dealing, instead of pushing things, or hiding things, or not
talking about things. I need to deal with them. It started through my
writing. When I started writing my children’s books, I started writing
about things that happened to me as a child, but I would put them in
my children’s characters.
People need to know that we are still human beings, even though
we have numbers. That, sometimes, things are out of our control, and
people make mistakes, and because you make one mistake, your whole
 D O N A L DA 63

life should not be judged or determined. Your destiny should not be de­
termined by that one mistake. People should know that even though
you’re incarcerated, you can still be positive, you can still be produc­
tive. I’m very productive, every day I’m productive. Prison—now, you
might think this is crazy—but prison has brought out the best in me. It
has brought out the best in me, because it makes me resourceful.
Both of my daughters have been to jail. One daughter was there for
disturbing the peace. She was in a fight somewhere and they arrested
her. Just recently, my other daughter went to school with a utility knife
in her purse. She says she carries it—we live in a bad neighborhood—
she carries it in her purse at night, and she forgot to take it out at school
and it beeped the metal detector. They took her to jail, so she’s been to
court. She came out of it fine. She’s made the honor roll since. She did­
n’t let it deter her, but she realized a lot of things by those six hours in
jail. She realized, “Mom, I see what you go through now.”
I really want people to be knowledgeable. It’s for people to under-
stand this system, and maybe they can help people not return. You have
a lot of returnees. You have young girls that don’t have any direction,
and they don’t understand. They think it’s a game. These young girls in
prison, they don’t have any respect for anything. They don’t have re­
spect for life, other people, and authority. We need to educate them. Es­
pecially the Black community, as a whole, because there are lots of
things they don’t understand about the system. Education is a must. I
try to tell my kids that education will keep you out of here. Not just
school education like myself, but education about different things, like
drugs, domestic violence, all kinds of education because I didn’t know
anything.
 2
Cynthia

Cynthia had a tumultuous childhood. Although she did well in school,

participated in extracurricular activities, and dreamed of becoming a
doctor, she began drinking at sixteen, became pregnant very young, and
left home to live on the streets. She witnessed domestic violence be-
tween her parents and was sexually abused by a family member. Cyn­
thia is currently serving thirty years without the possibility of parole
for murder. She is dealing with issues of race, sexuality, and medical
care in the prison system.

Cynthia

64
 CYNTHIA 65

I WA S B O R N and raised in Newark. I am the middle child. My brother

is younger and my sister is older than me. My mother and father were
married and they separated when I was about seven years old. I lived
with my grandmother for a while until my mother moved next door to
my grandparents. Basically, aunts, uncles, grandma, and granddad
raised me.
My mother is from Georgia. She comes from a big family of seven
brothers and four sisters. She was just busy living her life when we were
younger. We did things in the summer. We would take some trips to
amusement parks and we would travel south to see relatives and dif­
ferent things like that. But my mother is an introverted person. She be­
lieves in the old-fashioned way of “do what I say, don’t ask questions.”
Church was mandatory in my house. My mother made sure that we
got up every Sunday morning and went to church or vacation Bible
school. She always cooked and made sure we had nice clothing and a
roof over our head. I guess that was her way. She just never talked. Even
now when she comes to see me she just sits there. She holds a lot inside.
My father comes from a family of eight girls and three boys. He was
a truck driver and I didn’t see him often. He would stop in and say hi,
though. I didn’t have a close relationship with my father until I was
older. When I was about twenty-four years old, I wanted to know who
he was so I found out where he lived. I started spending more time with
him prior to my incarceration. We had a good relationship.
When your parents are separated sometimes kids hear different
things about them. Some people might say that he is no good or what-
ever, but that is still your dad. When he would come home on week-
ends, we would go shopping. I would cook for him so that he could just
heat up the food when he came home during the week, because he
would be really tired a lot of times. My father was an alcoholic and I re­
alized what he had gone through. I got to know him and understand
what it was like for him as a boy coming up in the South in Alabama,
his pain. He had only a fourth-grade education. I just think that he held
a lot in and tried to cover it up with drinking. He died in 1995 of em­
physema and lung cancer.
I went to high school in Newark and graduated in 1977. I was active
in sports like basketball and softball. I always liked math and science. I
was in the biology club and the African American history club. A couple
 66 CYNTHIA

of teachers made impacts on my life—a math teacher and my biology

teacher. They encouraged me to do things right, to expand. It just was­
n’t easy. I was considered a problem child. I was suspended from school
for getting into a fight. I fought because I felt that I was being picked on
because I was real shy. Now that I am older, I realize that I thought fight­
ing was the way because my mother and father used to argue and fight
a lot. They didn’t call it that at that time, but there was a lot of domestic
violence going on. I guess I had anger and I guess I was a kid crying for
help but didn’t recognize it. I wanted to go to college to become a pedi­
atrician after high school. I studied medical books so that the material
would not be so hard for me when I did get into college. But I couldn’t
get anybody to take me for an interview for college, even though I had
a lot of family around me. My family wasn’t concerned with that and
the question of my further education did not really come up. This was a
disappointment for me. It was the turning point in my life.
After the disappointment with school and the violence, I started
drinking beer when I was sixteen. I was depressed but I didn’t under-
stand that it was depression. Being here, I look back over my life and I
realize the pattern. I started drinking and I was trying to go to school
and I was trying to find a job. I looked for any type of job I could find,
like clerk jobs or working at a store. I couldn’t really get a job because I
didn’t have any skills. I planned to join the service but I got pregnant.
Then I thought, “Oh God, what am I going to do?” I was still naïve. He
was using condoms but I still ended up getting pregnant. I thought that
as long as you use the condoms everything would be okay.
I thought about having an abortion because I knew that I couldn’t
bring a child in the world living the way I was, but I didn’t have enough
money. I had always dreamed that if I did have this child I wanted to be
a good mother. I wanted to have a better relationship with my child
than I did with my mother. I didn’t even know anything about adop­
tion. I didn’t think I had any choices. I was scared to talk to any of the
teachers that had helped me before.
I wasn’t living at home. Before I graduated school, I was living on
the streets because I ran away from home. I used to live in abandoned
buildings, train stations, and go to the all-night movies and stay there.
I left the house because of my relationship with my mother. I was beaten
or belittled a lot, so I just left. One day, I came in from school and my
mother hit me. It was time to leave because I wanted to strike back. It
was just the last straw and I just left.
 CYNTHIA 67

That is the way that I lived until I graduated high school. I confided
in a couple of teachers about my situation because I was going to drop
out of high school. I only had two or three weeks to go but I was be-
coming stressed and I was just going to quit. The teachers told me that
I came all this way and that it was not in my best interest to quit with
only three more weeks of finals and then the graduation. A couple of
them helped me out and paid for my graduation dues and fees, asking
me if I wanted to get my class ring. Another teacher let me stay at her
house for a while. They helped me out. They made sure that I ate and
bought me lunch. They did my hair for me for graduation. They just
talked to me.
At that point, I was glad that I had graduated, but I didn’t know
what I was going to do with myself. I had a boyfriend in high school
and he was working. So I lived in an abandoned building for a few
weeks and we saved up some money and I stayed at a hotel so I could
wash up. Basically, until I was seven months pregnant, that was the way
that I lived. I have a daughter who is now in her twenties. She is work­
ing and she has a little girl herself now to raise.
I didn’t really open up and tell my teachers the extent of what was
going on as far as sexual abuse and different things. I still held that in
and only gave them bits and pieces and not really the whole picture.
When I was four years old, I was raped by one of my uncles. People that
were supposed to help you were the ones that were taking advantage.
It went on for a long time, until I was about sixteen. I did not discuss it
with anybody until just recently when I was able to talk about it to a
counselor in prison in a program about sexual abuse. The counselor was
pretty good and I felt that she was sincere. I was able to open up and re-
lease it for the first time. I started to talk about the sexual abuse two
years ago. I sat down and I wrote about it. I like to write, and I just
wrote. She had a special session with me and I read it to her.
That counselor is no longer here but I feel more comfortable with
myself. I realize that I didn’t do anything wrong. I released a lot of
anger. I am learning how to nurture myself for once in my life. I can’t
change the past, but I accept it and I am just trying to move on. I have
been able to see how different situations have impacted my life as far as
me being withdrawn, my shyness, my addiction and some of the
choices that I have made. It’s like trying to get to the root of the problem
because if I ever get a chance to go out to society, I want to be strong. I
want to be better than when I first walked in here.
 68 CYNTHIA

After high school, I worked painting apartments. I also was trying

to go back to school. I was studying to be a paramedic because that
would still be in the medical field. I felt that I couldn’t be a doctor be-
cause I just felt that it was too late for me. I was about twenty-four or
twenty-five years old. I went for a while. I almost made it for a semes­
ter, then something would come up and I would end up withdrawing.
I might take my finals, I might do the midterms, but something was al­
ways going on. I was young. I didn’t really know that I should have
stayed motivated or tried to find other things. I figured that once my
daughter was in school all day then I could go back, but it just didn’t
work out that way.
I became addicted a couple of years before I became incarcerated. I
began using cocaine by trying to be part of the group, trying to be ac­
cepted. It started as a weekend thing. I realized that I had a habit be-
cause I started selling things that I had, putting things in the pawnshop
and borrowing. I tried to get into rehab. I went to a residential program
for about a week and started to feel a little clean without really under-
standing what the situation was. I thought I had everything under con­
trol, but little did I know that when I went back home and started being
in the same environment, around the same people, that I would fall
back into it. For a few days, I said “no thank you. I am not doing that.”
When they said, “Just take a little bit,” that is all it took. I was back into
the madness. I was also in a lesbian relationship and I realize that I was
basically going that way, which had nothing to do with some of the
things that had happened to me. My addiction problems started while
I was in that relationship. Basically, that is why I am here. We were in­
volved together for about eleven years. One particular night, I came
home from work and another girl was at the house. I asked the girl to
leave and told my wife that I wanted to talk to her. The other girl said
that she wasn’t going anywhere. I guess my wife was scared and
thought that I was going to beat her up or something because I was
upset. My wife was leaving to get her sister and brother. I got into an ar­
gument with the girl she was involved with. The girl swung at me and
I told her to just leave me alone, that I had no problems with her. I just
wanted to talk to my wife. I knew that my wife had to let her in, so I
didn’t blame her. I had blamed the person who I had made my com­
mitment with. Anyway, my wife left and we argued in the hallway.
About two days after the argument, I left. I went to stay with my
mother. I asked my sisters to mind my daughter while I worked. One
 CYNTHIA 69

night I realized that I hadn’t eaten although I had been drinking, so I

went to get some fries to put in my stomach. I just started walking
around because I was depressed. I went back to the old abandoned
buildings where I once used to stay and called home. I came upon the
other girl by chance walking on the highway and I asked if we could
talk. I told her that I didn’t want to have any problems. We were on foot.
I told her that whatever she and my wife did was on their part, but I
loved my wife’s children like they were my own and I wanted to see
them. An argument broke out and she said, “I don’t give a fuck what
you want.” And that is when the situation happened.
We started arguing. It was late at night, and I did have a weapon on
me; I had a knife. She did not have a weapon and I didn’t think that she
did. It was just the argument. One thing led to another. I remember
flashes of her coming toward me and thinking she was going to throw
me in front of the trucks on the highway. I recall during the struggle that
she may have grasped for something and that she stumbled. I just went
into panic and I just ran. Some days later, I found out that she had died.
I knew we had fought, but I didn’t think that I had caused her death.
Then everything happened so fast, like flashes. I didn’t really under-
stand the extent of what I had done.
When I left after the argument, I went to my mother’s house. I did­
n’t say anything. It was late. I guess I was in total shock. I just kept
everything inside of me. I had called my wife a couple of days after the
incident and I told her that I wanted to get things that I had in the apart­
ment. At that time she informed me that the woman had passed away.
Then everything just clicked.
I was scared. I called a therapist that I was seeing and I told her that
I think I might have hurt this person. That is when the reality of every-
thing settled in. The therapist told me to come in and she talked to me.
I was put in a psychiatric ward at the hospital. The detectives came up.
I recall him yelling and telling me that I killed this girl and he told the
nurse to put a hold on me. I wasn’t exactly sure because they gave me a
needle or something and I was asleep. After I had taken the therapy,
they had to release me. Two police officers came and picked me up from
the hospital and they took me down to a holding cell in Newark. I stayed
there for about a week or so. Then they called me upstairs to the court-
room and they gave me a green paper. I guess it was an indictment form
and they told me I was being charged with first-degree murder. There
was a public defender there and he said just don’t say anything. Then
 70 CYNTHIA

the judge set bail. I went back downstairs until they sent me to trial. I
didn’t make bail. They wanted $50,000 in cash only, according to what
the public defender told me. I guess nobody wanted to put it up. My
mother told me that she didn’t have that type of money, so that was it.
Basically, I only saw my public defender about four times prior to
trial. He came up and told me the nature of the charge and what it car­
ried. He told me that he really had no defense for me and that he would
try to get me a plea bargain. He said that because everything happened
really fast that night and I really only had bits and pieces in my mind of
what happened. He mentioned murder, aggravated manslaughter,
reckless manslaughter, and that’s all that I can remember. He told me
the sentence required by law for each charge. For example, if I got an ag­
gravated manslaughter deal then I would have to do maybe twenty
years; if I got a reckless manslaughter that carried ten years. He re-
quested that I have a psychological evaluation. I saw a psychologist
who showed me some pictures and asked me some questions. The next
time the attorney came back he seemed sort of angry. I don’t know why
he was angry. He said that they were going to try to use the insanity de­
fense, but he couldn’t do that because the guy said that I had borderline
personality disorder and that I was not insane. He told me that I had to
tell this guy something to put the pieces together the best that I could.
So when I saw the psychologist, even though I could only remember
bits and pieces, I tried to fill in the gaps so that it made sense, because I
really couldn’t remember. I remember talking and starting the conver­
sation. She struck me and we had an argument. It’s like flashes like you
would see in a movie, like scenes just flashing. I don’t even know how
to describe it.
We went for a jury trial. My attorney told me that they were not
going to offer me a plea and that I had to go to trial. I don’t know why
the state didn’t offer a plea. I think maybe it’s because I am a lesbian.
They were trying to say it was a lover’s triangle type of thing. I believe
that they were trying to say that society doesn’t want people that are not
in the masses, like a deviant or something. That may have had some-
thing to do with it. I really don’t know.
When they got the jury, the judge told them that it was going to be
a lesbian trial and started asking them if anybody had problems with it.
The judge asked some questions and then my attorney asked some
questions to see who could stay and who had to go. Some people were
dismissed. I don’t know what my attorney thought about the fact that
 CYNTHIA 71

the case involved lesbians. He never said. I just told him what hap­
pened that night and a couple things that happened prior to the inci­
dent and that was about it. I never really thought anything about that
until recently. Now I realize that there were a lot of things that he should
have asked me that he didn’t ask.
For example, I think that when I was injected at the hospital with
the medication and I was asleep when the detectives woke me up the
way that they did. One guy said I was incoherent. The other detective
said that I was not incoherent. I think my attorney should have asked
about the effect that the drugs had on me. I think that he should have
asked them if I was really read my rights when the guy said that I made
the confession to him. I had never been involved with the law before. I
didn’t know what to expect or what was required as far as what attor­
neys could do. I thought that they had your best interest at heart. You
tell them what happened and they take the facts and do the best they
can to defend you. I didn’t know that they were supposed to be aware
of different strategies.
There were men and women on the jury. There were Blacks and
Whites; some were older. I just prayed that the jury would be fair be-
cause I didn’t really understand what to expect. While going through
the process, I saw how the prosecutor could take one statement and
turn it into something else and the people would think it was a fact. For
example, he tried to make it look like she lived only four blocks away
from me and that I had to know this girl—like I stalked her—which
wasn’t true. Different things as far as the medical examiner’s testimony
were twisted around. I guess they did what they thought was right to
do. I knew that I deserved to pay for what I did because it was wrong.
I always try to accept the consequences for my actions, but I didn’t think
I deserved to do thirty years in prison without parole. It wasn’t like I
was trying to say I am totally innocent, but looking back now, I don’t be­
lieve that I had a fair trial. The trial lasted about a week. Only my mom
came to the trial; I saw her there. When the final verdict came it was for
murder one. I was sentenced to prison after the trial. I was at the county
jail for a while and came to prison in August 1987.
Hell. It’s been real hard. Basically I thank God for His grace because
I think I probably would have lost it. This is a whole different world.
When I came here it was scary because I really didn’t know what to ex­
pect. I’ve spent time in lock for all sorts of crazy things. I feel that now
I have been stripped of everything. I used to be shy and withdrawn but
 72 CYNTHIA

now I speak up. A couple of years ago, I was depressed because my fa­
ther and grandfather died, and I was close to them. It was a rough pe­
riod and I was trying to see if there was somebody to talk to. I couldn’t
see anybody, so I was sort of depressed. I also was trying to work on my
legal papers. During this time, I just stayed in my room and went to
work, so they wanted me to see the psychiatrist.
I went to the psychiatrist and I was telling her that I couldn’t even
grieve for my father. When I went to see his body, the officers were
telling me in the van that when you get there and you show out you are
coming back. If you see any of your family there you are coming back.
I was trying to brace myself because I hadn’t seen my dad in ten years.
When I got there I couldn’t show any emotion. I looked at him but my
tears, my pain, everything . . . I swallowed it down inside of me because
I didn’t want them to say that I had done anything wrong. I didn’t want
to cry because if you cry you don’t know how hard you are going to cry
when you start. I held that inside of me and it really made me de-
pressed.
I talked about those issues to the psychiatrist. She wanted me to
take medication and I told her that I didn’t need any medication and
that I was okay. That is why I first started doing drugs, trying to cover
up things and not deal with whatever I was going through. I wanted to
deal with it face on. I was in my bed asleep and I was called and told
that they wanted to come see me and that I was going to be committed.
I thought, “Excuse me, committed?” They said that I told them that I
was going to commit suicide. I went over the conversation and didn’t
know where they came up with this. I started getting nervous. There
was nothing I could do. I went back to my cell. By the time I got there
to light a cigarette, there were sergeants and lieutenants at my door.
They took me to the hospital, started telling me to take off all of my
clothes, put me in a gown and sent me to the mental institution for the
criminally insane. I stayed there for two weeks because when I went
there, I was angry and scared.
It was the hardest thing that I had to go through because I couldn’t
show any emotion. I am a murderer. They are going to think I am vio­
lent. If I cry, they say that I am depressed. So for those two weeks, I held
everything inside of me. I just read my Bible. Then I started counting
my blessings because I saw people there who were really way out. I had
a meeting at a big long table with all types of social workers, psycholo­
gists, whatever. They talked to me and asked me questions about my
 CYNTHIA 73

background. They put me in a therapy class. I just did what I had to do.
When I was there, another patient started groping me and I was scared
to really hit him or anything because I felt they would use that against
me. I told the staff about it and they said, “He always does that.” So on
top of everything that I had been through, like dealing with the other
sexual issues, I felt violated all over again.
When I came back to the prison, I started having nightmares and
night sweats. I was really traumatized but I couldn’t let anybody know
because I felt they would use that against me. I just think God’s strength
got me through it. Now I refuse to ever speak to a psychiatrist because
that is too much power. I am dealing with some of the things like the
past abuse by practicing yoga and meditating. I am being honest with
myself. I realize that the only thing that I have control over is myself.
At the prison, I have tried to bring things to different people’s at­
tention, but that is about as far as it goes. Some things are worked out
as far as the handicapped people that come in here, like making
arrangements for them so they wouldn’t have to step up. For example,
when my grandfather wanted to come and see me, he couldn’t step up
in the van because of his legs. Now they drive people up here and they
can get in. I just keep loose. I believe that one day I will have my op­
portunity to try to make a difference. It’s not like the 1960s with prison
reform and different things, but I believe that society needs a wake-up
call. I lost friends in here because of the medical system. The medical
system is privatized. To me it is basically about making money. For ex-
ample, I have certain health issues like high blood pressure. Once, I was
supposed to go to the clinic in April. I sent them a notice. I received no
response. I didn’t hear anything until October. They gave me medica­
tion and it was making me sick. I asked them about the side effects of
the medication and they told me that they couldn’t provide me with
that information so I just stopped taking it.
A friend died here several years ago. She was having pains in her
chest. She was complaining a lot that she didn’t feel well. I remember a
couple of times she came in from work and she was real weak, about to
pass out. One time she did fall out and they said nothing was wrong
with her. Eventually when they did get her to the hospital, they found
that she had cancer and it was too far gone. A lot of times people that I
live with in here are discouraged because they always say that it’s in
their mind. They say I’m not going to pay five dollars just for him to tell
me that nothing is wrong with me.
 74 CYNTHIA

What concerns me is that I still have seventeen years ahead of me

and there is nothing for me to do here. Nothing constructive. If you al­
ready have a GED or diploma, you don’t have any other educational re-
sources. They don’t really give you any training or marketable skills.
They have NA and AA. I have participated in the drug program, but ba­
sically I just do the domestic violence group. I speak to the women
about it. I wrote articles for them. I help organize different things. I also
went to a group for long termers. They teach you how to cope with this
time. To me it’s like parenthood, you learn as you go along because
things are always changing. When there is a rule today, there may not
be a rule tomorrow.
Everybody has to have a job unless you are medically excused. The
most that you can make is fifty-eight cents per hour. Some people get
paid thirty-five dollars per month. Some people make two dollars per
day. It varies depending on the type of work you are doing. They also
have a sewing room so you can make things. I think that they should
have more programs to give marketable skills, like repairing comput­
ers. There is the GED program but college courses are no longer of­
fered. I was able to take some sociology classes and an Afro-American
history class.
Some people in here get along and some people don’t. There are
some people that are prejudiced. Black people prejudiced against
Whites; Whites prejudiced against Blacks. It works both ways. Some-
times they fight and they argue. Basically, if they argue or they fight
they will end up going to lock. If there was some kind of racial problem,
both women might go to lock but the woman of color might get more
time. For example, I had an incident a while ago with my job on max de-
tail. I completed my assignment but the officer was in a bad mood so
she said I didn’t work as much as the other girl. I ended up losing my
job. It was like she was saying things to provoke me so I just laughed at
her. If I cursed her out they would write me up to try to justify it so I just
laughed at her and it really made her mad. The assistant warden came
to see me. She reprimanded her, the White person, and she fired me. We
had the same charges, even though they never explained why I got a
harsher punishment.
For instance, there also is no loitering in the hallway and no room
visiting. There have been women of color that have been caught in
someone’s room and maybe the charge is fifteen days LOP (loss of priv-
 CYNTHIA 75

ileges). Whereas, they tell the other person just to get out of there. I just
try to keep a low profile and do the best I can.
Sexuality is scary in here because the population has a high HIV
percentage. I am open about my sexuality but I have been celibate. I talk
to people but it is not in an intimate relationship. I try to get people to
think and expand, try to help people, encourage people. I think there is
a lot of pain in here. A lot of people have been through the things that I
have been through as far as sexual abuse and the drugs. Sometimes they
need somebody to look up to or to listen to them. They really never had
any guidance. Like me, they had nobody just to say, “Hey I care.” I try
to encourage them to get their GEDs. I try to get them to believe in
themselves. I tell them that there are different opportunities out there
and that it is important to stay motivated. They should spend time with
their children. I left my daughter when she was six, so I missed out on
school plays and different things.
I think people should understand that everybody makes a mistake.
I think that the judge should have more discretion when it comes to sen­
tencing people because a lot of the get-tough-on-crime policies are not
really beneficial because they don’t address the total circumstances. The
judge can’t look at the whole situation and make a determination based
on the evidence and the situation. I think that they need to realize that
the same people that they have in jail today, that they are housing for
five, ten, fifteen or some many years, are going to return to society. If
they are not treated with compassion, then when they get out there they
are not going to have compassion. Everything is closed in. A lot of
times, the way things are designed, it makes you feel that everybody is
against you. They have to address those issues to get them skills, get
them tools, and show them that they have options. Give them pro-
grams, psychological counseling, whatever they can that will help them
make a transition back into society. Everybody deserves at least one
chance in life. I know that we have to have laws to keep things balanced
or have some type of rule that is reasonable, but I think they should look
at the whole person and not just the nature of their offense.
I really don’t know what my future holds because right now I am
still facing seventeen more years in here without parole. But if I could
be free, I want to get out and work with young people in my commu­
nity. I want to go back to school and get an education. I want to spend
time with my family. I want to try to make a difference in the prison
 76 CYNTHIA

system. I really want people to understand a lot of things that go on be-

hind these walls that they are not going to read about on the news.
Right now, I am thirty-nine years old. I will be fifty-seven when I’m
released. I try to take care of my health because I think that the older
people don’t get the type of care they need. I try not to go too far be-
cause if I go too far, I might stress out and worry about things that you
can’t change. I try to live in the moment. I just try to say God is in con­
trol and whatever happens it is because God allows it. Whether it is
pleasant or unpleasant, I try to deal with it with the best of my abilities.
People do change, regardless of the circumstance and the crime they
were convicted of. I don’t think that locking people up for a long time
is the solution. I’ve had the direct experience of being here and because
I was outside prior to coming here, I can say that it is not going to work.
The system as it is today is not going to work as far as the long-term ef­
fect of bettering society and stopping crime. Sometimes the person can
come in here one way and when they go out they are in a worse state.
There is a lot of bitterness in here. It doesn’t make you better, it makes
you bitter. Sure people have to take responsibility for what they did, but
if you are going to incarcerate them, give them the mental help that they
need. Teach them social skills because a lot of times people don’t have
basic skills to do basic things such as parenting or coping with abuse
and other issues. I think yoga would be a good program to have in
prison because it helps expand a person’s perspective. It helps them
look at themselves and stop blaming people and take responsibility for
the things that they do.
Today, I can say that there was just the rage, the anger, everything
and I lost my temper. I regret what happened. I have risked my life a lot
of times trying to save people. I felt that what happened was totally
ironic to what I believe my nature was. I really thought that if anything,
I would die to save somebody else.
I do think about the victim. It took me a long time to forgive myself
because even though I did this, I really love people. I never thought that
I would be in this type of situation. I don’t really like violence because
I grew up in it and around it. It makes no sense as far as what my belief
system is and how people like Martin Luther King, Jr., meant something
to me as I was coming up. It hurts, the pain that I caused her family. Re­
gardless of what happened, I never had a right to take anybody’s life. I
always pray for her family. I pray for them that they have peace and that
maybe one day they will forgive me. Everyday that I live with myself it
 CYNTHIA 77

is there. It was a tragic mistake. I can say that because I was high, that
had an impact on it, but it was wrong.
A person can snap. It is true that a person can only take so much.
You just snap. Back then I was trying to get a job so I took the civil serv­
ice test and passed. I had decided that I wanted to be on the police force.
I had two weeks before I started the training and I got in this trouble. It
was heartbreaking for me because I knew that I had a lot to offer soci­
ety, but that night I made a bad decision.
 3
Mamie

Mamie currently is serving consecutive sentences of ten to twenty-five

years for involuntary manslaughter, based on the death of her daugh­
ter, and five to fifteen years for endangering children, plus a concurrent
life sentence for felonious sexual penetration. She continues to grapple
with many questions regarding her daughter’s death, which she be­
lieves was never properly investigated. She also continues to struggle
with the issues surrounding her conviction and sentence and believes
that she is the victim of injustice in the legal system. She appealed her
conviction, unsuccessfully. She maintains her innocence and relies on
her faith to help her through her sentence.

Mamie

78
 MAMIE 79

M Y N A M E I S M A M I E . I’ve been here ten years. I’m forty-three years

old. We are originally from North Carolina. My mom was from South
Carolina, my father was from North Carolina, and I’m from Winston.
My mom was a midwife in North Carolina; she helped to deliver babies.
My father worked at a major tobacco company for thirty years. I think
he was a packer. My mom didn’t get a job when we came up to Ohio.
My dad didn’t come up with us. My dad and mom had separated and
had gotten divorced when I was three. I have four sisters and two broth­
ers. I fit between the baby boy and the baby girl. My mom raised me
until I was fourteen. In the household, it felt like my mom had more
love towards my sisters and brothers, and later for my children, than for
me. When my mother separated from my father, she would always tell
me that I was just like my daddy. I never really knew how my daddy
was, but the only part that I remember was that he wasn’t abusive and
my mother was.
Jail really didn’t faze me because I had lived at home and I took the
abuse. My mother made a closet and put a hole in it, and had a padlock.
If we didn’t do what she said, we would go into the closet. We would
stay in there for three or four hours. If I wasn’t sent into the closet, she
would make us strip all our clothes off and she would use an extension
cord or switch. I would go to my sisters and they would say just go
back, it’s going to be okay. I went to my dad and asked him why she
treated me like she didn’t want me and he said he didn’t know. He just
said bear with her because she’s still your mother. You’re under her roof
and you have to do what she says. My father tried to get us, and the
court system wouldn’t allow us to go with him. They told him he had
to remarry, but he didn’t want to remarry for a long time after leaving
my mom. I was in my twenties when my dad remarried. By then, I was
grown and on my own.
I had left home at fourteen and I stayed with this guy. I ended up
marrying him because in the early days, you had to marry the man if you
had a child. That was my situation, even though this man was twenty-
seven and I was still a baby. My mother said I still had to marry him. I
met him downtown in Akron. He told me that he worked for the city. I
remember that wasn’t really where I wanted to be, but I had no choice.
Being married to him was just like being at home again because he
was abusive. Every time he got drunk, he either wanted to beat me or I
 80 MAMIE

couldn’t go nowhere. The abuse started two days after we got married.
He had gotten drunk and when we got home he wanted me to do some-
thing. I got up and fixed the food, I did everything he asked me to do,
but that wasn’t good enough. Then he began to call me by his first wife’s
name, and I wasn’t going for that. I told him, you’re not going to disre­
spect me by doing that, and he turned around and busted me in the
face. That was it. I was not standing for an abusive relationship for the
simple fact that I had enough abuse at home. I didn’t need anymore. I
was married for six months and then I was gone.
First I went back home to North Carolina and lived with my cousin.
I stayed there only two weeks because I missed my daughter. My
daughter was born in December 1972. She was born at eight months,
one month premature. She was real sickly. She had to stay in the hospi­
tal about five weeks because her heart kept giving out on her. She had
tubes in her. The doctor kept telling me that he didn’t know if she was
going to make it. That’s when I began to pray, asking the Lord to take
me instead of letting her suffer.
When I left to go to North Carolina, my mother had my daughter
because my mother thought that I was too young to care for her. I knew
nothing about raising a child. Not only that, but my mother needed the
money from welfare. She had me in and out of the Children’s Service
Board. My mother told them that I was an alcoholic. I never did drugs
in my life. I may have taken one or two drinks in my life. The Children’s
Services took that and ran with it. They felt that the kids should stay in
my mother’s care. At that time, I was fifteen or sixteen years old. My
mother wouldn’t give up the baby, and my husband felt that I didn’t
need a baby anyway, so I should give her to my mother. My husband
signed the papers giving temporary custody of my daughter to my
mother. I didn’t know that until a year later, when my mother told me
that he signed the papers.
I stayed away for a while, but I went to see my child. I wanted my
child to know that I was really out there struggling for her, that I was­
n’t neglecting her in any way. I walked in the snow, knee deep; I just had
to be near her. My mother would always tell my daughter that I didn’t
love her. She would not give my daughter the things I had bought for
her. It didn’t make sense to me. But I was determined, and I was not giv­
ing up. My daughter is twenty-seven now; my mother turned her
against me and she doesn’t like me. I explained to my daughter that it
was not my fault.
 MAMIE 81

My mother kept me in the court system. She said that she didn’t
think that I was fit to keep my children. My attorney felt that I should
have visitation rights with my daughters, but he said he had to go by
what my mother said. I thought it was very unfair. The more I told them
what was going on, it was like I was a liar. The attorney just said, “Well,
I’ll look into this and I’ll look into that,” but nothing got done. So they
kept it the same, and the kids remained in her house.
When I came back to Akron, I got an apartment. They knew I had a
one-bedroom apartment. I already had my baby with me, and my
mother had the other two. I had to look for a bigger place for them, but
in the process of looking for a bigger place for them, I had filed for sec­
tion eight (housing subsidy). While waiting for section eight to come
through, I was in and out of the hospital with my nine-year-old so that
she could see a psychiatrist. They couldn’t deal with her in school. The
lady that checked her said that she had a problem and they were going
to put her on Ritalin. At first, they put her on 10 mg of Ritalin. She was
getting out of control, I took her back, and they gave her 20 mg of Ri­
talin. My daughter had gotten to the point where she started banging
her head on the floor, and she would get a fork after my baby daughter.
Then she would just calm down and go into stages like, “Mommy I love
you,” and “Mommy don’t ever leave me.” She went through four or
five stages with me.
She had a problem. I tried to get help for her. The psychiatrist said,
well, let’s try her out on this, and if she needs any more help, we’ll go
further. Well, further was to put her in a place. I decided that I would
not have my daughter placed in an institution. I didn’t put her in a
place; I worked with her. That was a hard decision because I never had
a chance to raise my daughter when she was younger, and I wanted to
be there for her. I wanted to do things that other mothers did for their
children. I really didn’t know what her diagnosis was. All I know is that
they were saying she was hyper, and that’s why she was on Ritalin.
They didn’t even tell me that she had seizures. I felt that if I was with
her, she would change, but she didn’t. I did the best that I could as a
mother. I did what I thought was best, but that wasn’t good enough.
I did everything those people asked me to do. I got the house. I tried
for a job. I did all of this. When they gave me my kids, they didn’t have
clothes, anything. I had to scrape up some clothes for them, scrape up
some food for them, because they left me emptyhanded. It was like you
just go for yourself. They had given me the runaround for a long time,
 82 MAMIE

and I kept running for help, running for help. They never explained
about their medical history or anything. They never told me what I had
to face, so I had to face it alone and I had to deal with it day by day.
I have three kids of my own, one passed. That’s what I’m in prison
for. I got the kids in 1988, after my mother went to jail. My mother was
charged with involuntary manslaughter. That’s the only reason why I
got the children. All I know is that they gave her twelve to twenty years.
The prosecutor said that she was going to die in prison. My mother died
in Columbus, in a hospital on the dialysis machine. She didn’t die in
prison, so he didn’t get his wish. My mother gave them eleven years on
her sentence. Before she died, my mother explained to my daughter
that it was not my fault, and that she didn’t allow her to be around me
and didn’t allow us to do things together. Once I got them back it was
going smoothly, until that day, the day that caused me to be here.
I only had the kids permanently for three weeks. It was going well.
The children were in school. I was on welfare because I had my baby.
On this particular day, I had been home all day because I had a slight
headache. I went to sleep and I woke up because the kids were at school
and I heard somebody at my door. It was my husband, who had come
home early. Around 4:00 p.m., I asked him if the kids had come in, and
he said they were out in the yard playing. I went outside looking for my
kids and they weren’t out there. I came back up and told him that they
weren’t out there. My husband then said that they had to be in the bath-
room. My husband was standing by the stove.
I went to the bathroom and the door was locked. I told them to open
the door. When they opened the door, they had a douche bag. It was just
the baby and the nine year old, and she had my douche bag in her hand
and the nozzle towards her mouth. I was asking her, “What are you all
doing in here? The clothes are all over the floor.” They said “Nothing,
Momma.” “So why is the door locked?” Again, they said, “Nothing,
Momma.” The baby said, “Yes, you was trying to use this.” I said, “No,
you’re not. I’m going to spank you.” So I spanked them. They were fine.
They returned to the room. Later, they came back and they said,
“Momma, I’m getting my bath water ready for school in the morning.”
I said okay. This was about 8:00 or 9:00 that night.
My nine-year-old went in and ran her bath water, and the water
was as cold as ice, so I got up to check the water. I added some hot water
to warm it up. As I got ready to turn, she kept saying, “Momma, I could
swim.” Well, I never saw my children swim because I never had them.
 MAMIE 83

I said to stop playing in the water. I turned around again to try to get all
this clothes up off of the floor, and I heard this bump. I turned back
around and she was going under the water and water was coming out
of her mouth. I panicked because I don’t know if she was hurt or not. I
took her out of the water and laid her on the bed and put a cover over
her. I returned to my room to get some clothes to put on. Then I laid on
the bed with her in my arms. My husband was still standing at the
stove; it was an hour later. But I wasn’t thinking about that, I was think­
ing about my baby.
I ran into my bedroom and called my girlfriend. Then I called 911.
When the paramedics came, they checked my daughter and they said,
“Didn’t you know she was in a coma.” I said, “What are you talking
about?” He said, “She’s in a coma.” I said, “What are you talking about?
How am I supposed to know these things?” All I saw was her foaming
at the mouth. That’s why I ran to the phone and called somebody. I
asked if I could ride with them in the ambulance and he said no, I had
to get a ride. Somehow, my husband beat them there, and he called and
said they wouldn’t tell him anything. I told him I was on my way. By
the time I got my baby and myself together, the police was at my door.
They said they were taking me to the hospital.
When I got there, they questioned me. I was at the hospital, in the
emergency room. I didn’t see my husband or where they had arrested
him. He was arrested at the hospital before I got there. The cop said,
“What did you spank her for?” I said, “I spanked her because she had
my douche bag in her hand going towards her mouth.” He said I
spanked her because of perfume. I explained to them why I spanked her
and that I spanked both of them. The cop said it was like I had beat her
with a board. I said I never beat my kids with a board, never in my life.
He came up with every excuse he could come up with. When it hit the
paper, it was a mother beating up her daughter about perfume, which
was not true.
From then on, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t see my daugh­
ter, nothing. They kept questioning me, asking, “What did you beat her
with?” I said I spanked her, but I didn’t beat her with no board. I never
spanked my child with a board. Before I had gotten her, she already had
bruises on her. He told me, I’m not worried about the old bruises, I’m
worried about what’s happening now. She could have been hurt before
I got her, because she had marks on her when I got her. I kept telling
them that I didn’t know what they were talking about, that I didn’t beat
 84 MAMIE

my child with a board. I asked them if I could make a phone call, and I
called my sister. I told her to get to the hospital because they said I hit
my daughter with a board and that I knew better than that.
When my sister got there, she asked what they were doing. She
said, “That is not like my sister. How are you going to say that she
whipped her with a board, were you there?” The cop said, “No, and are
you getting smart with me, because I could take you down.” So my sis­
ter said, “No, I’m just telling you about my sister. I know how she is and
how she’s not.” He was not trying to hear her.
They took my daughter, my baby, they checked her out and she was
fine. And they took me to jail. The attorney came down to see me. I don’t
know who contacted him, all I know is that he was there. He said that
something was shoved up my daughter. He was saying that I had
shoved the board up my daughter, and that’s sick. I found out later,
reading the paper, that they found semen in my daughter. Semen comes
from a man and not a woman. I’m not that stupid not to know that. I got
convicted on sexual penetration. How, when it comes from a man? I
have no understanding about that.
I also don’t understand how it is that my daughter lived eight days,
and they pulled the plug without asking me. She was in a coma for eight
days, and they pulled the plug on her that night, and they called me that
morning and told me they had pulled the plug on her. I was in the
county jail. My bond was $50,000. I would call my sisters and brothers
from jail. They said the doctor said it didn’t look good, that her brain
was swelling and they didn’t know how long they wanted to keep her
on the life support system. My brother told them that they weren’t
going to pull the plug, if that was what they were asking. Well, the
eighth night they pulled the plug on my daughter.
The attorney told me on the phone that they had pulled the plug on
my daughter. He said the judge ordered it. He said that I was going to
be charged with involuntary manslaughter. When he came to see me, he
said he was going to make me say who had sex with my daughter. I told
him, “If I did know, do you think he’d be walking around. I don’t think
so, I don’t think so at all.” I would really be down here doing time if I
thought for one minute that my husband or anyone else had anything
to do with my daughter before I got her or after I got her, or whatever.
They would not be walking around. I would always tell my kids if any
man came near them or touched them in any way, let me know. My kids
 MAMIE 85

never came to me and told me about anything. All I know is that the
child hit her head on the tub. The sex part really got me.
I was charged with involuntary manslaughter, sex penetration, and
felonious assault. Then, the attorney and prosecutor took a plea bargain
behind my back, while I’m sitting in the county jail. The ten to twenty-
five; I guess there’s a tail on it. The attorney told me that I had a choice
to go to trial or take a plea bargain, but not to worry about it then be-
cause he was looking into something. My friend in the county jail told
me to pick up the paper. I picked up the paper and saw that he had
taken a plea bargain. When I found out about the plea, I was on my way
here to prison. Before I got here, I called him and asked why he took the
plea bargain, and he told me that he didn’t want to talk about it right
then. Then he said, when we get into court, do not say anything.
The attorney didn’t want to go to trial. I knew that I had a right to
a trial, everybody has a right to a trial. That’s not what I got. What I got
was, “You could be facing thirty years or death row,” or “I didn’t want
to take it to trial,” and “I don’t want to talk about the plea bargain right
now.” That’s what I got. When the attorney first raised the issue of a
plea bargain, I asked what chances I had. He said it didn’t look good,
that it looked like I was going to do some time. But he said that we did­
n’t want to talk about a plea bargain right now. If my girlfriend in the
county jail hadn’t been reading the paper, I wouldn’t have known that
he took the plea bargain.
We didn’t go in front of a judge to accept the plea. I was in the
county jail. Still, when they got ready to send me out, the attorney never
mentioned the plea until I called him back. I asked him how he could
take a plea if I wasn’t there. He said don’t worry about it. Okay, well,
don’t worry about it. When we went to court, they sentenced me to
prison. I was just supposed to keep my mouth closed, and that is what
I did. I did everything these people told me to do, and look where I am.
I kept my mouth shut like he said—“Don’t say nothing when you go to
court.” I did all this. I’m angry because I know that they railroaded me.
When I got to prison, I was a little lost and didn’t know what was
going on, didn’t know how to go about it, didn’t know who I could talk
to, because you can’t trust anyone in here. My theory is, the Man up
above has brought me this far, because in here you have to be strong to
deal with what’s surrounding you. Other than that, I think I’m handling
it pretty good. I’m not going to stop until justice is done, as far as my
 86 MAMIE

case. There are a lot of women in here that I really feel sorry for because
they don’t know how to get help. It’s real, real deep. After these ten
years, I can honestly say that I learned a lot of things that I did not know,
and if God ever lets me out of this gate, I could tell it to my children. It
ain’t easy in here. Trust me.
It seems like prison turned my life all the way around because I’m
not used to dealing with people like this. But I’ve helped a lot, too. It’s
like being a role model for someone, because there are babies in here.
It’s just like being a mother figure to them.
I’ve experienced hostility from other inmates. When I first got here,
they said things like “you baby killer.” But when I got out into general
population, I said, “Anything you got to say to me, say it to my face.
We’re face to face now . . . yeah, I kind of thought so.” I let them know
that you’re not going to keep badgering me about what I’m here for, be-
cause first of all, you don’t know what I’m here for. Second of all, I don’t
owe you nothing and I’m doing my time all by myself, and you’re not
helping me. But I don’t have a problem with them no more.
I dealt with a lot of them that have done something to their chil­
dren, but I can’t judge them. I can’t say, “Well, she did it.” How can I say
you did it? I wasn’t there. You may say whatever you want about me
and it’s okay, as long as in my heart, I know that it never happened, I
did not take my daughter’s life. I can’t worry about it. I can still walk
with that smile whether justice be done or not, as long as I know that
Man up there knows it, and if He forgives me for anything that I’ve
done, who are you to judge me. I went through that ordeal when I first
got here, but it don’t bother me now.
What makes it difficult are the different attitudes here. Some of the
staff are really nasty to you. Then we have some real good ones who
will hear your problem, will take a little bit of time out to hear you.
Some of them snap at you like you’re a kid, because they’ve had a bad
day and they think they can take it out on us. We have bad days, too, be-
cause we have families out there, and that’s what we have to think
about, but they don’t look at it like that.
Plus, it’s sad when you can’t get medical help around here. I expe­
rienced that. I almost died in here several years ago. It happened be-
cause they pulled the wrong tooth. They left in the tooth they were sup-
posed to pull and the metal was hitting against the nerve and it turned
into an abscess. It turned real black, then it busted and the poison went
through my system. I couldn’t move, couldn’t walk, couldn’t eat, could-
 MAMIE 87

n’t do none of that. Twenty-two days I asked for help and didn’t get it.
There was one White girl that had the same problem, and they took
apart the pharmacy that night, and they stole the medication and
brought it back to me. I thanked her for it, because she didn’t have to do
that, because she could have gotten locked up.
I draw to occupy my time. Sometimes I go to the ball field. Some-
times I sit out in the yard. Sometimes I just sleep. As for programs, I did
the domestic violence program, then I did Building Bridges, then I did
12-steps. I don’t have a substance abuse problem, but I did it because I
thought it would be interesting. I did it for myself so I could be pre-
pared for anything when I do go home. I have a certificate in volleyball.
I go to school now; I’m studying for my GED. I went to the 11th grade
on the outside, but I was in the slow learning class. I was stuck on math
then, and that’s what I’m having problems with in here. I like math be-
cause it’s a challenge. I like reading and language. So far, it’s going
good.
Ten years is a long time. Ten years from my children. They write to
me, send me pictures. My oldest daughter understands more than my
baby does. But she understands up to a point. They know in their hearts
that I’m here for something that I really didn’t do, and they’re accepting
it. It’s hard to accept, but they’re accepting it. When I first came here, I
got letters from my husband, but I haven’t heard from him no more. He
did thirty days for child endangerment and he’s back on the street. They
told me nothing. My husband doesn’t want to talk about it.
I was working with a guy who is a paralegal. He had gotten all my
documents together and came up with twenty-one errors that they
made in my case. I knew something was wrong. I tried everything. We
went to the Ohio Supreme Court, the U.S. Supreme Court. I never got
anywhere. I started writing the TV shows and everything. I wrote to
Governor Taft. I wrote all of them and I never got any response from
any of them.
All I am really asking for is justice, that’s all. I want justice done and
to get my children back. That’s not much. Right now I feel empty be-
cause my children have been taken away from me. None of us is here
forever and I wanted to enjoy and be a mother to my children, and that
has been taken away from me. I want to find out who had sex with my
daughter. I want it analyzed. I want to know who had the right to pull
the plug on my daughter. I want to know how they could take a plea
bargain behind my back. I want to know who did this to my daughter.
 88 MAMIE

I won’t be all right till I find out. I’m not going to be all right because I
don’t know; but when I find out, I will be all right with it because I’ll
give it to God and I’ll let Him work it out for me. Until then, I’m not
going to stop. I want this pain to go away.
The hardest part of being in here is your family. You wonder from
day to day whether they are laying in the gutter, are they laying in the
hospital, is there something wrong with them. That’s the hardest part.
Other than that, you can get through the whole day. I talk to my broth­
ers and sisters on the phone. They have me laughing when they come
to visit. My baby came down a couple of months ago. I didn’t know
who she was, because she was 5’7” and she was real slim and skinny. I
was like, “Who are you?” And she said, “Mom, this is your daughter.”
We sat there the whole time and we just bawled our eyes out. It was a
nice visit; I was glad to see her after ten years. Now she’s getting ready
to go to college. I’m happy for that. I can’t say nothing but I’ve been
blessed, because she could have been with the wrong crowd, with
drugs and all that. But she didn’t, and she said, “Momma, I want to
make you proud of me.” I told her, “I am proud of you, but don’t do it
for me, do it for yourself.” That’s the way she looks at it now. I hear from
her all the time. My family tries to stay in touch.
I think it’s important for all the women to know that they should let
go of things in their life that they’ve been keeping in. They should talk
to somebody about it, reach out for help, because it’s out there. They
should get with themselves and get with somebody to help them know
right from wrong and to know that justice can be done. Nobody out
there hears me and don’t care to hear me. To me, I was just a nobody.
Today, I can’t say that, because today I can say I am somebody. Where
women over there might shut the door, there’s a door over here that can
be opened. I want women to think that there is hope somewhere down
the line.
 4
Elizabeth

Elizabeth is serving a fifty-year sentence for drug-related offenses. She

has been active in political movements throughout her life and contin­
ues her activism in prison. In addition to fighting her own legal battles,
she assists other inmates with their legal problems. She is an outspo­
ken critic of the prison system and the institution in which she is in­
carcerated. Among her complaints is the small number of persons of
color working in choice positions within the institution. Elizabeth be­
lieves that her conviction will be overturned and plans to open her own
legal research firm when she is released.

Elizabeth

89
 90 ELIZABETH

I WA S B O R N in Chicago, Illinois, in 1945. My father’s people are from

a little town in Crittenden County, Arkansas, Gammonsville. My
mother’s people are from a little town in Mississippi County, Arkansas,
Osceola. My parents brought me back to live with my mother’s parents
when I was about two weeks old. My mother was young, about nine-
teen or twenty. My parents moved to Florida in 1950. They became
labor contractors; they hauled migrant workers up and down the east-
ern coast of the United States, from Florida to Maine. I spent the school
year with my grandparents and the balance of the year with my par­
ents. Arkansas was the only stable place that I lived. I still consider
Arkansas my home. I have four children, four daughters.
Most of my mother’s people are gone from Arkansas. My mother
and grandfather died and are buried in Florida. My father and brother
live in Florida, and have done so for years. My father’s remarriage re­
sulted in six children other than my brother and me. I am the only pea
remaining here in Arkansas, just my kids, my grandkids, my great­
grandkids, and me.
I attended a country school about five miles from Osceola. During
my elementary school years, often I was the only kid in school. All the
Blacks and poor Whites lived out in the country. They had to go to the
cotton fields instead of school, weather permitting. Many days, I was the
only kid in school. I have always made good grades. My teacher was
working on her master’s degree. I had an extremely legible handwriting,
so to keep me busy, she put me to hand copying her submissions. I
picked up lots of knowledge from those writings. I love reading and read
anything from garbage to the classics. When I finally made it to high
school, I had such a background that I was far ahead of the other kids. I
easily graduated valedictorian of my class. Not much of a class; there
were only twenty-two of us. I graduated in 1961. I was fifteen. I went to
college shortly after my sixteenth birthday. At that time, the college was
known as Arkansas A.M. and N. College. Now it is known as the Uni­
versity of Arkansas at Pine Bluff. I was a liberal arts major. My career
choices were limited. More than likely, I would have ended up teaching.
I started working with SNCC (Student Non-Violent Coordinating
Committee) while in college. Many of the SNCC members lived at the
Freedom House on King Street. We were kicked out of school because
 ELIZABETH 91

we staged a sit-in at a store in downtown Pine Bluff, Woolworth’s. They

were kicked out of school for about three to six weeks. The sit-in was in
1963. It was just before the March on Washington. Orval Faubus was
governor. This same Faubus physically barred Black students from en­
tering Central High School in Little Rock. I still fantasize over those
days.
Until then, I had never experienced racial prejudice, per se. My fa­
ther’s people had a whole town in Arkansas named after them, and the
inhabitants were directly or indirectly related to him. My grandfather
on my mother’s side owned one of the few Black businesses in Missis­
sippi County. As a sideline, he was a realtor, for Blacks only. The Whites
owned the shacks but they wanted them rented to Blacks. My grandfa­
ther was paid to collect the rents. This gave him a lot of undeserved, and
often misused power. He also had some weird beliefs that he unsuc­
cessfully tried to impose upon me. To his dying day, he never under-
stood why I could not accept the principle that I’m inferior to Whites.
He lived for over a hundred years.
Other than this, growing up, I experienced very little discrimina­
tion or was mostly unaware of it until I sat-in at the Woolworth’s. Peo­
ple were spitting on us just because we were Black and dared to sit at
the “Whites only” lunch counter. I had never really confronted hate
until then. Nor did I know the danger of my actions until much, much
later. I never really thought about danger. Even when I did, I did not se­
riously do so. It still amazes me that people can hate you for things you
have no control over. We protesters starved together and suffered to­
gether. It was just like the big close-knitted family I always wanted.
Growing up, there was just my little brother and me.
I also moved into the Freedom House after I got kicked out of
school. In 1963, a group of us opted to go to Lake Providence, Louisiana
to register voters. Truly, ignorance is bliss. Danger did not cross my
mind until years later. I moved to Florida in November 1963. I worked
with my parents as a subcontractor. We hauled migrant workers up and
down the East Coast. Out of gratitude, I married in 1964. I had my first
child in 1965. By 1968, I was again in the struggle. I was at Grant Park
when the hippies were beaten by the Chicago Police. I worked with Op­
eration Breadbasket/PUSH and the Black Panthers.
In 1970, I moved back to Florida. By October 1970, I was in
prison for attempted armed robbery. Two girls and I attempted to rob
 92 ELIZABETH

an Armour meat truck at gunpoint. We pulled this gun on the driver of

the truck. The gun had no firing pin. The driver jumped out of the truck
at a traffic light. Neither of us could drive a stick shift. We were arrested
right there in the middle of Miami. The crime was so stupid and ill-con­
ceived that I only received two years. I served fifteen months.
It was 1988 before I got in trouble again—possession of a controlled
substance. I was guilty as hell. I owned and operated a game room and
recreation center in a little town called Turrell, Arkansas. The arrest oc­
curred at my place of business. I had almost three keys (kilograms), plus
a gun that had been stolen from the police station and pawned to me.
My being female worked for me. The police thought that I was just run­
ning the place for someone else—some male someone else. Females in
most parts of the country do not really handle large quantities of drugs,
so the police did not think of me as anything but a minor nuisance. The
police never found the gun and the three keys. They only found some
small amount planted on me by one of my workers or the police. I had
a good lawyer. I was sentenced to eight years in prison. I served two
years.
I was paroled in 1992 and rearrested in 1994. I have never been
tried for the crime that I was rearrested on in 1994. I have never been
arrested for the crime I am now locked up for. I am innocent and I am
not. I did not commit the crime I was tried for. The details of the crime
I was arrested on remain so ambiguous and contradictory that I do not
know whether I committed it or not. However, since I was never tried
for it, it is a bit late to wonder now. I did not deal any street drugs while
on parole. I supplied two people. I would go to Florida, pick up a cou­
ple of keys, and bring them back to Arkansas. These sales were my main
source of income while on parole. I doubled and tripled my money. I
would pay around $11,000 for a key, transport it to Arkansas, and then
sell it for $35,000. If the quality was real good, I would add cut to the
product and then sell the keys for $20,000 to $25,000 each. The police
figured that I had to be doing something illegal because of the amounts
of money I spent. I spent lots of money because I was super lucky on the
crap tables and at the casinos. I also had a place of business in Turrell
and a barbeque stand in Blytheville.
I was arrested and charged with selling a lousy $60 worth of crack
cocaine. The judge set my bond at $250,000—cash. For a number of rea­
sons, I was unable to make bond. At first, the amount of cocaine was $50
worth, two loose rocks, the sale occurred in Blytheville, the confidential
 ELIZABETH 93

informant was male, and there was a buy tape. By the time I made it to
trial, the amount of cocaine was $60 worth, several rocks in a plastic
bag, the sale occurred in Osceola, the confidential informant was fe­
male, and there was no buy tape. The undercover agent testified that he
was able to identify me because I “stood in a well-lit area” while mak­
ing this sale. The undercover agent wore glasses to correct a bad case of
night blindness. It was the middle of February—at nighttime. The ad-
dress finally decided on by the state as being the crime scene had no
electricity at this house but I was convicted anyway.
It was not my house; I did not even live in that town. The woman
that lived in the house testified on my behalf. She admitted to knowing
me, but not well enough to give me free run of her home when she was
not there. She was not accused of selling drugs. Her house was not a
drug house. It was never shown how I may have gained entry to her
home. My luck just ran out. I was tried as a habitual offender and sen­
tenced to fifty years in prison. But I was not a habitual offender. I con­
tinue to fight my sentence because I was never arrested for the offense
that I was tried for. Much of my paperwork shows this; however, I am
unable to have my claims heard on their merits because of one proce­
dural default after another.
After I got to prison, I tried to fight my conviction. At that time I
knew very little about the law. The prison officials would not let me do
peril-free work on my case. They would store my paper work in inac­
cessible places. When this did not deter me, I was unable to get my pre-
scribed medical care. Therefore, I started filing civil cases. I alleged that
my diseases were not being treated properly. The U.S. District Court
agreed, and we settled out of court.
I have lupus, sarcoidosis, and osteoporosis. I have been on steroids
for over twenty-two years. I had medical slips saying that I must have
access to water. I did not have access to water. I went to the hole. While
in the hole, if I asked for water and did not ask politely enough, or if I
disobeyed my keeper’s orders and asked too often, then I received an-
other disciplinary, and more hole time. I ended up doing about forty-
five extra days in the hole, losing about 200 days of good time and
other privileges—this because I needed and asked for water. I sued
again.
I also stayed in trouble for helping other inmates by doing free legal
work for them. After a while, I just did not care anymore. I was frus­
trated and showed it. When I get frustrated I often say things I have no
 94 ELIZABETH

business saying, so back to the hole I would go. I filed over three hun­
dred grievances. At the bench trial, the district court dismissed my case
because it found that even though I filed three hundred grievances, the
administrators lacked the requisite degree of knowledge to be held li­
able for my wrongs. I appealed to no avail, even though the law states
that if a convict files grievances or gives some other type of administra­
tive notice, then prison officials cannot deny having knowledge of the
complaints. I was in a private prison until July 2001. Profit was their
bottom line. When my rights and their profits were in conflict, my rights
suffered.
There are about six hundred people here, about three hundred are
Black. When we first arrived here, it was real hard on us Blacks because
of open discrimination and racial prejudice. They were not accustomed
to Blacks. Hardly any Blacks live in this area. Out of about one hundred
officers, only three or four officers were Black. Now there are a few
more. Until recently, there were few Black inmates or staff in clerical po­
sitions.
I subscribe to darn near every type of magazine or prison advo­
cacy group that I can relate to. I became a member of the Prison Ad­
vocacy Network, a South Carolina–based group several years ago. I
coauthored an article for them entitled “Leveling the Playing Field.” I
believe that I am the only convict in Arkansas that is a member of the
National Lawyers Guild. I have been a member since 1994. I am also a
very good jailhouse lawyer.
I think that all women, no matter what color, should learn what the
rules are and then have the courage to exercise whatever few rights
those rules give them. Many people are afraid to even attempt to exer­
cise their rights. They would rather leave it up to someone like me to
fight for their rights for them. It’s an uphill burden, but I am willing to
help.
I want people to know what life in prison is like and some of the
ways someone can end up here. For example, if someone pleads guilty
to a charge, whether they are guilty or not, they are told that they won’t
do a day of time—maybe two or three years or probation or suspended
sentence. Say they take the offer. Then, about a year or so later they com­
mit some minor infraction. If that happens, they will have a revocation
hearing and about 90 percent of people who are taken back for revoca­
tion are found guilty. Once they are found guilty, they could receive ten
 ELIZABETH 95

or more years of prison time, not the balance of time remaining on the
suspended sentence.
Once people are in the system, many of them fall through the cracks
and never see daylight again. Education is the key to stopping this. I
want to educate as many inmates and convicts as possible regarding
their rights. I advocate change through education, not violence.
 5
Rae Ann

After pulling herself out of a life of prostitution, Rae Ann struggled to

balance employment, school, and motherhood. In an attempt to earn
money to feed, clothe, and house herself and her children, she began
holding drugs for a boyfriend. Rae Ann is serving two life sentences in
Louisiana for two counts of distribution of illegal narcotics. She hopes
her story can help other women to stay away from the life that took her
freedom from her.

Rae Ann

96
 RAE ANN 97

I ’ M F RO M N E W O R L E A N S . I was born and raised in the housing

projects. I can’t find any faults growing up there, except that my father
and mother split when I was a baby. My father wanted to do some
things that my mother didn’t approve of, so they separated. My mother
was the father and the mother. She was real firm. You did what was sup-
posed to be done and that was it. My father was a barber by occupation.
He did that until he died. I was able to be with my father as a small
child. He lived with his mother and on weekends that’s what I did. My
father’s mother was a nurse, so she worked. I was six or seven, around
that age.
I was raised in a Christian environment, more or less. Religion was
stressed on one side of the family, but it wasn’t stressed on my mother’s
side. Whenever I went to my father’s house (actually his mother’s
house), I had to bring some church clothes and that’s where I learned
about God. I didn’t learn it with my mother. My mother didn’t become
a born-again Christian until many years later. I remember coming back
from my father’s house with the feeling of God but being young and not
understanding. I was the only person in my household on my mother’s
side that went to church. It was okay for me to do this but it wasn’t in
the home. You wouldn’t hear your mother saying “God this, and God
that” and that was okay.
Living was not hard except that in my later years, I believed that a
lot of things would have been different if I had two parents. I had
friends that had two-parent households and they were happy. The
mother and the father had a combination income. My mother had all
the bills. She had to buy the clothes and the shoes and the necessities for
bathing and washing. My mother was a floor worker for the federal
building. She also was a nurse-midwife. She was actually delivering ba­
bies. She would come home and tell us stories. I was proud of her, that
she was doing this on her own. My mother did what she could with
what she had. She went from working to being on welfare, and welfare
in Louisiana was not her thing. It was a handicap.
We were raised on the basics. I remember my mother only being
able to afford certain things to eat. She lived by buying rice and beans
and if she couldn’t get meat, she didn’t buy it. She made gravy from
scratch, so we had gravy and rice. We had beans when we didn’t have
broccoli and cheese. Whenever she could afford to do something good
 98 RAE ANN

for us she did, especially for Christmas and birthdays. I didn’t remem­
ber having an ugly time. I remember getting games, and maybe an out-
fit or a pair of shoes. There just wasn’t a lot. I guess then it wasn’t hard
as far as me not having expensive clothes. My mother taught me that
whatever you don’t have you do without. If it is something that you re-
ally need then you will really get it. That was my childhood, leading up
to my life.
I have two brothers. One is less than a year younger than me. I was
born in 1957 and he was born in 1958. I also have a baby brother. He has
a different father. My mother didn’t remarry, but her friend came to live
with us. He was a chef and a dry cleaner. It wasn’t an unhappy thing be-
cause he was a father figure of sorts and we loved our brother. Later my
mother remarried when she was in her 50s. I wasn’t incarcerated then,
so I remembered that.
School was great. I was in public school and I went all the way to
the twelfth grade. It could have been raining, storming, snowing what-
ever, and I would go to school. I graduated from high school. My high
school days were good, with the exception of one incident where my
mother beat me half to death. I don’t mean that literally, I am exagger­
ating some, but she caught me shooting hooky one day and I got a beat­
ing for it. After that I did not miss a day. In fact, I had to check in with
the principal to ensure their peace of mind that I was there. Other than
that, I graduated fine. My aunt in Detroit bought my class ring. I had my
gown. I have my high school pictures that you do for the yearbook. I
have no complaints. My complaints come later.
I’m the oldest girl and I was first, so I had a lot of responsibility. My
mother had a lot of pride about herself and I used to watch her and lis­
ten. She was my role model. She loved us. We had rules. We went to
school. We came in. We played in the yard and by a certain time we
bathed and we were to go to bed. That was it, that was the routine. Out-
side of that, I can only say that everything was okay during my child-
hood with my mother until after the graduation and I felt grown. That’s
when my mother had to take a stand. She was fine with my boyfriends,
she was fine with my friends, but I had a curfew and I had to be inside
at a certain time while other girls stayed out later. That was something
I didn’t like as a child or as a teenager.
I wasn’t abused, but I got my share of whippings if I did something
that I wasn’t supposed to do. If she told me to be in at a certain hour I
would get punished; I couldn’t go outside the next day. She would tell
 RAE ANN 99

me to go up to my room and find a book. She was firm about home-

work. If I didn’t bring a book home she felt that I was being lazy. I had
to bring a book home even if I didn’t have homework.
I was an avid reader and I was a curious child. I became a curious
teenager. I liked boys at a young age. I was a pretty girl, pretty lady, so
I had boyfriends. I had several at one time sometimes. I was pregnant
from my childhood sweetheart, when we graduated from high school
together. He was going into the military. It occurred to me, I’m gonna
have all these boyfriends, you already have a baby and if you have any
more boyfriends and are active sexually, you are going to have more ba­
bies. How are you going to take care of them? Part of me didn’t want to
work after I graduated from high school.
I graduated in May 1975 with a nurse’s certificate. I found out that
I was pregnant, which I didn’t know at graduation. My pregnancy was
a surprise, but I had been sexually active. I was taking pills and I
stopped. I had this illusion that I wanted to have a baby. All teenagers
have that. When I stopped taking the pills, I wanted to get out of my
mother’s house. If I had a boyfriend and we were trying to plan things
for ourselves, then I would leave. Then my boyfriend immediately
drafted into the army. I was thinking of leaving, too, and was waiting
for him to send me a ticket after basic training. I was willing to be a mil­
itary mother and military wife. Things just didn’t work out. He ac­
knowledged the child and sent me some money through the mail, but
he did his thing in the army while I was stuck here in the city waiting
on him.
I started to have these ideas about prostitution. I thought that if a
woman’s body was going to be used in that way, she should be paid. I
met a guy that was already in that life. Call him player, pimp, whatever.
At first, I didn’t know what he was but I was attracted to him as a man.
I was eighteen years old. So my first act of crime was prostitution. I was
pregnant at the time.
He explained that if I were his woman, I could make money, and I
would have my share and he would have his. If I made $200, $100
would be for me and $100 would be for him. That made sense to me. I
was young and was ready to get out there and do my thing. I guess I
could have pounded the pavement for a job, but I saw all this nightlife
and activity going on and I liked it. I was down in the French Quarter
of New Orleans, and I met this guy. My boyfriend left me on the corner
to go do something. I don’t know what he did but he turned his back. I
 100 RAE ANN

was fresh and they saw it. The guy said, “Hey, how are? Are you look­
ing for a date?” I said, “Yes, let’s go.” That was my first experience and
that was my first arrest. I went to court, and I got probation and I went
home. I later had my baby in February 1976.
After I recovered from my pregnancy, I was adamant about going
back on the street. It had nothing to do with how I was raised. My
mother told me that it was not nice. My mother taught me that the body
was not to be used and that I didn’t need all these different men having
me. She told me to find somebody who would be mine and mine alone.
That is what I was raised to believe. But I went back to it and I learned
a whole lot more. I was put with a girl who showed me some things. For
a long time, I was even afraid and shy. After my experiences with men,
though, I wasn’t shy anymore. I made more money in prostitution than
a person working five or seven days a week. The guy didn’t railroad me
or sugarcoat anything. He didn’t put a gun to my head. He straight up
told me what we could have with what I could do. Going in, I knew he
didn’t work; I knew that he wanted me to do the work. I was all right
with that, and it didn’t bother me.
That life ended in 1979, when I decided that I needed to make a
change in my life. I went through a transition period after I had my
daughter, and in 1979, I had my son. This was not something that I
wanted to make a career out of and I stopped. I was tired and pregnant,
having my son. I knew that this guy was not going to be the person that
was going to marry me and come out of that life. I thought, “Okay,
that’s you. I’m not mad at you, not angry, but this is not what I want to
do anymore.” So I went to work.
I worked several jobs. The first job I had after that life was working
with the mayor’s clean city committee. I was a supervisor. I had many
arrests prior to this, but luck would have it that nobody questioned me
about that. From there I went to the New Orleans World’s Fair. I worked
with the housing authority where I was a community activity worker,
and I went into the houses when the cable company ran cable through
all of the apartments. Actually, I used to beg for jobs. When I got that job
I was begging the manager, “I need a job. I want to work.” I would go
patiently down to the office. My mother worked there and literally
begged, and eventually the housing authority hired me.
I also went back to school. I thought I would try something else and
would refresh myself with nursing. I had lived in my own apartment
after the life that I led, and then I came back in the environment of the
 RAE ANN 101

projects when my whole objective was to leave the projects. It wasn’t a

good environment. It just brought you down, everything in it, every-
thing about it. You see the same people everyday; you see them doing
the same thing everyday, all day. I didn’t want that. During my teenage
years, I wanted my mother to move. I would say, “Why don’t you move
out of the projects.” My mother would say, “I’m not going no where.
People prosper and succeed. You can be what you want to be and still
live in the projects.” She didn’t lie; it was the truth.
I was going to college for nursing and I had to do my on-the-job-
training. For the training, you have to go to the hospital or the nursing
home, wherever they assign you. Working nursing hours meant that I
had to be on the wards until 6:45 p.m. My kids had been in preschool at
the age of six months. It was something that I did, if I found a job. My
discouragement came from not having anybody to watch my kids. That
was really a sad thing. I had cousins that could have done it, even my
mother could have done it, but she was working. In finding jobs, I
would say to myself, “Well I can’t work at night because I can’t get no-
body to watch my kids.” I’m still on welfare now, trying to go to school.
If I find a job far out, where am I going to find the money to bus myself
from here to there.
The welfare money was $192 a month and I had two kids. You
weren’t actually allowed telephone, furniture bills, all of that, but I had
a telephone and I paid for that. Now if I got a twenty or thirty dollar
telephone bill and a twenty or thirty dollar rent bill, that is sixty dollars
of the $190. If I have to buy soap powder, deodorant, cleanser for me
and my kid, then that is some more of the $192. The children needed
socks or shoes and that was some more; so how was I going to allow
thirty or forty dollars out of the check to go back and forth to work. I
had all this to deal with, so I just didn’t get a job. I kept the welfare and
I stopped going to school because I couldn’t get anybody to watch my
kids.
The choice that I made was to deal drugs. I was introduced to it so­
cially at parties. When I was introduced to selling drugs, I saw money.
I saw a means to get a whole lot of things that I couldn’t have because I
couldn’t work. I was a working person. Honestly, I would have pre­
ferred to work. I just felt so discouraged. When I got introduced, they
said, “Girl you can make a lot of money now.” I knew that I saw that
happening around me. I met this guy who was already dealing and I
said, “I need money. If you’re going to be something to me then you are
 102 RAE ANN

going to have to help me, okay.” He said, “Okay if you want me to help
you then you are going to have to help me, all right.” I first started hold­
ing drugs and that got me by. After that, in holding the drugs, I started
to do the drugs.
At this time, I got into another relationship with the guy I caught
the charge with. Now I had the money to do the things I needed to do.
I didn’t want to do this too long, but when you are young, every penny
goes to something that you see that you want, if not for your house, for
your kids, or for yourself. You never make enough money. You would
have to be the supplier, not the pusher. This guy was just a small-time
pusher. He would go on the corner every day, and would sell three hun­
dred to four hundred dollars worth of drugs. Out of that my holdings
might be sixty or seventy dollars depending on what the market was
and depending on how much you sold. In the end, I learned that he was
holding back on me.
I was holding a few dozen bags here or there. When he went out
there and did his thing and came back with the money, he was short or
didn’t sell what he thought that he would sell. That means that I would­
n’t get my cut. I got tired of that. We were in a relationship and we were
getting high. We were constantly getting high, so we got habits. I be­
lieve that he furthered my habit to further my need for the money. At
first, I was just a nose person and eventually I became an I.V. drug user.
I used coke and then heroin. We were simply snorting drugs at liberty
just because we had it. We thought we were straight and that the high
wasn’t going to lead to anything else, but it did lead to the addiction.
Heroin relaxed all of the body nerves. I wasn’t dysfunctional, I was­
n’t obnoxious, I wasn’t doing things that I didn’t have any business
doing. I wasn’t jumping off buildings. I wasn’t going to rob people. The
I.V. drug use was a whim. I tried it for about six months. Later, I went
to detox. My boyfriend insisted that I go into detox, so I don’t fault him
for that. Detox was for 72 hours in a New Orleans hospital. I didn’t want
to stay. At the time the hospital was not accredited. A lot of things were
going on in that hospital that shouldn’t have been happening and even­
tually somebody filed suit. I felt that I was supposed to be paid atten­
tion to. Maybe not round the clock, but maybe every so many hours. I
was completely on my own in the hospital.
After detox, I got busted. Detox was January, February, and March.
I didn’t go back to I.V. drug use when I came out of detox. I was just try­
ing to get myself back together, but I ended up going out there and help-
 RAE ANN 103

ing this guy. I was watching his back while he sold drugs, literally. If the
police came, I held it. He still had access to my apartment while I was
in the 72-hour detox. It was a live-in thing and the drugs were still there.
I would hold it for him when we would go out. We would go to a bar
where users could buy drugs. I was not holding the drugs in my house,
only on my person. In April I was busted. I was arrested for distribu­
tion. They said that I had sold some to an undercover agent. I wasn’t the
seller, I was the holder.
This is why I am here now. I was arrested in April 1988. They in­
dicted me for the three counts from an operation that lasted a year and
netted some ninety-seven people, and I was one of them. The charge
was distribution of heroin for sale of narcotics. I have two life sentences
for two counts. I was found not guilty on one count and guilty on two
counts. I got a life sentence for each count, running concurrent. Distrib­
ution for the sale of narcotics is a mandatory life sentence. They said I
sold to the undercover agent on three separate occasions.
I was reverted back to a first-time offender because I hadn’t com­
mitted a crime from 1980 to 1988. The law states that if you don’t com­
mit a crime within five years of a prior record or criminal activity you
revert back to a first-time offender. I allegedly sold three bags of heroin.
But here is this other person who comes into court with me that was
busted with one hundred bags. You give me a life sentence and you give
him ten years. And I was due parole.
I was sentenced in July 1989 and started doing time here in Sep­
tember 1989. As a result of investigating things when you come into the
institution, you learn that the law library is there. The guys that were on
the charge with me taught me some things about the law. I learned that
one of several officers that worked within the operation, not necessar­
ily an officer who testified against me, had received a life sentence. He
(the officer) made the remark that “he’d be prisoners’ get out of jail free
card; the investigating officers were all corrupted.” It took me a long
time to find that out.
I can’t expound explicitly about racial issues because I don’t want
to say something that may make the prisoners think that I am racist or
militant. I don’t want to be labeled, but some things that happen with
Blacks don’t happen with Whites or some things for Whites don’t hap-
pen for Blacks. I might get in trouble for something that a White girl
might not get in trouble for, or I would be penalized harshly and she
wouldn’t. It is everywhere.
 104 RAE ANN

For example, the charge that I got wouldn’t have happened to

somebody else that was White. In one of the surrounding parishes, one
of the White girls I know had two or three hundred bags of heroin. She
got ten years. If the charge wasn’t for distribution for the sale of nar­
cotics, what was she going to do with it? If you ask a lot of other Blacks
about their charge, you find that distribution could be just standing on
the corner selling or the attempted distribution is just to be in posses­
sion of it. I just can’t believe that a society would want to keep a person
locked up for so long as to take away their whole life.
As far as rehabilitation, I think that if you sit yourself down, or if
you had been made to sit down a certain amount of time and really look
at what is going on with you, then you could minimize the risk of com­
ing back. The majority of the people that come back are the people that
go right back out and do drugs and abuse drugs. They may have two
years left on parole. The parole people go after them again and when
they come back they’re doing a year and a half left of that. When they
leave, they walk around with this air that, “Oh, I don’t have a life sen­
tence so I can live and do what I want.” That makes me feel disgusted
because you give me a life sentence, but I have all these people around
me that are constantly leaving saying if I come back I’ll do just six
months, whatever is left of my parole time. In essence, the probation
and parole system is not doing an accurate job. Whites get more favor
with pardon and parole than do Blacks for the same charge. I watched
it every time they have a board. It starts with the legislatures who enact
the law. It is not working to hold a person like this.
In the late 1990s, United Way petitioned us for some money and the
women’s facility raised $50,000. In society, they have the notion or
stereotype that we should remain locked up and have the key thrown
away. I just want it noted that we as convicts and prisoners raised that
fifty grand, we sold everything. We had dances and all sorts of food
sales. We even sold off days when you could buy a friend’s days off.
They say a lot about us, but when a specific organization needs some-
thing, they come here.
Volunteers come in to help us. They come in to sit with us and dis­
cuss what we go through. You could be going through some really men­
tal things in here about your crime. There is a group for battered
women, women that have charges that they killed their spouses. You
have all this documentation in the state of Louisiana that this person
battered you mentally, physically, emotionally, and nothing was done
 RAE ANN 105

for the women. The only thing that they could do for them is give them
a life sentence for a crime that they committed. So you can kill me, and
the man might get no time; but if I kill you, I am going to get a life sen­
tence. These groups come in to help us and they do help.
We also have Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous
and the drama club. Drama helps you feel comfortable with your inner
self. I’m a tour guide, a volunteer within the institution. I do tours and
I go on speaking trips. I have been to LSU (Louisiana State University)
speaking to the criminology department. It’s good. I like to be able to
give something back.
I disappointed my mother. I disappointed my family, my kids. Me
being in prison caused a lot of hardships for my mother. My son was
nine and my daughter was twelve, so my mother’s life essentially
stopped because she had to take care of them. My daughter is now
twenty-five and my son is twenty-one. Children in turn have a different
attitude about life because of the way their parents were treated. My son
is rebellious. He feels that if I was just trying to pay some bills and take
care of them, he and his sister at the time, then I shouldn’t have my
whole life taken away.
I think about a lot of things that I did in my life and it’s nobody’s
fault. I’m not blaming anybody; it’s just that you make mistakes and a
lot of things happen that cause you to veer off. I just wanted help. My
family now supports me wholeheartedly. I might get a visit three times
a year.
My co-defendant is more or less where all my anger is. He forced
me to testify. He was brutal and he was threatening. They severed us on
the morning of trial for him because of a conflict of interest. I wonder
what was the conflict of interest. I said a lot of things at my trial to help
him. Initially, I thought he was going to help me when he got out. I
wouldn’t have left him high and dry because we were in it together. I
wasn’t trying to put all the fault on him. I was trying to pay some bills.
Maybe I was trying to buy furniture, maybe I was trying to buy my chil­
dren some tennis shoes or whatever. I wouldn’t have left him like that,
but he didn’t do anything. He came up here one time to see me.
Prison has made me a better woman. I could have been this big­
oted person. I was bigoted when I first came. I didn’t want them telling
me nothing. If they said something to me, I had something to say back.
I wanted to have the last word. What I learned is that this is not what
this is about here. They didn’t put me here. They are only here for care,
 106 RAE ANN

custody, and control. I was always saying, “Why, why I can’t do this?
Why do you ask me this?” The place doesn’t make you or break you.
You make or break yourself, depending on how you live with yourself.
If you walk around with a frown on your face every day, then that is
how you are going to live, and that’s negative. If you live and think pos­
itive, no matter where you are, you are going to be okay. I am not a neg­
ative-thinking person. I’ve always been positive through all of this.
I just had to adjust to prison life—getting up when they told me to,
going to bed when they told me to, going to work when they told me to,
or going to the kitchen. It was difficult because you can’t just say I’m
going to the kitchen because I am hungry right now. Adjusting means
to just keep in mind that this is not your home. It is a place where I am
sentenced to do time. That’s it. You can be free with that.
The absence of God is very important. I was recently baptized. Get­
ting to know Jesus is the best thing that has happened to me aside from
giving birth to my darling son. I want young people who think of doing
what I did to think long and hard about the consequences. It wasn’t
worth it, period! So think before you act. You control your own fate. If
my story helps somebody or reaches out to some young person and pre-
vents her from doing the wrong things, I think it will be positive.
 6
Donna

Donna has been in and out of the Texas prison system for over twenty
years. She graduated from high school as a young mother and went on
to college, but her involvement with an older man when she was
younger had negative consequences for her. Prostitution and drug use
became patterns in her life. A cycle of incarceration soon followed. She
was on a ten-year probation term during the initial Inner Lives inter-
view; she later returned to prison on a probation violation after re­
suming drug use. She is trying to remain strong, plans to continue her
education, and ultimately hopes to be an example for young Black
women so that they will stay out of the system.

Donna

107
 108 DONNA

I ’ V E B E E N T H RO U G H the Texas prison system since 1981. I’m forty-

five years old. I grew up in Overton, Texas. It’s a small country town in
the eastern part of Texas. It was a close-knit community. Everybody
there was like family. I went to an all-Black school back then. We
weren’t integrated. The schools were integrated after I got to the sev­
enth grade. It was kind of lonely because I was an only child. I was real
tall and skinny, and I was kind of smart. I used to win spelling bees
when I was in sixth grade. I was always winning something. I won a
presidential fitness award during the time that Lyndon Johnson was
president. Basically, I had a pretty well-rounded education coming up.
I came up through the period where racial discrimination was legal.
I remember when I was a child, my mother took me to the Dairy Queen
and I had to get ice cream from the Black side. I remember that water
fountains said “White” and “Colored.” Blacks lived on one side of the
tracks and Whites lived on the other side. My grandmother used to iron
clothes for White people to make money to send me to school. My
grandmother used to be on her knees cleaning in the hospital to send
my mother to college and to send me to school.
My grandmother raised me. She raised every grandchild; she even
raised my daughter. When I was a child, my mother lived in Dallas,
while I lived with my grandmother in Overton. My mother left home to
find work. She would come home to see me once a month. We were
close. I didn’t question it. My grandmother would tell me, “You live
here. Your mother lives there. I’m taking care of you. Your mother loves
you.”
My mother was killed when I was in junior high school. A squabble
broke out between her boyfriend and his uncle, and she got caught in
the crossfire. That threw me back a ways. At first, I didn’t accept it and
I almost had a nervous breakdown. My grandmother was very close to
me and we were devastated. I went to see our family doctor; we didn’t
have money for counseling back then.
I continued with school because they pushed me. I finished junior
high school, and went to high school. I focused on the right track; it took
a while, but I got back. I enjoyed school until there was integration and
we had to go to the White school. The White kids thought they were bet­
ter than us. One called me a nigger when I was in gym class. She said
that the Black students were supposed to change in a separate area. Al-
 DONNA 109

though the school was integrated there still was segregation. It was just
the practice; it was unwritten. Things changed and I became more rad­
ical. I had teachers who were working with me and I started to like
school better. There were teachers who didn’t see a person’s color. They
saw that we were children trying to get an education. They knew that I
was from a good background. My grandmother was good people and
everybody knew her.
I got pregnant during high school, but I was determined to finish
and to be something, to be somebody. I kept my pregnancy hidden be-
cause they would have kicked me out of school. I graduated from high
school in 1972. I also decided that I wanted to go to college. I asked my
grandmother if she would keep my baby for me and she said yes. So I
moved from Overton to Tyler, Texas, to go to college. I majored in ele­
mentary education and minored in law. During these times, there was
Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, and there were other issues. There
was also Angela Davis. I knew that things were wrong and I thought
that I would be a lawyer.
I thought I was going to get a job or that Prince Charming was
going to come and take me away. He did come, but it wasn’t the Prince
Charming that I wanted. I met a guy from Dallas. He was in the hustling
life. I met him at an after-hours club in Dallas. I just looked at him and
it was like, “God, he’s so handsome. He’s pretty snappy and cute.” He
was much older. He had all this jewelry on and he had a pretty car, and
he had all this money. I knew what kind of life he lived because I was­
n’t crazy. My girlfriend told him that I was looking at him and he came
over and asked me if I wanted to have breakfast with him. I said yes and
we went to breakfast and we talked.
I was still in college, in Tyler. He came down and asked if I wanted
to go back to Dallas with him. I told him that I did, and that’s how I got
started in that life. But in the meantime, I went to college and I dropped
out in my junior year when I was about nineteen or twenty. I didn’t
know this was a kind of game with these guys. For months, I didn’t
know that he had women that worked on the street. He would take me
through this block where all these ladies were, and I knew they were
prostitutes, but he didn’t tell me that two of them worked for him. He
would park in the back and the women would hand him some money,
and then I understood.
When he brought me to Dallas, he put me in a motel and paid for
my room. He gave me money and bought me nice clothes and jewelry.
 110 DONNA

I never did anything. He had a three-bedroom home, and he said,

“Look, I’m going to stop paying all this rent for this motel. You can
come live with me.” So I went back to Tyler, and I told my grandmother
that I was with this guy and that he had a square job. I came back and
moved in with him. One night, he asked me if I knew what he was
doing. I told him that I did, so he brought his ladies home one night to
meet me. I told him that I wanted to go with them the next time they
went out. He said, “No, you don’t.” I said, “Yes, I want to see what you
are doing on that street.” So I went.
I never was just a square person, but I wanted to know what that
fast life was like. I wanted to know what they did. I just wanted to know
and experience it for myself. People told me that drugs were bad for me,
but I didn’t listen to them. People told me that being a prostitute was
not good, but I wanted to experience it myself. I liked the money, and I
liked the high. I was real dumb, and I didn’t know what I was doing. He
tried to discourage me, but I thought I was in love with him and I felt
obligated after being with him for so long. I thought that was what he
wanted. I wanted to show him that I could do what they were doing. I
wasn’t ugly at the time; I felt kind of attractive.
After I went out, he saw that I had a weakness, and that weakness
was him. I worked in the Black neighborhood. Back then, guys only
gave you ten or fifteen dollars for dates. So, he started to emphasize
that I go and that I learn what to do. He put one of my favorite sisters
with me and told her to show me what to do and how to make a lot of
money.
This went on for about ten years; I stayed with this man for that
long. In those ten years, I ran into lots of problems. One time, a guy
drove me to a lake, and nobody else was there. He was choking me, try­
ing to rape me in his car. It was around two or three o’clock in the morn­
ing, and from nowhere, these White people showed up. I know that
God sent those people there. They heard me scream and they came to
the car and they said, “Get away from her. What’s wrong with her?
We’re going to call the police.” I got out of the car and I ran down to the
beach. The man kept pulling me back, trying to drag me back toward
the lake. This White guy ran up behind me to get him and I got away
and ran. The people asked if I wanted them to call the police, but I just
asked them to take me to a phone so that I could call a cab. When I got
to the phone, I looked back and they were gone. When I got back, I told
him, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Somebody tried to rape me and
 DONNA 111

take me off.” He said that I should have known better than to get in
somebody’s car. He got mad at my favorite sister and slapped her, be-
cause she wasn’t supposed to let me leave.
During those years, it turned out that he had a temper. I had a lot of
physical abuse. One night, I went off with my favorite sister and we
didn’t come in when we were supposed to check in. Instead, we stayed
out all night. Back then, the police were real bad and he didn’t always
want to get us out of jail. When we didn’t come home, he beat us up.
Another night, when I didn’t come home with a certain amount of
money, he beat me up real bad. The way I saw it, I was his woman and
I couldn’t leave. That’s your man, your pimp and you stayed with him.
That was the code, the ethic that you lived by. So, if you leave him and
he finds you, he beats you up and brings you back home. The only way
to leave him is to pay, to run away, or to get another pimp. That’s the
only way out of the game; you can’t get out.
I thought that the violence was part of being a whore. I’d see my
other sisters going to work with dark shades on. He beat me up so badly
one day till you couldn’t tell who I was. I used to cry. I was hurt, but I
loved him so much. It had gotten so deep that I didn’t really know how
pain felt anymore, because I had lost it. I had medicated my pain. My
drug use started when I was about twenty-one years old. I started
smoking weed, and I would drink. When he would hurt me and do
things to me, I would go and drink. I also started taking pills. Then, I
would go to work. In a way, I lived two lives because I would go back
home to see my grandmother and my baby. My family thought that my
man was earning the money at a job. I always sent money home.
The first time I went to prison was in 1981 for aggravated robbery. I
was working on the slab, as we called it, with another sister and we
weren’t in a mood for dating this particular night. So we got in this White
guy’s car and just took his money. We threatened him with our guns. We
split the money in half, and she went her way and I went mine. Well, the
guy came back in the neighborhood and told people that he was looking
for us. Later, he picked my picture out of a lineup. I had already been to
jail for prostitution, so my picture was there. The police came and ar­
rested me. They knew that another girl was with me, but I never gave up
my fall partner. I received two years probation for that charge.
I stayed in jail for a week or so, and when I got out, I got busted
again. This time, I got the original five-year sentence, because they vio­
lated my probation. My man got angry because he thought I was using
 112 DONNA

drugs at a time that I wasn’t. He beat me up real bad, and he jumped

on me to check my arms for tracks. I didn’t have any tracks, but pretty
soon, I started using heavy drugs. I started shooting speed, and from
speed, I went to heroin. I went from heroin to cocaine. I started doing
heroin because the people who turned me onto it showed me how to
steal money without having to lie on my back for it. They were using
heroin and they were sharp every day. They had money in their pock­
ets and you could not tell that they shot dope because they were clean,
they smelled good and they dressed nice. They had a code of ethics,
even among the boosters. Even though you steal, you don’t steal from
your friends. So, I thought, “This is what I want.” I was living in a fan­
tasy world. I was in another world and I never thought that this would
catch up with me. I never thought that one day, I would be old and
gray.
When I went to prison in 1981, on the five-year sentence, I was kind
of scared. I had a reputation for fighting and a reputation that I didn’t
play, so I didn’t have a problem. Also, I knew people there from the
street. I was in the maximum-security unit in Mountain View. I was
placed in the dorms for the aggravated robbers and people who had
murder cases. I didn’t get any visitors, but my man wrote to me and
sent me money and pictures. I did my stretch. Back then, you weren’t
considered a real street player if you didn’t go to prison. My grand-
mother was upset with me. Thank God, she had my baby.
I became a Muslim in 1981. I was raised in the Baptist faith. When I
changed to Islam, I became more disciplined about myself. I stayed
clean for a long time and I got in touch with myself. It was a more dis­
ciplined religion. I used to watch how disciplined they were. When I
saw Muslims come out of their service, they didn’t go to a liquor store.
You didn’t see them get out and curse. They would go into the neigh­
borhood trying to help the community. I liked the way the women car­
ried themselves; they looked so stern and they didn’t wear makeup. I
loved the way they prayed. The Koran teaches us that our bodies are
beautiful. We also understand that God is not responsible for what is
wrong with us; we do this to ourselves.
When I went to prison the second time, in 1993, it was for forgery.
We made company checks and we’d write them out, and go to the bank
and cash them. I went back to Mountain View. I was there from 1993 to
1995. My friend Joyce Brown had gone, but Joyce Logan was still there.
 DONNA 113

Joyce was there for me as support. The second time in prison was dif­
ferent. I became radical.
I was involved in a protest at the prison; I think it happened in
spring 1994. The prison didn’t want to give us proper food. They were
housing us in lock-downs for no reason. They were writing us up for
everything and they spoke to us really badly. They would go into our
lock boxes and destroy our property and do whatever they wanted. It
was too overcrowded, and they were stacking us at fifty or sixty women
in a dorm that was meant for thirty. The medical system wasn’t good.
We thought that women were being overmedicated. There were women
walking around like zombies. And it took months to see the dentist. In
the winter, the dorm was cold, and in the summer, it was hot. So, we
protested. Nobody went to work. We asked for the director of correc­
tions, Mr. Estelle.
They took us down to a lock-down, single cell. When the adminis­
tration got there, he pulled us out one by one and asked us, “What do
you want?” We told him and they called the warden down, and she
talked to him and she talked to us. Some things changed. They eased
the overcrowding by opening other units for women. The food got bet­
ter. Some people never get visits, so the only thing they live for is maybe
to use the telephone. The telephone policy got better, and there was help
for indigents. The heating was fixed.
We felt that Mexican and Black girls were treated differently, espe­
cially in terms of jobs. While I was there, I worked on the yard squad
cleaning up the grounds, and the hoe squad augering the dirt. That’s
real punishment, when you’re out there augering and chopping all day
like the men. It’s usually in the summer, in the hot sun. I also did data
entry and keypunch work, and I helped with orientation for new in-
mates.
I started to think about my life and the vicious cycle that kept me
coming back to prison. When I’d get out, I said, “Well, I’m going to do
this and I’m going to do that.” Then, I’d get out and I didn’t get a job or
somebody would come over and I would get busted again. I’ve gotten
tired, though. I’ve been in recovery before. I stayed in denial in recov­
ery. When I went to Gainesville, I was in denial. I decided that I would
humble myself before God and see what happened in my life.
While I was inside, I kept saying to myself, “Hey, nobody’s writing,
nobody’s coming.” When I was thinking about this, I also got a new
 114 DONNA

counselor. This guy was really good. He talked to me and he told me

that I had a lot of anger issues that I needed to set free. He told me that
I didn’t have to keep using drugs and killing myself. He said that I
could be a gift to society, to my people, to myself, and to my daughter
and my family. But, first, I had to learn to love myself. My grandmother
loved me, but I was looking for something different. I just wanted some-
one who would say, “Donna, I love you as you are, for what you are,
and I want to help you.” My pain was covered up with drugs, so I
started thinking about the things that I wanted to do.
Even after I converted to Islam in 1981, my real power was not
strong enough when it came to drugs. When I have a crisis now, these
sisters—the Joyces—tell me when I’m doing wrong. I have this guilt,
this shame about me. In Islam, if you do wrong, you walk in shame for
four months. I’ve done this a couple of times. But each time I go, I get
back into this drug thing, or the money situation. I was too proud to ask
my friends or family to help me with rent, or a car note, so I went to
where I knew the fast money was. I will have to use the tools that they
taught me in counseling to cope with these things or I will keep doing
the same things and keep getting the same results.
I’m getting a little stronger; I’m getting a little better. I have times
when I want to give up, but I just try to pick myself up and try not to
use drugs. I want to do things differently. I’ve gotten into African Amer­
ican history, and I think about those people that did things to help us,
and it hurts. I think about slaves, and how they were beaten and
whipped. Sometimes, I come down to earth and get real with myself,
and I think about my grandmother and the things she had to endure. I
think about the people that I have helped, and none of those people that
were in that fast life were there for me when I was really down and out.
Since I’ve gone through it, I think that the best way to help people
on drugs is to send them to more treatment places. Teach them more
about the legal system. I have seen that Black women are not very
knowledgeable about how much time we can get in prison. Some of
them have no money to fight their cases, so they take state-appointed
attorneys, and they come to them with whatever agreement they can
make. The women accept it because they have been trained about what
to accept since the very first time they go to prison or get locked up.
Most of them are addicts and they want to take whatever time they can
and get out as fast as they can. We’re not legally educated and we’ll take
anything.
 DONNA 115

Also, as far as my Black sisters are concerned, we need to go out in

our neighborhoods to speak to each other. We need the younger gener­
ation working with the older people. We need to show that we care
about each other and that we care what we think. They need to see me
not selling drugs and see me not using drugs again in our community.
 7
Martha

Martha was convicted of three drug-related charges in 1989. She is cur­

rently serving a twenty-years-to-life sentence. She was sixty years old
at the time of sentencing. Prior to the drug sale that led to her convic­
tion, Martha had ended her foray into selling cocaine because of the
harm it caused to others, including her daughter. After getting out of the
business, a former friend and buyer asked Martha to help him purchase
cocaine. After refusing several times, Martha contacted a seller for the
friend, who was an informant. After a joint trial, Martha’s co-defen­
dant, the alleged supplier, was acquitted. Despite persistent health
problems, Martha has participated in numerous educational and self-
improvement programs in prison. Her clemency appeals have been de­
nied twice. She perseveres and looks forward to being released and
spending her remaining days with her children and grandchildren.

Martha

116
 MARTHA 117

I WA S B O R N in a little town called Lumpkin, Georgia; it’s near Sa­

vannah. I grew up with my mother, father, and two older sisters. My sis­
ters and I were born a year apart. My older sisters were born in 1927 and
1928, and I was born in 1929. My parents and sisters are deceased now.
One of my sisters died in 1993, while I’ve been incarcerated. She was
sixty-eight years old when she died.
We left Georgia and moved across the river to Eufaula, Alabama,
when I was a baby. That’s where I grew up. We used to walk the truss
to cross the bridge between Georgia and Alabama. Our town in Al­
abama was in a dry county. People had to go to Georgia to get alcoholic
beverages.
My father tried sharecropping. It was kind of hard. If you wanted
to sharecrop, you would make an agreement with one of the White fel­
las who had a lot of land. They would furnish you with everything for
the year, such as your food, money, seeds, and fertilizer. At the end of
the year, the owner got half of whatever you grew and you would pay
back the money they loaned to you. But we never cleared anything. The
White folks took it all.
I also worked hard in the field. I started in the field when I was eight
years old. When we finished working our crops, I would do day work
for about twenty-five cents a day. I have always given a person an hon­
est day’s work; I don’t care how hard the work was.
All we got were hand-me-down clothes from White people. I used
to go to school with bare feet in the wintertime. I got tired of that situa­
tion and ran away when I was fourteen years old. A traveling show
came to town in 1943 and my father gave us a little change to see it.
They were looking for a dishwasher, so I decided this was my chance. I
worked with them for a while. At the time, shoes were rationed, and
sugar also was rationed. Since I was a minor, the boss got my sugar
stamps; I didn’t need sugar because they were taking care of me. They
bought me clothes and shoes and things, so I was in pretty good shape.
At fourteen, I was a pretty developed young lady. There were two
White guys in the show who did an act in blackface. They started to fon­
dle me and I ran away from the show. We traveled all over the South.
When we got to Selma, Alabama, I wandered home with them and I
never went back to the show. Another show came to town, a Black
 118 MARTHA

show, and I joined them. I was a dancer in that show and I stayed with
them until I was about sixteen.
On one of my nights off, I met a guy when I decided to go to the
movies. He was sitting behind me. We got into a conversation and he
asked me to go home with him. At first I said “no” many times before
he persuaded me to go. He didn’t have any bus fare, so we walked
about ten miles from town to his house. There was one bus the next
day and I missed it. We did not get married, but we stayed together
for eight years. Our relationship was good for two years, and then he
really dogged me for the other six years. He used to beat me and fi­
nally I got tired of it and I left him. When I would leave, he would
find me and beat me until I went back. When my oldest daughter was
two years old, he beat her with a wire coat hanger. She was hollering
and crying. I just couldn’t take that and I knew that if I stayed with
him, I would kill him. I packed my stuff while he was at work and
just walked away. He visited but I never went back to him. We were
living in the country at the time, and I left to go to the city, to Birm­
ingham.
He found out where I was living in Birmingham. At one point, I had
gotten hurt and was in the hospital, and he begged me to go back with
him. His mother had my baby. When I got out of the hospital and went
to see the baby, he tried to beat me to make me stay with him. They fi­
nally arrested him. After they arrested him, I got my baby and went to
live in the city. I had a good little job there.
I met another guy in Birmingham. Since I was working, the mother
of my baby’s father—I called her Momma—took care of the baby. My
new friend and I went to visit the baby one day. He wasn’t working at
the time, so my baby’s grandfather asked him if he wanted a job. My
friend said yes and he went to work in the coal mines. We got married
and moved about 200 miles away to live in his family’s house.
My husband’s family also were sharecroppers, but we lived pretty
well out there. Then I started having babies. We stayed together for five
years. He had become very jealous and he didn’t want me out of his
sight. We had left his mother’s house and returned to my hometown of
Eufaula. He was working and then he started messing around with
other women. That’s when I decided to come North. We were living in
the projects and the lady in the rental office asked if I knew any girls
who wanted to work in New York City. Her brother worked in an em­
ployment office in New York. I told her I was interested and she bought
 MARTHA 119

a ticket for me. I told my husband that I was going for two years to give
him time to make up his mind whether he wanted me or that other girl.
I came to New York and got a job. It was a good job, too. I worked
for a family on the West Side; he was a Broadway producer. They had
two girls and a boy, and they were wonderful children. My boss sent for
my husband to come up from Alabama. We were going to live in the
apartment upstairs and we were going to send for our other two chil­
dren, who were still with his mother. My husband messed up, though.
He kept calling his girlfriend in Alabama. When my boss and his fam­
ily returned after being away for the weekend, they got the phone bill
and fired me on Monday.
When they fired me, I didn’t have anything. I told a policeman that
I didn’t have any money or a place to go. They sent me to the Bowery. I
was pregnant. When I got to the Bowery, the man there was so nice. He
told me that I shouldn’t stay there in my condition. He gave me six dol­
lars and told me where I could find a little cheap motel room that night.
Later, the welfare office sent me to my oldest sister in Newark, New Jer­
sey. I stayed with her until I had the baby. After the baby was born, my
sister and I didn’t get along too well.
I met a guy while I was living in New Jersey, and we hit it off really
well. My mother was in the hospital in upstate New York and I wanted
to see her. I stayed there for a couple of months and picked beans and
other vegetables. I told my mother about my children and promised to
bring them to see her. In 1963, I went to see my mother again and stayed
for the season. In 1966, my boyfriend and I moved to King’s Ferry, in
upstate New York and did migrant work there.
My daughter got pregnant in 1969, and we moved to Syracuse so
that we could get health care at the clinic, and we stayed. Around 1980,
my daughter was going with a guy and they started taking cocaine. My
two older daughters started taking it, too. I couldn’t believe it. That hurt
me so bad. They were really strung out and I didn’t know what to do.
I got involved around the time that my son bought me a car when
he was home on furlough from the Army. I gave the car to my grand-
son. Something happened to the car and my grandson needed money
to fix it. I had a little money in the bank and loaned him the money to
fix it. Then a guy came along the street selling a TV. My grandson
wanted the TV, too, so I loaned him the money to get the television.
Then there was no money to fix the car. My daughter told me that if she
had twenty dollars, she could make enough money to get the car fixed.
 120 MARTHA

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I had twenty dollars, so
I gave it to her. We were riding in my station wagon and she bought this
cocaine. In less than twenty minutes, she had about $200.
I didn’t know that she had been selling cocaine before this. I
thought, gee, if they make that kind of money, maybe I had better try
this. I was broke, and it occurred to me to get some money out of the
bank and get some cocaine. I took a few hundred dollars out of the bank
and told my daughter to get some of the stuff she was selling. I told her
to buy seventy-five dollars worth, and she doubled the money. That’s
why I’m in prison.
All my life, I had been using hand-me-down clothes. Even when I
was raising my kids, we went to the rescue mission and bought hand-
me-down clothes and used furniture. I really saw a chance to get some-
thing I never had. It was really fast money and my goal was to sell it and
get what I wanted and then quit. That’s what I thought.
I was fifty-eight years old when I started selling cocaine. I didn’t
even sell cocaine for a whole year; it was more like nine months. Within
that time, I had everything that I needed or wanted in my house. I had
nice clothes and a few dollars in a safe deposit box. In October 1988, one
of my ex-customers came to my house and wanted cocaine. I told him
that I was not in the business anymore. He said, “But you know people
. . . I need some bad.” He wanted an ounce. I called some guys to see if
they were still in business. They were still selling and the customer
came to my house and picked up the ounce of cocaine.
A week later, he called me and wanted eight ounces. I said that I
would have to call to see if the guys dealt with that amount. My cus­
tomer was a White boy and he called me “Momma.” He said, “Momma,
please try.” Sure enough, the guys didn’t have a problem with it. The
customer was with a friend, who really was an undercover state police
officer.
The customers came to my house. We were drinking beer, waiting
for the guy to bring the stuff. When he came to the house, I took the stuff
and told him to wait in my kitchen for his money. The rest of us went
into the bedroom. The snitch said, “Hurry up, I’m getting nervous.” I
said, “Me, too.” All of a sudden, I heard somebody say, “Freeze!” When
they said freeze, the officer flipped me over on my back like I was a
piece of paper, put an elbow or knee in my back and said, “Don’t
move.” I was handcuffed behind my back, which hurt because I have
arthritis in my joints.
 MARTHA 121

A female officer asked for my ID and I told her it was in the pants
on the chair. When she checked the pants pocket, she found my wallet,
seven $100 bills, and half an ounce of cocaine that I was holding for my
daughter. The police searched my house. My sister came up from New
Jersey and cleaned my house before I got out of jail. She told me what
they did to the house. They took all my clothes off the hangers and
threw them on the floor. They took the garbage out of my garbage can.
They poured flour and rice around. The one thing they didn’t do was
beat me up.
The police claimed they found a little packet of cocaine under my
sofa, on my coffee table, the eight ounces that I sold to the undercover
cop, and the stuff that was in my pocket. They got me for conspiracy.
They gave me eight-and-a-half to twenty-five years for conspiracy, and
twenty-to-life for possession in the first degree. I got twenty-to-life for
sales in the first degree and one year for possession of drug parapher­
nalia. They also indicted me for one ounce from the first time they came
to my house; I got three-years-to-life for that charge. The charges ran
concurrently, so it was like having one twenty-to-life sentence.
They offered me a plea bargain. My lawyer wanted to meet with me
on Saturday to discuss it. He told me that they offered me six-to-life.
Then he told me that I didn’t want the plea because he could beat that.
He called me in jail to tell me that I didn’t have to appear to accept the
plea because he would appear to accept it for me. My attorney didn’t
tell me how much time I would get if I lost the trial. He just said, “I can
beat that.” I had $12,000 in a safe deposit box. The police knew I had it
in the safe deposit box and I was scared they would take it. I asked my
attorney to get it. My attorney’s partner brought a note for me to sign to
get the money from the safe deposit box, but I never got the money from
them.
When I won the appeal for a new trial, I was offered another plea of
ten-to-life. My attorney told me to take it. I wondered why he wanted
me to take ten-to-life, but wouldn’t let me take six-to-life. I thought that
maybe I had a chance this time, so I refused the plea and went to trial
again. I was convicted and got the same twenty years again.
It’s difficult to explain how I reacted to the sentence. I’m a very
tough person. The way I was raised, if something bad happens and you
can’t change it, put it in God’s hands. So that’s what I always do. When
they told me “twenty-to-life,” it didn’t even hit me. After I got to prison,
I thought about it a lot. I miss my kids. I miss my grandkids. I have five
 122 MARTHA

children, twenty-one grandchildren and twenty-two great-grandchil­

dren. We’ve always been a close-knit family. We were happy. We played
volleyball. We went swimming together. All of them like to fish and I
would take them fishing. We liked cooking out. Now, a lot of the older
ones come to visit. Some of the other ones don’t come to visit, though. I
don’t know why they don’t come. Sometimes, the older grandchildren
will come by themselves for Christmas. But they really don’t visit me
like they should. I guess money is tight.
I was sentenced in 1989, so I’ve been here for over ten years. The
thing that sticks out in my mind is that I can understand that I did
wrong for selling the cocaine, but I think they gave me a harsh sentence.
Since I’ve been in prison, I’ve met people who are here for murder and
they got eight-and-a-half to twenty-five years. People would tell me
that my case was like first-degree murder. But there are people serving
time for first-degree murder down here who got seven-and-a-half to
twenty years, or eight-and-a-third to twenty-five years, so why did I get
twenty-to-life? I did not have any prior drug convictions before this.
It’s really hard for me in the institution. You have to be a very strong
person to be in here; you have to keep your sanity and stay out of trou­
ble. Like I said, I am strong. When I first came here, my son and my
youngest daughter sent me money. My husband would send me
money, too, even though we were not together. I was in pretty good
shape and I could go to the commissary regularly. Most people here
can’t do that. If others can get something from me, I’m the sweetest
thing on earth, but if I say no, I’m this old bitch. This is how it works in
here. That makes it hard. There’s something going on every day. There’s
an argument about anything you can think to argue about.
In 1993, I fell in the shower and hurt my back. I wasn’t going to do
anything about it at first. Whenever I went to the hospital, they said
nothing was wrong and it was just arthritis. I fell on the weekend, so I
couldn’t get it X-rayed because no one is here to X-ray on the weekend.
On Monday, they X-rayed it. I was going to school at the time. I had
stopped school in the third grade because we had to work on the farm.
I was bent over in pain from my fall. They made me go to school. An-
other day after the fall, I fell and hurt my knee again while I was on my
way to school. All of a sudden, about three inmates picked me up and
brought me to the hospital. My knee was skinned up. The nurse cleaned
me up and told me I could go on to school because nothing was wrong
with me. There were no X-rays or anything. I went to school.
 MARTHA 123

A couple of days later, it was pouring raining. I was sixty-seven

years old and the teacher called me to come to school, and said if I did­
n’t come to school they would write me up. I told her that I was not
going because my side was killing me and I would be dripping wet by
the time I got there. I would get to sit up in the classroom for two hours,
dripping wet. It was October or November and I thought I could catch
pneumonia like that. I didn’t go, and that was my first misbehavior
since I’ve been here.
I finally got to the place where I didn’t want to go to school any-
more. My sister had died while I was taking classes and I stayed out of
school for a couple of days. I was told to go to class or get a misbehav­
ior report. I’d just had a death in my family; why would they do that to
me?
People out there should understand not to ever come in here. My
goal was to buy things, but then I lost it all. I think about it quite often,
all the stuff I had. I had nice clothes and now everything is gone. When
I leave here, I will have only what I have on my back. In here, all we
have is hope. I tell a lot of girls in here that if you lose hope, you don’t
have anything. I talk to Him—God—every day. He’s making me strong
enough to bear whatever happens.
 8
Marilyn

Marilyn is serving twenty-two-years-to-life for participating in an

armed robbery in which one of the victims was shot and killed. Mari-
lyn was not present at the shooting, but she was charged with aggra-
vated murder in addition to burglary and several counts of robbery. She
initially faced the death penalty before pleading guilty to murder and
robbery charges. Earlier in life, she had pursued a modeling career. After
dropping out of school in the ninth grade, then marriage and pregnancy
at a young age, Marilyn set aside her plans. After her husband’s violent
death, she became involved with an abusive boyfriend. Her boyfriend
initiated the robbery and did the shooting that led to her incarceration.
While in prison, Marilyn overcame serious mental illness, obtained her
GED, completed numerous certificate programs, and obtained her cos-
metology license. She also organized a charitable fund-raiser for breast
cancer research. Marilyn has twice been denied parole. The dispute con-
cerning Marilyn’s parole status is featured in an exposé on the Ohio pa-
role system in the Cleveland Free Times.1

Marilyn

124
 MARILYN 125

I A M F O RT Y- F O U R years old. I was raised in Cleveland, but I was

born in Newport News, Virginia. My mother had ten kids. There are
five girls and five boys. My family struggled. We didn’t have a lot of
money. I never was mentally or physically abused by my family. They
were always good to me. They gave me what they could give me, but it
still was a struggle, considering that we were a big family.
I have three daughters and three granddaughters and one grand-
son. I stopped school after the ninth grade because I got pregnant and I
just kind of quit. I wasn’t really encouraged to continue school once I
was pregnant and I didn’t want to go anymore. I had my first child
when I was fifteen. I had my second child when I was seventeen. Then
I got married at seventeen. My husband was a year older than me. He
worked for a bed manufacturer. My youngest daughter was born while
I was in prison. I really feel like her surrogate mother because I wasn’t
there to raise her as I raised my other children.
I’ve been a widow since 1976, when my husband was killed. My
husband was killed on the Fourth of July; actually it was around 2:00
a.m. on the fifth of July. We were riding down the street and this White
guy that we didn’t know shot him for no apparent reason. I was twenty
and my husband was twenty-one when he was killed. My sister and I
were also in the car, but we were very fortunate.
I never got any counseling when my husband was killed. I was very
lonely and I was still mourning. I guess it was just a combination of
things and I got involved with this guy who had just gotten out of
prison after serving five years. I didn’t know anything about him when
I met him. When we first met, he was nice. When he moved into my
house, he became very abusive. He didn’t abuse me physically very
much, but he abused me mentally. For example, he always had this gun
and threatened to use it. He would find me if I would leave. He wanted
me to prostitute for him. It sounds strange, but I was brainwashed by
this man. I couldn’t think. I got to the point where I went to my parents
and wanted to move back home, but I wasn’t woman enough to say,
“Mom, I’m moving back home because this man is running me crazy.”
He didn’t want people in my house; it was strange. I think my mother
and everybody knew that he was abusing me. My kids were young, so
they couldn’t really understand what was going on. I always tried to
make them go to their room so that they couldn’t see what was going
 126 MARILYN

on. He and I were together for under a year before I came to prison with
this life sentence.
Then one day he led me to believe that we were going to his mom’s
house. She lived above an after-hours place. But when we got there, his
mom wasn’t there. We had a few drinks at the after-hours place and he
started robbing the place. He told me to put stuff in the bag and I did it.
I was really afraid of the guy. I was scared if I didn’t do it, he would
smack me around. There were about two people in the place. I did not
have a gun that night. When I left I got in the car that was parked two
streets over and then I heard a gunshot. He never told me that some-
body was killed that night; he told me that he got into a fight and the
gun accidentally went off. I was two streets over when the guy was
shot. When we were arrested, I admitted my crime. I knew it was
wrong; I did take someone’s stuff. They kept asking me where was the
gun. Two witnesses said I had a gun and two witnesses said I didn’t. I
did not kill anyone. I did not have a gun.
This was in April 1982. They charged me with aggravated mur­
der—with specification, burglary and robbery. I was facing the death
penalty. They said I could be the first woman in Ohio to get the electric
chair. When I first was arrested, I did not have a lawyer present. I made
a statement to the police because they told me if I made a statement and
told them what happened, they would just charge me with robbery. But
they charged me with both crimes.
My bond was $200,000. I had never been in prison; this is my first
incarceration. First, I had a public defender, then I had a private attor­
ney. My parents hired a lawyer and paid him $4,000. At first, I didn’t
feel comfortable with the public defender, but looking back, they were
doing more for me than the hired attorney. The private attorney told me
that I might as well plead guilty because I had already made a statement
to the police. I thought the lawyers would have reinvestigated on their
own. They just wanted me to plead guilty. On the plea bargain, they
gave me fifteen-to-life for the murder, and two terms of seven-to-
twenty-five years. One term of seven-to-twenty-five years runs to­
gether with the fifteen-to-life sentence. That means you have to do your
first sentence and then start all over again.
I took the plea. I was on suicide watch. I didn’t know I was preg­
nant at the time. I was taking mind medication and they told me that if
I pled guilty and testified against my co-defendant, I would get fifteen-
years-to-life. I never loved this man; I was afraid of him, and I wasn’t
 MARILYN 127

well. But I believed that people who actually killed someone got fifteen-
to-life, so I did not testify against him and I wound up getting all of this
time. I felt that I should have gone to a jury trial if I was going to get a
twenty-to-life sentence. My co-defendant went to trial first and the jury
found him guilty, so they really didn’t need me then. My co-defendant
got thirty-years-to-life.
I feel that I’m a role model prisoner. I don’t get in trouble and I don’t
get tickets. When I went to the parole board in 1996, I had already done
fourteen years and they required a psych evaluation. So I got the psych
evaluation and I went back and they gave me five years. I told the pa-
role board that I needed counseling. I knew I needed counseling with
all that has happened to me. I didn’t think I would get five more years
because I asked for more counseling. When I finished the five years I
went back to the board and got three more years. I go back to the board
in 2003.
I was on all types of medications when I was first arrested. I was on
a suicidal ward and taking mind medication—psychotropic drugs—to
calm me down. I wasn’t upset and I wasn’t acting bizarre, but I was fac­
ing the death penalty and they felt they had to keep me settled. I was in­
terviewed twice by a state doctor to see if I was mentally competent. I
don’t believe that I was, but they said I was. How could I be mentally
competent when they put me on the suicide ward? I was on the med­
ications for a long time. Then I went to the hospital and found I was
pregnant; that’s when they had to stop giving me the mind medica­
tions.
I wish that I had not been pregnant when I came to prison because
I didn’t know anyone when I came to prison and I was fighting two bat­
tles just to survive for me and my child. After I gave birth to my daugh­
ter in December 1982, they wanted to take my baby. I had a complete
nervous breakdown in February 1983. They called it postpartum de­
pression. After a while, I was sent to the mental hospital at the forensic
center. I stayed there for about six months after I was sentenced. I had
the breakdown because I was stressed. I had a twenty-two-years-to-life
sentence, I could face the electric chair, they tried to take my baby, I was­
n’t going to be home with my family . . . it was a combination of things.
How could I fight if I wasn’t mentally competent? When I came
back from the mental hospital, they wanted to put me on more mind
medication. Mind medication is not the answer. It doesn’t make you
think straight and you hallucinate. I stopped taking the medication
 128 MARILYN

because I wanted to get myself back together. After a while, I got myself
together and I started going to school to get my GED.
All of my sisters graduated from high school. I was the only one
who didn’t graduate. Before prison, I went to modeling school and I got
a certificate. I also enjoyed designing my own clothes. When I got to
prison, I became determined. I said, “Well, I’m incarcerated; I have to
do something.” If you wanted to do anything like go to college, you had
to have a GED So I decided to put my mind to it. I took my GED seven
times; it was hard, but I did it. I was very proud of myself; I had had a
complete nervous breakdown and got myself back together. After I got
my GED, I went to school and got my cosmetology licenses for instruc­
tion, managing, and operating.
When my friend, Carmen, another inmate, was here, her mother
had cancer and she wanted to do a cancer walk-a-thon. So we did a
walk-a-thon. If you paid ten dollars, you got a dinner. We had a banquet
and if the women wanted to walk, they walked. The women won prizes
and things. We raised one thousand dollars in the cancer-walk-a-thon.
I really liked doing the benefit. It was very exciting to get so many peo­
ple involved in it, even if they didn’t have cancer or know anyone with
cancer. We could do benefits for so many other illnesses like AIDS and
diabetes. I’d like to do more benefits like this if I ever go home.
Some days, it’s very hard to be in prison, but I came to the conclu­
sion that I just try to take one day as it comes. If I wake up happy, I roll
with it. I have gotten much stronger since I’ve been incarcerated. I’m
very independent now; I don’t depend on anyone. Before, I was fol­
lowing people; I was weak and gullible. Now I make my own decisions.
People come in and ask me how I did more than twenty years in prison.
They may have a year or two years to do and they ask, “How did you
do it?” I explain to them that it wasn’t that easy. It’s not like something
I can take off the shelf and give you. I find that you have to take one day
at a time, find something interesting to do that will benefit you and
keep your mind occupied. Some days, I feel depressed and don’t want
to get out of bed, but I tell myself that I have to get out of bed and go to
work. I work for the laundry here and I do the inmates’ clothes. I like
that job. It keeps me busy and it keeps my mind from just thinking
about doing my time.
My family members were very close to me when I was first incar­
cerated. Now that I’ve been away so long, I’m afraid that they don’t re-
ally know me. A lot of people come to prison, they could be any race,
 MARILYN 129

and their family members just don’t understand the prison life and how
lonely and depressing it can be at times. At first everyone is helping you
out, then they forget about their loved ones. We’re still women, we’re
still human beings; we just made a foolish mistake. It could be anybody,
your priest, the cops, your best friend, rich or poor. Family members
should be more supportive of some of the people that are incarcerated.
Some inmates never receive any mail, no money orders, no food boxes,
none of that. That makes a person get bitter. It’s important for people to
get mail, visits, and money orders. We have to survive in here, too.
They’re not giving away personal items, we have to buy that stuff.
Everything is expensive for us, too, even if we are in prison.
A lot of women in here won’t be woman enough to say that they
were abused by a man. I want women to know that I was abused by a
man and I’m doing time for a man, and that’s something I’m never
going to do again once I’m released. I’m not that proud; I was used by
this man, I was abused by this man, and I went through enough. I don’t
think domestic violence is dealt with enough in the Black community. I
think there should be more information and pamphlets that are directed
to the Black community in order to recognize the abuse in the commu­
nity. I never went to a domestic violence shelter because I didn’t really
know that it was abuse. In prison, they started domestic violence classes
and I realized my experience was abusive. The community should not
be so harsh on inmates. Because some women have low IQs, low self-
esteem, or can’t read or write, when they try to defend themselves they
still get a life sentence.
When I came to prison, my oldest daughter was twelve and my
youngest was ten. My parents raised them. They are doing fine; they’re
good girls. They didn’t get into drugs or anything. They’ve been to col­
lege. My oldest daughter is a beautician and is renting a house. At one
time she had custody of my youngest daughter, but the youngest is an
adult now and takes care of herself. My second oldest works for a law
firm. They went on with their lives. My youngest daughter had a diffi­
cult time during my incarceration. She was in a foster home and some
treatment centers after suicide attempts. She’s a good girl, she gets good
grades in school; she just misses me. She knows why I’m in prison and
she knows why her father is in prison. I didn’t cut any corners with her.
She asked me why I was in prison and I told her because I have no rea­
son to lie about that. Each of my daughters is very open. They have tried
to talk to lawyers and they have done everything possible that they
 130 MARILYN

could do to get me out of prison. They want me home. My grandkids

are growing up and I haven’t been there for any of them.
The staff gives me my respect and I give them theirs, too. I don’t
disrespect anyone. I think they give me a little more respect because of
the cancer-walk-a-thon I did at the prison. I try to be cordial to other
people because I know there are a lot of women in here who have men­
tal problems, even though they might not recognize it. Some of the
women come here with flat time and they go home. They ask me how
did I do my time. I tell them I didn’t take any pill to do this time. I got
off the mind medication and I got my thoughts back. Whenever I get
out of here, I want to be a clothes designer, a singer, and do lots of char­
ity work. I want to go to college and finish my degree. When I start
something, I like to complete it.
 B

FORMERLY INCARCERATED WOMEN

 9
Bettie Gibson

Bettie began her life in rural Mississippi. At a very young age, she was
aware that belief in African Americans’ racial inferiority was in-
grained in the social structure. She also experienced sexual abuse by an
overseer at her family’s farm. She moved north to Chicago to live with
her parents, who later divorced. After difficulties at home, she left and
embarked on a self-destructive course that included prostitution, theft
crimes, and drug addiction. She took the opportunity to complete her
last sentence at Grace House, in Chicago. There, she received support to
address her pain from sexual abuse and drug addiction, as well as sup-
port to complete her education. She is now well on her way to achiev­
ing the personal and educational goals she set for herself.

Bettie Gibson

133
 134 BETTIE GIBSON

M Y N A M E I S B E T T I E . I’m forty-nine years old. I was born in Delta

City, Mississippi, on a sharecropped farm. My parents were sharecrop­
pers. My father’s mother was a schoolteacher. She kept me when I was
born. She was a very fair-skinned lady, with long hair; she was more
Cherokee Indian than anything else. My mother’s mother had my com­
plexion; she had dark skin and woolly hair. I was the middle child, and
I had three other sisters.
I think one reason why I fell into crime was that I wasn’t educated.
My father’s mother had a lot of high ideas for me. Even though she was
educated and taught the Black kids in the school down in Mississippi, I
didn’t have enough time to be around her. I didn’t understand how im­
portant it was to be around someone with a stable foundation and an
education. She lived well and got the things that she needed and
wanted. With my skin color, though, I wouldn’t have gotten too far. I
would have to go through another door because of my skin color.
When I was young, there was a show in town. We had to sit in dif­
ferent places than the little White kids. Then, at the end of the show they
would have a Black man wrestle a bear, and then a Black kid would
wrestle a bear, to win money. That was entertainment for the White peo­
ple. Because of my grandmother, I got to do things that other Black kids
didn’t get to do. There was Sears and Roebuck, for instance. It was a big
deal if you shopped out of their catalog. My clothes and Christmas gifts
came from Sears and Roebuck, but the other Black children didn’t have
that. You had to have money to order something from Sears. But even
though I had all of that, the feeling of being inferior brought me away
from that place.
Sharecropping was very similar to slavery. The overseer on the
farm would try to have sex with us when we were children. He used to
come over and try to put his penis into my cousin and me, and give us
money and other things. We never were penetrated, but I felt that
fondling and having to put our hands on his penis was just as bad. I was
scarred from that. I never told anyone about it until I was grown. He
would come inside my grandmother’s house. She and the other Black
people were so afraid of the overseers and the other Whites. They
would find women chopped up on the river with axes, dead. It was just
hush-hush. I would hear mumbling and whispers, but when the over-
seer came around, they would be quiet. So as early as the age of three, I
 BETTIE GIBSON 135

knew that we were inferior to White people and I couldn’t take it. I
knew that something was not right in the house, that my grandparents
were afraid of those people, and that we were beneath them. I said, “If
my parents have a better place than this, I’m leaving.”
When I was about four or five years old, my father decided to get
out of the South and come north to get a job. We came to Chicago to try
to better ourselves. I should have stayed in the South with my grand-
mother, but I wouldn’t listen. I would have gone to college or the mili­
tary. I just wanted to be a government person. But I always thought that
everyone was equal and no one was superior. Everything was sup-
posed to be uniform; what applied to you should apply to me. So when
I was asked whether I wanted to remain in Mississippi or move to
Chicago with my parents, I chose to go with my parents to get away
from Mississippi. Since I had lived with my grandmother, I didn’t know
anything about my parents.
My dad got a job as a welder when they came to Chicago, and made
pretty good money. He didn’t really bother about education, though.
My mother and father had only a third-grade education because they
had to drop out to pick cotton in Mississippi. In this way, we were a dys­
functional family because two people didn’t know anything except
how to go to work and make some money. They didn’t know how to tell
us that an education was essential if we were going to lead productive
lives. That wasn’t instilled in us even after we came to Chicago.
I started school in Chicago, but I never liked school very much. I
found math especially difficult. I couldn’t come home and ask my par­
ents, because they didn’t know. Back then, they would pass you from
grade to grade based on your height. They didn’t have meetings with
the parents to discuss what was going on with the children and their
grades. Most of the teachers were White and didn’t seem to care. They
were getting a paycheck. If you weren’t outstanding, they didn’t put too
much energy into you. It seemed as though the rest of the kids were on
top of what they should know, and they caught on quickly. I was much
slower. Maybe if someone had shown me a different way, I could have
caught on. You have to use other approaches for people who are slower
learners, especially when they come from family backgrounds that do
not have much education. I am thankful to see that the education sys­
tem has changed for the better.
My mother and father didn’t have very good communication be-
tween them. When I was twelve years old, they talked about separating.
 136 BETTIE GIBSON

We had to decide who was going to live with whom. My baby sister and
I picked my father, because it just seemed that my mother and I never
had a good relationship. My other sisters went to live with my mother.
After my sister and I stayed with my father for a while, we went back
to our mother because my father lost his eye in an accident at his job. I
was about fourteen years old then. When I went back to my mother’s
house, I kept running away from home. I started drinking alcohol,
going out, and staying out. I would sneak out when everybody went to
sleep. I just wasn’t happy there because I was always being labeled. I
got through school and I couldn’t wait to get out of the house.
The first guy I met was what you’d call a pimp and he was from my
neighborhood. I was eighteen years old, and I must have stood on the
street as a prostitute for about two months. I don’t know if it was be-
cause of what the overseer tried to do to us when we were kids, but I
thought certain sex things weren’t normal. So I started to go out on the
street and pick men’s pockets and take their money. I started to get good
at it. I would go down on Rush Street, to the Gold Coast, where all the
leisure trade people come from all over the world and I would get into
the men’s pockets. I would pick rich men’s pockets of thousands and
thousands of dollars, because I would dress up real nice, and they al­
ways wanted to get close to me. I had gotten so good that I could take
their money out their wallet and put the wallet back in three seconds.
Then I used to steal their credit cards and sell them.
Once I found out that I could pick pockets, I was able to leave home
and have my own place. This is what drove me into the street, and I felt
that was really the thing to do. I lived in nice apartments. I had jewelry,
nice cars, and my kids were dressed nicely. I had gotten so good at pick­
ing pockets that I was really making money. The biggest one I ever took
happened when I was nineteen. The guy had a hundred $100 dollar
bills; he had ten thousand dollars in his pocket, probably from the race-
track. I started buying a lot of nice things. The pimp started coming
around, trying to get me to do this and that, and that’s when I started
using drugs. I was nineteen years old when I first sniffed heroin. One of
my sisters did it, and my boyfriend did it. I started getting curious be-
cause it looked like they felt so good, and I just had so much pain. I did­
n’t like myself. I thought that I never would reach my potential. At first
the heroin seemed good, and then after I started taking it, I knew my life
had become a whirlwind. It was going around and around, going
nowhere, like a merry-go-round. I got strung out quickly because I
 BETTIE GIBSON 137

made a lot of money; therefore, I had a lot of money to do drugs. A lot

of people who didn’t make a lot of money start shooting because it’s di­
rect contact through the veins and the high is supposed to last longer.
But I didn’t like needles.
Then one night I was on State Street and met this guy that owned a
steel corporation. I picked his pocket. He had about sixteen hundred
dollars in his pocket. I was caught because the doorman, a Black guy,
told that I had the man’s money. I gave the money back to him since we
had gotten caught. The guy ran down the street after I gave the money
back and slapped my boyfriend and me. My boyfriend was a big pimp
from Chicago. He got out and beat the guy up with one of those clubs
for the steering wheel. They put a warrant out for our arrest. This was
the first time I ever encountered the penal system. This was in 1975.
My lawyer was well known in the county. He said, “Bettie, you
know the judge is my father-in-law. If you plead guilty today, they’re
going to give you six months.” I turned down the six months because
my boyfriend told me, “Don’t plead. Don’t take six months for some-
thing you didn’t commit.” Therefore, we took it to trial. In the end,
guess what we wound up with? It was five to fifteen years. They had
charged us with armed robbery. The lawyer was so mad at me. He said,
“Bettie, I’m not even coming back anymore. I’m going to send my pro-
tégé because I don’t even want to see you.”
When they slapped me in jail I was eight months pregnant with my
youngest child. I have four sons. My oldest son was born in 1967, and
my next son was born in 1968. My third son was born in 1972. When I
got down to the penitentiary I was dilating. They got the car and the
man driving was doing one hundred miles an hour to get me to the hos­
pital. When we got there, they treated me so badly; they put me in a
closet. They wouldn’t even take me to the delivery room because I was
Black. They let me have my baby by myself, almost in the closet. The
corrections officer, a lady, was standing there. They were going to call
my doctor at the prison. The CO said, “Well, she can’t wait until the doc-
tor gets here. The baby’s coming.” I started pushing and the baby came
out right there.
I didn’t get to keep three of my kids very much. My boyfriend’s
mother was given custody of them. When I got out of jail, I got a place
in an affluent suburb and lived with my two youngest sons. I asked
them if they were involved with any gangs and they said, “No, Mama,
we’re not in no gang.” I said, “Look, I’m going to tell you something.
 138 BETTIE GIBSON

You don’t be out here in these gangs. You going to school.” They kept
saying they were going to school. So one day, when I went in their room
to make sure their beds were made, I found some gang literature. They
were thirteen and fourteen years old. I got in the car, and I went and
found them. No kid of mine was going be a gang banger. I told them to
go back to their daddy and his sister’s house, because I wasn’t going to
put up with it. I know where I went wrong. I know where my parents
went wrong, and I was not going to be a part in destroying their lives.
Both of them were selling drugs. The older son got out of it, but the
youngest one didn’t. It’s going to take more than talking to him to get
him to stop because the money, big jewelry, and the cars got him caught
up. He needs to go back to school. They need to send him to some type
of program that says, “You either do this or you’ll never get out. You ei­
ther go through this program and wake up because if you don’t wake
up, you’re going to get right back out here and do the same thing and
get killed or end up back in here.” Because the court system is waiting.
Once you’ve been convicted of a crime in the state of Illinois, you can
rest assured that you will be a repeat offender over and over again, be-
cause whatever they say you did, you did it. You cannot stand up in a
court of law and take a trial on anything with your background and this
is what they play on. Plea-bargaining is a very big thing in Illinois. Even
people that shouldn’t be in jail, that don’t even commit crimes, plea-
bargain to get a lesser sentence so they can hurry up and get in and get
out. The jails are so overcrowded and filthy. The food is bad. The health
care is lousy. And some of the guards are physically abusive.
Now the prison for Black women is what I call just a warehouse for
people. They don’t have programs to help you come back in society, to
help you with your problems as to why you wound up there. It’s just to
get the money every time you come through the door. It’s a lucrative
business. So here you are going right back out there to do the same thing
with fifty dollars. What is fifty dollars, with no skills and no training
and no education, going to do for someone? Getting out of jail with fifty
dollars would make me want to go use some drugs and forget what’s
going to happen two days down the line when I wake up with no
money and no job. You would see women go out and come right back.
There are three basic life-sustaining things that you have to have in life:
food, clothing, and shelter. They don’t come free, and you can’t get
them for fifty dollars. They know when they let you out that you’ll be
back, unless you get fortunate enough to have a program like this to
 BETTIE GIBSON 139

help you. And you have to want it. People fail to realize that all the peo­
ple out here on the street that they see walking down the street using
crack cocaine and stealing don’t do that because they want to do it.
They have no other way.
My first incarceration was for armed robbery, the one in 1975. I re­
ceived a sentence of five to fifteen years, and I served five years. On the
second one, I received seven years, three times, but concurrent, which
left me with seven years. That charge was robbery and I served three-
and-a-half years. That was in 1984. In 1992, I got three years for petty
theft, for pick pocketing; I served a year. Then in 1994, I served fifteen
months of a three and one-half year sentence. Just as I was coming out,
I got three-and-a-half more years. This happened at the end of 1997 or
the beginning of 1998. I’m on parole for that one now. I went to school
when I was in jail. Don’t think I just sat there. It took me four times to
pass the GED. It took me four times because you are a product of your
environment and what your parents are. If my parents did not have an
education, where did that leave me? Now, I also have credits from local
universities and junior colleges.
I didn’t understand that my life-style was an act. I was on stage
until I was almost fifty years old. I was really on stage being an image
that somebody else had built me up to be. It wasn’t what I really wanted
to be, and I learned to come offstage. I’m offstage now. I also learned
that I suffer from bipolar mental condition. It was a long time before I
knew why I suffered from this depression. I found out later that bipolar
is a disease that you inherit, usually from a parent. Looking back on it,
I think my mother suffered from bipolar because she suffered with a lot
of depression.
I thought there would be some way to break that cycle, because I
heard that people that did these programs were successful. This is why
I asked for Grace House. I could have been with family members, but I
didn’t want to go back into the streets again, and there was no structure
with my family members. I would not have found a job. Instead, I
would have started stealing. The program was the best thing for me and
I’m grateful to have been picked and to have this chance. I’m going to
do this program successfully because I’m doing the things I’m sup-
posed to do in order to stay here.
Now I take the bus where I’m going and I don’t want diamonds.
But don’t get me wrong, it’s okay to want these things, because this is
what makes each of us individuals. That just isn’t where my priorities
 140 BETTIE GIBSON

are anymore. I want to reach my potential. I am someone that likes to

explore in her mind, because I do have one. And if I had been able to
cultivate what I know, and use what I got, I would have been sitting
somewhere trying to help somebody. After all the money that I made,
money is really nothing; it’s just something to show, to glamorize. But
can you live simply? When you can do that, then you know that you’re
somebody.
The Grace House is the best thing that could ever happen to a Black
woman, or to any prisoner, because it will help you get back out in the
community where you can be productive. You can get a job. My main
thing is to get my degree. I have those academic credits, but I don’t do
math well. I need to pass math to get my degree. Grace House has a
tutor who will help. I think that I could counsel someone and help them
because how do you expect somebody that comes from one of the ritzy
places in New York to come down and interact and try to tell somebody
from the ghetto what to do and how to do it? They can’t do it, because
first of all they have to identify with them. You have to give inmates
some type of encouragement to want this, and they have to see some-
thing on the outside. They have to see someone who’s been there—
someone who has been using drugs since 1972, and who has straight­
ened up and is functioning. That would have a big impact on another
drug addict. It would give them some incentive to want to stop from
committing suicide, because in reality, using drugs is just like Russian
roulette. Just because you didn’t get it today, doesn’t mean you won’t
get it tomorrow, because it slowly deteriorates the body and the mind.
I think that I need to take a look at the things that I’m doing and not
look at what others may have or may be getting or what others, in my
family maybe, can do for me. Instead of socializing with some of the
people or going to places I’ve been around in the past, I need to try to
omit that from my mind. That would bring nothing but trouble to me.
And I need to be patient. That’s first and foremost. I’m going to have to
stay focused on the things that I might do that could lead me back to the
penitentiary, and what it will take for me not to do those things. I want
to stay focused on being an everyday person, without drugs and know­
ing within my heart that I don’t need to have some type of mind-alter­
ing narcotic to make me normal and feel like I’m supposed to feel.
I see myself getting to the point to where I have a nice job and my
degree someplace on the wall. And I see myself volunteering to help
others, and putting back what I’ve gotten out of it. I am working on my
 BETTIE GIBSON 141

Bachelor’s in social work. This is a good match for me because I can

share what I learned in my text, and I can share what I learned from
firsthand experiences in life. There won’t be any dressing up or sugar-
coating. I’ll just put it out there like it is, hoping that they won’t take the
same path that some of us have taken.
I think that a lot of people should know some of the things that I’ve
suppressed in me. I think maybe once they know that there are people
that can bring out things that they kept inside so many years, they also
can begin to open up and talk about their problems. I feel it is important
that you don’t have to be ashamed of what you’ve done, where you
been, and the kind of family you may be from, because a lot of people
come from dysfunctional families and they just try to cover it up and
dress it up. But, I want to be open with it, so people will know that they
are not alone and that there are places and programs that can help them
work out their problems. I want to be part of that solution. Finally, I feel
loved, cared for, and have a sense of self-worth. I would like to thank all
the people who came into my life that believed in me until I believed in
myself. I thank them profusely for the tools that got me where I am
today and for lighting my way. I’m feeling very optimistic about my
life.
 10
Joyce Ann Brown

Joyce Ann Brown was accused of the heinous murder of a local Dallas,
Texas, furrier, a crime that she did not commit. After serving nearly ten
years in the Texas prison system, she finally was released when the
Texas Appeals Court overturned her conviction based on the state’s un­
lawful withholding of evidence that pointed to her innocence. In prison
and upon release, she became an ardent advocate for incarcerated
women and men, and their families and supporters. Her story is told in
her book, Joyce Ann Brown: Justice Denied (1990).

Joyce Ann Brown

142
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 143

I WA S B O R N in Willis Point, Texas, a small town east of Dallas. I grew

up in the Dallas area. My mother had ten children and she brought us
to Dallas when I was in the third grade. My mother and her thirteen sib-
lings had not been educated, except for one brother that ended up in the
service. I’m talking about first, second grade, maybe, and that was it.
My mother was married at thirteen; therefore, she did not get an edu­
cation as far as school was concerned. But she was determined that her
children would be educated before they left her house.
I graduated from Franklin D. Roosevelt High School in 1965. I had
to take on a different role, because I had to be the second mother. Liv­
ing in that environment made me want a better life for all of my sib-
lings. I am the third child, but the oldest girl. I was a child, but I took on
a grown person’s role, by cooking, making sure the children ate, mak­
ing sure they were able to get up, get off to school, and so forth. When
my mom wasn’t there, I was the one in charge. I took care of everybody.
I also think that was a good thing, because it got me ready for woman-
hood. It made me a leader; let me put it that way. It made me always
want to be in charge. If someone was weak and being abused, I always
wanted to be the person that could tuck them under my wing.
When we grew up and went through elementary, junior high, and
high school, there were a lot of things that we weren’t able to participate
in because we didn’t have the finances. But because everybody around
us was poor, we didn’t realize how poor we were.
My brother, Robert, was the smartest person that I have ever seen
in my life. He made A’s and he went to college. He was the first of our
family to go to college, and that made me proud. When I graduated
from high school in 1965 and he was getting ready to enter college, I
chose to get a job so that I could help him. I think that came from that
upbringing provided by my mother. We didn’t know anything about
grants then. We didn’t know if there was college money out there for
African Americans. That hadn’t been taught to us in our schools. Our
parents weren’t educated to know how to go out and get it, therefore
college was just a no-no. We were taught to finish school, to get an ed­
ucation, to get a job. We were not taught to be entrepreneurs. I used to
think, God, there’s a better life than this. There are other things that you
probably can do and I need to try to find out what those things are, be-
cause I want more for my sisters and my brothers.
 144 JOYCE ANN BROWN

I really didn’t think about my own future because I had been

taught that if you got a job, you were doing it. You were an A-OK
Black person. When I was coming up in the ’60s, young Black women
didn’t know about being a doctor or a lawyer, and those types of ca­
reers. All we thought about was being somebody’s secretary and I fell
into that mode. When I came out, there was Texas Instruments. All the
Black folks were working for Texas Instruments. They were driving
their own cars and living in their own homes, so, you thought Texas
Instrument was it. Then I realized that when you paid your rent and
bought a few other things, the money wasn’t so great, even though I
was staying at home with my parents. I had my siblings and they
wanted to be in the pep squad, or the cheerleading squad, or other
school activities.
Then I realized something else, because at that time, we kind of had
integrated a little bit and we were able to go to the White clubs. Of
course, I loved to dance and go out and have fun. It appeared that White
men would always get attracted to me. At that time, I was a little afraid
of them, because we had never been around them, especially in a lov­
ing way, or in any type of social way. After they bought you a drink,
they would want to dance, and they would tell you how beautiful you
were. Then I met a young lady that was a call girl. She looked like me
and was built like me, so a lot of them had gotten me mixed up with her.
We became friends and she eventually told me what she did. She used
to say, “Girl, you could make a lot of money.” I said, “Get out of here. I
don’t want to do that. My mom would kill me.” But the White men kept
coming, and we kept talking.
Eventually, I found a secretarial job for the school community guid­
ance center in Dallas. I was the only lady. There were six men there, and
I was the secretary to all of them. By that time, I realized that the money
I was making was not going to allow me to help my siblings participate
in the activities they were interested in. Some of those men that called
themselves liking me, started leaving money on my dresser whenever
they would leave my apartment. Then, my siblings could participate in
all of the things that school had to offer and they didn’t have to worry
about how much it cost. My parents didn’t have to worry about it, be-
cause I was going to take care of all of that. I wanted them to have an
easy mind. All they had to do was get their homework, participate and
be the best in what they were doing, and I was going to take care of it.
That was it.
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 145

Mothers spoil their sons and discipline their daughters, especially

the Black women. It wasn’t instilled in my older brothers that they were
responsible for their younger sisters and brothers. My brothers didn’t
have to get up and change diapers. They didn’t have to cook with a
baby on their hip. They didn’t have to do any of those things. That was
always the woman’s job. Young Black men would get a job at some-
body’s golf course, caddying. When they came home they expected to
eat and take a bath, rest, and go to bed. That’s what our fathers, as far
as we know, did. That’s the way it was. I think it stopped with me, be-
cause I really didn’t think it was right, and I didn’t think that the other
children should be in control of the other younger children.
So I lived a double life for a while. In 1970, I gave up the secretarial
job and decided this was what I was going to do for a time. But I didn’t
want my mother to know, so I moved to California. I lived in San Diego
and that’s where I conducted my business. I came back to Dallas from
California in 1975. I simply lived on one side of town, and my mom
lived on the other side of town. I always had a front, always had a job,
or they thought I always had a job. I’ve always said that if the state gov­
ernment could put a tax on prostitution it would be legal, but they
could never put a tax on it, therefore it’s illegal. Now, within my heart,
I knew it was immoral, and I knew that it was a sin against my God. But
other than damaging me, I wasn’t damaging anybody else.
I wasn’t the type to rob a person, or misuse a person. I did what I
said I was going to do, and that was it. And I got paid good money for
that. I was one of the top call girls in California, and in Dallas. I always
had dignity, pride, and respect because I never brought it to my
Momma’s house. I knew that she would literally have a fit about that.
Even though you think that you are pulling one over, actually, you’re
not. She probably had figured it out, but simply just did not want to ac­
cept it. So, she allowed me to front, and she accepted the front. Nobody
can tell me that my mom didn’t know, and nobody ever questioned
where the money was coming from. They just accepted it. Later on, it
would be said that even though we knew you couldn’t afford some of
the things we got, we never questioned where it came from. We’re not
going to question it now; we’re just going to give back to you what you
gave to us. They became my support when I was in prison, so it kind of
worked out. To this day we’ve never really talked about it, never. It’s as
if it didn’t happen, no matter how much they read about it in my book,
no matter how much I talk about it.
 146 JOYCE ANN BROWN

I’ve never been ashamed of anything that I did and if those same lit­
tle sisters and brothers were there, I would do it again without blinking
an eye. It’s just that, if I had the knowledge then that I have now, I
would never have had to do it in the first place. If I had known about
scholarship monies, about ways to get me and my sisters and brothers
into a college without burdening my parents, there’s no doubt in my
mind that I would’ve found those monies.
After I came back from San Diego, I did the same things off and on.
Then in 1979, I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. My daugh­
ter was in school. My stepson also lived with us. During that time, I was
at the PTA and every activity. My daughter was a cheerleader and Lee,
Jr., played for the little league teams. When they were fighting for the
championship, I would write all over the car, put the streamers all over
the car and make sure that they got there. I was there to cheer them on.
Then at night, I would go and do something different, but I was back at
home before it was time for them to go to school the next day. Then I de­
cided that this was not it. I’ve got children coming up now. I am going
to do something different.
I’ve always been good with typing and shorthand, and paperwork
and math. I carried the A’s in Algebra when I was in school, but I did
not know how to use it. I didn’t realize there’s nothing in the world that
you can’t do with math. A girlfriend called and said she heard that I was
looking for a job. She knew that I was good with bookkeeping and all of
that and she encouraged me to apply. I went over with my little resume.
I had never really done bookkeeping before, but I knew that I could do
it. Since I was what was called a minority, they would have one token
in the office. At that time, I really didn’t know what a token was; I did­
n’t know that it looked good for them to have a variety. I went to work
for Koslow’s on October 20, 1979. They found out that I wasn’t just a va­
riety. I was very aggressive. They got more than they bargained for, but
I had a good relationship with all of the sales reps, the managers, and so
on. If they wanted something done, they’d tell me, and that was it.
Then on May 6, 1980, my world turned really upside down. That’s
when there was a fur robbery about three-and-a-half miles from our
store. Fine Furs by Rubin was robbed and the owner was killed. Two
Black females had walked in and committed this horrible crime, and the
car was rented to a Joyce Ann Brown of Denver. My ex-husband at that
time was living in Denver. The police investigator was showing a pic­
ture of me, and one of the guys says, “Oh, that’s JB. Yeah, I know JB, but
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 147

JB wouldn’t have done that.” He said he left it at that. The next thing I
knew, they had my picture out on the streets. At the same time they
were showing the picture, police officers that knew me were calling my
house, but I wasn’t there to see what was happening. This was May 6;
it was on a Wednesday.
By May 9, I received a call from my mother. She said that somebody
said they were looking for me in connection with a robbery. I said, “Get
out of here!” I thought somebody was playing a joke on her because that
particular May 6, when we were alerted that there was a robbery in the
area, I took the telephone call at work. We were all talking about what
we would do if they came in our store, and that we were going to be on
the alert; we weren’t going to let it happen. I thought somebody was ac­
tually playing a joke and I told her that I was getting ready to go to work
and I would talk to her later.
Five minutes later, my mother called back and said an elderly fam­
ily friend had just called. The friend called and said she was reading in
the paper that they were looking for me. At that time, I said, “Okay, let
me get off the phone with you and call her.” I was taught that I needed
to listen when senior citizens speak because they normally knew what
they were talking about. It wasn’t so funny after that. When I called her,
she told me what she was reading in the paper and just for a moment I
wanted to think that maybe she didn’t have her glasses, maybe she’s
senile. Can she read? Did she go to school? All of those thoughts went
through my mind, but in my heart, I knew that she knew what she was
talking about. I went out and got a paper and saw that they were look­
ing for me. I thought that I would go down and straighten it out.
My picture wasn’t in the paper. It said something like, “Fur robbery
suspects have fled Dallas to avoid prosecution.” Then it went on to say
they were looking for Joyce Ann Brown, and listed my address. I
thought, “Oh, my God.” I wasn’t really excited or worried. They made
a mistake. Let me go down there and straighten this out. That’s what I
honestly thought. I called a friend because she had called the night be-
fore and asked me if I was all right. She said, “There was a police offi­
cer down here showing your picture in connection with the fur rob­
bery.” I told her I was getting ready to go there now and straighten it
out. She told me not to go by myself and she called a lawyer that we
knew. The lawyer said, “Well, Joyce, I can’t give you any advice as a
lawyer, because I’m not your lawyer. But as your friend, I would ask
you not to go down by yourself.” I asked him if he was crazy. I said I
 148 JOYCE ANN BROWN

don’t have anything to hide, because I didn’t do anything. He said,

“Joyce, this is serious.” I didn’t even know what capital murder was. All
I wanted to do was go down and say, “Hey, I didn’t do this. You’ve got
the wrong Joyce Brown.”
I called my lawyer and he said, “Go to my office. Don’t talk to any-
body else. Go to my office.” Before I left, I called a friend at the police
department but he wasn’t in. I told the other officer I was coming down
and would come directly to him. When I got to my attorney’s office, he
picked up a telephone, and he began telling these people that I’m com­
ing in. “We don’t have any guns, no knives, no weapon.” I’m looking at
him like . . . Is he crazy? He said, “This is capital murder, and this is se­
rious.” We got to the police department, and went to the lieutenant’s of­
fice. When I walked in, the lieutenant said, “Joyce, I need to take your
purse, and I need to read you your rights.” I looked at him and he said,
“Believe me, I don’t want to do this, but we have to.”
He started reading me my rights and I started getting angry then,
because I got to crying. I’m crying because I came for help to straighten
this out and he was reading me my rights. When he finished reading me
my rights, he said, “I don’t believe a word of it but I had to do that.”
Then he said, “I’ll take you where you need to go, because they don’t
want us to question you, because we know you.” He took me up to this
room and I waited three-and-a-half hours before they came into that
room. I was in the room by myself, my lawyer was in and out. At the
time they heard I was on my way in, they went to my house and ran-
sacked it. They found nothing because there was nothing there for them
to find. They came in and asked me what was I doing on May 6. I told
them I was at work and showed them a check stub. One of the guys
said, “You’re a liar.” Oh! I almost came unglued, because a liar I was not.
That’s when I told him, “I don’t have anything to say to you. I’ve told
you where I was. I’ve told you what I was doing, and I’ve told you that
I didn’t commit this crime. So you can just book me, or you can let me
go. You arrest me, or you let me go.” We found out that they already had
a warrant out for my arrest for capital murder. They booked me for cap­
ital murder and sent me to a cell. I guess around six o’clock that
evening, I was arraigned. During that time, they came to me and asked
me if I knew a White guy named Davey Shafer. I said no. They said they
had found him working on a car in front of my house and that he had
been positively identified as the lookout person. Still, I said that I did­
n’t know him.
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 149

When we got to arraignment they called my name for capital mur­

der, and they called Davey Shafer’s name. Then, for the first time I saw
this guy with this red beard that I’ve never seen before. They arraigned
both of us on capital murder. Two days later, he was released; the
charges were dropped. They said he had an alibi. His girlfriend said
that they were together, pulling a boat down Northwest Highway,
which was close to the scene of the killing. They said they were going
by the dentist office, and then they went to the lake.
I had thirteen Anglos attest that I was at work. I had time cards that
proved I was at work that day. I showed them check stubs, because the
checks came in a day early, and that Wednesday, I had given a co-
worker her check a day early. When my co-worker clocked back in, she
thanked me because she had caught all those insufficient funds at the
bank and they had not charged her. I accepted the call about the robbery
in that area. I had all the paperwork to prove that my car had been at
the car dealership for two days and that I was without a car. I had proof
that my co-worker and I had clocked in. I clocked in at 8:58 A.M. that
morning and didn’t clock out till 4:12 P.M. I didn’t take lunch, because
my co-worker was taking me to pick my car up and we wanted to beat
the evening traffic.
I had all kinds of alibis. It was checked; there were no flights out of
Dallas to Denver in my name, and no record of me going up to pick up
a car and coming back. In fact, because of the holidays, we had been
working six days a week. So there was no way that I could leave six o’­
clock in the evening, go to Denver, pick up a car, come back on a Sun-
day, and be at work on Monday morning. Still, at that time, I said, okay.
I was refusing to believe that because I was Black, I was still there on
this charge, and because he was White, he was gone. I didn’t want that
to enter my mind.
My bond was set at one million dollars. I stayed in jail for fifty-nine
days. They lowered the bond. First of all, they dropped capital murder
while I was in jail because they couldn’t prove it. I was reindicted for ag­
gravated robbery. After the aggravated robbery, my bail was dropped
to $500,000. After the fifty-ninth day, bail was dropped to $25,000. My
family made the bond and I went home.
They didn’t check anything. They decided to carry me to court as
soon as possible. We started to go to court on September 28, 1980. The
trial lasted for eight days. For eight days, Anglo after Anglo after Anglo
took that stand on my behalf. All of the paperwork put up before them
 150 JOYCE ANN BROWN

was on my behalf. The young man that they claimed had said I rented
the car in Denver came to Dallas and he told them that was a lie. He
called the district attorney’s office, and the district attorney’s office told
him that they didn’t need him, and to stay in Denver. So he called my
lawyer and said, “I didn’t positively identify that woman. I didn’t iden­
tify her at all.” So he came down and he testified. The district attorney
put the wife of the owner on the stand. She said I looked like the person
that was with the person that committed the robbery on her husband.
The district attorney put a jailhouse informant on the stand who said
that I came in and confessed to her that I had committed that crime.
Then there was the jury, which was all White, that came back with a
guilty verdict. It shocked the courtroom completely, because nobody
expected it.
My lawyer and I talked about the plea offer. My lawyer said that the
district attorney was going to ask for life imprisonment if I was found
guilty and that he might make a plea bargain. I told my attorney that if
he was going to ask me to do that, I didn’t need him as my attorney. I
had nothing to plead for. Even if I had to spend the rest of my life in
prison for something I didn’t do, I wasn’t going to plead.
We prepared to select the jury from the pool. I think that it was a
pool of sixty-two. The district attorney has so many he can strike and
the lawyer has so many that he can strike. It goes without saying that
the district attorney in Dallas strikes African Americans first. There
were three or four African Americans that actually were struck. One of
the young men got himself removed because he said that he went to
school with me and that he could not judge fairly because he knew me.
I had never seen this man before in my life. He was lying, because he
was a truck driver and he didn’t want to be sequestered for a jury. No-
body questioned it. He said he knew me, and they let him go. That was
that. The district attorney struck an elderly Black lady. I ended up with
an all-White jury. At that time, that didn’t puzzle me, because I had been
taught that our system was fair.
I naturally assumed that when you went to court, they looked at the
evidence, they looked at everything, and they judged you fairly. It never
dawned on me that race was playing a part. That was one of the times
that I said I would forever teach my child to always remember that
when you’re up against this system, no matter what anybody says, your
race is the number one factor in going to court. I would have never
started teaching that had it not happened to me. Like everybody else, I
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 151

thought that because we had integrated, everything was all right, and
that they judged fairly. That’s not true.
Something else that I never questioned is the fact that before the
trial ended, one of the jurors supposedly got sick and could not go on.
We had to decide to go on or to start all over with new jurors. When
she supposedly got sick, we decided to go on with the eleven, instead
of starting all over again, because we thought we had a fair jury. That
was my decision, and I take responsibility for that. But the juror that
got sick had uncles and cousins in jail with pending cases. There were
some other things they discussed with her, but they put her on the
jury anyway. We didn’t have a problem with her because we thought
maybe she would be fair because she did have some relatives in. But
at the very end, she was the one that supposedly got sick and could­
n’t go any further. I want to know what happened. Why her, of all
people; why is it that she happened to have thrown her back out and
could not come? My attorney didn’t strike her because we thought
that the state was going to strike her. My attorney couldn’t believe
that the state allowed her to stay on. But, they did, and just ironically,
she got sick, and couldn’t go on. And that’s when they found me
guilty.
I was found guilty of aggravated robbery, in which a murder oc­
curred. Punishment was life imprisonment. I had to do twenty calendar
years, not to make, but just simply talk about parole. I had gotten pre-
pared for the verdict before they said it because when they first went in
to deliberate, an hour passed by, two hours . . . I couldn’t understand
why it was taking them so long . . . three hours, four hours. For some
reason, I just couldn’t leave the courtroom. I was stuck to that chair at
counsel table. The bailiff had to stay in with me because I didn’t leave
when everybody else went out. He went over and put his ear up to the
door and they were just laughing and talking as if they were having a
party. I have no idea what they were laughing about. The bailiff said, “I
can’t believe this. They sound like they’re having a party.”
When the jury knocked on the door about five minutes after they
had gone back in, I had already prepared for what was going to happen.
At that point, I was trying to look around and tell somebody to get my
mother out. That was the first time that we had let her attend, but I
couldn’t get them to get her out. One other thing is when the jurors
came back in, not one of them looked at me, or looked me in my eye.
They all looked down as they filed in, so I kind of said to myself, “Those
 152 JOYCE ANN BROWN

bastards have screwed me. But I will not let them have the last laugh.”
And that was it. They said, “Guilty.”
They locked me up and the last thing I can remember is hearing my
mother scream. One of the bailiffs, the one that actually believed in me,
was going to allow me to come through and say something to her, but
the other one pushed me and made me go on, and wouldn’t allow that
to happen. So I just heard my mother screaming. That was in October.
Every day, October, November, December, every day, I thought some-
thing would happen, and they would come get me, and they would say
they made a mistake. Then January, I pulled chain and I went to prison.
When they took me back to my cell after the verdict, I was in a daze.
I was out of it. I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t believe it. One of
the girls in jail took Thyroxine, and one of the girls said, “If this hap-
pens, if she’s found guilty, and they bring her in, she’s going to be to-
tally out of it.” They somehow took half of her medication, and when
they brought me in, and I was crying and hysterical, they gave me that
pill. I’ll never forget that. They kept telling me to go to sleep, but I kept
fighting it. Somebody said, “Ooh, she’s strong, because she should be
knocked out by now.” But I kept fighting it because I didn’t realize what
they had given me, and I didn’t want to buckle down to the medication.
I wanted to fight this on my own. I kept saying that I’m not going to let
it end like this. Eventually, I went to sleep.
On January 9, 1981, I heard my name called, and they were calling
more names. This young lady that I knew ran in and said, “Don’t get
nervous. This is the chain. You’re going down south.” Then I heard
them say, “For the ladies that we’ve called, head them up and move
them out . . . like we were cattle.” They put us all in this little room and
chained us together, and then they took us to this bus. I thought, “God,
I thought you would be here before now.” Then I was on my way to
Mountain View. I kept saying to myself they picked the wrong person.
I just couldn’t let them get away with it. I hadn’t done anything. I just
didn’t know why me.
When I first got there, I didn’t want to deal with anything or any-
body. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. We had to go through the intake.
I remember being put in diagnostics. They were slapping that lice stuff
in your hair. Everybody was very rude. You have to go through all these
medical examinations before you went up to population. The nurse was
using the same stirrup to examine the women. You didn’t see her scald-
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 153

ing it. In 1986, the Ruiz1 ruling finally put a stop to it. Now they have to
use the disposable kind.
When you were going up to population you had to make sure you
walked on one side of the wall. It was unbelievable and I just kept say­
ing to God that I know He did not put me here to do a life sentence for
something that I didn’t do. Why me? I think that over the years, He’s
answered that question. I went through the trials and tribulations so
that nobody can tell me, “Oh, they lie? We don’t do that. The prison sys­
tem is run this way or that way.” Not where I was. I think that I had to
live it in order to feel it, in order to come back out and talk about it and
educate people about it so that it would make a difference.
For the first year and a half, every time the phone rang in the dorm,
I thought it was the call that they had made a mistake and I was going
home. I received the first setback when the lawyers did the appeal, and
the verdict was affirmed. In that appeal, it stated that the questions of
my innocence were raised, but the courts of appeal were only interested
in whether they took me to court fairly. I just couldn’t believe that. So
they screwed me fairly. I couldn’t understand how they could even
write that. But that’s what our court system said, and they’re still say­
ing it today. They don’t care whether you’re innocent or guilty, just
whether the procedures went right.
When I went into prison, I was not there to accept a life sentence
that didn’t belong to me. I was there until I could prove that I had not
committed that crime. During that time in prison, I would not lose my
dignity, my pride, or my respect. I would give it and I would demand
it. I would not get institutionalized. Therefore, I didn’t do what the oth­
ers did. I didn’t watch reruns on television. I became a sports fanatic, be-
cause if you look at golf, basketball, football, hockey, tennis, whatever
the sport might be, that’s today, not yesterday. That’s not a rerun of
what happened. You look at what they’re wearing. You look at the way
that they’re speaking. You look at the commercials, and things that
bring you up-to-date on today’s technology and whatever, and you get
used to what the world is still like.
I call it institutionalized when you know the routine and you auto­
matically respond. For example, when everybody at the table holds up
their hand in order to be excused. I was that person that said, “I’m going
to get up when the rest of them get up. I’m not going to raise my hand.
I’m not going to do that. You don’t need for all of us to raise our hand.
 154 JOYCE ANN BROWN

The table is through eating. We’re just going to get up.” I’ve gotten
pulled on the carpet. In order to not have to go through that hassle, I de­
cided that I would not go to chow. I did everything that I could to avoid
doing that. I guess three months passed by and I got a pass to come to
the major’s office. I went up and she said that she needed to talk to me
about destroying state property.
By that time, I just wasn’t going to be accused anymore of some-
thing that I didn’t do. I said that I had not destroyed state property and
that I didn’t know what she was talking about. She looked at me and
she kind of smiled, and she said, “You really don’t. But what you’re
going to have to learn is that you are state property.” That really pissed
me off. She said, “You are state property and when you’re not eating, we
think that perhaps you’re trying to starve yourself and we have to make
sure. If I don’t see you in that line at least once a day, I’m going to write
you up for destroying state property.” That’s when I realized that I was
only a piece of property, a piece of property that belonged to the state.
The most difficult aspect of incarceration was that the officers were
trained that inmates were nothing. The inmates are not human, they all
are liars, they are not to be believed, and that they are to be treated as
such. Women are the forgotten creatures in prison. During the time I
was there, if a woman was given fifty years in prison, and man was
given fifty years in prison, the man would have paroled two or three
times on that fifty and the woman would still be waiting in order to talk
to parole.
Also, there is sexual abuse in the prison, by officers and by other in-
mates. There is physical abuse on the women’s unit, the men’s unit, all
units. When the public is told about it, it’s always the inmates who are
at fault. That’s not necessarily true. I was at the commissary once and I
remember an African American sergeant who had come from the male
unit. This young lady was angry and acting up. The captain, a White
lady, was taking her to segregation. The sergeant was going with them,
and the lady was cursing something terrible. The captain told the ser­
geant to take her to administrative segregation and lock her up. She was
still cursing and going on, and the sergeant turned around and asked
the captain, “What do you want me to do?” He said, “Do you want me
to put her on the wall or put her on the floor? Where do you want me
to . . .?” The captain said, “No, I want you to take her to administrative
seg [segregation] and lock her up, with no harm.”
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 155

This was a Black young lady who was doing all the cursing. Was
she right? No. But had she charged them in order for them to abuse her?
No. However, if the captain had said, “Kick her ass,” that man would’ve
kicked her butt. I could not sleep that night without asking him, “If that
White woman had asked you to beat that girl because she was cursing,
what would you have done?” He said, “Well, I would’ve had to do my
job.” I said, “Okay, so you’re going to do the same thing to inmates that
inmates have done on somebody to get here. There is no difference. But
you are not held accountable.” It’s not that I think inmates should not
follow rules. If you are in prison, you know that you’re there and there
are rules to follow. I simply think that if I don’t touch you, if I’m not try­
ing to hurt you, you should not have the opportunity to hurt me simply
because I’m an inmate. Punish me, but don’t punish me by beating me.
I don’t care if you get a two-year or a life sentence, when you come
back into society, you’re still paying for that crime. When you come
back, they don’t have to give you a job, they don’t have to give you a
place to stay. If a person can’t find a job or can’t find a place to stay, then
they’re going to end up back into TDC [Texas Department of Correc­
tions]. They are going to survive some kind of way. That’s why our re­
cidivism rate keeps going up and up. But they don’t tell about the ones
that get out and never come back. They tell you about the ones who
have learned to play the system and keep coming back.
I made myself a promise, and I made God a promise, that when I
was released from that bondage, I was going to spend the rest of my life
doing something to help those that I left behind. I was going to create a
mechanism that would give them an opportunity not to go back.
Through the organization–M.A.S.S.–I think that I’ve done that. M.A.S.S.
stands for Mothers (and Fathers) for the Advancement of Social Sys­
tems. I came home and started the organization with Brenda Overton.
We’re nonprofit and we’ve been in operation now for ten years. We’ve
helped lots of inmates coming out to find housing and jobs, and to get
them started back on their feet. We have a youth program for youth of
incarcerated caregivers. We also assist the caregiver with that child. We
do outreach. We have educational programs. We make sure that the
children get to the prisons to see their parents because we want to make
sure that the bond is there. A lot of the caregivers are grandmothers and
aunts who have families and cannot afford to take the child to see their
parent.
 156 JOYCE ANN BROWN

It’s frustrating when you come out of prison and you’re trying to do
the right thing. You look for an apartment, they accept your application
fee knowing all the time that they’re going to turn you down because
you’ve got an X on your back. A prime example: A young lady came to
me, and she had this list of apartments that another agency had sent to
her. She said, “Miss Brown, I’m trying. All of these that I’ve marked
have turned me down because of the X.” She had gone to sixteen places.
She lost twenty-five dollars each time she went. I said, “Honey, just fill
out the paperwork.” I go out and talk to people and I get apartments to
work with me. I screen people and send them to the apartments. So I
have a list and send people to the apartments. We help pay the deposit
and pay a portion of the rent for the first three months. They have to go
through the educational components through the organization; they
have to go through counseling. We’ve helped over a hundred ex-of-
fenders find work and housing.
When I went in, I was stupid enough to believe that I was the only
innocent person in prison. When I went in, I was stupid enough to think
that I was the only one that had been abused by this system. It wasn’t
until I lived around them that I realized, “You are no more than they
are.” Yes, they might have committed a crime, but why? Prime exam­
ple: A young lady named Margaret who became my friend in prison.
She had three or four children. Margaret had been there for eight years
before I got there. She had not received one letter from home and had
not heard from her children because they were young when she went
in. Her mother couldn’t read or write and couldn’t afford to bring them
to see her. Margaret’s crime was that she had been to prison once for
theft. She didn’t have a husband. During the Christmas holidays she
did not have any food, didn’t have a tree, didn’t have anything for her
children. As a mother, she went out to steal something to sell it, to get
money in order to put some Christmas food on the table. She got
caught. Knowing that her children were at home alone, she struggled to
get away. She did not have a hairpin. She did not have a knife. She did­
n’t have a gun. But because she struggled to get away, the district attor­
ney was able to take a simple theft and change it into robbery. She got
forty-five years! She was abused by this system.
I started to realize that there were different types of abuse. I looked
at all of the women who were there for drugs. Black women had never
been given any type of treatment. If they had a White counterpart, that
person got treatment; they didn’t even come to prison. There were oth-
 JOYCE ANN BROWN 157

ers who weren’t so innocent, but were abused in their own way. Some
of them were coerced by their boyfriends to take a case, or to lie to say
that he was at home. The women ended up with fifty years right along
with him for actually lying, because they weren’t with him when he did
the crime.
I have found that African American women and some White
women have a habit of accepting their sentence, accepting what hap­
pened to them. They just want to do their time and get it over with.
They used to tell me I was crazy. “Why did you build yourself for all
these let-downs? Don’t you know you can’t beat the system?” I would
say, “I’m not trying to beat the system, I’m trying to prove that the sys­
tem has wronged me.” I continued and, yes, I got a lot of slaps in the
face and I got hurt lots of times. When the appeals would come back
“affirmed,” there’s not a hurt like it when it seems like all the walls are
closing in on you. But my mother taught me about my foremothers and
my forefathers. She said that if they had quit, we would still be in slav­
ery. They figured out a way to meet secretly, to fight for our rights, for
our freedom, and others died that we might have the opportunity to
read and write. I did not have time to feel sorry for myself. I could read
and write and I had to fight for my freedom. And that’s what I did.
Centurion Ministries came in and did their investigation, and they
found suppressed evidence. 60 Minutes took that suppressed evidence
and did their investigation and found there was no way that it was me
and they aired all of it. The appeals court decided to overturn my case
based on evidence that they had all along. The district attorney said that
he was prepared to take me back to court. I wanted another jury and to
be proven not guilty. I was a little bit disappointed when we did not go
back to court.
On February 14, 1990, they dropped all charges. Four years later, in
1994, they expunged my record. I had to fight to get it expunged. The
state didn’t want to be saddled with an admission of guilt. The statute
of limitations ran out in two years. By the time I got the expungement,
there was an admission of guilt but there was no remedy for a lawsuit
from the city, county, or state of Texas. I’ve never been paid a dime. I’ve
had to work and struggle just like everybody else. I know that nine
years, five months, and twenty-four days did one thing: it gave me pa­
tience. Over the years, things have always worked out for Joyce Brown.
One day, the opportunities that I give others will be worth the nine
years, five months, and twenty-four days that I spent in prison.
 11

BETTY TYSON

In 1973, an all-White jury convicted Betty Tyson of killing a business-

man. She always maintained her innocence of the charge. In her trial de­
fense and appeals, she claimed that she confessed after being beaten by
detectives. After her conviction, one of two teenagers who testified
against her signed a deposition that he was coerced into giving perjured
testimony at her trial. Other discrepancies existed in the case against her.
Her conviction was overturned in May 1998 and she was released from
prison after serving twenty-five years. At the time of her release, Betty
Tyson was the longest-serving woman inmate in the state of New York.

Betty Tyson

158
 BETTY TYSON 159

M Y N A M E I S Betty Tyson. I was born and raised in Rochester, New

York. My family was very poor. I lived with my mother, brothers, and
sisters. There were eight of us children—four girls and four boys—and
I was the second oldest. Only my older sister and myself were the chil­
dren of my father. The other children had one of four other fathers. I re-
member going to the store and filling up bags, stealing food, and when
we came home, my mother never questioned where the food came
from. At the time, I was about eight years old. We were literally starv­
ing. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner and never had
any meat. I remember stealing clothes from the stores downtown, so I
could have something nice to wear like the other little kids in the neigh­
borhood. After a while, I started stealing for my whole family.
The first time I was arrested, I was eight years old. My nine-year-
old sister and I were arrested. My mother didn’t know where we were,
and when they put our pictures on the news she knew we were down-
town. We were arrested for stealing a coat from a store for Mother’s
Day. We wouldn’t talk to the police, so they put pictures of our faces on
the news because they didn’t know who we were. Nothing became of
that case because we were too young. I didn’t stop stealing after this
whole incident. It felt good to steal, to get by the system and the store
owners.
I went to school, but I didn’t really pay attention and didn’t really
learn anything. I was too into playing and stealing. I thought I wanted
to be a secretary, so when my mother was able to get enough money to­
gether she bought me a typewriter, but, of course, the typewriter just sat
in a corner because I just pecked at it and looked at it. My future was al­
ready gloomy at that point. I felt like nobody could get out of my neigh­
borhood and nobody could be anybody, because where we lived was so
poor and we just stayed there. There was a lot of drinking and pot
smoking. We lived across the street from a bar, so we saw this sort of
stuff and saw people up late nights, fighting and stuff like that. There
weren’t any positive figures around and we barely watched TV because
we didn’t own a TV at that time. Sometimes when we went to see my
grandmother, we would watch TV, but we would watch whatever she
watched, and only when she watched.
My mother beat us a lot as children. She was very strict and if we
didn’t do what we were told, we were beaten. When I look back on it
 160 BETTY TYSON

now, it was abuse. She would beat us until we bled. It was the only way
she knew to punish us when we were bad. But, I still have scars from
it—you can see them on my back, like zebra stripes. The beatings never
deterred us from getting into the same trouble all over again. I think she
really didn’t know how to deal with children. She dealt with us in the
same way as she dealt with her friends. This didn’t change the way I felt
about her, though—I still loved her and still do, now that she is gone.
I think I really could have used a mother who listened to me more
or was really there for me. When I was little, family and friends teased
me all of the time. They teased me because I had short hair, burned
thighs, and raggedy clothes. People called me “bald-head,” “pick­
aninny,” and stuff like that. That really affected me, and I got in a lot of
fights and became pretty aggressive. It was hard on me to come home
and get beaten because my mother thought I was the aggressor, when I
was defending myself.
My mother was very strict with us. We always had supervision, and
if we didn’t do what we were told, we would get a beating. My mother
wanted us to have a better life, so we didn’t have to be migrant work­
ers. She wanted us to get an education, but I stopped going to school
when I was about fifteen. At the time, my mother was on welfare, so she
had to get the approval of a social worker each time she wanted some-
thing. I was sick of it, so I just thought I would get out of there and find
a husband.
My parents came to Rochester from Sodus, New York, but origi­
nally came to New York from Florida. My father was an only child and
my mother was one of sixteen children. When they first came to New
York they did migrant work. They picked tomatoes, potatoes, and ap­
ples. I didn’t want to work, but I ended up in a situation where I was
forced to work. When I was young, it was fun. From about age thirteen
to fifteen we would go out and pick strawberries, in a gang of kids, just
going out and having fun. After I started smoking, one night I lit a cig­
arette and thought that I had put the match out, but the match didn’t go
out and my bedspread caught on fire and then the fire department
came. The next day I was carted out on the farm and I said, “Well what
am I gonna do?” My mother said “You’re gonna’ pick these two rows
here.” I looked at her and said, “That’s a long row, Mother.” She said,
“But Betty, we have to eat.” I said “Yes, Ma’am.” Well I sat there for
about twenty minutes and then said “Oh well . . . let me get up.” By that
time, my mother was halfway up the row. I just thought, “Oh my gosh!
 BETTY TYSON 161

She’s picking too fast!” I started eating what I picked. I had my salt and
pepper and just started eating the tomatoes I picked—all that I picked,
I ate. This guy came by and said, “Are you gonna pick any? Your
momma left two rows.” I said, “What I’m eating, I’m picking.” He said,
“Do you want me to pick for you?” And I said, “Yeah!” So he picked for
me, and soon he became my husband. I was seventeen.
My husband and I were both seventeen when we got married in
October 1965. He was a farm and labor contractor; he had taken over his
father’s business. After we got married, I moved out in the country with
him. That only lasted for about a month, because I decided I didn’t want
to be married. For me, the marriage was a convenience, something to
get me away from my mother. I came back to the city because I missed
being in the street. I couldn’t deal with being so far from everything. I
missed hanging out in the street, going to parties, going to different bars
and different clubs. Out in the country, all I did was cook and clean, and
really nothing—it was boring. It was after I was back in the city that I
became a prostitute.
I always wondered why the people I hung out with had money, be-
cause I was the only one who never had any money. Then I watched my
friends and I saw them jumping in different cars, talking to different
men. I asked them, “Well, what do you all talk about?” They said, “Oh,
you don’t want to know.” I said, “Yes, I do, too.” They said, “Well, look,
we’re working. Look, we sell our bodies.” I said, “You sell it?” I was sev­
enteen, and my friends were between sixteen and twenty. I moved in
with a family in town. I was so happy to live with them because I did­
n’t have to cook or clean and didn’t have to wash dishes; I ate in restau­
rants, and just did my thing. I was free. They were brought up in the
street life, so the family was very different.
When I first got into prostitution, I thought, “Why give it away?
Why not sell it?” I was very nervous the first time, and I think he knew
it. After about the third or fourth one, I got the hang of it and I was out
there all day long. I worked by myself—never used a pimp. The pimps
would approach me and I would just say, “You know what, before I’d
give you my money, I’d give it to my mammy, because you didn’t do
nothing for me.”
As time went on, I just got deeper and deeper into it. I got robbed a
couple of times. The first time, one took my sex and didn’t pay me. He
held a knife to my throat and I couldn’t reach the knife hidden in my
boot. After that, I robbed a few tricks, but I never liked doing it because
 162 BETTY TYSON

it involved using force and I’m not that sort of person. I knew about the
risks. One of my associates had her hand blown off. Some women were
cut up by tricks. So, I started carrying my 007 knife in my boot. Even
though it was dangerous, it was still exciting and gave me an adrena­
line rush.
The pay was wonderful. I really got into a cycle. I’d go out at a cer­
tain hour and I was back. I’d go back up to the hotel, take my shower,
and just sit up in my room and just shoot drugs. I wouldn’t come out
until the next day. The next day I’d go downtown and steal some new
outfits. I’d take them back to my room, change, and go out and make
some money. Then I’d come back and shoot up the money. Then I’d
have to go back out again and turn some more tricks. After a while I
started stealing larger and more expensive things to pay for drugs. I
worked with this guy at a bar. He would take orders from people and I
would go downtown and steal what they wanted. We would get a set
price for the stuff.
I started using drugs when I was about seventeen. It was around
the same time I started prostituting myself. I started with pills, CIBAs,
red devils, red jackets, and cough medicine. I think I got into the pills
when I was hanging out with the people in my little circle. They just of­
fered me some and I started taking uppers and downers. Later on, I
tried heroin. It started when a friend of the guy who was my best friend
came in from Brooklyn. We were hanging out in a hotel and he shot up.
I watched him shoot up and nod out. I wanted to try it, so I sat right
there and waited for him to wake up. I had to try some. When he woke
up I said, “Yo, what did you just do?” He said, “Um . . . shoot up.”
I told him I wanted to try it, but he was hesitant—afraid that our
other friend would kill him if he shot me up. After a while, I talked him
into shooting me up. He cooked it up in a little bottle cap, and then
drew some up in the syringe. I said, “That little bit?” He said, “Yeah.” I
told him I wanted more, so he let me draw up some more. Then I told
him to hit me. He shot me up and after that, I don’t remember anything
else. I did remember the high, though. When I came to the next day, in
a bathtub full of ice, I was still high. It was wonderful and I just wanted
some more. The next day, I took some of his stuff and went down to the
hospital and swiped some “works.” It was so easy, because every room
had syringes and all. After I started, I couldn’t stop—I just wanted to
get that same high again, but I never could get it. I would just keep on
trying.
 BETTY TYSON 163

In 1969 I realized I was addicted. I was arrested and put in jail for a
week while I was shuffled to and from court. While I was in there, I had
a runny nose and stomach cramps. I couldn’t figure out what was
wrong—I was so sick feeling, but I wasn’t sick. Then this junkie came
up to me and said, “Betty, you got a habit.” I went and shot up as soon
as I got out of jail. It hurt both me and my mother. She would drive
around the streets looking for me and then she would pick me up and
take me home. As soon as I got home, I tried to get out. I even jumped
out second-story windows. Whenever I saw her car, I would run and
hide. Eventually, I had to start tricking in different neighborhoods be-
cause my mom and family were chasing me all the time. This is when I
started tricking White men on Main Street, getting more money. But it
is also when I was robbed a second time.
I never encountered too much racism on the streets and with my
tricks. But at the county jail, I saw racism. The White women would get
to speak to visitors first and for a longer period of time. There were only
two spaces for women and their visitors; the rest of the spaces were for
men. My mom had to wait about an hour and a half to see me.
The man I was charged with killing died on May 25, 1973. The po­
lice picked me up because they thought I was the sort of person who
would commit such a crime—I was uneducated, an addict, and a pros­
titute. I didn’t know that the police were doing sweeps, and didn’t find
out until Saturday because nobody was out on the street. I asked the
bartender at the Grill, where everyone was, and he told me the police
did a sweep. I said, “A sweep? What’d they do a sweep for?” He said,
“‘Cause some Cracker died.” I just thought, “Oh, well, hey, it clears
me.” I was just going about my business, cutting some drugs, of course.
I left and went over to a friend’s house and when I returned the bar-
tender said, “Yo, they just came by and they had your picture.” I said,
“Had my picture?” I couldn’t believe it, but I thought about it and went
over to my mother’s house around five o’clock that afternoon. From
there, I called the police headquarters and said, “This is Betty Tyson.”
Instantly, the detective got on the phone. He wanted me to meet him
somewhere, but I knew he would try to arrest me if I met him.
The police showed up at my house later on. They kicked down the
door and were yelling into the house, “Come out, you Black bitch,
’cause we know you’re in here.” I hid out at a neighbor’s house. The po­
lice were tipped off by somebody I knew, and the police chased me and
my drug dealer and friend.
 164 BETTY TYSON

When the police arrested me, they started kicking me and beating
me. Before the beating began, the police asked me if I wanted to go to
the scene of the crime. I said yes, and thought that if they took me there,
I could escape and get some drugs.
After I was hauled down to the police station, that’s when the beat­
ings started. They wanted me and my codefendant to confront each
other. When they brought me back down, they told me that my code­
fendant was going to tell his side of the story. I said, “Then that’ll be the
only side you hear, ‘cause I don’t have a side.” They said, “Well, you
Black bitch, you know good and well that you got a story to tell.” I said,
“No, I don’t either, ’cause I didn’t do anything.” The detective said,
“Okay, well shut up, bitch.” And that’s pretty much how they ad-
dressed me. They sent in another detective and he came up to me and
said, “Bitch, the next time you suck your daddy’s dick make sure it’s on
a Sunday.” I said to him, “You know what? Go fuck yourself.” I said,
“Because we don’t have incest in our family. That’s what Crackers do.”
He said, “Well, you lousy bitch,” and he jumped up. I said, “Your
mammy’s a lousy bitch!” He jumped off the table and as he went to hit
me I blocked his punch. My hand went around that tie and I started
punching him with my right hand, and I guess all hell broke loose, be-
cause I was a whipped bitch by then. I was on the floor and they were
pulling my hair, kicking, and stomping on me. They did everything to
me. My so-called codefendant was standing right there.
At one point they wanted me to sign a statement that they typed up.
I refused to sign, and they pulled my hair and hit me on the forehead.
At the time I was handcuffed to the chair. Then one would hit me on the
neck, then in my chest, and then one would kick me. There were eight
of them in the room and they took turns doing different things while my
codefendant stood over there and looked at me. They would ask me
questions and I would say I didn’t do anything and they would beat me
again. The thing is, I didn’t know the statement said I killed somebody.
I thought I had traffic charges from when the police chased me before I
was caught.
I didn’t realize that I was charged with murder until May 27, the
day of my arraignment. I was in shock. I didn’t understand how they
could charge me with murder when I was home sleeping at the time of
the murder. My mom hired an attorney; he wasn’t much help though,
because he didn’t prepare for my trial. I told him about my bruises and
all from the beatings by the police and he took a look at them. He left
 BETTY TYSON 165

and said he would bring back a camera, but he never did return. He
never took the pictures and I only saw him four times around the time
of my trial.
My trial took two weeks. I had a jury, but everybody on it was
White and male. There was one African American man, but he was shot
down by the prosecution. It was hard to sit there and listen to people
testify—just lying on the stand. When the trial closed, it was close to
Christmas. The judge told the jury that the trial might go beyond Christ-
mas, and that it depended on the jurors, and how much time they took
to deliberate. We charged the jury, and they went out, and then came
back because they needed more information about some of the evi­
dence. After they were charged I went back to the jail. Around 10 P.M.
they called us back into the court and read the verdict. I looked at my
mom and she said, “Let’s just pray.” When they read off the verdict, I
just screamed at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t believe it—Guilty!
They allowed my family to comfort me for about half an hour. Then
I was transported back to the jail, where I just sobbed all night long. My
sentencing was February 13. The judge gave me one hundred and
eleven years. I thought I would faint. After the sentencing, I was sent to
prison. When I first got there, I was bitter. I asked around and found
some pills, and I would take those and just sleep all of the time. After a
while, I began to think about how I would deal with everything. I just
decided that God wasn’t ready to kill me yet, so I just needed to go on
living my life. I started talking to the older people that were in there and
they got me back into the Bible. Over time, I became the person that
everybody talked to about their problems. I guess I helped a lot of
women, because I received so many letters from families.
I saw a lot of people go crazy in prison. They couldn’t take the pres­
sure, the “gayness,” the racism, being called Black bitches, and being
pushed around by the guards. The guards would treat women accord­
ing to the manner in which the women carried themselves. If a person
wanted to be respected, she had to carry herself in a respectable man­
ner. There were also rapes of prisoners by guards. This was something
I never had any problems with, though, because I had a wife that was
an ex-boxer and looked out for me. Although, before I was with her, I
still got a lot of respect.
I don’t think it was hard to express my sexuality in prison. I realized
I was bisexual when I first got out on the streets. One of the girls I grew
up with was in prison at the same time I was, and we were on the same
 166 BETTY TYSON

floor at some point. We started going together for about a year, until she
went home and got into drugs. I had six relationships in prison and I
still have my second wife. She’s still inside, but we are hopeful that she
will get out by 2005. Some lesbians experienced harassment from the
guards. They would split couples up and put them in different blocks.
But, where there is a will, there is a way. People would find ways of
meeting up or sometimes the guard friends would arrange meetings.
I was in prison for twenty-five years. One of the hardest things
about being in there was being away from my family. Even when I was
on drugs, I would visit my family and remained close to my siblings. It
was difficult for my family to visit me, but my mother could take the
free bus once a month. This made a big difference, but birthdays and
holidays were still hard.
There was also some racism in prison. The White women would
speak up about something and something would be done about it. But,
when the Black prisoners spoke up, their concerns were just swept
under the carpet. The guards would also call us “Black bitches.” They
would say they were just kidding around, but I didn’t find it funny.
Things changed as I was there over time. The program offerings
were depleted from twenty vocational programs to about five. Voca­
tional programs help people learn skills that they need once they leave
prison; they help rehabilitate prisoners. The programs just kept getting
cut. We would learn a skill and then work for a quarter a day. The most
we made each week was two dollars and fifty cents. Taxpayers want to
punish us, but what we really need are prisons that rehabilitate prison­
ers, teach them a skill and help them deal with their problems.
I was released from prison on May 28, 1998—twenty-five years to
the day that I was arraigned. My conviction was overturned because a
witness recanted, and it was found that the state withheld exculpatory
evidence from my attorney. Right around the time they overturned my
conviction, I was getting ready to serve two more years. I was in the
prison garden when the call came in. My mother called me and I called
her back. She told me the case was overturned, and I said, “For real?” I
couldn’t believe it. My mom asked why I wasn’t excited and I said, “Be-
cause, you know what, I just did twenty-five years.” I said, “My brain
just got conditioned to do two more, because I know I have to do it. So
I can’t believe what you’re saying until I see it.” I was sent back upstate
to jail in hand and leg irons. They took me in and fingerprinted me, and
then I was free.
 12
Karen Michelle Blakney

Two federal agents paid $2,800 to a dealer and $100 to Karen Blakney
to “cook” the cocaine and convert it to crack. Karen faced a mandatory
minimum sentence of ten years because the substance was crack-co­
caine. The trial judge ruled that a mandatory ten-year sentence for a
minor player like Karen would be “cruel and unusual” punishment. The
judge also noted Karen’s successful completion of drug treatment. He
sentenced her to thirty-three months, the sentence she would have re­
ceived if the substance were powder cocaine. The government appealed
her sentence reduction and the judge was ordered to re-sentence Karen
to the mandatory minimum. Ultimately, Karen pleaded to general con­
spiracy and was sentenced for time served.1

Karen Blakney

167
 168 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY

M Y N A M E I S Karen Michelle Blakney. I was born in 1960 in Washing-

ton, D.C. I grew up in Southeast D.C., where I went to elementary, jun­
ior high, and high school. I quit school in the twelfth grade when I got
pregnant with my son. Later, I took some courses at Federal City Col­
lege, but I stopped going there. After I got out of prison, I went back for
my GED.
After I dropped out of school I had my son, and then my daughter.
Around that time I started getting into the “street life.” I started smok­
ing weed and hustling. I was about fifteen or sixteen when I started
smoking weed in junior high. The crowd I hung out with, kids from
school, started smoking it. They were doing weed, angel dust, and other
things. I saw them smoking and just wanted to try it. I would see peo­
ple out there selling it, so we bought a bag and we started smoking it.
We went up on the roof of the building, and then from there we started
doing it up there and on the way to school and after lunch. I liked the
feeling I got from smoking. It made me happy. It made me laugh and
made me hungry. I knew I couldn’t stop. My girlfriend and I just could­
n’t wait until we could get another bag and get high again. I never
thought it would get out of control, but now I know it was only the be-
ginning.
I started using cocaine after my son’s godmother turned me onto it.
I started hanging around her, smoking weed at her house. At first I did­
n’t want to try the cocaine. I thought about the people I saw with all of
those sores—I thought cocaine was like heroin. I didn’t think cocaine
was on the same level as weed and I tried PCP a few times, but never
used it again. I didn’t like the feeling of it—the high. Once she explained
to me that cocaine wasn’t the same as shooting dope, I tried it, but I did­
n’t do it for a while after that first time.
I stayed away from my son’s godmother for the next six months. At
the time, I was about nineteen. I became addicted to cocaine, but didn’t
realize it at first and didn’t want to face it. I felt like I was supporting
myself. I was out there selling it and nobody was giving it to me. I
started seeing people turning tricks for it, but I never went through that
stage. I lied and stole, but I never turned tricks. I sold drugs and stole
from my family and kids—I was spending their money on drugs, so re-
ally it was like stealing from them. I lived with my sisters and some-
times I’d take something from them. I was really out of control.
 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY 169

During this time I had a job as a nurse assistant. It started off as a

summer job. My mom ran the recreation center at the community cen­
ter. She told us to fill out some forms for a job and I was sent to the hos­
pital. I worked there and some other places, but the deeper I got into my
habit, the more I missed work. I wanted to hustle. I didn’t have a job,
but my kids’ father worked; he hustled.
I have nine kids—seven girls and two boys. The youngest is three
and the oldest is twenty-four. The first seven kids are by one father and
the other two by a second father. I am good friends with them now.
My mom knew I was using drugs and I was addicted. She knew I
smoked weed and did coke, but it was at the time when I didn’t do it
around my mom, and my mom couldn’t really put her hands on it. She
didn’t see me, but I was taking care of the whole house and taking care
of all of my brothers and sisters, doing the laundry. I got my sisters
ready for school. I took my mom to the doctor and was always there for
her. They say I was her favorite because I was always there for her.
There were nine children in my family: seven girls and two boys,
with one set of twins. I had an older sister and an older brother. Then I
was the third kid, but everybody thought I was the oldest. We all grew
up together in D.C. My mom never allowed us to be separated, so we
were very close. We all stayed around the house and people would
come see my mom, who was like a community mom.
My mom didn’t allow men to be around us. She didn’t bring men
around the house. She taught us not to sit on men’s laps, even if it was
a brother. I was brought up in a Christian home. My grandmother was
very religious. My mother was into Black awareness and taught us
morals, principals, and respect. She wanted us to be proud of who we
were and wanted us to make the best of ourselves. She told us never to
be ashamed to ask anything. She said, “If you don’t know something,
ask somebody.” My mother taught us to respect ourselves as women.
She also wanted us to remember that beauty is not only on the outside;
it’s on the inside too. She didn’t want us to make fun of others, but in-
stead think about what that person might have gone through. I’ve al­
ways tried to remain true to the convictions she instilled in me. I don’t
blame my mom for the things that happened to me. I chose to get into
drugs and live the life I did because I wanted to grow up. I just ended
up on the wrong path.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor or a teacher. I wanted to
be a teacher because I really liked dealing with children, and I still do.
 170 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY

Now, I work at a clinic. I register the patients through the computer sys­
tem, and I talk to them. When I think about it, I’m like my mom—a peo­
ple person, a community mom.
Until I went to prison, I did not really know how much I hurt my
family. When I was getting ready for court, I asked my daughter, who
was nine at the time, to pray for me. She said “Mommy . . . I’ll pray for
you, but I pray that you don’t come home if you’re going to do the same
thing.” I asked why she said that. She said, “Because it hurts me when
you do those things.” That was when I realized I hurt my family. When
I got out in 1991, I made a real effort to get off drugs and not to sell
drugs.
My first drug charge was for possession of cocaine. I think it was
in 1987. I jumped bond, and was sentenced on that charge; the drug
possession charge was dropped. I was sentenced one to three years in
federal prison on the bond violation. Then I was sentenced to proba­
tion for three years. I was charged with another cocaine charge, but it
was dropped later. Later I was charged in district court with posses­
sion with intent to distribute cocaine, but was found innocent by a
jury.
The 1991 charge occurred after a major incident in May, but they ar­
rested me in September. I didn’t know the co-defendants very well.
They came over and wanted somebody else to cook the crack, and at the
time my sister was on crack, so that’s who they were looking for. They
asked me to cook it up, but I didn’t want to. When he asked again, I
gave in, being the people pleaser. I thought it would just be one time
and it wouldn’t do any harm, but I ended up doing it twice in a couple
of weeks. The second time, they weren’t looking for my sister, they
wanted me to cook it up for them. They brought some guys with them
that they wanted to sell some crack to. They didn’t know that the buy­
ers were undercover DEA agents. The undercover agent gave me the
drugs to cook up. When I was done, he gave me one hundred dollars,
even though I didn’t charge him. Later at the district court trial the un­
dercover agents were asked, “Why did you want it turned into crack?”
They said, “Because crack carries more time.”
There is a skill to cooking crack. You have to know how to bring it
back up to weight. Some people have to add more to bring it back up to
the weight that the customer is paying for. If you don’t do it right you
might lose a gram or two. When the agent gave me the cocaine, there
was no reason for me to suspect the man was an agent. Everybody in
 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY 171

the neighborhood wanted crack. In the Black community people buy it

as crack, because if you cook it yourself, you lose some of it. If he had
wanted something else, then we would have known right away that he
was an agent. The thing is, you can have a kilo of powder and get five
years. Or, you can have a kilo of crack and you get 40 or 50 years. I knew
this at the time because I’d done time before. But when the agents gave
a piece of crack to me I didn’t think I was dealing with DEAs, and be-
sides, I didn’t know I could get in so much trouble for only cooking it
up. I had nothing to do with the sale; I just cooked it up.
I figured that I was arrested because they wanted me to be an in-
formant. They thought they could lock me up and get me to snitch or
something. This happens to a lot of women. They get locked up because
they were riding along with their boyfriend, and the cops think that if
they can get the woman to snitch on the boyfriend, their case will be
much stronger. I think a lot of Black women are locked up because they
don’t know anything. The cops think that the women know something
just because they are in the car with the boyfriend, but the boyfriends
never tell the women what’s going on. The cops wanted me to be a
snitch, but I refused because I had morals and principles—loyalty. If I
had agreed to snitch, they would have dropped the charges. Instead, I
faced twenty years. It wasn’t like somebody threatened me, in order to
stop me from snitching—I’m just not that kind of person. As far as my
family situation, it didn’t affect my decision not to snitch and serve time
instead.
There were four of us and our cases were consolidated, and each of
us had our own attorney. The judge didn’t feel that two of us played a
major role. I faced twenty years, but the trial judge had a few lawyers
from a big law firm investigate the case and determine how involved
my co-defendant and I were in the crime. The judge cut my sentence
down to ten years. Then, after some more investigation, he cut it down
to thirty-six months. The government was mad. Immediately, they said
they would appeal my case. In the meantime, I went home, and I came
out of the halfway house, and started working and everything. Then, all
of a sudden they said I had to go back to prison; the appeals court over-
turned the sentencing. The trial judge sentenced me again—to the same
sentence: thirty-six months. The government appealed again and asked
that the trial judge be removed from the sentencing. During this time, I
just thought, “Praise God.” I knew that God hadn’t released me the first
time so I could be sentenced a second time. I strongly believed that I
 172 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY

would not be put back in again, so much so, that I had another baby. I
just treated the situation as another test.
When I went before the next judge, the prosecution said, “In all my
thirty years I have never seen anything like this happen.” I said,
“Maybe in all your thirty years you never met a person that believed
that God would work it out.” And that is how I left it. The judge asked
me how I felt about the situation and I told her that I knew that God did­
n’t make mistakes and that God brought me through. I thank the trial
judge, but most of all, I thank and praise my God. The sentencing judge
gave me five more years of probation to see if I stayed clean.
I served some of my time in D.C. Then I went to Connecticut for a
year, and later to West Virginia for six months. Because I violated pro­
bation, I had to serve some time for D.C. So, I did twenty-four months
for the feds and eighteen months for D.C. I spent the last six months in
a halfway house in D.C. Some of the places were dirty and nasty, but
others were nice and clean, not really like a prison. The time gave me a
chance to realize I needed to change. I really put my mind to it and my
faith in God. I had a baby girl while I was away. My sister took care of
her until I came home. She was fourteen months when I got out. Prison
was mainly what you made of it. In the federal prisons you have to go
to school or work. It’s almost like being on a college campus, its not all
that bad. When you are in there, you know you were doing the wrong
things and destroying yourself. You get to a point where you want to
turn everything around.
There are a lot of Black women locked up, but sometimes we do it
to ourselves. We want to stick with our men and do what our men say,
but sometimes the men want to blame the women. The man isn’t think­
ing about the woman and the woman gets in over her head without any
way out until it’s too late. A lot of the women in prison have been on
crack, heroin, or other drugs. Some of them have been raped and
abused by stepfathers, fathers, or brothers. Some of them have been
pimped by their own mothers, so that their mothers could get drugs. So
you have some women who just didn’t care, and just went their own
way, but you also have women who were set on the wrong path by
those who were supposed to protect them.
For some people, prison presents a chance for them to turn their
lives around. For others, it does not do a thing for them, and they spend
their life getting out and going back. For so many Black women in
prison, they don’t even know why they are there. Many of them are ba-
 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY 173

bies—young women—that didn’t know what was going on. This sort of
situation doesn’t just happen to Black women. I also met Latinas and
White women that had similar experiences that led them down the
same path I took to prison. I think we need to build rehabilitation cen­
ters where women can live and have visits from family. The violent
criminals need to be separated from the women who committed nonvi­
olent crimes. They have to be given a chance to better themselves, and
to go to school. I know everyone has different beliefs about religion, but
I think getting God into their lives would really make a difference. I
think it helps people to have a program to help them turn their lives
around. Prison cannot solve all of the problems. In cases where people
are in prison for things they didn’t do, the people become worse—their
bad side is brought out. Particularly with young Black mothers, you
have a woman locked up who is a mother of a very young child. The fa­
ther is already locked up and he is responsible for her getting locked up.
The woman won’t snitch because the man is the father of her child. The
man isn’t going to defend the woman because he resents being impris­
oned and feels that if he is in there, then there is no reason why she
should be free.
I saw my youngest children when I was in prison in D.C., but I did­
n’t see any of my children when I was in federal prison. This was mostly
because they didn’t have a way of coming to see me. I was in touch with
my children, though; I called them. My relationship with my kids is
beautiful now; it’s a blessing. My drug addiction never came between
me and my kids because they knew how strong our relationship was
before drugs. When I would get high, they didn’t want to be around me.
I tried to stay out of their sight and out of the house when I got high, but
when the oldest one saw me, he cried. After that I made sure I didn’t get
high when they were around. When I was in jail, my children wrote to
me, even my youngest one, who was six. Even if they mailed off letters
without stamps, they always made it to me. It was like the postman
thought, “These kids are writing their mother who’s in prison.” It
touched my spirit and heart each time. They always stayed in touch and
to this day, they never throw that time in my face.
As I said before, I was raised in a Christian home. My mother in-
stilled her beliefs in me. She would cry out and pray to God, so I knew
He was real. So, when I was in prison, I just gave my life to God and I
have stayed with Him since I left. For some people in prison, a program
helps them get their life back, but for me it was God. The feds put me in
 174 KAREN MICHELLE BLAKNEY

a twelve-step program, but when it was my turn to participate, I stood

up and said, “My name is Karen Blakney and I used to be a drug addict.
Now I am a child of God.” The man supervising us said I couldn’t say
that and I said, “Yes I can, because all God said when I gave my life to
Him was all old things have passed away; behold all things become
new.” My probation officer took me out of the program because she
knew how dedicated I was. Religion has helped me overcome a lot be-
cause I know that all people fall short of the glory of God. No matter
what, God tells us we have to show each other love and respect.
 13
Ida P. McCray

Ida McCray lived underground for sixteen years, as a fugitive from law
enforcement. After being turned in by her son, she received a twenty-
year sentence for her participation in an airplane hijacking. During
nearly ten years in a federal prison, she witnessed racism, the increase
of African American women’s incarceration, and the lack of outside
support for women in prison. Since her release in 1996, McCray has
worked tirelessly to bring incarcerated women and their children to-
gether with prison visits through her organization, Families with a
Future.

Ida McCray

175
 176 IDA P. M C CRAY

I W E N T TO P R I S O N at thirty-six years old, but it wasn’t the first time

I was incarcerated. I was incarcerated at thirteen years old for being “in-
corrigible and beyond parental control.” Then, the system incarcerated
youth for that. I went out with my girlfriend shoplifting. We both got
charged with petty theft. For that, they locked me up for a year and a
half. I didn’t even see my fourteenth year. I had the misfortune of going
to the California Youth Authority when they were building a new facil­
ity for girls. They of course needed bodies, so instead of sending me
home, I was sent to this lock-up facility. They didn’t release me until
after my grandmother died, my fifteenth year.
At fifteen, I got married to Arnold-Ray Robinson. He wrote me each
week I was in juvenile detention. I thought for sure I was “in love.” Our
marriage was fine, until he went to Vietnam. He said, “I’ve got to fight
for my family name.” And I was thinking, “What name does a nigger
have? What are you talking about? Your last name is Robinson. That’s
not your last name.” He went to Vietnam, and I became involved polit­
ically in the movement here at home. I read a lot about “US.” I liked
their philosophy. “If it ain’t us, it’s them.” I wasn’t an active participat­
ing member; I just liked what I read. I wasn’t a joiner of any group. I
don’t like the group thang. I did not have the need to “belong” to any
group.
I never joined any of the groups. If I had, I never would have got-
ten out of prison. When I got arrested, that was the first thing they asked
me. That’s the reason a lot of women inside right now are walking the
circle—the prison compound—because they were part of a political or­
ganization. Those women and men are political prisoners. I have many
ones I care for that were members of the Black Panther Party, and three
decades later, they are still in prison.
After Ray returned, shot up and psychologically messed up, we
never got back together. I was about eighteen years old then. I went to
Louisiana with a bunch of college students. The then-H. Rap Brown
was having trials down in Louisiana, and there was simply so much
going on.1 Living down South for the first time in my life was a big
wake-up call. They were blatant about their racism, which was some-
thing I wasn’t accustomed to.
I went to prison at thirty-six years old after being a fugitive for six-
teen years. It was heartbreaking because of my very young children, my
 IDA P. M C CRAY 177

mother, and my older children, who I never spent any time with be-
cause I was running. In prison, I saw things I didn’t want to see among
our young people. The failure of our movements was thanks to the out-
side help of COINTELPRO, the U.S. government’s counter intelligence
program aimed at many groups during the ’60s and ’70s.2
During those years, I became part of something bigger than I could
imagine. There was so much going on in this country. Civil disobedi­
ence, protests, street rebellions, and I just could not sit still and go to
school. Inside meetings were very hush-hush. There simply were not a
lot of questions asked by women to men, and I jumped on a plane think­
ing I was going to Los Angeles, when in fact, it was headed for Algeria.
I became involved when I saw that taking of life could be avoided with
my participation.
The plane could not make it to Algeria, so Cuba was the destina­
tion. The plane ride was scary. No one was hurt or killed, but my life in
those moments changed dramatically. I lived in Cuba for four years. I
was a single parent, pregnant with another baby on my hip. In Cuba,
there was more community involvement in people’s lives than there is
here. There isn’t the deep isolation of single parenting that you experi­
ence in the United States.
Later, I spent some time in the Caribbean. It was real hard to work
there because I was considered a “Yankee.” I wanted to scream to them
and say, “Hey, I am from the diaspora. What happened to international
solidarity?” But it was my illusion, not a reality. I wasn’t able to survive
there, so I came back to the States. That was hard and very dangerous
considering the F.B.I. wanted me.
When I came back from Cuba, it was either go to jail or run. To me,
it wasn’t a choice. I ran. I had a three-year-old girl, born in Cuba, and a
four-year-old boy. My mother took my two oldest kids, when I did
come back to the States. I always thought the police were going to shoot
me any minute. I ran.
English is such a limited language when it comes to feelings. It is
hard for me to describe how you adapt to waking up automatically at
every sound, rustle, boom, or thump. I was not able to sleep straight
through the night as a fugitive, or underground, or in prison. I don’t
think anyone even imagines what it’s like.
Nobody likes being hunted or feeling hunted and having it be a
part of your everyday life. Try not seeing your family for a week, or
anyone that you know or who knew you. Breaking off all connections
 178 IDA P. M C CRAY

is extremely isolating, and after a while you feel like death because you
want to live and you live through other people remembering you. You
live through other people knowing who you were, what you’re about,
knowing that you have credibility, or knowing that you don’t. Once that
community of people is not there, it’s like you’re just wind, nothing. I
remember going to the park and watching people and their families in­
teract. I would sit there (in the park) salivating, thinking, “Oh, my God,
how nice it would be to be with a family now. Oh, look at them, they’re
arguing. Don’t they know this is so precious?”
By 1987, my oldest son was staying with me in Sacramento. I came
because my mom was having a hard time. She couldn’t say it, but I
could feel it in her voice. I took my son to live with me in Sacramento;
my son and his father. My mom was still living in San Francisco. I felt
that if I lived nearby, then maybe I could be of some assistance to her.
My son ran away from Sacramento. He said he didn’t want to live there,
didn’t want to wash dishes, the whole thing. He hated the place; he
hated his father. I worked as a temp, and it was real important for me
to have money to pay the phone bill, because without a phone, you
can’t work as a temp. My son stole my phone money and went to San
Francisco. I went there and took his father with me, and we went look­
ing for him.
The next morning, three of my tires were slashed, and the money
was missing out of the glove compartment. I am super panicked be-
cause I’m wanted. I don’t want the neighbors to see me and call the po­
lice on me, and I got three little babies that I’m taking care of at the same
time. I tried to use Momma’s credit card to get some more tires. When I
went back to the house, his father had found him, and he beat him up.
“What are you doing stealing?” For the first time, I did not take up for
him because he was so wrong. I just said, “How could you do this?” He
was sixteen. I told him to go in his room. He jumped out the window
and called the police, and that’s how I got arrested. He said, “My par­
ents are trying to kill me, and, by the way, my mother’s a wanted hi­
jacker.”
I never thought it would go down like that. I went back up to Sacra­
mento, to get my car. I put the tires back on my car, and got out of there.
Then, at three or four in the morning, boom, boom, boom, there they
come, thirty-two officers surrounding the house, terrorizing my
younger children, asking me, “Well, who are you? What’s your name?
Where’s your I.D.?” and holding guns over me and my kids. That’s how
 IDA P. M C CRAY 179

I got busted, and that’s how they took me to jail to start facing the
charge for the crime that was committed sixteen years before. Low and
behold, don’t ever be at the mercy of a teenager who’s going through
their shit, being rebellious.
It felt like extreme betrayal, and it was extremely painful, extremely.
It was like something had taken my heart and just turned it around, and
I felt like that for about a year and a half. For about a year and a half I
cried every day. I cried for the loss of my younger children. I cried for
the betrayal that I felt. Then I cried for the future, because I didn’t know
what would happen to my mom. Mom survived two heart attacks. It is
still painful, and my son and I have lived through it, and he regrets that
spontaneous decision. We have reconciled and now he’s my ally.
I was found guilty of air piracy. The mandatory minimum is twenty
years, and that’s what I got. What went through my head then was I
was glad I didn’t get fifty, but twenty years was a mighty long time. I
would miss my children growing, but I was really glad it wasn’t fifty. I
cried and cried and cried, but I was still really glad it wasn’t fifty. My
mom and my kids and my sister were all there. My sister is dead now.
She was dying of cancer, but she came down there at the trial. I had a
barrage of people coming in there testifying against me. She was there
to cuss them out in the hallway where I couldn’t do it.
Hearing the sentence is like you hear but you don’t want to hear it,
and you don’t believe it, and you don’t really understand it. My mom
didn’t really get it, or didn’t want to get it, because it was too much for
her to think about. She had all of my children, plus my fourteen-year-
old was pregnant.
There is a lot of hype about what people’s charge is and how much
that charge means. I say over and over, it doesn’t matter what the per-
son’s charge is, because the charge doesn’t make the person. There are
a lot of people who are extremely political, who came to prison for so­
cial crimes, and could be more political than the people who came in for
political reasons. People have to remember people are changeable, and
that things change. I’ve known women to be in prison for shameful
things that they wouldn’t want to discuss or feel proud of, but who
were extremely valiant and forthcoming in fighting for the rights of
other women in prison, or taking care of other people. So people’s
charge doesn’t mean much.
When I first started serving the time, I was serving more time than
anybody. The first thing you say is, “Girl, how much time you doing?”
 180 IDA P. M C CRAY

“Oh, five.” “How much time you doing?” “Three.” “How much time
you doing?” And every time I said it, “Twenty.” Twenty years! Ooohh!
It stabbed me every time. Then they were kind of, “You’re doing twenty
years!” They’d kind of just move away from me. That was in the 1980s,
but in the 1990s, when I came out of prison, Black women were bring­
ing in more time than twenty years. Twenty-time didn’t sound like shit
compared to the women coming into the federal system with a lot of
time. I’m seeing girls—and I have to say girls, because they’re twenty or
twenty-one—doing thirty years, two life sentences, two natural life sen­
tences, sixty years. It’s just a horrible, horrible amount of time. So my
twenty years didn’t sound like shit after that.
I did my time at Dublin. They didn’t call it Dublin then; they called
it Pleasanton. It was a co-ed prison when I went there. Then in 1989 they
shipped the rest of the men out, so they could stuff more women in
there. It was a gilded cage. “You see what a nice-looking prison this is.
We have flowers and grass.” It looks like a college campus, but it’s a
gilded cage, because no matter how pretty it looks—and there are no
bars on the doors where the women are, and you had keys to your own
rooms—it’s still prison. You’re still away from those you love, so it’s a
prison. People become institutionalized, in their own way. Inmates be-
come like guards and become as inhumane as they are. They say nega­
tive things, do negative things, to each other. To me, that’s what being
institutionalized is about. You can get used to anything. But all of the
negativity does not have to be accepted.
There is a lack of support for the women in prison. I know there are
many men who don’t have visits, but the whole society’s attitude is,
“Stand by your man.” You see women with their babies, and they were
fighting to get up there and the visiting room was full. When the men
left the prison and there were just women there, the visiting room was
barely ever full, ever. We’re replaced in society. Not only women are re-
placed, Black women are replaced. If you’re in a relationship, nine times
out of ten, you will be replaced within a year, if that long. Year after year,
you see people get sick, and you see women getting cancers and this,
that, and the other, and nobody’s really addressing it.
We have to extend our homes. With the end of welfare and food
stamps, where in the hell are women going? “You don’t have a bed?
Come on.” My mother comes from the South. They made pallets and
you lived as a community. People lived together, and it wasn’t even a
question of sharing space, you just did it. But now, since everything is
 IDA P. M C CRAY 181

so broken up here, people don’t think about that. They really should,
because that’s the only way they’re going to be able to come out of this,
is by some community, and we have to start building some community.
There was no Black community to take over the raising of my kids when
I fell. There was no Black community to take over for other women
when they’re out to lunch. We need this community, and we have to
somehow figure out how to establish it.
Some of the worst moments when I was inside were with family
shit. When my mother was having a heart attack, it would just kill me.
It would just kill me inside. When my daughter ran away and I didn’t
know where she was, I couldn’t call because in federal prison, you have
to have money to call. Those who had money could call, and those who
didn’t, oh well. My daughter was twelve when she ran away. She got
in a fight with her older sister and she ran away. I got my pen and
paper and I wrote, wrote, wrote everywhere, and I found someone
with open arms who took my daughter. Those were hard times, but
that was a much better situation for her. Now she’s in New York going
to college.
The other thing that is difficult to endure is sickness, if there’s some-
thing wrong. For years, I had bleeding and I didn’t know what in the
hell was wrong with me, but I did not trust going to the doctor. You
have no rights, because you are the property of the feds. They don’t
have to explain to you what they’re doing. And they didn’t.
I’m still doing the twenty years of my sentence. I did half. I’m doing
the rest out on parole. You may not see it, but I got a ball and chain. It’s
very limiting for me because I can’t go out of the vicinity without get­
ting permission. I was released in March of 1996. I was fortunate be-
cause I could’ve done more time, and I really came out just in time to
get pieces of my family. I sat with my aunt who was dying from cancer
for the last ten months of her life. If I hadn’t been home, she would have
gone to this old folks’ home. So I came out just in time. She didn’t have
any children and I was the only one who was there for her, so that was
really special. It was something I’d never done before, sit with the
dying. It was a privilege.
Families with a Future helps to connect children with women who
are serving long-term sentences, who would not otherwise have a visit.
It’s very hard because of money and not knowing how to get the money.
It’s hard, because of working with families who don’t care whether or
not the prisoner has a visit. The problem is, a lot of women give up.
 182 IDA P. M C CRAY

They don’t want to keep fighting, for whatever reason. I can only prob­
ably do ten or twelve visits a year.
I started this as soon as I got out. I work all day and night. It’s an
ongoing thing. It’s not something that you just leave alone at five o’­
clock. I had a lot of problems learning this nonprofit scene. I think that
a lot of women come out with a lot of fantastic ideas, and don’t have any
help. If you don’t have that help, you can’t do it. If I didn’t have any
help in my living situation, I couldn’t have done it. I was fortunate. I
came out and I had a commune of people waiting for me. “I have a job
for you.” That made the difference in me being able to help someone
else.
We got our first grant this year, $7,100. That will take care of some
visits. I am also going to send some kids to summer camp. You can’t
erase all the stuff, but sometimes you can try to put a little light in their
life by exposing them to other ways of being, other people, and other
things. Two weeks ago, I just brought in two children from Arkansas
who lived in an orphanage, who only listened to Christian music, only
saw two movies all year, and hadn’t seen their mother in almost three
years. They were just so grateful for every little thing that I did. It was
hard because they were raised in a racist community. I just hope that
maybe, that in seeing other parts of the world, seeing other people,
maybe it would open up their hearts. If someone wanted to drag an-
other African American down the street, they would stand up to it.
They can’t help the environment where they’ve grown up.
I get the stories, the mother writes me; she needs to see her children.
It’s a process. It takes several months. I had one case that I wasn’t able to
help at all, and that was a woman in New York whose one kid was deaf.
He was with one family member, and the other kids were with another
family member, and the two family members couldn’t get together to let
the kids come. It’s hard writing the prisoner back, but they know their
family better than I do. I try to keep my foot into the prisons here, so they
know who I am and tell other women. They’re your greatest allies. The
administration generally doesn’t care, but I have had a couple of officers
call the organization asking if I could assist in visitation.
We need to help women in transition. Women need a place to go.
Sometimes it’s very hard for me to go back to the jails, but I believe it’s
important for the women. I believe it’s important for the children.
Sometimes you’ve got to walk through fire to get to the other side, so I
think about it, but I don’t dwell on it.
 14
Millicent Pierce

After serving time for the manslaughter of an abusive husband, Milli-

cent Pierce was released in 1996 and began to serve the community. She
began a program called “Count the Cost,” a domestic violence preven-
tion program. After seeing how many women in prison are victims of
violence in relationships, she knew she had to be a part of the solution.

Millicent Pierce

183
 184 MILLICENT PIERCE

I ’ M F RO M L O S A N G E L E S , but I’ve lived in Georgia since 1979, off and

on. I came to visit my brother when he was in college and I stayed. My
first marriage was to a very young man. I have two teenage children
from that marriage, my daughter and son. They live with their father,
and I live around the corner from them. When I went to prison, they
went to live with him, and they just continued to live with him when I
got out in 1996. He’s stable and I’m trying to rebuild my life. So I really
love and appreciate him for just being a good father and a stable influ­
ence on their lives and mine.
I was responsible for my first divorce. I left that marriage, so I had
guilt over that. My mother had married five times. She had three dif­
ferent children by three of her men, and none of those five husbands
were any of our fathers. So I didn’t want to follow in that same pattern
of marrying and divorcing, and having different children by different
men. I was very conscious of that.
Three years after my first marriage ended, I married my second
husband. He was a psychiatrist. We met in 1988, and we married after
three months. He was a wonderful man, creative, and funny, just a great
guy all around. But I didn’t know that he was a drug addict and had
abusive behavior.
I was working and going to school when we met. I was studying to
be a medical secretary and surgical nurse. He had finished his residency
and had gone into private practice. So I fell right in with that relation-
ship and began working with him and supporting him. He said, “Marry
me and you won’t have to work and struggle.” He said that I could stay
home and take care of the kids and he’d help me. It was just such a won­
derful offer; it was just so hard to refuse.
We had gotten married on Valentine’s Day, and the violence started
shortly thereafter. His tirades and tantrums were over little things. I
tried to calm him down and smooth things out, but it was a damned if
you do, damned if you don’t situation. It didn’t matter if I was nice or
if I argued about whatever the issue was, or if I didn’t say anything at
all. It was still just conflict.
Another problem was that he was always psychoanalyzing me,
talking about my past and my guilt and my shame from my issues. I
would listen and rationalize the things he said, which a lot of times were
very good; but a lot of times, they were completely off base. You could-
 MILLICENT PIERCE 185

n’t tell him that he was wrong about anything. I mean, he was a doctor
and he knew what he was talking about. I was a high school dropout
with a GED, so I certainly didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.
Sometimes he would say that; “What the hell do you know?” There was
a lot of psychological and emotional abuse in the relationship.
I didn’t listen to my intuition, and I did not read the signals, be-
cause there were signals all along. He was smoking reefer and drinking.
He justified it as recreational. He would say that he just needed to re-
lease some stress. I didn’t realize the enormity of his addiction. Addic­
tive behavior leads to all kinds of other destructive behaviors and bad
choices, and that impacts your relationship. I was trying to hang in
there with my man and put up with his stuff and love him.
I was trying to love and be patient and kind, and all those wonder­
ful biblical virtues that we’re taught to be. That’s why I teach the Count
the Cost program now. Count the Cost—is this worth it? I found myself
constantly compensating or overcompensating to my detriment. I
learned how not to do that in a relationship now. That’s a big lesson for
a lot of women.
I think that he beat my self-esteem down so low, not that it was al­
ready at a high level at any given point. Even though I’m an attractive
woman and I’m pleasant enough, I’ve got issues, too. I think that he did
such a number on me psychologically, emotionally, and physically; it
was just a recipe for disaster.
The original charge was murder. They offered a plea bargain, but I
said no. I would rather go to a jury and have them convict me than to
just admit it and be found guilty. I believe they offered me ten years for
voluntary manslaughter. When I was convicted, they gave me twelve.
I didn’t plan to do it. The jury even understood it. They said that
they understood everything that happened to me. They knew that he
was abusive and there was a whole history of it and all kinds of docu­
mentation. Nevertheless, they understood everything except the sec­
ond shot. I shot him once in the chest and he was falling towards me. I
thought he was going to fall on me, so I jumped off the bed and he fell.
I thought he was getting back up, but the medical examiner said his
movement was involuntary. I shot him again and they said that I killed
him in cold blood, execution style. So, if it weren’t for the second shot,
I would have walked. But, I’m glad I didn’t, because the enormous re­
sponsibility that I felt for having taken another human being’s life was
just too much for me to bear.
 186 MILLICENT PIERCE

I had suicidal ideations up to the last day of trial. I felt that I was a
life-giver. I’m a mother, I’m a woman; I brought life into the world. I
killed another woman’s son. Regardless of the circumstances, I had
killed somebody. So having served time in prison was good for me be-
cause I needed to reconcile it. If you steal something or break it, it can
be replaced or paid for, but you cannot replace a human life if you take
it. That’s why I’m really glad that I did that time. I spent four years, and
it was long while I was doing it, but in hindsight, it was a mere four
years. It was good for me.
Plus, my children understand, and they have a keener sense of jus­
tice too. If you do something, you have to be held accountable. In the
course of feeling and reconciling, I was trying to deal with it on the
highest level possible. I quickly tried to get out of the blame mode. I
didn’t need to blame the judge and the D.A. and the jury, because those
people were not responsible for the choices I made in that relationship.
My attorneys came to see me in prison, and said that they were so
sorry that they lost my case. I had already transitioned to a higher level.
I said, “You didn’t win my case, but you didn’t lose it, because I’m here
for a very important reason, and I need to be here.” It wasn’t because of
him, actually, I need to be there for my own stuff.
I had two attorneys. One of them was a personal friend, who was a
criminal defense attorney and a real irritant to the system. He took my
case pro bono. He is wonderful and I love him. The second attorney was
my neighbor. I didn’t know anything about him, so when he came to see
me in jail a day after it all happened, I asked what he was doing there.
He said he was an attorney. He said not to worry about money, which I
didn’t have. Both of them came together to represent me. I think they
did a good job. You never can predict the judge or the jury on how these
things will go. Some women are acquitted quickly and easily, and oth­
ers are convicted.
A lot of women’s groups attended the trial. Here’s the thing, I used
to be a nude dancer and a call girl, and I met him under those circum­
stances. I met him in a club. I was working in a nude club, supporting
myself by working and going to school. Therefore people knew that he
had married this woman of ill repute. A lot of people were interested in
advocating for me, but they weren’t quite sure if it was politically cor­
rect to stand up for me because I was one of those women. Can you rape
a prostitute? Can you abuse a woman like that? Once you have those
 MILLICENT PIERCE 187

stigmas, a lot of times people don’t want to come help you because they
figure you’re getting what you deserve.
When I heard the verdict, I was suddenly flushed with a hot wave.
I felt faint. They wanted to immediately escort me out, but I clung to the
table for a minute. I had to absorb that. I needed some closure or some-
thing, so I hugged my attorneys and then they ushered me out. I looked
at my family and they looked at me. Everybody was crying. Everyone
was sad and bewildered.
Jail is hell, and that’s where I began to see the wretchedness of the
human condition. I understood then that everything going on in our
jails and prisons is a microcosm of what’s going on in society. I thought
I understood social issues before I went to prison, but that’s where I re-
ally began to get the big picture. It was so awful, the stench, the issues,
the crimes, the struggles, the constant cursing and fighting, and phone
calls to get bail, to find an attorney, and to find out the legalities of your
case. There was constant cursing and fighting, and all the things that
happen on the outside, 24 hours a day. Women were detoxing and there
were health problems like TB and AIDS. Every conflict and drama goes
on there.
After I was transferred to the prison, they took me to a minimum-
security facility, and it looked like a beat-up old army barracks. They
were just a bunch of trailers that were put together with a barbed wire
fence around them. This place was in the middle of a glen or pasture. It
was no man’s land. I saw cows out there grazing, and I said to myself,
“Wow, this is interesting.” There was a nice cool breeze coming in. At
that moment, I found a profound peace. There was a profound peace
that came over me, and I felt as though God was saying to me, “I got
you, honey; it’s going to be okay.” From that point on, I didn’t resist the
whole experience. I didn’t fight, I didn’t blame, I didn’t externalize.
I wasn’t mad at anybody. I realized, I had to figure out, how did I
get myself into this mess, and more importantly, how am I going to get
myself out of it. Then I began to work on myself. I started studying. I
took some college classes, and I worked in the law library and began to
study law. I immediately studied the homicide statute to understand
the difference between murder and manslaughter. I learned about the
terms for homicide and the difference between first degree and second
degree murder. Now I understand the differences and why there are
varying sentences for varying crimes.
 188 MILLICENT PIERCE

I would see women who had the same type of scenario, an abusive
relationship, yet I had a voluntary manslaughter conviction and this
woman had a life sentence. So, I questioned why she got life and I got
manslaughter. I looked at disparity in sentencing and questioned that.
As I got to know the women, I started to consider things differently,
on a spiritual level. I learned that we have to work on our stuff individ­
ually. It is a spiritual thing. There’s more to it than the judge, the jury
system, and the White man. It goes beyond that. I think about the many
ways that we are in bondage, and how it took me going to prison to get
free of my thinking, because I didn’t have the distractions and other
problems to deal with. To me, prison was easy, but life is tough. In
prison, you get up, you do what they tell you to do; it’s a routine. It’s
not nice there, it’s not pleasant and it’s not comfortable, but you don’t
have to think. I took advantage of it by reading all the books that I
wanted to read, and by working on my body and exercising.
The common denominators in women’s experiences were violence
and abuse in relationships, and substance abuse. Of course, there was
economic deprivation. There were Whites and other ethnic groups, but
the majority that I saw were African American women. It doesn’t mean
that we commit a higher ratio of crime; it’s just the disparity in sen­
tencing. The White girl gets the probation and the sister gets ten years.
It’s the same with the brothers. As women in prison, though, we’re all
the scum of the earth, we’re throwaways.
If you commit a violent crime, you have to go to prison. But for non-
violent offenders, more community-based treatment is essential. First of
all, it’s cheaper. Second, it helps keep families together and helps
women work on the issues in a healthier environment. Usually, when
people go to prison, they come out more bitter and with greater disre­
spect for authority. They don’t come out healthy. We must teach citi­
zenship and what it means to be a member of the community.
I maintained contact with people on the outside basically through
letter writing and collect phone calls. My children came, thank good­
ness. They came at least once a month through AIM (Aid to Incarcer­
ated Mothers and Children), Sandra Barnhill’s program. Sandra gave
me love. I didn’t know this woman from Adam’s housecat. I found out
about her program and I wrote, and she sent me a manual on prison and
women and parental rights. I wrote a couple of letters and I signed up
for the program. She hooked up with my first husband, and she would
go and get my children, and bring them to the prison on the second Sat-
 MILLICENT PIERCE 189

urday of every month. Nobody wanted to take a two-hour-long drive

one way, spend a couple of hours, and come all the way back. It’s a bur-
den on families. Many people don’t have transportation, or someone
elderly is keeping the children, and a lot of women don’t even get to see
their children when they’re in prison. Sandra’s program tries to help
keep families together while Mom’s in prison, because she’s usually the
primary caretaker, and when she goes to prison, Dad ain’t even there.
The grandmothers, we call them the guardian angels of foster care, hap-
pen to be responsible for taking care of the children.
I was released in 1996. We started our organization, Count the Cost,
in 1994. Our warden allowed us to start our program while we were still
in prison. She allowed us to do groups, and she brought in counselors
and therapists to do some work with the women. Our group went to
group homes and alternative schools. It was like Scared Straight, with
twenty women who were there for different crimes. You can hardly
scare kids these days. You have to talk and deal in real terms. Somebody
has to help them process their issues and look at consequences of not
making smart choices.
Then the new warden came on board and stopped the program. We
got out in 1996 and dove right into it. We have to figure out ways to get
funding and things like that, so that’s the challenge of nonprofit work.
But we love what we do, and we always get a great response. We’re de­
veloping our own curriculum so that we can reach people effectively.
My advice to women is to know thyself and be true to thyself. We
must know who we are as divine creatures, because if we’re rooted and
connected spiritually, that makes the path straight for the other stuff.
 15
Joyce A. Logan

Joyce Logan was previously incarcerated in the Texas State Prison sys­
tem for fifteen years as the result of a conviction for aggravated rob­
bery. This was during the time when changes resulting from the Ruiz
litigation were being implemented by the federal courts and when those
changes faded and disappeared.1 Unfortunately, the system reverted to
the conditions prior to the decision. For example, Joyce and other fe­
male inmates encountered harassing pat searches by male officers, and
the inmates initiated a lawsuit to end that procedure. Joyce also faced
a very difficult transition in reentering the community after making pa-
role. She is an advocate for education and rehabilitation and is op­
posed to the current system of punishment.

Joyce A. Logan

190
 JOYCE A. LOGAN 191

I A M F I F T Y- S I X years old and grew up with my parents, six brothers

and one sister. My father worked as a porter all his life, cleaning doctors’
offices in North Dallas. My oldest brothers and I would sometimes go to
work with him, and as I remember, this was my first experience with a
vacuum cleaner. My mother was a homemaker and I had certain re-
sponsibilities to help care for my younger brothers and sister. My mother
was a very generous lady, she loved cooking and sharing food with our
neighbors. Everyone knew her, loved her, and called her “Sweets.”
Apart from being one of the fastest track runners in junior high,
school was not a good experience for me. I did not value education at
that time. I was a little slow in learning and I don’t remember anyone
sitting down with me to make sure that my homework was done or
identifying reading or spelling problems. Although my mother taught
in elementary schools prior to being married, she somehow lost sight of
the value of an education and failed to stress its importance. I shot
hooky a lot. I finished eighth grade and maybe was promoted to the
ninth, and that was it for me in public school.
At a very young age, I set myself up for a troublesome teenage life.
I experimented with alcohol and cigarettes, which I took from my
daddy. This led me to Juvenile Detention and Reform School at the age
of sixteen. I was sent to Reform School for truancy. The education I got
there made me “street wise” even before I had been exposed to “the
streets.” Reform School was just hearing and learning about everything
that was illegal and unacceptable in the real world. For example, I never
smoked marijuana or used drugs prior to going to Reform School.
A year later I returned home and knew that I needed to work. I tried
several jobs, yet had no goals, direction, or motivation. My father con­
tinued to work to support the family; however, the invasion of alco­
holism caused many of his hard-earned efforts to be tainted and sur­
rounded by drunken evenings and fights with my mother. I saw a lot of
violence, fighting, and alcohol drinking, not only between my parents,
but my uncles—my mother’s brothers—also fought a lot between
themselves. In 1976, my father passed away after suffering from alcohol
withdrawal and other complications.
My oldest brother was twenty-six when his girlfriend and her
brother killed him. It was 1963, the same year that President Kennedy
was killed. I was nineteen and my brothers and I wanted revenge for
 192 JOYCE A. LOGAN

my brother’s death. We swore that we would kill her, so we looked for

her and her brother. Once we found her, we went into the apartment
where she was in a pitiful state. Rather than revenge, we sympathized
with her when we recognized that my brother’s death had taken its toll
on her as well. She sobbed, “I didn’t mean to kill him.” I guess that’s
when you know what’s in your heart and what you are capable of doing
and not capable of doing. We had all these emotions and feelings of ha­
tred, but when we came face to face with this situation, our inner
strength and compassion kicked in. At that moment we were able to
turn and walk away.
In an attempt to recover from my grief, my mother sent me to East
Texas to live with my aunt. Upon my return, there was a forgery check
ring going on and I got involved in it as a way to make money. Need-
less to say, we were busted and I was sentenced to five years and six
years probation. I was sent to the federal prison. While there, I kept try­
ing to get an education but I felt I couldn’t concentrate or just wasn’t
smart enough to learn. It took me a long time to complete my high
school education, and I eventually did.
After serving five years in prison, I came home and tried to get
work here and there. Again, with no goals, support, or motivation, I had
little to rely on. My worst nightmare happened and I developed a
heroin habit. I didn’t realize it, because of the lack of knowledge I had
about the drug. When I missed using it for one or two days, I thought I
was sick with a cold or flu. Unfortunately, I was strung out and that led
me to state prison.
I was released from state prison in 1976 and paroled to the Salva­
tion Army Halfway House. I did well while residing there and was rec­
ognized for my success. I was offered a job and worked there for several
years as a drug counselor. I was through with heroin and to this day
have never used it again. I took my job very seriously, working with the
desk and monitoring clients, some ex-offenders, which enhanced my
spelling and gave me a sense of self-confidence. While there, I was able
to act as an advocate for the clients and those who could not articulate
their needs.
In the early 1980s, I decided to work for myself. I did interior and
exterior residential painting, and I was doing okay. Then, in 1981, I lost
my mother unexpectedly. She had diabetes. She passed away in her
sleep. Behind the scenes it was clear to me that alcohol abuse played a
part in her death. Her death was really hard for me and I wasn’t able to
 JOYCE A. LOGAN 193

function or work. I had no idea that I was speaking to her for the last
time the night before she passed away. I started drinking beer and tak­
ing Valium, just trying to escape it all. Everything was beginning to
crumble and fall apart. I lost my home because I stopped working and
was on the verge of losing those that loved me, especially my best
friend. When I lost my mother, I felt that if I didn’t grieve for a long time
and if I didn’t hurt every day, it meant I didn’t love her. I couldn’t eat or
sleep, I went from 135 pounds to 99 pounds in a matter of weeks. My
best friend pointed out to me that I wasn’t living for myself, and once I
could grasp that, I would let my mother go.
Unfortunately it was too late. My grief and mood-altered state of
mind had claimed its mark. I took part in a robbery that led to my ar­
rest. I was charged with aggravated robbery. This means I had a gun.
What a lie to be told and read throughout.
The officers were mean and rough when they searched under your
breast, between your legs, thighs, and crotch. When male officers came
into the women’s dorms, they also did searches. We began to complain
and filed grievances to no avail. Joyce Ann Brown, the founder and
president of M.A.S.S., previously had been released from prison and got
involved. This was one of the first things that she did for the Texas
prison system as a whole. She and her lawyers negotiated with the state
to stop the procedure. It was supposed to stop throughout the system,
but to this day that was never the case.
When I went before the parole board, I was feeling very negative
because I didn’t think they were asking relevant questions and that they
had predetermined that I wasn’t going to be granted parole. It wasn’t
long, however, that I learned that I had in fact been granted parole. This
was the highlight of my day. I started dreaming and planning to go
home. I was released in November 1997.
After fifteen years in prison, I faced the challenge of my return to
society. It was very, very scary. A lot had transpired. The city had
changed a lot. Freeways are running through the neighborhood where
I grew up. My old schools had been torn down, landmarks, theaters,
and favorite barbeque hangouts were gone. Technology has changed so
much that I didn’t even know how to place a long distance telephone
call. I had to learn how to use the microwave, not to mention a pager or
cell phone.
Initially, I worked with Joyce Ann Brown at M.A.S.S. After that I
went to work at a law firm. There were four attorneys in the office and
 194 JOYCE A. LOGAN

I worked as a receptionist. I learned a great deal from them; they are re­
markable people. They knew my background and helped me through
the technology transition, including paying for me to attend a computer
literacy course. A stepping-stone for where I am today. Working with
real “free world” lawyers surpassed all my dreams and job expecta­
tions. My interest in law started before I went to prison. During my trial,
I felt that I was being railroaded so I began going to the County Jail law
library. I didn’t know my way around and had a difficult time reading
the books. But I kept at it. When I arrived in prison, I found that some
people knew even less than I did when it came to writing a letter to an
attorney, filing a legal document, or filing a grievance to complain
about prison living conditions or other unfair treatment.
Later, I decided it was time to explore. I wanted to be self-employed
and started a cleaning service. I began doing subcontract work for home
builders, private homes, and offices. This led to a position with one of
the home builders as an administrative construction superintendent,
which is my current job. This job is harder than any job I had in prison.
The patience and tolerance I acquired in prison has enabled me to en­
dure the multiple demands and responsibilities I face on a daily basis. I
am an African American woman working in a field mainly reserved for
Caucasian males.
I want people to know that African American women are very
much discriminated against in the Texas prison system. It’s real there
and here at home. I want ex-offenders to know that they can overcome
that discrimination with a lot of determination. In prison, when Ruiz
was alive and well, and when the federal courts were monitoring the
prison system, there had to be racial balance in all jobs and living areas.
I don’t believe that is the case in prison today, and I don’t believe the
federal courts are monitoring such things in this “free world” today.
Our society needs more alternatives to prison. We are incarcerating
ourselves and prison is not the answer to all our criminal problems. The
education of prisoners has all but stopped in prisons. I believe that a
better education system, and a better understanding of ourselves will
reduce even our most hideous crimes.
Education has become very important to me. If you have one hun­
dred inmates and you educate twenty-five, there will be less recidivism
and probably more productive citizens. So, I ask, what percentage of
uneducated and poorly understood prisoners do you want released
back into society?
 16
Donna Hubbard Spearman

Donna Hubbard Spearman regained control of her life after several in­
carcerations in state and federal institutions for offenses primarily re­
lated to her drug use. She became an evangelist and started the organi­
zation Revelation Seed, which provides transitional housing and edu­
cational and employment skills to recently released incarcerated
women. The mother of seven children, she offers piercing insights about
her own life, her relationship with her family and children, and the so­
cial dynamics that affect African American women in prison and
throughout American society.

Donna Hubbard Spearman

195
 196 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN

I W I S H I C O U L D S AY I came from a terrible family and had a terrible

upbringing. I didn’t. I came from what we’ll call middle poverty. There
is high poverty, middle poverty, and low poverty. I came from a middle-
poverty family. I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I had a pretty
great childhood by all standards and purposes. However, there was the
underlying alcoholism and the violence in my family.
We watched the violence that my mother experienced. One of the
things I learned growing up in that environment that I didn’t acknowl­
edge then, but that I acknowledge now, is that anything that everybody
does and nobody talks about is considered acceptable behavior. Twenty
years or thirty years ago, that was how it was with domestic violence.
Everybody did it, nobody talked about, so it was acceptable for that
kind of behavior to go on. I also was sexually abused by a relative. Al­
though there was some denial in my family, I know that it happened be-
cause I know what I remember.
Everybody’s goal was to marry somebody, but I wanted to go to
college. My mother had become a Muslim. She joined the Nation of
Islam. Muslim girls didn’t get educated; we got married and had ba­
bies. There was such a struggle for me to do that, to even talk about
wanting to go away to college, and going out. That was out. I could
leave home if I married somebody, but I couldn’t leave home to get an
education. So I ended up leaving home and marrying somebody who
was twice my age. I was sixteen. We didn’t even know the man. A week
before I married him, we didn’t know him.
I had a child by him. By the time I was twenty, I had three children
by two different Muslim men and I realized that I was the most un­
happy person in the world. The first one was emotionally abusive. The
second one was physically and emotionally abusive. So, at age twenty-
one and twenty-two, I found myself with children and very little edu­
cation. Even then, I had a high motivation level. I was always motivated
to do something and I knew that I always wanted to do something. So,
I became a flight attendant, with three children.
At that point, I had left the second Muslim husband, had gone out
on my own, and was trying to support my children. I was scared to
death; I had been on welfare for most of my life at that time. I got a job
at the airport and eventually was accepted as a flight attendant. Well,
my life broke open. I was a flight attendant and had a great job, but I
 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN 197

also had these children. I was in no way prepared to be a parent. I can

talk about these things now and I can say, I loved being a mother, but I
hated being a parent. It was more than I could tolerate because I didn’t
know how to do this thing, and I hadn’t lived my own life. I’m the old­
est of eight children and then I became a mother at sixteen. I had never
lived my own life, I had never lived out on my own, with no responsi­
bilities. Those years from sixteen to twenty-one are when a young girl
finds out that she has her own identity and begins to think for herself. I
never had that. I think I wrestled with that all those years and in the
process neglected my children.
I can’t say that drugs were the reason that I neglected my children.
It was a whole life-style, a pattern that led me to using drugs, because I
would say today that using drugs was not—is not—the problem with
most women’s lives. It’s whatever process of thinking put us to where
we think we can use drugs and live a normal life. It’s impossible. But, I
started using drugs. I was introduced to drugs because the life-style I
started living as a flight attendant was very fast paced. A baseball
player introduced me to using drugs on a much more sophisticated
scale. I realize now that my drug use and that life-style cost me my job
as a flight attendant.
At age twenty-three, I was raped again. At that point, a lot of stuff
went through my mind. Most of it was that I put myself in that position
because of my life-style and I never came forward to have anything
done to him because I felt guilty. I repeated that later on in my life with
the men that I became involved with, even down to where I was a pros­
titute. I became a prostitute in Los Angeles in the early 1980s.
I became promiscuous, and then when I started using drugs, I was
promiscuous with a purpose, and that was to support my habits. When
people say prostitution you think of one thing, but I understand pros­
titution as something totally different when you become an addict be-
cause before the addiction most of us are promiscuous. It’s a life-style
that we start living. Then you become promiscuous with a purpose and
that purpose is to support a habit. By then, I had left my children, two
of the children, in Washington, D.C. I had the other two children with
me and literally began a transient life-style. I thank God I left the two
in Washington, D.C., even though it was very hard for them, and in
their minds I abandoned them. I now realize it was the best thing I
could’ve done with them. I should’ve left all of them there. They
would’ve been safer. The children were with my ex-husband’s mother
 198 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN

and my aunt—my mother’s sister, my maternal aunt. They did the best
they could with my children.
I lived like a transient and up until that point, I had been arrested
on catch-as-catch-can things. I would be let out a few hours later for bad
checks. The interesting thing is, by the time I moved to California the
last time, when I was arrested, I had a habit but I don’t think anyone
ever recognized it. If they did, it wasn’t as important as incarcerating
me. I was arrested twenty-seven times and no one ever recommended
drug treatment. Never!
Never drug treatment. Never. I didn’t even know what drug treat­
ment was. I had no idea. I didn’t have a clue. When people started talk­
ing to me about it, it was 1987–88. This was through the period in Los
Angeles of prostitution, heavy, heavy, heavy drug use, and a lot of vio­
lence. I had been beaten several times beyond recognition by men who
I had picked up, or who had picked me up as a prostitute, men who
were my friends, or who I thought were my friends.
I was so steeped in that life-style that I had stopped communicating
with my family because I didn’t want to bring them into it. I might call
my mother every once in a while, but I had no other contact with them
because I didn’t want to drop them into what was happening to me. I
lost the children, the last two children. I had taken them out in May 1986
and left them in a hotel. I went to go and work the streets and buy some
drugs. When I came back the police had come and gotten them. The
hotel had called them.
My daughter was born in 1987. I was addicted to cocaine during my
pregnancy with her. Like I said, I was arrested and arrested and arrested
and released and arrested and released. I would do three months, three
weeks here and a month there and this went on and on. I was never sent
to drug or substance abuse treatment, ever. But it was obvious by the ar­
rests, where I was and how the arrests were done that I was steeped in
an addiction. I needed help, but no one ever recommended that help.
The interesting thing is that in the community I was in, nobody ever
came out and told me about Jesus, either. Here I am today an evangel­
ist. That’s why they don’t really like me most of the time because I often
remind people in the church of what our real responsibility is, and how
the church has been the last of the institutions to acknowledge the sick.
California was where I lost my identity, in Los Angeles. I lost my
identity, who I was. I was ashamed of who I had become and forgotten
who I was. I was too ashamed to go and get help and too proud to see I
 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN 199

needed it. The last time I was arrested, the judge in the court said to me,
“I would let you go, now, because we really don’t have anything against
you.” It was a big drug sweep. I happened to be in the wrong place at
the wrong time. But the judge said, “We’re not going to let you give
birth to a crack baby, so I’m going to put you somewhere.” Now, any-
one else would say that would be a place for substance-abuse treatment.
Well, that treatment turned out to be a hospital bed in a women’s hos­
pital in downtown Los Angeles, with a chain to my ankle that would
allow me to get up and go to the bathroom. I had no visitors, no televi­
sion, nothing. I was allowed nothing to read. I stayed in there until my
baby was born. She was born two months premature because of my ad-
diction, and I remember very well that both of us almost died in giving
birth to her. She was only two pounds and ten ounces. I call her my mir­
acle baby. We both did survive.
When I gave birth, I wanted out. I wanted my baby, and I wanted
my life. So, as sick as I was, I gave birth to her on that Friday, and I
begged the marshals to take me back to the jail on Saturday or Sunday,
so that I could go into court on Monday, go before that judge so that she
could release us. That is exactly what happened. I went into the court-
room. The judge said, “I understand where you have a beautiful baby
girl.” Then she said, “I want you to go and get your daughter, and I
don’t want to see you in my courtroom ever again.” My daughter was
premature and could not leave the hospital so I left the courtroom and
went back to the jail.
They released me in the middle of the night. I would get on the bus
with my hospital wristband, and say, “I just got out of the hospital. I
don’t have any money.” The bus driver would let me ride back to
Venice, which was the only area I knew. I would walk the streets. I had
just had a baby. I couldn’t work. And I remember very well that no one
that I knew would take me in, no one that I had been getting high with
and that knew me very well, would allow me to come in. Four days
later, they let me take my baby. My mother paid for an airplane ticket. I
went to my mother, trying to save my life, and my baby’s life.
I relapsed within four months. I still didn’t know what drug treat­
ment was, but I went into one-on-one therapy with a woman and that
helped me to at least look at the fact that I was an addict. I went to NA
meetings. I registered for school at the university. I was really working
towards trying to get my life back together. I was abstinate from drugs,
but I wasn’t in recovery. I was a dry drunk. I just simply was not using,
 200 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN

but I wasn’t in recovery because I wasn’t doing anything. You’ve got to

do something to be in recovery. Within three weeks, I was using. Within
three months, I was arrested. I found myself facing a judge and being
sentenced to twenty-four years of federal prison. At that point, I knew
that I had to make a choice to live or die, not physically, but emotionally
and spiritually. I was going to live or die, because I was facing a long
time in prison.
I was sentenced to the federal correctional institution in Lexington,
Kentucky. The interesting thing is that I was in the midst of the manda­
tory minimum sentencing war with the Congress and the judges in the
criminal justice system. I ended up being sentenced just nine days be-
fore mandatory minimums became constitutional. Therefore, I was eli­
gible for parole, which was a big deal to my lawyer. I didn’t know what
it meant. I was barely sober. The first charge was aiding and abetting the
possession of crack cocaine. The second charge was conspiracy to man­
ufacture and distribute. I was sentenced to twenty-four years: two
twelve year sentences. That devastated everyone.
Lexington was a whole different world for me. After all those years
of being out on the streets in a lifestyle that was reckless and irrespon­
sible, Lexington gave me a sense of security. I mean that it gave me a
chance to sit down and work on Donna. Because my priority, the things
that always occupied my mind were my children and my addiction; it
was everything else but me. I was never comfortable taking care of me.
Going to prison gave me a chance to take care of myself, to look deep
inside of myself and pull on the strength that I had left, the faith that I
had left, whatever piece of identity I had left and bring that to the altar
of God, and ask God to help me put my life back together. I took every
class, every AA, NA, CA, whatever, everything that they had to offer. I
took yoga. I took everything. You name it, I took it. I also began to see
the old Donna resurface.
I started making sure that I wrote my children once a week. I be-
came accountable to myself, my peers, and to my family. I knew some
of the things that they would write back would hurt me, but I did it any-
way. I worked on the issue of commitment to my body because as an
African American woman who was an addict, the first thing that
women neglect is our body. That’s the first thing, our health care. As an
addict, there were times I didn’t eat, and forget exercise or any of that.
So I started my commitment right there. I made a commitment to get
my body back in shape.
 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN 201

In 1990, the federal prison system brought men into Lexington and
made it a co-ed prison. During that time, more than eighty women be-
came pregnant. Now, I’ve always been a trendsetter. I became pregnant.
I went to solitary confinement—segregation—for forty-five days. I was
fortunate that I got out. My baby was born in 1991.
The second thing I did was, when I had my baby, I knew I had a
long prison sentence to do, and I wanted to be able to get to know this
child. Therefore, I wrote a letter to churches all over the city of Lexing­
ton, asking that someone open their heart and their home, and take my
baby in, and be willing to bring my baby to visit me during my prison
sentence. I never expected anyone to answer but someone did. This lit­
tle old lady took my baby in, and for the next six weeks brought her to
me every day. When that happened with me, other women started say­
ing, “I want to bond with my baby. I want to breastfeed my baby.” There
was a Quaker home for severely disabled children in town who heard
about what was happening at Lexington. Women were having babies,
but no one was there to take them. If the children aren’t picked up from
the prison in seventy-two hours, they become wards of the state. This
Quaker home decided to take the children of the women who were in
Lexington Prison. That was another big step in the area of advocacy,
that I felt I took part in. I understood I had found my niche.
I advocated for my transfer to a prison camp. I wanted to be closer
to my children. During that time, I continued to stay in very close con-
tact with my family. I think they knew by my letters that something
about me was changing. Of course, it took them time. I was discrimi­
nated against many times. I met officers who were simply vicious and
vindictive, and I would say that they were miserable in their own lives.
They sought to make us miserable because we were the best victims
they could find. I ended up being transferred to a prison camp, that was
Alderson, West Virginia. Alderson was like a college campus. I thought,
“Yeah, this is okay.” But I also came face to face with my own vulnera­
bility and realized that I was very close to getting out, even though I
wasn’t ready to leave. I was scared to death because, number one, I had
become institutionalized. I had regained my identity, my integrity, my
self-respect, and my self-esteem. I was saved, and I loved the Lord Jesus
Christ, but I was also very aware that if I was released, I had the same
challenges on the outside that I had faced before and not been able to
deal with. How was I going to deal with them now? I realized that if I
consistently began to work on becoming empowered and socialized, by
 202 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN

the time that process was complete, I would be ready to leave prison. It
was very difficult to get ready to leave prison because I had found a
family in the women that were there. I was very close to them. Some of
them got out before me, but it was really hard to leave others behind.
I want to go back say that the hardest part of my entire prison sen­
tence was giving birth to my baby, having her taken out of my hands,
being put back in shackles and taken back to prison, and leaving my
baby in the hospital with strangers. It was the hardest thing I ever had
to do. It was hard because I was sent back to a unit where there was
nothing but pregnant women. The sad thing is that every time one of us
would go away to have a baby, those of us that had had our babies knew
the devastation she was going to feel leaving that baby there and com­
ing back to the prison. We knew what she was going to be like when she
hit the door coming back to the unit. I had begun to talk to other women
about this. I said, “Let’s be there for the women that were coming back.
Let’s do this thing together and comfort them and support them
through their first week home without their baby.” This became a very
important part of my life during that time, helping other women
through the process of separation from their babies.
I realized at that point that a large part of what I had to do when I
got out was to work with making the process of motherhood easier to
deal with during incarceration. This is where our organization’s par­
enting program comes from. During my pregnancy, I talked to many
women who were incarcerated about their experiences with their chil­
dren. I actually took notes and I took all those experiences and put it
into our program once I was released. We have a parenting program
that directly addresses the challenges that incarcerated women face as
mothers, and helps them to remain parents in spite of the incarceration.
What I realized, as an addict myself, is that parenting wasn’t presence,
it’s participation. Even when I was present in my children’s lives, I did­
n’t participate. For most of us, just before our prison sentence that was
true.
In terms of African American women, the most common and most
evident things to me are the lack of education and lack of job skills. I’d
say probably two percent of them have education, and when I say edu­
cation, I mean even a high school diploma. In Georgia, seventy-nine
percent of the women in prison don’t have a high school diploma. That
limits how we can work and where we can work. If those two things are
limited, how do you then support three, four, or five children? The
 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN 203

other thing that was very obvious to me is that African American

women are already subjected by a society that places us at the bottom
of the totem pole. Within the prison system, not only are we placed at
the bottom of the totem pole, but we are considered less than the aver-
age inmate. I don’t know if that makes sense, except to say that we are
given the worst details. We are considered last for special projects, for
benefits, or privileges.
We have the stigma of going back into a community where African
American men are almost made martyrs and heroes when they come
out of prison and go back into the community. But when we go back
into our communities, we are not only unfit people, now we’re unfit
mothers, and it’s hard to trust us. I see that more in African American
communities than I do in White communities, and I’ve worked in both
of them. When you are living in an environment where you are con­
stantly feeling that no one trusts you, it’s hard to function, it’s hard to
regroup. It’s hard to regain your integrity and your identity. It’s hard to
prove yourself. The communities want women who come back from
prison to become gray shadows and to disappear, because if you are
there, then we have to address you.
African American grandmothers are the care providers, the pri­
mary care providers for the children, when women go to prison. In the
African American community, the grandmother has to go on welfare to
support the children. The children, more often than not, will be passed
around from place to place. I hear this more from African American
mothers than I do with White mothers—“I don’t know where my chil­
dren are.” I know that feeling because it happened to me. I didn’t know
where my children were for certain periods of time. The White women
that have been in our program since we opened know who has their
children even if the caretakers don’t want to let the women see the chil­
dren.
I think that it goes all the way back to slavery. We gave birth to chil­
dren that were snatched from us and taken to do work at another plan­
tation. We are seen as these breeders. We have all these babies, but we’re
not prepared to take care of them. We’re not capable of taking care of
them. When we go to prison and have to deal with being separated
from our children, no matter how good a mother we were, it’s per­
ceived very differently when we start saying, “I want my kids back. I
want to be a mother again.” I felt very much like I was on a plantation
many times when I was talking in a prison system to my counselors and
 204 DONNA HUBB ARD SPEARMAN

others about being a mother again and about taking responsibility for
my children. I did not see White women having that kind of problem
when they wanted to make a phone call or to see about their kids. For
us it was, “Well, they’re better off without you, anyway.” More often
you heard Black women being told, “Don’t you think you ought to con­
sider adoption, since you have such a long period of time to do?” White
women weren’t told that.
I see that the solutions to recidivism, addiction, prostitution, in our
inner cities, and the destruction of African American families, are going
to come from within, not from without. It’s not going to come from the
criminal justice system making these changes, or legislators, even
though eventually, they will have to do that. The real change has to start
from within our communities, and it has to start from within ourselves
as formerly incarcerated women. We need to begin to think of ourselves
as survivors and not victims anymore. We need to think of ourselves
and the power and the empowerment that we do have already. The
strength that we have to be able to survive that experience is phenome­
nal. Truly, as Maya Angelou said, we’re phenomenal women. Women
whose greatest crime is addiction, who are convicted of nonviolent
crimes, who have dependent children, need to have an opportunity that
is supported by the community and the criminal justice system, to get
their lives back together again and to reclaim their family.
It’s going to take a community’s support. It’s going to take some in­
novative ideas. It’s going to be criminal justice folks being willing to
take some chances and take some risks. Granted, there are those of us
that need to be in prison. I’m not going to lie, but there is a larger ma­
jority of women who don’t need to be in prison and who would be bet­
ter served by being in a program with their children. We’re talking
about rehabilitation. How about talking about habilitation. If you’ve
never had a healthy life or a productive life, then you can’t return some-
body to something they never had.
 C

CRIMINAL JUSTICE OFFICIALS

AND SUPPORT NETWORKS
 17
Judge Juanita Bing Newton

Judge Juanita Bing Newton worked as an assistant district attorney

for eight years and served on a sentencing commission for New York
State for two years prior to becoming a Supreme Court judge in 1987. It
was in this position that she met Angela Thompson. Judge Newton
presided over Thompson’s trial, and despite believing that Thompson
was more a victim than a criminal, she had no choice but to give her a
mandatory fifteen-to-life sentence for her minor role in a drug opera­
tion. Judge Newton was one of Thompson’s supporters in her success­
ful fight for clemency.

Judge Juanita Bing Newton

207
 208 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

I G R E W U P in the South Bronx, a product of a New York City housing

project. I came from what is the greatest value in society, a loving, intact
family. I once said to someone, “You know, we weren’t the Huckstables,
but we weren’t Good Times, either.” We were the very typical result of
the migration from the South to the North. My father’s parents come
from humble beginnings. My father was a farmer, a sharecropper. To
paraphrase Stevie Wonder, in those days they didn’t educate colored
people, so he never went beyond the fourth grade in formal education.
After coming to New York City, he worked in the garment district. My
mother was a school crossing guard, and then she became a parapro­
fessional in the public schools. She was a very resourceful woman.
We were a very close family. My father and mother both came from
big families, so we had a lot of aunts and uncles. My parents were very
active in the community. People went to work every day. Integration
was not true in the North. There was de facto segregation and we lived
separate lives. So, Sundays were not spent shopping and they weren’t
spent going to restaurants. They were spent in church and going to
somebody else’s house, usually aunts and uncles.
I’m a product of the parochial Catholic school, elementary and high
school. I went away to college to Northwestern University, in Chicago.
Then, I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. I finished school a bit
early, and did what was obligatory in those days for women to do; I got
my teaching license. My last quarter in school was spent doing student
teaching. After a vacancy at the Evanston Township high school, I took
over the class. I have a great respect for teachers, having had six months
of experience. I taught high school social studies to ninth and tenth
graders. It was interesting; the ninth graders were more diverse. The
tenth graders were all problem kids. I think it was my first opportunity
to look at young women, African American women, who may have
been troubled. There was a large affluent African American population,
but there are difficult kids everywhere. There was a particular govern­
ment class that had only two girls and about eighteen or nineteen guys.
Both of the girls, arguably, were troubled girls, but in their own way
they also were very sweet. They had issues, but they were teenagers.
I think those girls were grappling with the kinds of things kids are
always grappling with. They wanted to do what they thought the pop­
ular kids did. They really weren’t interested in an education for aca-
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 209

demic virtue. They weren’t interested in thinking great thoughts; they

just wanted to get out of high school. They had issues with boys even
though this was the early 1970s, which were interesting times. These
girls were a little tough in the sense of being a bit slow socially. Clearly
their vocabulary was peppered with expletives deleted. But we made it
through the year. It was endearing also; in their own way, even the
worst among them wanted to succeed. That’s the lesson that I took—no
one really wants to fail. But it was enough for me to know that I didn’t
want to do this right away. It was also a time that I was given a won­
derful opportunity for a full scholarship to go to Catholic University in
Washington, D.C., so I went. I no longer remember how I got involved
in the law. I think that you go through the “what do you want to be
when you grow up” kind of fear of the process. I know that I made ap­
plications to a couple of law schools, and I also had applications to re-
habilitation therapy programs. I didn’t take that track; I went to law
school. Also, I think it may have been an extension of school, as op­
posed to a determination of a future occupation. That’s why I tell peo­
ple in law school that it’s a good thing, in that it teaches you a lot of in-
formation. It teaches you how to think, and you can develop transfer-
able skills that are very valuable.
I really didn’t like law school in the beginning. I did all right in law
school, but I went to law school and found people so hell bent on using
it as a career enhancement. They had these great ideas about what they
were going to do and they wanted to go to law school, or they wanted
to go to big firms, or they wanted to go to the city. That was sort of in­
teresting to me because that was not my sense of what this was for. I
went to law school ignorant of what to expect, except maybe that peo­
ple were thinking about important issues. Of course, you always grav­
itate to what is interesting to you. I can remember that the first time I
was tempted to say something in law school was in my constitutional
law class. It was about the Japanese internment case. I’m sure it wasn’t
said with great eloquence, but I had to shake my head and say, “I can’t
believe this.”
I wasn’t the first person in my family to go to college. My brother
had gone to college and most of my cousins had gone to college. But I
was the first person to go to law school. I didn’t know any lawyers per­
sonally, there were no lawyers in my family and we had no wealth. I sat
in corporations class and they talked about debentures, and I didn’t
know what these people were talking about. It was foreign to me. I said
 210 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

that the only thing that I would learn in corporations was Rule 10(b),
and someone told me that if you knew that you somehow could work
it into the bar exam.
I worked for the Legal Aid Society after my first year in law school.
Afterwards, I worked for the Justice Department and the Law Enforce­
ment Assistance Administration (LEAA), in my last year of school and
during the summer. All of that took place in D.C. Then, I came back
home to New York and got a job with the D.A.’s office, literally down
the street from the housing project where I grew up. I did not intend to
stay there for more than my three-year commitment, and ended up
staying there for eight years.
I really enjoyed the work. I enjoyed being in the courtroom. I tell my
son, my nieces, and other young people, “We all have some talent and
it’s always there on the surface.” I also say, “I still don’t know what my
talent is, but I do know that I was a pretty good litigator.” I had success
as a litigator and I enjoyed the work. I think it was the first time it was
clear to me that most of the victims of crimes, particularly violent crime,
are poor African American people. I guess that probably is not as un­
usual as we think, and probably is a historical thing. It was interesting
work, and worthwhile work.
District Attorney Merola was a wonderful person. Women were ac­
cepted and permitted to do the same thing that men were permitted to
do. That sounds so odd to young women today, but in 1975 it was still
very new. I remember that he once said, “I don’t know why all you
women want to do this, but you make wonderful employees and you’re
hard working and you’re good at it, so that’s all I require.” He was sort
of an old-fashioned guy who was smart and lived in the real world.
After eight years in the D.A.’s office, I was looking for a change. An
excellent opportunity was presented to work on a sentencing commis­
sion. It was a temporary commission that was created by the laws in
1984. The purpose was similar to the efforts of the Federal Sentencing
Guidelines Commission. We were to look into sentencing policy in
order to make recommendations for alternative sentencing, particu­
larly determinant sentencing as opposed to indeterminate felony sen­
tencing. I was asked to come on as deputy counsel. I worked with them
for two years. Governor Cuomo took an all or nothing approach to the
legislature. He said, “Listen, I can live with this and so I will take this
report and I will put it in legislation. If the legislature agrees to it, I will
sign it.”
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 211

I never had thought about all of those issues in a “think-tank” way

before. As a prosecutor, I was more of a hands-on, get-it-done, case-by-
case type of person. So this was a very interesting opportunity to look
at these issues from a multidimensional perspective. I began to under-
stand a lot of the philosophy and theories of sentencing and punish­
ment, and computer models, and how we were going to increase the
prison population. At that time, I met Jonathan Gradess, who was ex­
ecutive director of the New York State Defenders Association. Of
course, sentencing from his perspective was very different. I worked
with Michael Smith, who now is a law professor but then was head of
the Vera Institute. His views were always practical in one sense, because
he didn’t want to see the prison population increase dramatically; but
he also was very philosophical in a sense.
We are a product of our experiences, so I’m sure that a lot of what I
think about sentencing or feel about sentencing probably came from
those two big chunks of my life: the D.A.’s office and the Sentencing
Commission. After the commission, I was invited to come and work for
the Office of Court Administration. Two significant mentors from the
Sentencing Guidelines committee were Judges Joseph Bellacosa and
Milton Williams. Judge Bellacosa had become the chief administrative
judge, and Judge Williams was the deputy chief administrative judge. I
worked for Judge Williams, and part of that job was also to work for
Judge Bellacosa, doing court administrative work. I did that for two
years.
It’s a fascinating business. In a sense, the courts are so uniquely dif­
ferent that we merit being a separate branch of government. Our con­
cerns are different, and our approaches are different. The ultimate end
product that we seek is both ethereal and tangible. We have to resolve
the case, but we have to understand that it has to be done with justice.
The bottom line is that there is a business side to the courts. There are
widgets that we make in that sense, in that we have the constitutional
imperative of resolving cases-in-controversy, but it matters that we can-
not let them languish.
During that time, we were becoming swamped by the narcotics
crack epidemic in the City, in the 1980s. The courts, as part of our leg­
islative program, urged the legislature and the governor to create
twenty-three new judgeships to help address the court system prob­
lem. I had just the requisite number of years since admission to the bar
to become a judge, and it dawned on me that perhaps this was a golden
 212 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

opportunity. I spoke to Judge Williams and Judge Bellacosa, and both of

them encouraged me. The position was a gubernatorial appointment to
the Court of Claims, in 1986. I was one of twenty-three who were
named, and I took the bench in January 1987.
I have been a judge longer than I have held any other position in my
legal career. Although when I speak at programs from time to time, I do
say that I think that thirty-six is too young to become a judge. I say that
not because I don’t think I did a good job; I think I’ve been a good judge.
However, there are things that you can’t do. For example, you can’t be
political. Also, there are things that you will never learn from a differ­
ent venue that you arguably could bring to the judiciary. So there are
pluses and minuses.
I sat as a trial judge in Manhattan from January 1987 to January
1995. I’m going to come back to the trial bench eventually, but I don’t
know when. I found trial work fascinating. I love being in the court-
room and I miss it. I even liked jury selection, as long as it didn’t take
too long or was too repetitive. I liked the interpersonal dynamic in tri­
als. The trial, criminal or civil, is one of the most unique procedures that
we have in our system of government. Mostly, juries want to do the
right thing in the worst way. It is an incredible experience. They want to
hear what you have to say, and they want to understand. When it comes
together, it’s a wonderful thing.
I remember the Thompson case very well, in large measure because
of the outcome.1 The interesting thing about the Thompson case is that in
the end, twelve judges heard this case and had to give an opinion one
way or the other. They were evenly divided six to six, although the six
on the winning side obviously were more potent. I believe in the appel­
late process and I have no quarrel with the decision. It’s just one of those
things about being a lawyer.
Angela Thompson was indicted with her uncle. It was a multi-
count indictment and she was included on just one count, literally the
last count on the tail end. For the most part, all of them were A-1
felony drug counts, and it was clear that this was a case where the
special narcotics units had information and were making a series of
buys from this operation. I remember that I also did something that I
rarely do, but it was appropriate. We did some pretrial hearings on the
case, and I actually severed her count from her uncle’s count. It was
requested and I granted the motion for severance because it appeared
to me that her case was never going to go anywhere in the short run.
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 213

The uncle’s case was never tried. He pled guilty, so her case went to
trial.
There was a plea offer of three to life; actually, at one point it was
probably lower than that. It may have been one to three. They weren’t
really out to get her; they could care less about her. This was Specialty
Narcotics and they were not your typical hard-nosed prosecutors, in
that respect. They had a pretty liberal plea policy. It is interesting that I
read someplace that Angela Thompson felt that she couldn’t plead
guilty because somehow she would have been disloyal to her uncle, or
been a snitch, or had to testify against her uncle. I wasn’t quite sure
about that because I don’t recall any condition to her pleading guilty
that would require her to testify or give any information or statement
against her uncle. However, what typically happens when an accom­
plice admits guilt in the allocution, more as a shield than as a sword for
prosecution, is that they ask the accomplice to admit that the person
they were acting with was the named person in the indictment. You
can’t use this in court as evidence against the other person for con­
frontational purposes, but it does prohibit the pleading defendant from
taking the stand at the trial of the co-defendant and saying, “Yes, I ad­
mitted to doing all that, but it wasn’t with this person.” I don’t know if
that was explained to her or not, but I read that she felt that the result
would require her to give up her uncle.
She should have taken the plea but she gambled. I used to say to de­
fendants, and I’m sure I said it to Ms. Thompson, “You know, this plea
offer is too high if you’re not guilty, or it’s too high if you expect that
even if you’re not guilty, you will be convicted. But if you have done
this, then you really have to search your soul and decide what it is you
are going to do.” Some people, like veteran defendants, come in and
plead guilty, and their goal is to get the best deal. For others, there are
real dilemmas. I suspect the greatest dilemma for a person who knows
he or she committed the act but somehow feels it was justified, or the
sentence is inappropriate, or he or she should be given a different
chance, or should have a better offer, is to make this choice. Making this
choice especially is hard if your counsel had advised that you have a
certain probability of winning. Angela Thompson did not have a public
defender; she had privately retained counsel who was a very good
lawyer.
I don’t think that there was anyone in the courtroom who knew the
consequences who didn’t say this was a tough case. I remember reading
 214 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

the probation report and saying, “My goodness, this is a tough case.”
This is why I am a tremendous advocate of probation and probation re-
ports, which I say as a footnote, because now in New York City where
there are mandatory jail sentences, you’re not getting full-view proba­
tion reports. Instead, you’re getting what I call “fill-in-the-blank” pro­
bation reports. There is a sense that they don’t need to tell you a lot
about the person because they have to go to jail, anyway. It was through
this wonderful probation report that I found out who Angela Thomp­
son was, what had happened in her life, and the fact that there were ex­
tenuating circumstances, in my opinion.
We send mixed messages to people. We all know and understand
that selling and using illicit drugs is illegal, but you wouldn’t know it if
you looked at television every day. I couldn’t be more against the legal­
ization of drugs because I see what drugs to do people and their lives. I
saw, for example, how my Bronx community was turned into a hell-
hole over the introduction of heroin into the community in the 1960s.
We got hit with the Vietnam War, but home-side we got hit with the
heroin wars. We are the product of our information. I guess it was very
touching to me that Angela was raised in the family business, which
happened to be an illicit business. Nonetheless, this was what she was
involved in, and I’m sure she did it knowingly. On the other hand, when
you’re seventeen and you have these kind of circumstances, what do
you do? What should she have done? Should she have picked up and
gone out and lived on the street? And if that’s not what she should have
done, where should she have gone? Do you know? I don’t know. She
was seventeen years old. What should she have done, where should she
have gone, to whom should she have gone to free herself from this en­
vironment? Those are the larger questions of the lives of children.
My sense is that she was seventeen, and I meant it. These were crit­
ical times in her life. I’m not a Pollyanna. I grew up as tough as anyone.
In my view, she should have been studying to go to college, preparing
to go to the prom, and looking towards her future. As I sit here today, I
think the message we need to get out in our community is that jail is not
really an alternate life-style option. I don’t know that people under-
stand that anymore. Instead, it seems to me that the notion of going to
jail is not as horrible and unacceptable to young people as I think it
should be. It seems that it’s almost the life experience that everyone is
supposed to have. Where did that idea come from? I was on a visit to
Bedford Hills about two years ago when I was on the governor’s com-
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 215

mission on domestic violence fatalities. We held a public hearing at Bed-

ford Hills for women to offer testimony. Many of the women who testi­
fied were there, at least in their minds if not objectively, because they
were victims of domestic violence. They either had injured or killed
their abuser or had been abused and subjected to a kind of abuse that
led them to participate in criminal acts. It was interesting to hear these
women, particularly the ones who were there because they did a
“favor” for their boyfriends. They were “mules” in the classic sense of
being asked to “carry this” or “hold that.” These are the things that you
have to tell your children: you tell your sons not to ride in cars; you tell
your daughters not to hold anything for anybody.
Substance abuse certainly is one of the reasons why we’re having
so many African American women in jail. Crack caused a tremendous
change in the population. Even though crime is down overall, we still
see a lot of people in the court relative to the increase in narcotics crime.
In a place like Manhattan, felonies are narcotics based, as in possession
and sale of narcotics. There are more women in that range because
more women are using narcotics, and it is a natural segue from using to
selling.
Another case that comes to mind involved a young woman, who
was sixteen or seventeen, and a man who was a little older. The thing
that struck me was that she was in on bail of $5,000, and it was her first
arrest. He was also in on bail. Her case was called first. There was a clas­
sic African American mother in the audience. This woman was on the
edge of her seat from the time I came out. She was in a sea of people and
she stood out. When the attorney came and the case was called, she was
so anxious. The young lady had spent three weeks at Rikers Island, and
she was seventeen years old, and she was beyond scared.
The lawyer came up and said, “Judge, I want to talk to you about
bail.” And I said, “I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear something
else.” He said, “Judge, I want to talk about bail.” I said, “Do you think
I’m going to keep this girl in jail? Please, give me a break. That’s her
mother over there?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “She is going home with
Mom. We have to talk about something else because she has to get her
attitude adjusted.” When we called the case, I told the young lady to
look at her mother. I said, “Turn around and look at her. Now what is
your problem? You’re going to stand on a corner and hold some penny
ante drugs for somebody. Your mother is here crying her heart out for
what? You have everything; you probably have too much.”
 216 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

It was fascinating to me. I saw embarrassment and a sense of con-

fusion because she could not explain this in a rational world. Maybe she
could explain it in her world, but she couldn’t explain this, and she cer­
tainly understood that this rite of passage was not all that the people on
the block said it was. So she pled guilty. We gave her youthful offender
treatment. We got her in this program where she got her GED, and also
a special program with Hunter College.
Over time, I increasingly realized that there couldn’t be a great dis­
connect between the judiciary and the community it serves. We can’t
look at cases only as numbers and as opportunities for great legal dis­
course. We really have to look critically at what we do and what the out-
comes will be. This is not to say that we make it up as we go along. As
I tell jurors, “When I rule, I rule based on the law.” I’m very proud that
in all the years I’ve been on the bench, I’ve never been reversed for an
evidentiary mistake. But, I have had some sentencing issues that have
caused me some problems. I think that when you come to the bench,
you have an obligation to apply the law and to exercise discretion. I
don’t know how you exercise discretion if you don’t consider the body
of knowledge that you bring with you, including who you are and what
you think. This affects your sense of what is just and fair. So I think it is
appropriate to bring the perspective that you’ve acquired, coupled with
learning from the community, your reading and your learning, and
your application of the law.
One of my very first reversals was in a sentencing case, in which I
sentenced an older White man who had sold several kilos of drugs. The
negotiated sentence was six to life. His greatest mitigating factor was
that he was ill. I believe it was a heart condition or something involving
a major system. I was reversed in the interest of justice by the appellate
division, and they reduced it to three to life. Now, in that brief decision,
they spoke in terms of a factor that made it appropriate for them to re­
duce the sentence because of his illness. And that’s fine. That’s an ob­
jective factor, and I’m sure that an underpinning among the court mem­
bers was that they were knowledgeable about what it meant to have
this illness, and that’s fine.
Similarly, with the Angela Thompson case, I found that it fit within
the Broadie criteria by objectively looking at the issues with respect to
her and for the larger population.2 I looked at what we could expect
and should expect in terms of what the sentencing should mean to her.
I got involved in the case simply to decide what was the best thing for
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 217

Angela Thompson. It was done in open court one day without the in­
tention of making a cause célèbre. I never intended or expected that to
happen.
There were several factors in my sentencing opinion. They included
her youth, her situation, the fact that she was an orphan, and the fact
that her choices were limited. It wasn’t just her youth as a number, but
her youth as a basis for her not having any options. How many options
do you have when you’re young, you’re an orphan, and you’re left in a
household without direction or real choices? While she consciously did
what she did, which was criminal and inappropriate, she never had
many options to put herself in a different place and a different time.
Those were big factors for me. Frequently, I hear, “Judge, this person
comes from a good home and will never do this again.” And I say,
“Well, if you come from a bad home, should you be treated worse than
if you come from a good home?” That analysis escapes me. It almost
should be, “Judge, he comes from a good home and we should punish
him more harshly because he knew better.”
Once I promised a young African American male youthful offender
treatment. The D.A. objected to it and the defendant wanted to speak on
the record. We let the young man speak. In fact, I closed the courtroom,
even to his mother for at least a time, because there was something that
he wanted to tell me. There is nothing harder than for kids who are ba­
sically good kids to say that they’ve done something bad in front of
their parents. He spoke about how he got into trouble because his father
left his mother and the family, and there was domestic violence. The fa­
ther burned down the house; it was just a horrible tale. The kid was ba­
sically a good kid and he was going to school. He was selling drugs on
the side to help Mom.
Then we opened the courtroom again and proceeded to sentence
the young man. I said to the D.A. who had been so angry with me,
“And what would you like to say?” And she said, “Nothing, Judge;
I’ll rely on the court.” Afterward, she came up to me and said, “Judge
Newton, that was pretty amazing. I didn’t know anything about this
kid. In some respects because of the press of business, we look at them
as ‘cases.’” She said, “I promise you I will never pick up a file and
look at it as a case. I will always look to see the person and the hu­
manity if I can.” I think my talent is that I ask good questions and I’m
curious about people. In the law, facts and information matter, for
lawyers and judges. Informed decision making is the only kind that is
 218 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON

acceptable, and it was the facts, all of the facts in Ms. Thompson’s case
that affected me.
I would be less than truthful, though, if I didn’t say that her being
African American didn’t affect me personally. As an African American
woman, I look at the world from where I come, from where I stand,
from where I sit. My view is not the same as the view of others, and this
is why it is important to have diversity on the bench. Diversity on the
bench is essential because you are a product of your background, your
history, your ceremonies, and your life-style. All of that is important in
decision making that affects the community and that speaks for the
community in a thoughtful, rational way. We shouldn’t miss the oppor­
tunity to do what is fundamentally right. One of my favorite stories is
the whole story of Gideon, where from nothing came a whole wealth of
information and change that affected our approach to the issues of fun­
damental fairness and justice.3 Gideon’s little note that “I was convicted
because I didn’t have any money, and I couldn’t get a lawyer” is a won­
derful story for all students who go into law because they are convinced
that justice is an important feature of what we do in this country. You
never know when we have that story of the litigant whose needs are not
just an answer to that little case or problem that they have, but affect a
much broader level of justice.
I think one of the reasons the Thompson case and some of the other
cases I see are touching to me is because of my sense that this is not how
it has to be. One of the problems about poor people and African Amer­
ican people when they come into court is that the expectations are so
low. There are people that have the attitude of “let’s negotiate” because
there is no expectation that any of these people will go someplace fur­
ther. It is fascinating to see that and to see how people look at these peo­
ple. I think the most telling case I ever had on this issue was a robbery
case in which I had read the file so I knew the defendants were incar­
cerated.
In this case, three twenty-something African American male defen­
dants came out from the jail holding area. Their attorneys were anxious
to step up to the bench to have a private conference about the case be-
fore going on the record, which is typical in New York. One of the at­
torneys said something like, “Judge, we want to make a bail application
because the defendants are really not what they look like.” I looked at
the attorneys, and I said, “What do you see? The bad thing is that you
look at your clients and see all that’s bad. What is worse is that you
 JUDGE JUANITA BING NEWTON 219

come to me and you’re assuming that I see all that is bad, and that is
very scary to me. It means that this is what you say to my other col­
leagues on the bench. I don’t know what you see when you look at
them, but I see three young men.”
In my current position as deputy chief administrative judge, my
task is to focus on justice initiatives. I am looking at the court systems
statewide, in civil and criminal spheres, to develop programs that will
provide meaningful access to justice for all people, regardless of their
economic or social status, or race, creed, or color. Wherever I go, I ask
people for ideas about local practices for perspectives that we can use
as we continue this evolving process of the judiciary and the legal sys­
tem. We want to eliminate barriers to justice, particularly for poor peo­
ple. We are working on it. It is an interesting task.
 18
Assistant Warden Gerald Clay

Gerald Clay is an assistant warden at Franklin Pre-Release Center, an

Ohio State Prison. He has held various positions in law enforcement,
and has worked in male and female correctional institutions. At FPRC,
he deals with grievances against prison employees and determines dis­
ciplinary actions. His discussion here provides a glimpse into the views
of prison personnel toward the prison system.

Gerald Clay

220
 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY 221

I H AV E B E E N at Franklin almost two years and I’ve been in the de­

partment for almost twelve years. I began my career in 1985 as a cor­
rections officer. First of all, in 1985, I started as a correction officer at
Southern Ohio Correctional Facility. I later resigned, and in 1987, I came
back into the department, as a correction officer at Ross Correctional In­
stitution, otherwise known as RCI, in Chilocothe, Ohio. I was a correc­
tion officer about nine years at that penitentiary. During the course of
those nine years, I functioned in the capacity of officer, case manager,
unit manager, inspector, and went over into labor relations.
As a labor relations officer, I respond to grievances from the em­
ployees. We have three unions: ASME, 1199, and OEA. Our ASME em­
ployees are the majority of our correction officers. Union 1199 is the ma­
jority of the nursing and treatment type staff. The Ohio Education As­
sociation (OEA) basically centers around our teaching staff. I’m
involved in what’s pretty much the final say on disciplinary actions of
the employees. I also respond to kites from inmates. A kite is a system
established in the department where an inmate can formally make cor­
respondence with an appropriate staff member, and get a response
back, otherwise known as a formal correspondence. The majority of the
kites need to be referred to another area sometimes.
I think that one of the first similarities between the male institutions
and the female institutions is the issue of confinement itself. Confine­
ment is just that, it’s confinement. As staff, we go in and out every day,
while the inmate is here until the end of their sentence. When I look at
similarity, that is one of the main things. The biggest shocker for me was
not realizing all the needs that the female inmates actually have. I mean,
you’ve got your personal needs and pregnancies, which is a big thing.
Obviously, we did not have to deal with that at a male facility. Preg­
nancy is, and has been, probably the major difference that I see. I think
this would have to put a tremendous amount of stress on the inmate. It
gets to a point that they’re not able to perform their jobs, but they’re still
considered an inmate. Pregnant inmates are treated medically. We have
prenatal programs and things like that set up here at the institution for
those inmates that are preparing to birth a child. Other than that we
treat them pretty much as any other inmate that is here.
I’ve learned to deal with it this way—an inmate is an inmate,
whether you’re female, whether you’re a male. You’re incarcerated; you
 222 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY

committed a crime. I don’t think that a female can convince someone

better than a male can that she did not really commit the crime, because
she’s a female. I don’t look at things that way. To me you’re an individ­
ual, you just happen to be female. It doesn’t mean that you are more
slick or more sly than the male inmates. I see the equivalence. An in-
mate is an inmate. I think some people who have stereotypes could say,
“Female inmates whine a little bit more, they press to get their way, they
keep pushing and pushing and pushing, or they cry.” There are men
that are that way. That is a view that I have heard, but that’s a view you
hear on the street. You know, “Females want to get her way.” Not all the
time. I don’t see it like that. This is my profession and I’ve seen both
sides. I don’t do that stereotyping. There are a few differences, and a lot
of those concern the personal needs that they have. And, that’s solely it.
I don’t get much into the emotional things that others might.
In general, the thing that keeps us in check is that first of all, we are
all professionals, or we should be. Also, we have audits, just like we’re
preparing for right now. They are very in-depth audits, which keep us
in check. We’re also an accredited institution. We’re nationally accred­
ited by the American Correctional Association, and there are standards
that we have to meet. If things are not going right, you’re going to know
it. If it’s not running right, more or less the inmate somehow is going to
let you know.
For example, inmates have said on occasion that the food is bad. We
check into it. We check to see what was served. When someone says
food is bad, it could be that it was too cold, or that the meal that was
supposed to be served was not served. Things like that become issues
in a correctional setting. The food temperature is another example. In
the opinion of some inmates, it is not adequate. Well, we check it. We go
right to the food service line, and we get a hold of the food service man­
ager, and we check it. In pretty much all your institutions, you have su­
pervisory staff who are normally in the chow hall area during the time
that chow is being served. That’s because we consider the chow hall
one of the more hot spots, since that’s where larger gatherings occur
three times throughout the course of the day. You just immediately
check things that relate to food. I have found in my career that if you
immediately check things out, you can normally get resolution to the
matter.
I was not interested in corrections before I knew friends that
worked in corrections. A steady job is a steady job, regardless of what
 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY 223

state you’re in. The benefits are more than adequate here, and I just
thought I’d give it a shot. When I was nineteen years old, I went to Lu­
casville. At that time, that was the “toughest penitentiary going.” I
think people that have not worked at a maximum facility really don’t
know what it’s like to actually deal with the hard-core criminal. The job
can be dangerous, as can anything else in dealing with the criminal jus­
tice field. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I first got in, but
after being employed there, I found out. It was really challenging.
I left the correctional setting in 1985. During that time period, I was
in and out of college. I played college ball at Wright State University,
Dayton. Then I played for, actually, three schools. I didn’t really know
where I was going and all that. I mean, I was confused, I didn’t know
what I wanted to do. I went in and out of the state highway patrol and
decided that’s not what I wanted to do.
When I came back in 1987, I knew what I was getting into. I did not
want to go back to a beginning career in Lucasville Correctional Insti­
tution at that time, because I wanted a more medium security style pen­
itentiary. I’m thirty-four now. At that time, it was a much more stressful
environment. In the summertime, it was just unbearably hot in those
units. I remember going in there in my uniform, and I’d leave at the end
of the second shift just sweating. I came back to corrections with the in-
tent of going back into OSP (Ohio Patrol State Police), but I wanted
them to see that I had stabilized for about a year or so. It all went the
way I had planned it. They readmitted me back into the academy, which
was not the norm. I got good reports from my supervisors and the war-
den at the penitentiary that I was currently working at, which was RCI.
They accepted me back into the patrol. During that time, I had put in for
a promotion within the department, for a case manager’s job. I was
awarded the case manager’s job, so I had to decide, am I going to stay
in DRC, or am I going to go into Ohio State Patrol. I opted to stay in cor­
rections.
There’s consistency in this work. Life is dependent on a paycheck
because you’re not going to make it without a paycheck. And the pay
for corrections, compared to maybe some other things in Ohio, is very,
very good. I’ve been blessed and fortunate enough to be at this particu­
lar level, financially. Benefits are hard to come by these days, even in
some private organizations. Private employees don’t necessarily have
the good benefits that a state of Ohio employee would have. I know that
I’ve got a job to come to. I know the job’s going to be there. I don’t have
 224 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY

to worry about layoffs. I think consistency is the biggest thing that I’ve
gotten out of this.
I’ve had the opportunity to work for three wardens directly. They
all three have different styles. Two males, one female. Two Black war-
dens, one White. The institution has a pulse and that pulse is that of the
managing officer of the institution. If the warden is more laid back and
lenient, sometimes your staff have the tendency to be so. Then because
of the leniency, you still have to hope that there is not the possible risk
of things maybe occurring on the compound that you wouldn’t want,
because the staff has become a little bit more relaxed. In general, the
other pulse would be the level of status of the security of the institution.
I mean, obviously, a minimum-security penitentiary is not going to be
the same risk level as a maximum or a closed penitentiary, for that mat­
ter. So security status of the penitentiary also plays an important part.
Those are the two biggest things: the status of the penitentiary, and the
style of the managing officer.
I do not have an aspiration of becoming a warden at this time. I am
pretty much happy with what I’m doing. I’m very involved in my per­
sonal life and I don’t want anything that’s going to interfere with that,
at all. The next level for me would be a deputy warden. There’s another
level of responsibility that would come with that. Sometimes you find
a niche and you stay in it. I moved so fast there for a while, that, some-
times I just want to rest and enjoy it.
I’ve never really talked to anyone about how they feel when they
come in the fence and in the gate and come to work and punch in. For
myself, it has no effect. It has no effect at all. It’s almost as though I’m
going into a factory. You go in and do what you’ve got to do, and clock
out and you go home. The biggest thing for me is that I’ve got a life out-
side of corrections. I’m going to come in and give you a hard 8 hours,
I’m going to eat my lunch, and then I’m going to go home. And that’s
pretty much the way I’ve got it set. I enjoy my Saturday and my Sunday
off. Hopefully, I don’t get paged for any unforeseen circumstances. But
I’m dedicated; if I were paged, I would be here, but you have to re-
member that the higher up you go in this rank, the more you are acces­
sible to the needs of the department and the institution. In my opinion,
that involves much more of a commitment.
If I would allow myself to think about the sentences people were
serving, then I’d be entangling myself too much into the atmosphere;
that is, the obvious atmosphere that’s behind the wall, or behind the
 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY 225

fence, or behind the gate. I don’t like to think of it as that; I like to think
that I’m walking into an executive building downtown and I’m coming
in to perform a job for a company, and to perform it to the best of my
ability. Our primary duty is to house the inmate for the duration of their
time that they were sentenced to. So I don’t allow myself to get really
wrapped up into, “Wow, I wonder what’s going through their mind?”
or “I wonder why they committed that crime?” I think one of the first
things you learn in the academy, through your experiences and from the
onset of being an officer, is that you’re not concerned about what they
did. It’s irrelevant. What crime they committed is irrelevant. I keep that
in mind—because I don’t want to become prejudiced.
In the FPRC there are substance abuse programs, school, GED pro-
grams, parenting, and prenatal. I also believe they have crafts, comput­
ers, education classes, those sorts of things. In general, the substance-
abuse programs and education programs are pretty much the same in
all institutions. I think that’s a continual program. But you have to un­
derstand, the aspects of a program sometimes are dependent on the
people that you have.
I think, just in general, the demands that the public makes on legis­
latures and politicians are the cause of the increase in incarcerated num­
bers. FPRC was designed to house maybe one or two inmates per unit,
and we’ve been able to put beds in there for four. That has been a com­
mon thing across the board. I believe every penitentiary has more than
what they’re built to have, and I don’t know of any legal issues or court
issues at this institution regarding overcrowding right now.
When the inmate files an appeal, it is my determination to decide
whether or not I’m going to agree with the findings of the Rule Infrac­
tion Board, or decide if I want them to rehear the case, or modify the
penalty, or dismiss the case in its entirety. I decide this on the merits of
the case. I get a whole packet, I get the full packet of the whole thing that
took place, and I review it thoroughly.
I sent a letter to the warden two weeks ago because of my back-
ground in music, and I’m involved in that on the street. I am proposing
a chorus here at the institution, which I’m formulating under, quote, “a
program.” That means there will be guidelines I’m going to establish.
It’s not going to be centered around spirituality. I’m not going to preach
spirituality, but I’m going to do gospel songs. I’m volunteering to do it,
which means it wouldn’t necessarily come under my job description. So
I set the rules.
 226 ASSISTANT WARDEN GERALD CLAY

There are all types of gospel music. The purpose of the choir is to be
a gospel choir. A choir in general would mean you could sing a variety
of songs, but this is going to be the FPRC Gospel Choir. That’s what
we will be known as. The warden knew my music background and all,
and mentioned that he wants to get a choir started. Well, I don’t do rock
music, I don’t do rap and I don’t do this and I don’t do that. My style
might sound jazzy, and my style might sound classical, but the basis of
my music is gospel. So, under that, we’ll do gospel music.
 19
Grace House Administrators
Rochelle Bowles, Mary Dolan,
Annie González, and Kathy Nolan

Grace House is a transitional residence for women just released from

prison. This interview with some of the Grace House administrators
provides an in-depth look into the programs and efforts of this inspira­
tional institution. One of the goals of Grace House is to help women
reach their potential and establish a new life in the community, one
they can take pride in living.

Left to right: Kathy Nolan, Rochelle Bowles, Annie González, and Mary Dolan

227
228 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS

MARY: I try to keep the place running. I’m the administrator. I

do the liaison work with the founding agency, St. Leonard’s
Ministries. I pay the bills and make sure that we have a
budget every year, and coordinate all of the physical accou­
trements of the house. I make sure that the house is well run
and the cook is here, and that we have three meals a day. I
also work with the women on their savings accounts, which
we help them set up. I work with the staff in terms of mak­
ing sure that we have adequate staffing. I also do all of the
funding proposals, and attend meetings with the city to
make sure that our finances are in order. The one thing I like
about my job is that every day is different.
Basically, my background is that I’ve been an elementary
school teacher and principal, and then I was a community
organizer for about twenty years. I wanted a situation
where I could work directly with people as individuals
rather than with large community groups and neighbor-
hood organizations. I had no history at all of working with
anyone in prison ministry. When we talked about this idea,
it was of creating a community here in a homelike atmos­
phere, where women could feel safe and secure, and could
do some simple everyday things, like celebrate holidays,
birthdays, and the like. We wanted to create that kind of at­
mosphere, where people could come and try to find them-
selves again.
KATHY: I’m the program counselor, and my job is to provide
for the mental health needs of the women. Each woman will
have an individual counselor during the time that she’s
here. Sometimes the women have needs for medications or
are seen by a psychiatrist, and they may need to continue
with that. I make sure that there’s follow-up for that kind of
thing. Adler’s School of Professional Psychology provides
many of our counseling services, both individual and
group. They do our parenting classes. They also run several
groups on self-esteem, anger management, and relation-
ships. I do the remainder of the individual counseling that
they don’t provide.
 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS 229

We do an initial interview to get some background and

find out if they’ve had any previous treatment, and what
kind of treatment they’ve had. This way, we are able to get
some idea of their mental health status when they come in. I
also work with the women who have children in the De­
partment of Children and Family Services, in the foster-care
system. I work with them in building a relationship with
their caseworker, making sure that they are following their
service plan, going to court with them, and advocating for
them in that system.
I had never worked with women in prison, but the idea of
what we could do in terms of creating a homelike atmos­
phere appealed to me.
MARY: What has always struck me is that the women that come
in are decent, nice women. If anybody were to walk in here
on any given day or afternoon, I think it would take them
awhile to figure out that they have a history of incarceration.
Kathy and I have lived in convents, and the same kind of
thing goes on; people are ironing and they’re cooking.
They’re just ordinary folk, in terms of their expectations and
their hopes. Something happened along the way and they
got screwed up, or life handed them a plate that was pretty
heavy, and they just tried their best.
ANNIE: I’m the aftercare director here. I work with the women
as they get ready to leave the program, and after their two-
month evaluation, I help find mentors for the women. I also
recruit mentors and do presentations at churches to recruit
the mentor population. In addition, I work with the women
to find housing, generally second-stage housing, where they
would pay 30 percent of their income and be able to partici­
pate in supportive services.
Grace House has built relationships with the supportive
housing programs in the area, and some up north on the
other side of Chicago. I work with the women in terms of
areas where they might want to live, whether or not they
want to go into supportive housing, and whether they are
making enough income that they feel that they can go into
market apartments. Sometimes, women choose to find
apartments on their own.
230 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS

In most second-stage housing programs, one of the crite­

ria is homelessness. So we have to send a letter verifying that
they have lived here and are, in fact, homeless. Many times,
the programs will want a recommendation from someone
here so that they can get an idea of how the women will live
in a residential setting. Second-stage housing is basically like
apartment living; it’s not communal, like it is here. But there
are supportive services.
ROCHELLE: My work begins with interviewing the women
prior to the time that they come to Grace House. They fill out
an application, so at least we are aware of what issues they
have before they arrive. I can get their mental health records,
find out how many children they have in the system, and
find out their educational level. During the year, I spend a
few months on the road going to the prisons to interview
women directly. Therefore, when they get here, we have an
idea of what their service plan should look like.
Once they come on board, my job is to make sure that they
get the services that they need so they are able to move
through our program, coordinate treatment between pro-
grams, and leave benchmarks. Sometimes a person may
have to stay in the program longer than someone else be-
cause her issues have not been addressed. This is a holistic
program. I try to make sure the women are getting what they
need; if they are not, I try to put those things in place.
About 99 percent of our women have drug abuse prob­
lems. The second highest characteristic is the sexual abuse.
We find that most women have difficulty because of un­
healthy relationships. They’re very needy and want to be
loved. They have a lot of emotional issues. As they become
clean, they think they can get involved in relationships, and
it usually doesn’t work out. That tends to lead them back
into the drug community.
KATHY: As Rochelle said, the women have a lot of abuse issues,
both sexual abuse, from an early childhood, as well as abuse
in relationships with men. I think that their drug addiction
speaks more to coping with the consequences of abuse. We
see a lot of women who are depressed and have been for a
long time. Oftentimes, the drug use is more about self-med-
 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS 231

ication, and then it becomes an addiction. They have low

self-esteem, and absolutely no sense of worth as a human
being. I think they come in with a lot of shame and a lot of
guilt around their addiction, around the loss of their chil­
dren, and around the fact that they have not been good
mothers.
A number of women have told me that they were sexually
abused by a family member and were afraid to report it.
When they did report it, their mothers denied it, or didn’t ac­
cept it, or said they were lying, or in one case, one woman
said that she was slapped down the stairs. We have a num­
ber of women whose mothers were addicted themselves.
Several women even have mothers that were in prison, so
they were raised by their grandparents, or an aunt. Some-
times they were not accepted in that family, or were looked
down on because of what happened to their mothers. I think
the kinds of things that get misdiagnosed or go untreated are
the posttraumatic stress disorder kinds of things. A lot of the
women are suffering from posttraumatic stress because of
the traumas they’ve experienced in childhood, and often,
they are diagnosed as borderline or antisocial. If they are
having severe trauma reactions, sometimes they get to the
point where it may mask or look like some psychosis, in ex­
treme cases. Also, there’s a tendency to criminalize the drug
addiction, rather than look at it as a symptom rather than the
problem. For many of the women, it is a symptom of these
underlying issues, which go back to the violence and the
abuse that they’ve been exposed to from early childhood.
ROCHELLE: I was really surprised at the number of women that
had been sexually abused, either through incest or mothers’
boyfriends, uncles, brothers, or cousins. I also was surprised
by the anger that the women had at their moms, and their
feelings of abandonment because of the abuse. They were
very angry because they had experienced it, and often this
was the first time they had told anybody. Any time you ask,
“What is your relationship with your mother?” they would
burst into tears or get angry. I began to see a pattern, and I
began to understand. I knew what was coming next. Either
they had been sexually abused and had never told anyone,
232 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS

or they felt abandoned by their mother because their mother

knew about it and chose the male over them.
When I would ask, “Where was your mom?” they would
say, “She was out working. She worked two jobs to take care
of us.” So there was this love-hate relationship, because even
though they understood that their mothers were doing what
was necessary to take care of them, even as adults, that little
girl in them said, “I needed my mother to protect me.” I saw
that the women began using drugs because of the sexual
abuse, often at an early age, like eight or nine years old.
As a Black woman, I was appalled. I had no idea. And it
makes you think, “Where have I been all of my life, with all
of this stuff happening to other Black women?” The sexual
abuse also has an impact on their sexual identity. There are
some women who are very confused about whether or not
they are homosexual, heterosexual, or bisexual. If they were
sexually abused as a young child, and some of the sexual
abuse was with other women, there can be a lot of confusion
down the road regarding their own sexuality.
MARY: I think we experience homophobia here, too. Sometimes
the reaction to a lesbian resident is overreaction. Perhaps it
comes out of some of their own experiences or issues. We say
to women, “Wait a second. This is nothing new for you. You
have been exposed to this. You know it exists. What’s going
on here that you would be so upset by someone else’s be­
havior?” We don’t shy away from it. We try to deal with it.
ROCHELLE: We also have discussed when women make the de­
cision whether or not to regain custody of their children.
There’s guilt there, when they really don’t feel they are
equipped to raise their children. It’s difficult for them to say,
“It’s not in my best interest.” In the Black community, we’ve
always raised our children, even if it was a grandmother,
great-grandmother, or an aunt. The guilt arises when they
come to the realization that “my child would probably be
better off left where they are. I’m not equipped to take re­
sponsibility for this child.“
We must help that woman understand that’s okay, be-
cause it is. That is very difficult for Black women, because of
our history and the guilt that’s associated with that. I think
 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS 233

the counseling has been helpful, so they understand who

they are, their ability, with whatever limited resources or ed­
ucation they have, to really provide adequate housing, edu­
cation, clothing, or whatever for their children and say, “No,
where they are is the best place for them to be.” It is difficult
to release that child without any guilt but still have an active
part in the child’s life.
KATHY: Sometimes it can be very difficult. Often, these are
women who started in the system when they were in their
addiction, so they don’t have a very positive track record
with the system. First of all, it involves getting the system to
sit back and start working with them and give them a
chance. The women often have very negative attitudes to-
ward the system, so I’m trying to help them to step back and
say, “Okay, this is a new time. I’m going to build some kind
of relationship with them.” There’s a lot of animosity on both
sides.
The other thing is that the women don’t understand that
if they don’t ask a question, they’re not going to be told. So
I’m helping them to take a little more initiative in their inter-
actions with DCFS, because they do have rights. Their rights
as parents have not been terminated. I try to help them know
what those rights are, and in a respectful and positive man­
ner, see that their rights are respected. We have found that
when DCFS knows that some professionals are working with
these women, they start to pay a little more attention and
start to work with us. I think that’s been pretty successful.
ROCHELLE: We bring in speakers, and have lots of workshops.
For instance, we have women who need to be tested for HIV,
so different agencies will talk to them about different dis­
eases. Also, many women do not know a lot about their bod­
ies, and do not know how to take care of themselves. So our
workshops have a lot of medical and education information.
We also had someone from the DuSable Museum talk to the
women. She brought materials that other women had writ-
ten in prison, and read stories to the women in Grace House.
We take them on trips to the zoo, and horseback riding. We
want them to be exposed to things they’ve never been ex-
posed to before.
234 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS

ANNIE: Our programming also includes a computer class. We

have a computer tutor, who is very good. She’s also one of
our mentors, and she’s very dedicated. She did the intro­
ductory class, and then some of the women chose to do the
second part of that. They were getting more advanced, and
got used to doing real work at the computer. Everyone
seemed very interested. We broke the groups into two
classes, because we have so many. We don’t have enough
computers to allow everyone to sit down and work on a
computer at a given time.
We also have monthly meetings for former residents.
Speakers at those meetings have talked about finance and is-
sues related to credit and investment. For instance, women
want to know how to establish a bank account, how to clean
up their credit records and those sorts of things. We’re trying
to explore new ways of figuring out what we can offer for­
mer residents. It’s a slow process, unfortunately. What we’ve
found out is that they are very busy, especially if they’re
doing their programs, going to work, and doing everything
they have to do. To try to get them to come back, even once
a month, is very difficult.
ROCHELLE: If we had to name any particular weaknesses in our
program, I would say employment is probably one of them.
Most of the women do not have a high school education, and
their levels of math and reading are very, very low. If they
dropped out in the eighth or ninth grade, which is the aver-
age, their reading and math levels are at the fourth or fifth
grade level. They would have to go to school for several
years in order to get their GED. Sometimes they get discour­
aged.
Their experience has been that they’ve either been on wel­
fare for a number of years or never held a job, or they’ve
done work with fast foods or in a health-care community. So,
we have seen overall that they do not have the adequate
training available to become economically self-sufficient.
Consequently, they work in fast-food chains, telemarketing,
or manufacturing. The pay is minimal, and the hours are
very, very long, which is not conducive to them being at
home with their children.
 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS 235

We try to get employers to know who Grace House and

St. Leonard’s House are, what we have to offer, and how the
women and men are prepared in our programs. We ask that
employers step out and take a chance, by either giving them
internships or training them for employment. Right now,
though, we find that it’s very difficult for women to become
and remain self-sufficient.
MARY: I think that second-stage housing is our future goal. It
will provide us a longer period of time to work with a resi­
dent. Right now, the average stay is six to eight months, and
it’s amazing what gets accomplished in that time. But, real­
istically, when you think of a pattern of living for fifteen or
twenty years, in a very self-destructive and negative envi­
ronment, it doesn’t go away in six or eight months. So we
would see a lot of changes in people’s lives if we could offer
a supportive environment for maybe as long as two or three
years. They would achieve stability and self-sufficiency.
ANNIE: I definitely would echo the need for second-stage hous­
ing in the future. I work with housing programs, and as I call
around I find that there are no openings. I also have dreams
of enlarging our computer lab, and doing more with that.
With technology going the way that it is, there is a lot to be
done, including working on the computer and repairing
computers. I hope that we can expand the number of com­
puters and the kind of classes that we offer.
KATHY: I think it’s important for us to be role models, and to
bring in women who can be role models for the women. I
think the whole issue of relationships for women is very sig­
nificant. The women, in general, are disconnected from other
people. One of the things that women learn here is how to be
in a relationship with other women in a positive and healthy
way.
ROCHELLE: I think they watch how we interact with one an-
other. There’s a genuine caring between the staff here. We
have been role models for them in terms of how to have a re­
lationship with a woman that was not necessarily anything
sexual or physical.
ANNIE: We’re also modeling cultural diversity by working to­
gether, and doing that very well. It’s really easy for us to stay
236 GRACE HOUSE ADMINISTRATORS

in our own groups. You can do that if you want to, but there
is so much more to do and see, and places to grow when you
move outside your own individual and group boundaries.
To work on a team of all women is great. I haven’t had that
opportunity very often, and I really appreciate it.
MARY: Because we are all committed Christians, the first thing
is that we believe in people’s absolute goodness. Good peo­
ple do bad things, but the people are good. Every person that
walks in this door deserves to be respected, and deserves to
be cared for. I think that’s the way we treat each other, and
that’s the way we treat the residents.
We’re not preachy. We’re not here to evangelize. But we
are open to allowing individuals to express whatever is their
relationship with their God, their Higher Power, however
they want to express that.
KATHY: The other important thing is forgiveness. In our under-
standing, our Christian understanding of who God is, every
day is a new beginning. No matter what you do or how you
do it, or what you’ve been in the past, each day can be a new
beginning.
 20
Sandra Barnhill, Director, Aid to Children
of Imprisoned Mothers (AIM)

Sandra Barnhill is the executive director of Aid to Children of Impris­

oned Mothers, Inc. (AIM), an Atlanta-based advocacy organization for
incarcerated women, their children, and the children’s caregivers. She is
an attorney and practiced death penalty defense and prison conditions
litigation prior to creating AIM in 1987. Among AIM’s unique contri­
butions in advocacy was the creation of a support program for grand-
mothers, who are the main caretakers of imprisoned mothers’ children.
In addition, most of the families served by AIM’s intergenerational
programming are African American. She discusses her motivation and
the organization’s approaches to advocacy on behalf of incarcerated
mothers, their children, and grandmothers.

Sandra Barnhill

237
 238 SANDRA B ARNHILL

I AT T E N D E D the University of Texas (Austin) Law School. I practiced

law for about four and a half years, but most of that time, I did death
penalty work and a number of prison condition cases. One day I looked
up and realized that we weren’t doing anything at women’s prisons,
and so I said to my boss at that time, a White male, “Don’t you think we
ought to do something?” He said, “Hey, yeah. Fine. You find the money
to do it and we’ll litigate it.” Along with another woman in the office,
we began to put a call out to women in southern prisons who had writ-
ten the office and some women in Alabama. One woman in particular
wrote a real compelling letter to me. I went down to Montgomery and
spent eighteen months doing an investigation. We finally filed suit. Be-
fore the ink was dry on the consent decree, the prison was in violation
of everything. The primary issues were parity between men and
women in terms of the vocational and educational opportunities. We
also included Eighth Amendment cruel-and-unusual-punishment is-
sues, as well as issues regarding visitation.
After all of that happened, I was very disillusioned. The woman
who initially wrote to us was a woman in her fifties and a strong war­
rior. She too—all of us—were sort of disillusioned. It became clear that
the law is not the answer. It’s a part of the answer, but the real answer
is people claiming and using the power in their own lives. So, I quit
practicing law. I started this organization in 1987, and we’ve been
around for about fifteen years. I really started it to do two things. One,
to work on my own personal empowerment as an African American
woman. We all live in a society that constantly says, “I can’t.” We inter­
nalize some of that, and so I wanted to say, “I can, I will, I must.” There-
fore, I started AIM. I also wanted to be active in the empowerment of
women because I think we have to learn how to be sisters and allies. I
wanted AIM to be a place for our voices, so the way we figured out
what work we do, is we ask the women. When I first started AIM, I
went to see women in jail and in prison and said, “What is it that we can
do for you?” They said, “Bring my kids. Help me take care of and see
about my kids.” So, those are the ways in which we try to do the work.
I think that, as African American women, there is no place for us in
American society. I think we carve out little enclaves, but this is not a
safe place for us. It doesn’t make a bit of difference whether you’re
locked up in prison, or whether you’re out here on the outside, because
 SANDRA B ARNHILL 239

we’re still locked out regardless of where you are. I think it’s doing the
work and just seeing that in some ways, there is a lot of joy about the
work, but there is a lot of pain about the work, too. As I look at my sis­
ters inside, it speaks so clearly about my own life, in that prison is the
end product of the racism, sexism, homophobia, and antifamily that
converges in a place called prison. That’s the most extreme manifesta­
tion of it, but there are manifestations of it every day in our lives as
Black women.
We take a phrase from the battered women’s movement. We always
believe the women, and the reality of their lives is different. They are
not bad women. I think that’s a lot about how the racism plays out be-
cause there are two predominant images of women in our society. One
is what I call “the bad girl,” and that’s primarily associated with White
women—that they are susceptible and easily tempted and swayed.
They’ve fallen off, but they can be redeemed. Then there is the “evil
woman,” which is the predominant image, in this culture, of African
American women, as beyond redemption.
I am really proud that our work is intergenerational: the kids, the
moms, and their grandmothers. In a five-year period, we moved to do
more mostly for the kids and the grandmoms. In order to do that, we
decreased what we did for the women. I’m happy that we’re moving to
a place where we can hold those three balls because we have to work on
each of those fronts.
The kids are writing books about their lives. One of the young
women said she was going to be a millionaire, and I forgot all that she
was going to do. That’s what I mean, that untouched spirit. They
haven’t figured out that in this world, there are no constraints. They
haven’t figured that out yet, and I think that is really good, particularly
based on the situation that they are in. Because if anything about the re­
ality of life would smack you quick, it would be that your mama’s
locked up. Yet what came out of that is that kids are normal; what’s not
normal is the situation. The kids developed coping mechanisms, and
some of the mechanisms that they develop to cope get them through the
short term. They survive through that. However, over the long term,
those are not the best coping skills. I see a couple of things in the kids. I
see resilience. I see vulnerability. I see what I call the untouched spirit.
What kids understand about their situation depends on the age of
the kids. When they’re very young, they just kind of understand that
their mother’s in prison, she’s away. I think that as they begin to get
 240 SANDRA B ARNHILL

older, the analysis is different. What we put forth here is that the chil­
dren need to know, we need to tell. Then you also need to talk about
how you’re being held accountable, because I think having kids think
that this is just a set-up or a frame-up and that kind of thing is not good.
Now, some of that may be involved, but each of us has choices that we
have to make.
Some women are locked up because when they looked at the array
of choices, first of all, all of them were bad. That was the first thing.
Then, out of the bad ones, they just picked the one they thought was the
least bad. That’s true of some women, but it is also true of women that
they looked at the choices, and some were good and some were bad. But
they picked the bad choice. There are issues around personal decision
making and we think it’s very important to share that with the kids be-
cause kids see what you live and that’s how they learn. We talk a lot
here. So many women are incarcerated for drugs. But, we have house
rules here: no drugs. We don’t steal from one another. This is a commu­
nity. This way, kids are developing their principles about living.
The grandmothers in our support group are in the forties to late
fifties. They talk about the reality of their lives, their frustration, and
their feelings. Sometimes they say that their daughter had been in
prison before, and out and in, and “When is she going to get her life to­
gether so I can live my life?” One of the things that hit me in a real
poignant way is that most of the grandmothers that come have health
issues. I think that’s a manifestation of the stress, the “dis”-ease in their
life, struggling with a lot of stress issues. The therapist who runs the
meeting for them talks a lot about wellness and stress management. A
lot of women in our community have high blood pressure, hyperten­
sion, and diabetes.
We support whoever the caregiver is. In most cases, it’s the grand-
mother, but also there are a lot of maternal aunts and cousins. Women
fill up the gaps in society. When the mom’s gone, the women in that
family take up the space. I’ve been doing this work for fifteen years, and
I’ve only worked with two fathers who had the kids. Statistics and re-
search show us that men get far more visits than women when they go
to prison because there is a female in his life: his mother, his sister, his
lover, whomever, will bring the kids. Women get very, very few visits
and women struggle more with the issue of who really is going to take
care of my kids. What if the grandmother is ill or can’t take care of
them?
 SANDRA B ARNHILL 241

A woman once called, and she was talking about who could take
her kids. She had very young infants and nobody in the family wanted
to do it. It was about punishing her. That’s the way our society is. Men
make mistakes, but somehow they’re still men. We definitely don’t
want to punish them or we don’t hold them accountable. But the level
of our rage or anger at women is much more profound. That goes back
to the images of the “evil woman” and the “bad girl.” When a woman
falls, she really falls.
I hear a couple of different things about the issues of drugs in
women’s lives, particularly in Black women’s lives. A lot of women are
involved with drugs because they are involved with a man who’s in­
volved with drugs. He’s either selling it out of the house, or she’s being
in a sense a “mule” for him by carrying and delivering packages. Some-
times it starts like that. Sometimes women are trying to medicate them-
selves against the pain of this world. I mean, in terms of society, I’m ed­
ucated, and some days I want to get away from it, to escape from it. I
don’t have anybody I have to care for but me; no children or spouse.
Some days I find life to be overwhelming. What if I had a couple of kids
that I was caring for?
What I’m saying is I don’t justify it, I understand it. I understand
that we live in a society that basically is woman-hating, and also, in
many ways, threatened by people of color. It becomes very difficult to
negotiate your way in the world. And when the world has also said, “I
don’t care what you do, you have no place . . .” I think all of the realities
of that are very, very painful. That doesn’t excuse what the women have
done, not in any way, because I think ultimately each of us has to be ac­
countable for our own life and how we live in the world.
I remember when I represented a man on death row. One of my
clients said, you know, “The first time I ever thought about my future
was once I got here.” I mean, locked up, waiting to be executed. Hello!
In some ways, life is so fast that there isn’t a chance to think about what
could the future look like? How could it be different? As we have these
kids write their autobiography, we tell them to “write whatever ending
you want.” What I found to be real for some of them, and some of their
mothers too, and even the grandmothers, is that the ending that they
see is very, very bleak.
Yes, it’s hard to parent in prison, not impossible, but it is difficult
because there are so many issues. You’re locked up. There’s somebody
else who is playing the primary caregiver role. How do you support
 242 SANDRA B ARNHILL

that person, when your philosophy around parenting or discipline may

be different? When your kids get older, as teens—and part of what ado­
lescents do is challenge their parents and challenge the system—then
what place does that put you in, because they could very easily say,
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say? Look where you
are?” All of those issues come up for women. One of the things that I’ve
noticed over the years—and a lot of people don’t agree with me on this,
but I really feel strongly about it—I feel that when a woman comes out,
she should not be with her children for the first six months. That’s my
personal opinion.
She gets out of prison with a bus ticket and twenty-five dollars, and
she has to find a job. She has to report to parole. In an institution every­
thing is structured. You’re told when to get up, when to go to sleep, when
to go to work, when to eat. So now, a woman is out and she has to re-
construct her life. I think that kids deserve and that mothers want to give
their kids their best self. And I think there ought to be some way for us
to support the creation, or re-creation of the best self. Sometimes when
women get out, the next day they’re at their mom’s house and they’re all
living together. She’s trying to find a job, and she’s trying to interact with
the kids. I think the best self doesn’t have a chance to come forth.
The women told us they want this—we just don’t have the money
for it—it is counseling when they come out, for them and the kids and
the grandmother. I think in that six months that kind of intensive stuff
ought to go on. Women ought to be helped with getting a job. There
ought to be a family plan to be developed, a family mission statement.
All of those kinds of things need to happen in that time frame. I think
women need to see and spend time with their kids, but I fundamentally
think they need to see and spend time with themselves. It is hard in this
world, whether you are locked up or free, to see and spend time with
yourself. That’s what I think needs to happen.
Prison is antifamily, and it doesn’t have to be. I understand the is-
sues around safety, security, and custody. I also acknowledge that being
a correctional official, and a guard, and all of that are difficult jobs. I un­
derstand all of that. But I do believe that as bright as we are as a society,
we ought to be able to find a way to hold people accountable, but work
towards their restoration as a human being, the dignity of the human
spirit, and a reconciliation with the community, where they have to live.
Until we figure all of that out, I think things are going to be more and
more screwed up.
 21
Rhodessa Jones, Director,
Medea Theater Project

Rhodessa Jones became involved in the prison system in the early 1990s
when she agreed to teach aerobics at a local jail. Her activities with the
women have increased significantly and have culminated in a theater
program for incarcerated women called the Medea Project: Theater for
Incarcerated Women. She is the artistic director and founder. The the­
ater process has allowed women to discuss their struggles and to ex-
press their thoughts and emotions in a safe environment with people
who are sympathetic and supportive, as well as with people who have
had similar experiences.

Rhodessa Jones

243
 244 RHODESSA JONES

T H E M E D E A P RO J E C T is theater for incarcerated women. The project

began out of an invitation from the California Council for the Arts,
through a program in the jails called Programs for People. I’ve been
working with the California Arts Council for a very long time. I got a
call from this woman who had gotten my name and wanted me to con­
sider replacing an artist that they had at the city jail. They had a belly
dancer at the city jail. I was totally mystified. I thought, “Wow! Working
with incarcerated women, belly dancing!” In that moment I thought,
“This must be really new territory. They have no idea what to do, but,
bless their hearts, the California Arts Council wants to do something.”
Programs for People asked me to teach aerobics to the women at the
city jail. I thought that was kind of odd, being that I wasn’t an aerobics
teacher. But, again I was thinking, “Well, they want to do something.”
So, I agreed, and I started working two days a week at the city jail in San
Francisco. This was 1989 or 1990.
After about a month or so, I realized that I had to get really creative
if I was going to impact these women’s lives because they weren’t in­
terested in aerobics, and I wasn’t an aerobics teacher. The women would
be corraled every morning that I came, and they would be made to go
to the gym with me and work out. But they would go to the gym and
just sit around, and they’d listen to—I had a beat box and some tapes—
and they liked that. They would talk with me a little bit. I started to
think about how to engage them really. So, I started to dress in a some-
what provocative way. I was imitating television, cable television at the
time, which had the early aerobics stuff on TV, which was really a lot
like soft porn—really skin-tight unitards.
The women were just fascinated. I would move, and at that time I
was turning forty, and I talked about turning forty, and an aging body. I
talked about the possibility of being a grandmother. They were just en-
tranced that I could stand on my hands, walk over, because I’d been a
performing artist for a long time, and I’d been a gymnast for many
years. Most of the women were African American or Latin women. They
were just amazed at me talking and moving, so they started bringing
other people just to look at this “crazy gym teacher,” as they called me.
Most of the women were in jail for prostitution, drug addictions,
drug sales, writing bad checks, welfare fraud. So, I started talking about
looking for love in all the wrong places. I started talking about my own
 RHODESSA JONES 245

narrow escapes around drugs and men. I started talking about being
Black and being a woman. I started talking about being a teenage mother.
They were just more and more fascinated because they can relate to all
these things. Finally, one woman said to me, “Why are you telling us your
business?” And I said, “Well, I’m an artist.” She said, “What’s that?” with
no malice whatsoever, total innocence. And, that was my entry. I thought
that I will give myself this problem to solve in this environment: How, and
what is an artist in jail? What is a woman artist? What is an African Amer­
ican woman artist in jail? And how do I impact the lives of these women,
as an artist? I’m not a psychotherapist, I’m not a social worker, but I am a
womanist. I did come of age during the great cultural revolution inAmer­
ica which was the ‘60s, and I did have a baby when I was sixteen.
They said, “Well, can we talk?” And I said, “As long as you’re will­
ing to participate in the truth, and as long as you’re willing to agree that
what is said here stays here. And you have to be willing to agree that no
one person has a greater pain than another person.” And then we began
to have some dialogue, especially the older women.
At the same time, I was still working on physical stuff, so the girls
who had been cheerleaders, the girls who had been African dancers,
and the girls who had been really active in their youth started to surface.
People started taking leadership positions. Some of them really wanted
to compete with me, because I was just this old bitch, and if this old
bitch could do it, then they could do it. All that was fine with me. So I
had two heavy components: I had the girls who wanted to move, who
remembered movement, and then I had the older women who wanted
to participate in a conversation about our lives.
Then I went back to my improvisational handbook by Viola Spolin,
Improvisation for the Theater. I took that handbook in, and I started to use
games in that book to get us to play. If we could play, we would relax,
and then we could get into the deep stuff. They started to tell me their
stories. I realized that if I could get really basic with games like blind
man’s bluff, red light green light, and volleyball, everybody would
warm up, and everybody would start to breathe. Once they could play,
their defenses came down, and they felt lighter. A lot of people weren’t
that old really; they just had been doing drugs since they were very
young. When you start doing drugs and you’re very young, your child-
hood disappears rapidly. I was able to tap into that kind of memory.
I’m an artist in my own right, who’s always taken my own story
and made theater, because a long time ago, I decided I wanted a place
 246 RHODESSA JONES

on the stage—we’re talking the late 1960s, 1970s. I realized early on that
if I was going to create, if I was going to perform, I had to create my own
work. Then I read a piece by Toni Morrison, and she was talking about
why she writes. And she said, “I write the kind of books that I like to
read.” I thought, “I want to make the kind of theater that I like to see,
and that I think other people should see.”
I came to the jail with a body of work already. I had taught science
and math and history with theater, with Kindergarten through six, be-
fore I even started to work in the jails. So I had that ability when I ar­
rived. Also, the politics of the experience, and reminding those women-
of-color that it was by no small act that they were in jail. Trying to cre­
ate a real laboratory to explore the reality of their lives and the context
of jail was one of the first things that happened, but I wasn’t allowed by
the authorities to videotape, to record, or to photograph. So I would go
home every night, and I would write down as much of what I remem­
bered that I heard, because the language interested me. Their thought
processes interested me. The ages of women interested me, there were
babies with babies, the old con, the matron, the virgin, all those. So, I
started to look at the ages of women in jail, and it was fascinating to me,
because I was not prepared for how immense that population was, be-
cause we always hear about men in jail. All of a sudden, there were just
so many women in jail, and so many women were weary with it already,
and as they talked, a loss always came up.
They didn’t even know that it was about sexual abuse or sexual vi­
olation. A loss of faith, a loss of a structure or family. Their mothers
might’ve been in the life. With their mothers’ boyfriends, it became
open season on them, and there was nowhere for them to go. There was
no protection. They would fight back, and they would consequently
end up being victimized as well as being incarcerated, because they
were fighting back. They were running away from home. They were
running away from a system that didn’t work. They had lost a sense of
their selves, their families. Also, around them, people had died, people
had OD’d, daddies had gone to prison, daddies had left, mothers had
left. Loss plays an amazing part. Abandonment, anger. At the same
time, you’re always being hauled before some juvenile system, and be-
cause you are female, I believe you get a worse slapping than if you’re
a boy doing this. All of these things would come up in the conversa­
tions, and a lot of tears, and a lot of rage. There was also betrayal.
 RHODESSA JONES 247

I realized what these women would inform me of was that if I’m

losing on this end, I’m losing families, church, school structures, I’ve got
to go out and find a family. I’ve got to go and find love. Most people
think that women become addicted and then they are prostitutes.
Whereas usually, you start out being a prostitute because he says, “Ooh,
baby, you’re so fine. We can make a lot of money.” Or, your kids are hun­
gry, and then you have to anesthetize yourself to go out and turn the
tricks, and be in that life. And then, the next thing you know, you’ve got
a heavy habit, and you’re dealing with the police, and they’ve got your
number. So all that stuff came up in conversations.
I talked about us, not them versus me, but “What are we going to do?
What are we going to do about our children? What are we going to do
about this system? What are we going to do about our daughters?” I’d
have to go home and write down the curve of the languages, the music,
the rage, the incredible humanism that surrounded everything. Humor.
I made a piece entitled Big Butt Girls, Hard-Headed Women. It was a
one-woman show about jail, based on my interviews and interactions
with these women. Everybody across the country wanted to see it. I’ve
done that piece in Rome. I will probably do that piece in Greece next
May. That sort of informed me that the country really wanted to know.
I was interested in how to put these women center stage. I thought, how
do I as an artist make the culture remember or know that our sisters are
going to jail in such numbers?
Big Butt Girls, Hard-Headed Women—the title was such a communal
thing with African American people. I’d go somewhere and they’d see
that title, and they would say, “Ooh, I’ve got to go see this.” And they
thought it was going to be a booty show. Or, women my age would say,
“Ooh, girl,” or “Girl, why you chose that title?” It was because growing
up, we were always admonished to not be so hard-headed, and to “sit
your big butt down.” And I would look at women in jail, and I’d think,
“Boy, I’m glad I was raised in the house that I was raised in.” I’d hear
my father and my mother say this. Then other sisters would say, “Yeah,
you know, my daddy used to say that too.”
I’ve been doing this piece for more than ten years now. As the piece
grew and matured, and I started to travel all over the place, I started to
ask that they connect with halfway houses because I wanted the
women that I was talking about to come and see this work. I needed
their response, and that was just magical for me. To have them out there
 248 RHODESSA JONES

“amen-ing,” and also to have the arts community realize the person sit­
ting next to me has been through this.
In the piece, I made an altar, a place of concrete memory, which is the
only real set piece in the show. It’s made up of photographs, bits and
pieces of mythology around being Black, or things that the women made
in jail and gave me. The altar became this place for the public, where,
after the show, people would come up and they would just tell me the
most amazing things about their lives. Really bourgeois Blacks, Blacks
who were living the good life. I remember one woman in particular
when I was in San Diego, California, and she had heard about the piece,
and she had come from Arizona. She was real CEO material, just really
put together, educated, beautifully coiffed, gorgeous sister. But, she had
a twin sister who was just the opposite. Since they were fifteen, her twin
sister had been in and out of jail. Her parents had since died. She was in
her late forties, and she had sort of written her sister off. She said, “You
know, I just decided I couldn’t know her.” She said, “And tonight, your
piece made me want to claim her. To try to understand what’s happen­
ing, and to know that she is my sister. She is my family.” And that was a
pretty amazing thing, for somebody to lay their burdens down.
I started working at the county jail, and the first year was all babies;
I mean nineteen and twenty-year-olds. I wanted to reinterpret Medea,
the story of Medea. They didn’t like to read, but they loved story-telling.
So I would tell them the story of Medea, and how Medea killed her chil­
dren in revenge. They got very upset, and they said Medea was a dumb
bitch. It is so funny how faith is, how spirit is, because always, we
would get into one of these conversations, and prior to that, somebody
would be flipping out because their kids had just been taken away, or
their man had gone to jail, and so another baby was lost to the system.
I remember the first day I said, “Wait a minute, how different are we
than Medea? Your mother may have your children, your grandmother
may have your children, but they’re not with you. And this coming and
going in jail, who is trying to explain to the little ones what’s going on?
What kind of murder is that to the spirit of a child whose mommy’s
there one day, and then mommy’s not there? When mommy’s there,
mommy’s like in an altered state.” And, they started to get it.
I talked about how Medea was all about giving over your power to
men. I started to see them connect with the story, and I said, “I want you
to take this story, and I want you to write your own version of it from
your own experiences.” And that’s how the text begins for the play.
 RHODESSA JONES 249

First, we just had a group of women in jail who were doing this
piece for all the different groups, men too. They were performing for the
different classes: GED, mechanics, poetry. So they were performing. I
started to notice also that they were feeling protective about this group.
This belonged to them. This was something that they had made. All this
stuff, for me, was like a part of my idea of the new model in jail. What is
rehabilitation? What do we expect from rehabilitation? How can art be
effective? This was what I was learning as I flew by the seat of my pants.
All of a sudden, there was a group of girls who came to me and said,
“You know, this is our show. This is our project. You can’t just let people
come in. We want to have something to say about who comes in.” They
said, “We going to talk to them, like you be talking to us.” And I said,
“Okay.” And so they would set up their own little orals, and would ask,
“Why do you want to be in the group?” “Are you going to tell the
truth?” “What’s the worst thing you’ve done? What should we know
about you?” I would just sit back and be like the consultant on the side.
And they would decide, “Well, okay, she can be in it.”
Since then, it’s gotten really big. I go in now every four to six
months. I’ve been trying to do four months, because my own life just
took off in a certain way with the Medea Project, and I do national
shows. With the help of Sheriff Hennessey, we got clearance for these
women to come out under guard. They got to come out and do their
show, and they’d have to go back to jail each night. Then next time it was
two weeks. So now, we get a two-week run with the sheriff’s blessings.
There’s also a bunch of guards who have been with us for a long time.
The women’s communities are the ones that took it over the top,
just word of mouth. So many really fine technical artists came on board
for no money, and did the sets, the costumes, the lighting. We just killed,
because I was really interested in a state-of-the-art work. I didn’t want
to do community theater. I wanted it to be run like anything else that
was going on in the city, and it is.
As the women began to dance again, they started to understand the
discipline that was required. People claimed their space inside of the
group. People participated in the choreography. Some people said,
“Well, why don’t we do this?” It was a great awakening for all of us that
this was a collaboration.
We talked about our names. We talked about matrilineage. One of
the exercises was to organize your matrilineage as a part of the show,
like, “I am Rhodessa, the daughter of Estella, the granddaughter of
 250 RHODESSA JONES

Flossie and Anna, the mother of Saundra, the grandmother of Chaz

Nicole.” Everybody had to do that. For people who say, “Well, I don’t
know,” I would say, “Well, next time you get a visit, part of your visit’s
going to be finding out as much as you can about where you come
from.” Then you would get another kind of story. That’s how you
would introduce abandonment, loss, in a safe way. It was all about gath­
ering material. It was all about examining our lives, and exploring and
investigating grief, anger, pain.
There also was a lot of touching, though. I taught a lot of group lifts
and ways for handling each other. The “womb circle” is one of the
things that we do. [In the womb circle, women move in as close as pos­
sible to encircle a woman who may be leaving or who is in great pain.
Everyone will touch her.] It is also touching in a nonsexual way. It’s a
way to establish community and camaraderie amongst women.
I think through the Medea Project, we help to get the women stand­
ing on their feet. Then the question is, “Do you want to live or do you
want to die?” Some people have said they don’t know. I say, “Well then
you better figure it out, because none of this other stuff’s going to work
if you don’t want to live.” The other side of that is, I feel there are cer­
tain aspects of other treatments that are counterproductive. In jails, it’s
like, “Well, they’re not ready to be in a theater company, because
they’ve got to work on their real issues,” or “Well, you’re spending too
much time with this theater group.” Part of the national consciousness
is that theater is something over here. Also, I feel like it’s a plantation.
So we’re competing with all the other overseers, all the other people
who—a lot of White folks—want these people to belong to them.
They’re people of color, and that really goes on, but that conversation
has not been had, yet.
I feel that I’m a success when I can say to somebody, “It’s your story.
Your story is greater and bigger than most of that crap on TV. If you re-
ally want to do something fabulous, write a book so you’ll be on Oprah,
versus watching Oprah, because your story would blow Oprah’s hair
back.” The women in jail used to love to read Jackie Collins, and I said,
“Well, what’s that got to do with us, though? How many Black folks are
in these books? Or Latino folks in these books?” They said, “Well, I still
like it.” I said, “Well, fine. But there’s a whole lot of other stuff.” That’s
when I introduced Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, and Fannie Lou Hamer,
because you’re dealing with people that don’t have a lot of information
on a lot of levels. Which is why they’re in jail.
 RHODESSA JONES 251

The Medea Project is a mixture of intensive social and political sci­

ence projects. It’s a real exploration of the justice system, and our places
in it, racially, culturally, and socially. It is, as well, an art project, a the­
ater project. I think that what the Medea Project, myself, and other peo­
ple have brought is a consciousness that was not there surrounding the
female populations. I’ve grown a lot working in the jails. I’ve learned to
be really thankful about my position as somebody that didn’t fall
through the cracks, or that the relationship I do have with my mother is
special and I shouldn’t take it for granted.
My family was always performing for each other and telling stories.
My father was a great storyteller. My mother is a wonderful storyteller,
and a wonderful singer. We were rural people. My mother and father
were migrant workers, so we ended up in upstate New York because
my father had been doing that migration forever. Then, at some point,
he decided that it was time to do something else, so we were going to
have different lives than they did. So my father and mother bought a lit­
tle old plot of land with a house on it, way up in the country, outside of
a place called Wayland, New York, which is like sixty miles south of
Rochester, New York. We settled there, and my mother and father
wanted us to get a good education, which for those two Black people
was simply finishing high school. My mother and father were not really
educated people, but we always had a ton of books. I always saw my fa­
ther reading. My mother and father both read the Bible all the time.
I always begin by telling people that theater saved my life; the art
making, being a part of the theater community, saved this colored girl’s
life. Like I said, I had a baby at sixteen, and then I met up with a theater
group when I was probably seventeen or eighteen. They were like a hip-
pie commune. I started out as a gopher. It was there in the theater that I
really felt acceptance, or felt that I had a greater mission. I sensed that
there were more possibilities to life than to be weighed down with a lot of
children, or even to just be some man’s wife. I felt the possibility that the
world could and would really open up for me. It wasn’t like, “Oh, now
I’m going to go to art school.” It’s just that everything started happening,
and I would say “yes” to things, and that’s a great game in theater.
It was coming to San Francisco, in the late 1960s, early 1970s that I
started to really train for theater. I danced with Theresa Dickinsen, and
Theresa was one of the original Twyla Tharp dancers out of New York,
and Theresa came to California. I really wanted to make theater that in-
formed as well as educated.
 22
Professor Brenda V. Smith

Brenda V. Smith is an associate professor at the Washington College of

Law at American University. Prior to teaching, she was senior counsel
for economic security at the National Women’s Law Center and direc­
tor of the center’s Women in Prison Project. In 1993, she successfully
litigated a class action lawsuit on behalf of women inmates in Wash­
ington, D.C. The case involved sexual abuse of female inmates in the
District of Columbia prisons.1

Professor Brenda V. Smith

252
 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH 253

I G U E S S I H AV E B E E N going in and out of prisons all of my life. I

come from a huge family. When I was a kid, I went into prisons to visit
cousins and uncles. I didn’t have the traditional fear and separateness
that people have about prisons, because some of the best people I knew
were in prison. My parents were migrant workers, and I grew up doing
migrant work. A lot of the people who we worked with went back and
forth between the community and prison and jail, particularly in the
South. Generally, contractors would pay people’s bail, and they would
work off their bail. They might get arrested again, and they would come
back out. So, I had a very intimate knowledge of prisons and jails.
When I went to law school, I participated in the juvenile justice
clinic. I liked the clinic and I felt very comfortable with my clients. I
wasn’t uncomfortable going to my clients’ homes and neighborhoods
or the institutions because I had been in and out of the institutions all
my life. I was recruited for the D.C. Public Defender Service out of the
law school clinic. But I didn’t go directly to PDS. I clerked for two years
with a judge on the D.C. Superior Court. After clerking for two years, I
worked at PDS for two years.
I left PDS because I felt that my intervention wasn’t really effective.
It was effective in some ways, but it wasn’t doing anything long term. I
left PDS to do policy work. I wanted to intervene in a way that would
prevent people from coming into the criminal justice system. While I
was at PDS, I became the specialist in cases involving women clients. I
saw that there was a certain connection that women clients wanted,
whether they were girls or adults, which wasn’t really part of the stan­
dard representation that was provided for people. Often, the particular
charge was the least of their concerns. They were concerned about a
child, someone in a relationship, or trying to piece their lives together.
Therefore, I went to the National Women’s Law Center to learn more
about policy issues affecting girls and women.
I went to the National Women’ Law Center in 1988, and did policy
work for a year. The funny thing was that I missed my clients. Also, I
found that there were not many women’s organizations, certainly not
national women’s organizations, that did anything with regard to
women in prison. Partly, I believe this was because these organizations
were so accustomed to looking at women as victims in regard to the
criminal justice system. The organizations did not understand that
 254 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH

there was an entirely different group of potential clients within the

criminal justice system. I also think that the women’s rights community
felt an uneasy fit between its alliance with law enforcement, particu­
larly around the issues of domestic violence, on one hand, and work
with people who were in the criminal justice system, on the other hand.
But it didn’t feel uncomfortable to me.
I pitched an idea to develop a project that would bring together all
of the center’s resources to work with this particular group of poor and
disenfranchised women. Women in prison had to be seen in the larger
context of a particular disenfranchised group who happen to be in
prison. Prison presented another barrier. Around 1989, I did a series of
focus groups with women inmates at the D.C. jail at the Lorton Mini-
mum Security Annex. I said to them, “Look, I cannot assist you with
your underlying criminal charge or appeal, but if we could bring you
the information and resources on anything that you wanted, what
would it be?” The women listed about forty-two things, and a lot of
them were issues related to family, public benefits, housing, employ­
ment, health, issues related to kids, and mental health services.
Initially, this was solely my project at the National Women’s Law
Center. I was able to get the Georgetown Women’s Law Public Policy
Fellowship Program to allow eight fellows to work on this as their proj­
ect. I did focus groups with the fellows, and I started seminar groups at
the prison with them. Mostly, I coordinated it. The idea was pretty sim­
ple—to get local and national experts to commit two hours a week to
the women in prison. For example, if someone was an expert in child
abuse and neglect, they would come and talk to the women about their
work and answer the women’s questions.
I thought a seminar series would be noncontroversial because the
prison was very sensitive about people coming in. As it happened, just
teaching people about their rights and about resources was controver­
sial. After the first month or two, we were on a collision course with the
prison because the women were saying, “I’m losing my kids because
I’m not allowed to go to court for the abuse and neglect proceedings.”
We had judges come in and say, “Well, all you have to do is tell your
lawyer that you want a ‘come-up’ to come to court.” Later, the judge
would say to women, “You mean, you didn’t know that you could get
a ‘come-up’ for court?” So, it was educational on many levels.
Typically, the speakers were more educated by the women, than the
women were educated by the speakers. Sometimes people would see
 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH 255

people and say, “What happened to you?” And the person would say,
“I’ve been in jail.” This speaks to the invisibility of prison. People dis­
appear once they go into the system and no one bothers to check for
them. For example, at the typical abuse and neglect proceeding, the
lawyer doesn’t do anything until a week or two before the hearing.
They can’t find the client and they say, “Miss X has not been in contact
with me.” The social worker does the same thing, “There has been no
contact with this writer since X date, and X hasn’t expressed any inter­
est in getting back together with her kids. I suggest that we initiate ter­
mination of rights or whatever, at this point.”
When courts began to understand that lawyers were not checking
to find out where their clients were, and the social workers weren’t
checking, and even if they did know where the women were, they
weren’t asking for come-ups, it became controversial. The prison sys­
tem was angry, because it had to send people up to court hearings.
Lawyers were angry because they felt that we were making them look
bad in front of their clients and the court.
In a number of situations, women were—and still are—released
from prison with no money, no clothes, and just an armband to show
the bus driver to take them someplace. That should not be the case.
People should not be released to homelessness. Therefore, we brought
in people from the transitional housing community to say, “Oh, yeah,
we have beds. We have great places for people to come and work with
people on employment and on health issues.” Of course, the women
would say, “Well, why isn’t my case manager making this referral be-
fore it’s time for me to go out?” So the case managers got angry with us
as well.
After a year, we began to put the legal services piece together. There
was a cadre of community-based providers and local and national ex­
perts who did this work. We made many referrals for housing. We
began to know the drug treatment system and the parole system. We
also did a lot of child custody work. In January 1993, it became very
clear that we had to sue the Department of Corrections; there was no
way around it. We had informed people about their rights and at every
turn, they were not able to vindicate those rights in the system. In Oc­
tober 1993, along with Covington and Burling law firm, we filed suit
against the D.C. Department of Corrections, alleging that the prison
conditions violated women’s constitutional rights under the Eighth
Amendment, Title IX, and the Equal Protection clause.
 256 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH

We alleged that the residences were roach and rat-infested, and that
women had unequal access to educational and vocational programs
compared to men. For example, while men could get a four-year college
degree, women could only get a GED. The only apprentice program
available for women was an apprenticeship in housekeeping, where the
practicum was to clean the jail.
We also sued about the pervasive pattern of sexual abuse and mis­
conduct in prisons. We weren’t going to raise this, but as we inter-
viewed women about the education and vocational programs, the
women said, “Well, you know, the way to get ahead here is to have sex.”
It was a sort of dance that everybody knew, and the dance differed from
institution to institution. In some instances, a whole economy devel­
oped around sex—sex for cigarettes, sex for food, or sex for phone calls.
We were able to certify a class with regard to this conduct because
everybody would say, “Yes, I’ve had this experience.”
I was doing a lot of work with women who became pregnant while
they were incarcerated. I tried to get the women before the parole board
before they delivered. I also provided legal services for women who
wanted to terminate their pregnancies, which is a very tricky issue in
the District, since we cannot use any of our funds for abortions for low-
income women. D.C. General Hospital provides medical care for
women in prison and they stopped doing abortions. In order for
women to obtain abortions, they had to contact the local Planned Par­
enthood, get the money together, get a private escort and go out into the
community, in shackles, to have the abortion. I also was doing a lot of
work to set up custody agreements for people who had delivered. So, I
knew what was going on, but I don’t think that we ever thought about
the magnitude.
As we started interviewing women for the complaint, it became
clear that I personally knew fifteen to twenty women who had con­
ceived while they were in prison. When we started interviewing peo­
ple, everybody started talking about it. Then we started asking people
whether they had experienced sexual harassment or misconduct while
they had been in prison. Most of the women would say yes. The women
were housed in co-ed facilities, which contributed to the problem. At
the annex, the women had to run a gauntlet of male prisoners every day.
They would leave the facility and walk down the hill through a row of
men to go eat their meals on the men’s compound. The men would yell
obscenities about the women’s bodies and the staff would just look
 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH 257

away when that happened. This happened every time they had a meal,
and there were three meals a day. It was a highly sexualized environ­
ment, which the court discussed in its opinion.
When we talked to them, individual women said different things.
Some women said that they felt demeaned by the way that the staff
talked to them, calling them bitches and “hoes,” and that the staff al­
lowed the men to speak to them that way. Another group of women felt
that they were all viewed as being sexually available because some
women were available sexually. Another group of women said, “There
are no jobs here. There is nothing to do in order to get money in order
to buy food. I can’t eat the food here because it’s so bad. If I have to have
sex with someone in order to get some food, I’ll do it. I don’t have any-
body in the community to take care of me.” Some women really felt that
they had developed a relationship with the other person. They craved
intimacy. Also, it increased their status in the institution. They got
tapes, new sneakers, perfume, or jewelry; things that made them feel
valued.
There also were those situations where men in some institutions
were predators who preyed upon particular types of women, particu­
larly women with mental health problems, very young women, and
women with drug addiction problems. More often than not, this was
unprotected sex. This is particularly troubling because the rates of HIV
infection in the District, and in the prison population, are astonishing.
Another piece of the litigation was on obstetrical and gynecological
care, not all of which was abysmal. Basically, as stated in the Amnesty
report,2 women who were in advanced stages of pregnancy were shack-
led. Women could not get basic prenatal care in the institution, so they
had to be transported to D.C. General Hospital. The only way that they
would be transported was in leg shackles and arm shackles with a belt.
Some women would just refuse to go for prenatal care. Also, women
were shackled in labor; they were handcuffed by an arm or a leg or both
while they were giving birth. Often, their medical-care complaints were
ignored.
Another big issue in the lawsuit involved work training, which
permitted inmates to work in the community within six months of
being released. They would work during the day and return to prison
at night. There never had been more than one woman at a time on
work training, while there had been sixty or more men in the program.
They could not work in highly paid industries, which helped foster
 258 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH

their dependence and need to have sex to subsist. For a time, the Dis­
trict of Columbia had a college program that men could participate in.
One year, the valedictorian for the undergraduate class was a male pris­
oner. Women could not get into those classes. The women were out-
raged about it, especially since they were in mostly for drug offenses,
while men may have more violent offenses.
Ninety-nine percent of my clients were African American women.
It was very unusual to see White women in the system, and White
women who were in the system were treated differently. They were
viewed as smarter. It was so paradoxical that they received better treat­
ment, even in a system primarily run by African Americans. There are
many issues for African American women. One is that because of our
detachment from the economy, we tend to be poor. We tend to be un­
deremployed and unpaid. That sets up situations for us to lapse into the
criminal justice system. A lot of African American women end up in
prison primarily because of drugs. Women typically are low-level in
these drug operations, and so they are very vulnerable to law enforce­
ment. A lot of women come into this country from Africa, the Caribbean,
and other parts of the diaspora, and they come in carrying drugs for
men. They don’t have habits themselves, but they are mules for men.
Often, women will not turn men in because of faithfulness or the
men saying, “You know, I’m going to get much more time than you
would get. If you do this, I’ll support you.” But it doesn’t happen. Also,
there is a lot of fear because many of the women have been physically
and sexually abused in these relationships; therefore, they won’t turn
them in.
I have seen some improvement in the lack of inclusion in the do­
mestic violence movement, regarding perspectives of communities of
color. Still, there is more to do. For instance, if your primary response to
the domestic violence is the criminal justice response, you must under-
stand that these are communities that have a healthy and justified dis­
trust of the police. Many African American women felt that taking ac­
tion to protect themselves was totally justifiable. Some women said, “I
hurt this person. Either I killed him, or I hurt him really bad. But that’s
what I had to do in order to be alive today. I’m alive today, even though
I’m locked up here. And I’m willing to do the time for it.” I didn’t see
women making a lot of excuses. Instead, they would say, “I did it. I wish
this time wasn’t so hard.” Women are willing to take responsibility for
what they have done.
 PROFESSOR BRENDA V. SMITH 259

I believe that there are still a lot of legal battles out there to be
waged. But I also think that women have to become whole in order to
thrive. They also have to understand how to connect with resources and
how to use them. No one resolves anything on their own. I find a real
sense of deprivation and despair with a lot of my clients, so they fill
their lives with drugs, men, and bad schemes. But they also have a qual­
ity of resilience that allows them to acknowledge what they did, to bal­
ance things in their lives, and to move on.
Kito

Judy

Debbie
 23
A Family Story
Renay, Judy, Debbie, and Kito

Many women who have been incarcerated say that a supportive family
is one of the most important pieces to surviving their sentences. Judy,
Debbie, and Kito are such a family. Their sister-mother Renay is serv­
ing a twenty-five years to life sentence for the killing of an elderly
woman in upstate New York. Renay asserts that the confession used to
obtain her conviction was gained coercively while she was under the
influence of drugs. She maintains her innocence and her family supports
her continuing efforts to fight for her release.

Left to right: Renay

Debbie, Judy, and Kito

261
262 A FAMILY STORY

RENAY: I am presently incarcerated with a twenty-five years to

life sentence. I am innocent and wrongfully imprisoned. I
must believe that God’s justice will prevail. My vision is one
of hope, not despair, one of faith, not fear.
Using drugs and lying was the biggest mistake of my life
and now I wonder if it has actually cost me my life. My con­
viction rested upon my statement and the testimony of a jail-
house snitch. Had I not been addicted to crack cocaine, I
would not have told this lie to police.
I have been denied all my state appeals. Legal Aid repre­
sented me through this process. Now, I represent myself in
forma pauperis—as a poor person. I have a writ of habeas cor­
pus pending in federal court.
My family’s endless love and support for my freedom is
truly a blessing from God. Their fighting for my freedom
every step of the way keeps my hope alive. Nevertheless, I
do get exhausted, and the road I have been traveling has led
to many blind alleys.
I do realize at this point in my life that life is serious and
one misstep can cost you years of regret and grief. I’m aware
that prison will either bring out the best in a woman or ruin
her entirely. I’m through with weakness. I stand firm in my
faith and fighting for my freedom.
JUDY: Renay is my sister and I love her. I never believed that she
had anything to do with this murder, and I never will. I want
to support her 100 percent. I’ve never known my sister to be
a violent person in my life, that’s why I will do whatever I
can do to help her. The rest of the family knows the situation,
and when they heard about it, they also didn’t believe that
Renay was capable of doing this.
Our mother and father are deceased. My father was a la-
borer and my mother was a housewife, although she worked
in the laundry. We had five sisters and four brothers. One of
our brothers is deceased, so eight of us are living. Everybody
grew up in upstate New York. Renay is the middle child.
DEBBIE: I love my sister dearly. I know that she didn’t do what
she was charged with. We grew up in a large family. Momma
 A FAMILY STORY 263

had simple, basic rules for us. My father passed away when
I was two, so I didn’t get a chance to meet him. But I’ve heard
stories about him, that he was a loving and supportive fa­
ther. We were taught that we could do anything. We believed
and strived for it. There was some fighting among us, but not
with Renay. They say I’m the no-nonsense sister. I’m nurtur­
ing and loving, but I’ll turn to the other side in a heartbeat.
But Renay was the peacemaker. She would shy away from
the violent aspect of anything.
KITO: I’m Renay’s daughter. I’m supporting her because I feel
in my heart that she is not capable of any physical harm. No
matter what pitfalls she may have come across, that does not
make her a murderer. At the same time, I want to shed some
light that there is hope. There are a lot of strong things in my
character that I would not have if not for the special ingredi­
ents that I got from my mother.
JUDY: Renay has always been my protector. I have polio, and
she wouldn’t let anybody do anything to hurt me, even to
this day. She’s always been there for whatever we’ve gone
through in life. As kids, when they used to play and jump off
roofs, Renay always said, “Come on, Judy, you can do it.”
Anything they did, I did. I jumped off roofs, I slid down
poles, and I got in a lot of trouble, but I was right there and
she was right there. She wasn’t going to leave me in those
situations.
When she was about fifteen, Renay told me that she
wanted to be a race car driver. She loves to drive. When she
was younger, she had a boyfriend who had these different
cars, all fast cars, and Renay loved to drive them. She also
wanted to be a model. She was a runway model, and she
didn’t really pursue that. She was too short to be a model
and that kind of crushed her.
DEBBIE: Our mother was an alcoholic, so we grew up in an
alcoholic home. We all masked our true selves and true
feelings because we didn’t know other avenues. A lot of
things that led Renay on the path that she chose stemmed
from childhood and issues that were never addressed. We
always had some kind of mind-altering device in our
lives. If it wasn’t alcohol, it was cigarettes, or a man or a
264 A FAMILY STORY

woman. There was always something to divert us from

ourselves.
Renay and I have a very different, very special relation-
ship. We shared something in common as sisters, and I can
tell Renay a lot of things that I don’t tell anyone else. I am a
recovering addict, and she and I have used together, and
that’s the bond that we share. That’s why, in my heart, I know
she’s innocent. I’ve seen a side of my sister that the others did
not see. We were caught up in getting high, and the extremes
that you go through are not a pretty sight. Once she inhaled
that crack cocaine, Renay was scared of her own shadow.
When she was sober and not on drugs, Renay would give
you whatever you wanted. She would give you a bag of
clothes, or give you all the dope, just to keep the peace.
That’s why I miss Renay—not being able to talk to her.
When I came into recovery, just having someone to confide
in was important, and she was that person for me. She’s the
one who saved me, even though she was an addict herself.
My sister came and got me and my son when I was at my
lowest. Being an addict, she knew where I was coming from,
and she was standing with me no matter what. When I
slipped, she came and got me and said, “It’s going to be all
right, Debbie.”
Now me, I would not let no drug boy or anyone think
they were going to ramrod my sister. That’s how it was
going to be with me, but Renay would just say, “Debbie, it
ain’t worth it. Here take this shit. I’ll go out and get it again.”
And she did.
JUDY: Renay was fine throughout high school; she never had a
problem. She graduated from high school. When she was in
her twenties, she met this man who was much older than she
was. I do not believe she was taking drugs before that time.
I believe after that relationship, it went downhill for her. He
was a major drug dealer. He could get anything he wanted
or do anything he wanted. It was the excitement. She was
young, she was beautiful, and she liked the nightlife. He had
the cars, and she could drive anything she wanted. People
recognized her and she liked all of that.
 A FAMILY STORY 265

I believe it was the crack. Everybody has experimented

with marijuana before, and I don’t think that was a problem
for her. The crack might not have been a problem for her at
first, but if you can get so much of whatever you want and
you keep doing this on a seven-day basis, eventually it will
get to you. I believe that’s what happened to her. That’s
when it really went downhill. She started acting different,
not caring too much about the kids. When that happened, I
knew something was going on, because when it came to the
kids, she went all out for them.
When he wouldn’t supply her anymore, she just did it
herself. She had gotten started at that point, and she was
back and forth, incarcerated for crimes like petit larceny,
boosting, and grand larceny. Nothing violent. She didn’t
care; it was like she was in another world. You would have
to protect her because people would take advantage of her.
In her drug state, she wasn’t violent; she was real paranoid.
When she wasn’t on drugs, she was always quiet.
DEBBIE: Renay was arrested for boosting, and she whined and
she cried. Back then, we really didn’t know about the crack
and how it affected the individual. So Judy and I went to bail
her out. We brought her back to my house. We were in the
house trying to talk to her, and she said, “Okay, okay, I’m
going on the porch.” One of her kids was out there, and we
heard, “Mamma, where are you going?” We all ran out there,
and all I saw was Renay cutting the corner, and I didn’t see
her for a week or so after that. That sealed it; we knew there
was a problem.
KITO: I left my mother and lived with my Aunt Judy for about
eight months, and then my father made me go to his house.
I was fourteen. Every day when I was in eighth grade, she
would not be there when I would come home. The house
would be empty, barely any food in there, the phone cut off,
cable turned off, just going to an empty house. I tried to hold
on because I knew I had my little brother and I had to make
sure that we got to school, because my mother always told
us that we had to go to school. So I was trying to hang in
there.
266 A FAMILY STORY

I would wash her clothes, I would iron them, I would do

my homework, and I would be there to comfort my little
brother like everything was normal. But it wasn’t, and then
I thought I’d leave and she’ll get it together; maybe I’ll scare
her straight. Because her kids were her life, I thought that
was the only way I’d get her to be a mother. But it just kept
getting worse. I’d come home the next day and the T.V.
would be gone. I’d come home the next day and the furni­
ture would be gone. The next day, the stove was pulled out
of its place; she just couldn’t get it out of the house.
My father wasn’t involved in the drug life. He was doing
the opposite. He was trying to make a change in his life to set
an example for me because I’m his only child. After I had
been at my Aunt Judy’s house for about eight months, he fig­
ured that he had to be a man and take care of his child. My
brother wasn’t his child, but being the kind of man that he is,
my father always made sure that my brother was all right,
and he kept us together. My Aunt Judy and my father really
supported me. My father always told me to do the right
thing. Regardless of what was happening and the heavy
burden that I was feeling, he always told me that I could get
out of it. I was naturally smart in school, so I did well. He
stayed on me about going to school. He is the major reason
why I went to a special high school. He and my mother al­
ways told me that I could be anything I wanted to be no mat­
ter where I came from.
JUDY: When the drug problem got really bad, and the kids
came to stay with me, all of us talked to her. We said, “Renay,
you’re at the end of your rope now. Come on, leave the
drugs. Your home is destroying itself.” Even when the kids
left, Renay was still getting high. The drug had just com­
pletely taken over. We suggested different types of programs
and counseling. She would go, but it really wasn’t working.
When she got back on the street and the drug addicts would
say, “Hey, come on Renay, I got some crack,” she could say
no for a while before eventually giving in. I know drugs are
difficult things. She wanted that drug so bad that she was
going back out there to get it, and that was as simple as that.
 A FAMILY STORY 267

KITO: Social Services did offer some help to her and to me, be-
cause I was the oldest and I was affected. I recall going to see
a counselor for about six months, and I did deal with a lot of
the anger that I had. Then they sent me off to some kind of
summer camp; they were trying to show me a normal sum­
mer. They focused on me, but they never focused on the fam­
ily. There have to be programs in place that have real follow-
up. There was no real follow-up. It was like the system said,
“Okay, we did it.” Closed the case, boom. But it was never re-
ally over with; there were still more problems that just kept
escalating and escalating.
I just believe in my heart that if they had identified the
real problem, which was the boyfriend, things would have
been different. When she went to the emergency room to get
a busted eye sewn back together, the system should have
come in and said, “If you’re not going to press charges, we’re
going to press charges.” I can only imagine how many
young women are still experiencing what she went through,
because it was well known what kind of man he was. My
mother wore black eyes like they were sunglasses. He almost
killed her once. She had a punctured lung. The system did­
n’t do anything then. I remember that they put her in pro­
tective custody, but that was it. He still swindled a way to get
up in the hospital.
She probably felt that there was no way out. She had
taken everything that you could think of, emotionally and
physically, and there was no way out for her. So drugs were
the outlet for her. When I became a mother and started ex­
periencing that unconditional love for your child, I started to
reflect on some of the things that she told me about some of
the pain that she experienced. That’s why I refuse to be in an
abusive relationship, because she always told me that if they
do it once, they’ll do it again and they’ll almost kill you. I’ve
seen that with my own eyes. I saw this man walk in the
house and just flip on her. He would just start beating her
with whatever was there, fireplace equipment and stuff like
that. No woman deserves that. She would take the beating
and then he would find a way to get back in her life.
268 A FAMILY STORY

JUDY: She’s real. If she’s got it, she’s going to give it to you. If
she doesn’t have it, she’s going to get it. Renay was a profes­
sional booster. If she needed money, that’s how she got it.
When she was out there, my sister could make money within
an hour if she wanted to. That’s just a part of her past. She
might have gone into department stores and done it, but she
did not go into anyone’s home and take it.
KITO: She knew how to get money and she never did anything
harmful to anyone to get her money. She was always honest.
She told me that she was a thief, and I saw my mother steal.
Then, the relationship with this drug dealer added to the
life-style. We lived a wealthy life-style until the drugs took
over. Everybody wanted to be at our house. When the drugs
took over, all of the material things disappeared. She would
replace them, and they would disappear again. My whole
senior year was so rocky for me because I was eighteen years
old, and I was trying to come to grips with everything and
people were saying crude things about my mother.
After I graduated, I left the area altogether to live with an-
other aunt. While I was away, I found out that Social Services
was going to get my brother. I told them, “No, I’ll come and
get him.” I don’t know how I did it, but I came back and got
my brother.
DEBBIE: I believe that Renay is the scapegoat in this killing. The
area where it occurred is predominantly White. There’s no
way that something that awful happened and no one saw or
heard anything. Somebody would have reported seeing a
Black face over there.
JUDY: I was not living in the area when it happened. When we
heard it, we couldn’t believe it. We came back home. We
thought it was going to blow over because there was no evi­
dence. It was a big case, because the victim was elderly and
had standing in the community.
Renay was not the immediate suspect in the case; some-
one else was the main suspect. There was a two-year-long
case, and they still hadn’t arrested her. For two years, noth­
ing came about. They had questioned her, and she passed
two polygraphs. At the time she was arrested, it was for a
separate theft offense, not the murder. When she was in
 A FAMILY STORY 269

there, apparently the murder came up in some way. When

they arrested her, Renay had just come down off a two-week
binge from getting high, and she was real jittery and shaky.
They said that Renay said, “Well, if you let me go, I know
something about some particular murder.” They claimed
that Renay told them about this murder in detail and told
them all the details of the murder. They claimed that she con­
fessed in three different statements that she made. To this
day, the only evidence that they have is that confession. Also,
there was a guy that said that Renay did it. They went out of
state to question him. He said he didn’t know what Renay
was talking about. That was the end of that and nothing else
was said about him.
We retained a private attorney at the beginning. But that
was for the theft; when it turned into the murder charge, he
dropped us. He said we didn’t have enough money. His at­
torney’s fees had already wiped her out. So, then we got a
court-appointed lawyer. Renay had difficulty with him from
the start. I think he could have shown more initiative in her
case. He represented her at trial. As the trial went on, they
portrayed her as a liar, a thief, a prostitute, and a drug addict
who would do anything for drugs.
KITO: Her defense attorney won’t even talk to us. I called him.
I left a message at his home. I even called the original attor­
ney to schedule an appointment to get any records that he
had on my mother. He won’t even return my call. It’s like
we’re the plague. Whenever we call someone and ask for
more information, they say, “Oh, no. You know what you
know, and that’s all you need to know. She’s got twenty-five
years to life and that’s all you need to know.” Well, that’s not
all I need to know, and that’s not all I want to know. If you’re
going to have her take a hit like this, then I want the missing
links to be filled. No one ever filled the missing links.
JUDY: We were there for the summation, and then the jury went
out. They came back two or three days after that. All of us
were there, but they still didn’t have a verdict at that time;
they had to come back again. They wanted a clarification on
something. It was late in the day, so a lot of us had left and
were going to come back. I came back, but by the time I got
270 A FAMILY STORY

up there, the jury had come back; they never called us. I went
back because Renay had said, “Judy, please come back.” But
I didn’t even get a chance to get up there. I saw a stenogra­
pher in the hallway and I asked her. She said, “I’m sorry, but
she got twenty-five years to life.” I just couldn’t believe it. I
wasn’t actually in court; Renay was there by herself. It was
absolutely terrible. After the verdict, no one asked us how
we felt. The media just interviewed the district attorney.
Renay went straight to the law library when she went to
prison. She has had two appeals and she lost both. We’re
going to keep on trying. People can say, “Well, you would
say anything for your sister.” But most of Renay’s friends
would say that she is not a violent person. Whatever she
needed, she would get by boosting. If she has any downfalls,
that would be it, that and taking drugs. On this charge, she
really was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They gave
her twenty-five years to life and we’ve been working ever
since to get her out. It really was an injustice.
KITO: It’s refreshing for me to visit my mother. It’s like the
strength that I need to keep on keeping on. I enjoy the visits.
It’s tough at the end when we’re saying goodbye, but I have
the faith of seeing her again the next month. Then I have the
hope of overcoming this nightmare, so it keeps me going.
JUDY: I go to visit Renay every month, or every chance I get.
The church sponsors a program with a free bus ride to the
prison for visits. Renay loves the visits. Her son goes a lot of
times with me. He talks to his mother when we go for the
visit, but he really doesn’t talk about it with her. The grand-
kids always go. We try our best to send her what she needs.
Everybody tries to chip in and we send a food box or we take
it to her because it’s cheaper. We just try to support her.
DEBBIE: I don’t get up there to see her. I went once. I can’t take
that road trip, but I correspond with letters, and if she needs
anything, I’ll send it through the others. I’ll give anything. I
can’t see Renay in there. I don’t like to be locked up, that
caged feeling. But that’s not it. I don’t want to see my sister
in that place, and I can’t cope with it.
KITO: My mother instilled in me the strength and courage to
make something of myself. She always told me, “It doesn’t
 A FAMILY STORY 271

have to be this way.” Each day that I make it now is because

of my family, my Aunt Judy, my Aunt Debbie, my boyfriend
and his family, and my father and his wife. A lot of times,
people get on me if they feel that I’m not doing enough. A lot
of times, I just get heavily wrapped up into my children. But
my family keeps me balanced. I’m doing what my mother
would do for me, what she would expect of me.
I want to open up a home for women and their children,
because I can sit down and get on my knees and cry with
them because I can relate to their experiences. I think it’s im­
portant for twenty-four-hour service to be available. Some-
one has to be available at any time of the night for people
that are dealing with mental abuse, because living through
my mother’s drug addiction was mental abuse for me. I had
inner strength, but everyone does not have that. A lot of peo­
ple need encouragement; they need people. They need an
example like me. They need to see that my mother’s in jail,
doing twenty-five years to life, but I’m still a productive cit­
izen. I still get up every day and go to work. I’m still pursu­
ing my education, and I’m still there for my children and my
family.
One day we will wake up from this; the evidence will be
revealed soon enough. I hope that people understand that
there’s a transition period that people have to go through in
life. In my heart, I believe that this is just one of the transi­
tions that saved my mother’s life.
 PART III

CONCLUSIONS AND
RECOMMENDATIONS

As one reads history . . . one is absolutely sickened not by the crimes

the wicked have committed, but by the punishments the good have
inflicted.
—Oscar Wilde

SUMMARY OF INNER LIVES NARRATIVES

The American approach to crime and punishment is severe for its over-
reliance on imprisonment to sanction criminal conduct. “Only in the
U.S.,” notes Professor Michael Tonry, “are constitutional and other safe-
guards of criminal defendants systematically being reduced.”1 The
harsh punitive thrust of current criminal law doctrine and policy ad­
versely affects many African American women whose poverty, physical
and sexual victimization, and drug-related problems are substantial
contributing factors in their incarceration.
As the analyses and narratives in the preceding sections reveal,
African American women are treated in disparate and disparaging
ways at virtually all stages of criminal justice system operation. Auto­
matically suspect as criminals, women such as Denise Pullian and Jan­
neral Denson were subjected to humiliating, intrusive bodily searches,
and were further dehumanized by being referred to as inanimate ob­
jects—“that thing”—by government workers. As Joyce Ann Brown and
Betty Tyson’s circumstances starkly illustrate, through criminal justice
apparatus, U.S. society willingly incarcerates African American women
despite overwhelming evidence of their innocence.
Karen Blakney’s experience highlights the gross injustice of drug
laws and prosecutions. Her encouragement by undercover DEA agents
to “cook” powdered cocaine was expressly induced to trigger the
harsher mandatory penalty for crack cocaine. Despite the trial judge’s

273
 274 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

resistance to institute the statutory sentence, successful government ap­

peals overturned his sound determination that long imprisonment was
not warranted based on Karen’s minor role in the offense and the major
turn-around in her life. Although Karen’s situation ultimately was re-
solved positively, many similarly situated women and men languish in
prison as “collateral damage” in these misdirected wars. Martha’s ex­
perience similarly epitomizes the inherent injustice in drug-sentencing
laws. A first offender who sold drugs for less than a year, she now
serves a maximum life sentence for arranging a buy for a former cus­
tomer who worked as a police informant. Surely society is not made
safer nor whole by the sentences meted out of proportion with the of­
fenses in such cases.
Rae Ann and Donna exemplify poor initial decision making and
unfortunate personal allegiances. Events stemming from these choices
dramatically changed the course of their lives. These adverse conse­
quences resulted in prostitution, drug use, and drug-related offenses,
all of which had a deleterious impact on their self-worth and ability to
extricate themselves from criminal offending. Nevertheless, prison
seems an inappropriate place to address their level of wrongdoing, par­
ticularly without giving effective attention to their underlying emo­
tional needs. With Donna, for instance, issues of self-esteem, past abuse,
and sobriety must be addressed to end the cycle of recidivism.
Questions of accountability and culpability, of course, are central
to criminal adjudication and sentencing. The resolution of these issues
is complex, frequently involving varying degrees of acceptance or de­
nial of responsibility by those accused of criminal offenses. As we also
have seen, however, resolution of criminal cases is further complicated
by frequently being fraught with conscious or unconscious race, gen­
der, and class biases.2 In Mamie’s situation, for example, long abused
and neglected herself, her conviction results from perplexing unan­
swered questions surrounding her daughter’s death, including ques­
tions about Mamie’s alleged involvement, the rigorousness of her legal
representation, and her understanding or lack thereof of the charges
and legal proceedings against her. Thus, issues of structural inequality
in society and unequal treatment in criminal justice proceedings ren­
der the ultimate determinations as suspect in many such circum­
stances.
Difficult issues regarding culpability are raised by situations in­
volving women’s responses to violence in their lives. Women such as
 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS 275

DonAlda and Millicent Pierce, for example, waged ultimate struggles to

defend their lives after chronic abuse by male partners. Their stories
highlight the pervasive violence in women’s lives and the lack of pre­
ventative measures to ensure women’s safety. Perversely, women who
act to prioritize their own lives over the lives of their abusers often are
punished more severely for taking such life-saving measures. This
irony should prompt greater examination of legal concepts of self-de­
fense, particularly where abuse is endemic in the relationship and
where the racial backgrounds of the parties are implicated.
Moreover, Marilyn, DonAlda, and Cynthia’s experiences raise seri­
ous issues about incarcerated women’s access to mental health care, as
well as concerns about ethics and efficacy regarding prescription drug
use for inmates and inmate autonomy regarding decisions about their
health care.
For some women, prison raised their consciousness about the cir­
cumstances of women’s lives, with particular regard to the criminal jus­
tice system, whether or not they shared economic, educational, or sex­
ual orientation backgrounds, or particular experiences related to their
incarceration. In prison, they found value in their own lives and the
lives of other women despite such differences and became advocates
for individual and common concerns. For example, even where women
such as Cynthia acknowledge the grave harms they have caused, they
insist on fair treatment within the prison institution. Thus, overcoming
feelings of worthlessness and demanding recognition of their human
dignity occur after much introspection and self-forgiveness. For Eliza­
beth and Joyce Logan, new-found awareness and self-worth in prison
provided the impetus to become self-educated about the law. This en­
abled them to challenge prison policies and assert their rights to hu­
mane treatment and conditions, including necessary health care and
prevention of abusive cross-gender body searches.
Upon release, other African American women who are former in-
mates, and organizations like Grace House and Aid to Children of In­
carcerated Mothers (AIM), can support women in the reclamation of
their lives and human potential, particularly if such assistance was not
available or effective in prison. Bettie Gibson, a former Grace House res­
ident, shows that such structured support in transition from prison can
enable women to develop skills for self-sufficiency as well as skills to
understand and cope with past histories of physical or sexual abuse, and
of substance abuse. With renewed motivation, professional assistance,
 276 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

and peer support, the women can redirect their energies toward posi­
tive life changes.
Thus, as Joyce Logan and other women have emphasized, educa­
tional and vocational skills opportunities are key to the realization of
their potential as productive citizens. Further, as Donna Hubbard
Spearman particularly emphasized, the spiritual dimension of the
women’s lives cannot be ignored in their journey toward personal ful­
fillment and human development.
Significantly, ex-inmates themselves are providing the assistance
that incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women need. Joyce Brown,
Ida McCray, Donna Hubbard Spearman, and Millicent Pierce demon­
strate the importance of engaging formerly incarcerated women who
recognize the particular needs of women inmates and their families to
work to meet those needs.
Notably, irrespective of geographical location or variations in their
individual circumstances, in their narratives the incarcerated and for­
merly incarcerated women reported experiences or observations of un­
fair treatment of African American women inmates within the prisons.
These women resisted the stultifying effects of institutionalization by
taking advantage of available programs within correctional facilities
and demanding human dignity inside and outside of prison environ­
ments. Their reports of subtle and overt bias against African American
women warrant greater attention by correctional administrators, in­
cluding a greater diversity within correctional staff employees and
greater training on cultural diversity for all prison staff.
Finally, in this book, officials from the judiciary and prison admin­
istration have explained precepts of the criminal justice and correc­
tional systems, while members of supportive networks lent valuable in-
sights into the complexities of the women’s lives. The depth of Judge
Newton’s knowledge and sensitivity confirm the importance of having
professionals of diverse backgrounds and experiences on the bench, in
law enforcement, and throughout the legal profession. Judge Newton’s
cogent decision in Thompson v. New York,3 a case that was considered by
twelve justices of the New York appellate courts, surely contributed ra­
tionality to the current debate to reform New York’s severe drug laws.
Gerald Clay, an assistant warden, approaches his work with equanim­
ity in a professional, no-nonsense, and seemingly detached manner.
Conspicuously, however, he volunteered to direct a gospel choir as an
expressive outlet for women inmates at his institution. Thus, like many
 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS 277

correctional administrators who view themselves as more than jailers,

his actions evince more concern than his exterior veneer would suggest.
The importance of community volunteers and involvement of oth­
ers who are external to the institution, cannot be overstated. Such in­
volvement reduces isolation from members of the larger community
and exposes the women to a variety of perspectives. In this regard, artis­
tic director Rhodessa Jones and the Medea Theater Project bring life-
saving theater into the prison, helping to restore incarcerated women to
wholeness and psychic well-being through connections to classical
works and the creation of their own stories. Through the dramatic
process, the women develop skills and safe spaces to cope with pain
and loss and begin to envision brighter futures for themselves.
For women, one of the most difficult aspects of imprisonment is
separation from family. The geographical location of women’s prisons
and prohibitive transportation costs for many family members make
regular visits rare for incarcerated women, assuming, of course, an in­
clination by family members to visit. It is not unusual for incarcerated
women to lose contact with family and friends. This is in stark contrast
to incarcerated men, who frequently have visitors and receive mail and
care packages. This is why the relationship between Renay and her fam­
ily bears recognition. Judy, Debbie, and Kito are steadfast in their love
for their sister and mother, Renay, currently serving twenty-five years
to life for murder. Disbelieving claims that Renay’s confession about the
killing was truthful and voluntary, they maintain her innocence and
continue to support efforts to overturn her conviction. Their regular vis­
its and correspondence are lifelines that sustain all of them.
Sandra Barnhill and her organization, Aid to Children of Incarcer­
ated Mothers (AIM), provide the vital function of helping incarcerated
women maintain contact with their families. Thus, critical ties between
mothers and children are facilitated through these efforts, as Millicent
Pierce and Donna Hubbard Spearman attest. Equally important, AIM
supports caretakers, usually African American grandmothers who
often assume custody of their incarcerated daughters’ (and sons’)
minor children. Often on the margins of physical health and economic
well-being themselves, caretakers require tangible resources and emo­
tional outlets for their unique frustrations and concerns. Similarly, AIM
addresses the needs of incarcerated mothers’ children by providing
counseling, support groups, and special activities for them. Supported
in this way, the children have avenues through which to express their
 278 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

fears and frustrations over their family circumstances and can establish
foundations to reach their aspirations.
The women of Grace House—Rochelle, Kathy, Annie, and Mary—
are lifesavers, too. Women often leave prison with little more than that
with which they entered, in terms of material goods or life skills. Thus,
Grace House offers women released from prison much-needed housing
and the opportunity to become stable and self-actualized. They model
sisterhood within a supportive and challenging environment in which
released women learn self-sufficiency and a healthy regard for them-
selves and others. A cadre of professionals and volunteers in educa­
tional, occupational, medical, and mental-health fields work with the
Grace House residents to redirect the women to more positive alterna­
tives in their lives in the larger society.
Lastly, Brenda Smith shows the power and importance of inspired
and effective legal advocacy on behalf of female inmates who are vul­
nerable to sexual abuse and poor conditions in prison. Her work on be-
half of women in the District of Columbia prison system and her con­
tinuing efforts to improve prison conditions nationally and interna­
tionally infuse meaning into the principle of equal justice under the
law. The realization of this principle in the lives of African American
women demands greater commitment by all members of the legal pro­
fession.

SUMMARY OF IMPLICATIONS FROM

NARRATIVES, DATA, AND LEGAL TRENDS

The overrepresentation of African American women in the prodigious

women’s prison population warrants closer attention to the specific cir­
cumstances of their lives, the conditions of their imprisonment, and
their needs upon returning to society. While the concerns of incarcer­
ated women often transcend race, African American women’s unique
circumstances are generally overlooked within the population of incar­
cerated women. For example, while most incarcerated women come
from impoverished backgrounds, with personal health already com­
promised upon entering prison, this is particularly true for African
American women. Thus, all incarcerated women require proper screen­
ing and treatment for any gynecological and obstetrical problems, as
 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS 279

well as female-specific cancers, such as breast, ovarian, or cervical. As

attorney-activist Ellen Barry observes:

[T]here is a higher prevalence of depression, HIV, and hepatitis

C in women prisoners than in the general adult female popula­
tion. . . . [B]ecause of these risk factors, it would be logical and
prudent public policy to expect that the medical care provided
to women prisoners would be at the least adequate and, per-
haps, preventive. Instead, there remain widespread deficien­
cies that have resulted in serious injury and, sometimes, death.4

Yet, as Barry further notes, “because women of color are dramatically

overrepresented in this population, there is a disproportionate preva­
lence of certain types of illnesses, such as diabetes, high blood pressure,
sickle cell anemia, and a higher instance of undetected breast cancer.”5
As incarcerated women of color present with a higher incidence of HIV
infection and AIDS-related illnesses, adequate attention to these med­
ical conditions must also be paid. Jo Lydia Sabur, coordinator of a coun­
seling program for former female offenders in New York City, observes:
“There is a sense of helplessness and lack of control, even over little
things. There is no say in your medical care or nutritional needs. . . .
HIV-positive women are further isolated when they are placed in spe­
cial units. They are treated like lepers by the regular staff and the med­
ical staff. Considering the special needs of a person who has HIV, prison
is the worst place that they can be.”6
Moreover, as the overall prison population continues to age, greater
attention to the special needs of older inmates is required, including
special concerns of older women. Thus, the numerous and unique
health concerns of African American women and other women of color
must be addressed.
Recent reports by national and international organizations shed
light on some of the disparate and deplorable conditions in women’s
prisons and the treatment of women incarcerated therein. These reports
documented that women are vulnerable to further sexual violation
while incarcerated. In 1996, Human Rights Watch reported on the
prevalence of sexual abuse against women in prison. The report high-
lighted the problems of sexual misconduct and cross-gender supervi­
sion in U.S. prisons. Based on its investigation, Human Rights Watch
concluded that “being a woman prisoner in U.S. state prisons can be a
 280 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

terrifying experience,” and that few effective means of redress existed

for women’s complaints.7
Shortly after the Human Rights Watch report, Amnesty Interna­
tional released “Not Part of My Sentence”: Violations of the Human Rights
of Women in Custody, in 1999. In its report, Amnesty International also
identified sexual abuse as a particular problem facing women in prison.
In 1999, the GAO also studied the matter of sexual abuse of female in-
mates by correctional staff in U.S. prisons.8 The GAO found that the ju­
risdictions under review—Texas, the Federal Bureau of Prisons, Cali­
fornia, and the District of Columbia—were woefully inadequate in
recording complaints and maintaining systematic data collection in
order to respond to incidents of sexual abuse.9 Clearly, then, U.S. pris­
ons must adopt effective measures to prevent and punish sexual mis­
conduct by corrections authorities against incarcerated women.
In addition, the high incidence of sexual abuse in the women’s lives
prior to incarceration demands the availability of adequate psycholog­
ical counseling, as it often relates to their criminality. Addressing these
traumas through counseling is critical to the women’s physical and
emotional well-being and ultimate rehabilitation. In this regard, drug
and alcohol abuse counseling that pays particular attention to women’s
gender, racial and cultural backgrounds, and experiences also is neces­
sary. In her research on correlations between women’s criminality and
experiences of prior sexual abuse, psychologist Cathy McDaniels Wil­
son notes that prison “[p]rogram development needs to incorporate
into its foundation the understanding of the socio-historical context
under which many African Americans have lived and continue to live.
Facilitators should be focused on ways in which to validate, empower,
and educate this subpopulation.”10 Instead, a 1997 survey of fifty-two
departments of correction found that “only twenty-seven departments
reported that they provide substance abuse programs developed specif­
ically for women; only nineteen departments provided domestic vio­
lence programs developed specifically for women; only nine depart­
ments offered programs for victims of sexual assault; and only nine de­
partments provided special programs to address women’s health
education.”11
Moreover, an Inner Lives survey of administrators at women’s cor­
rectional institutions suggests that culturally specific programming for
African American women and other women of color is nonexistent or
rare.12 Administrators at ten female correctional institutions across the
 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS 281

Northeast, Midwest, South, and West were asked about the availability
of programs or components of programs that addressed the specific
concerns of women of color. None of the ten randomly selected institu­
tions offered culturally specific programs for African American women
inmates. Explanations varied, as some respondents did not perceive a
need for such programs and felt that African American women’s needs
were sufficiently addressed through general programs. In contrast,
other respondents attempted informally to incorporate culturally spe­
cific aspects of educational or counseling programs that are directed to
African American and other women of color. While conclusions regard­
ing the existence or extent of programs that address African American
women’s particular experiences and needs are tentative and require fur­
ther systematic study, the initial responses are not encouraging.
Just as correctional facilities have recognized that women inmates
have needs that are distinguishable from male inmates, so too, are
racially engendered experiences of African American women worthy of
particularized attention. More research on the programming possibili­
ties in this area is warranted due to the positive effects they would have
on African American women’s self-awareness and rehabilitation. One
step in this direction is suggested in Appendix A, which presents a
course on African American women’s history. As a self-study course,
women can complete the suggested readings individually or in study
groups with others. In addition, institutions may consider providing
courses on African American women’s history within their range of ed­
ucational offerings. As the majority of Inner Lives participants ex-
pressed, their educational experiences prior to incarceration were often
desultory, as their academic needs and potential were largely ignored or
underestimated, even when the women exhibited intellectual interest
and capability.13
In another significant area, incarcerated women’s roles as the pri­
mary caretakers of minor children also require special attention. Long
sentences for relatively minor offenses affect the lives of the women and
their children. Furthermore, under circumstances where correctional
institutions are located far from women’s families, it is extremely diffi­
cult to maintain family bonds during prolonged incarceration periods.14
These circumstances are detrimental to all involved, as women may be-
come despondent and children may lose their connection to their pri­
mary parent. The great distances to correctional institutions also jeop­
ardize other important personal ties, making it difficult for women to
 282 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

maintain positive community connections. Therefore, it is vital that

prison policies adopt flexible means to facilitate visits by women in-
mates’ family members and make other support systems available. Fur­
thermore, counseling for the particular emotional and material needs of
children and substitute caretakers stemming from a mother’s incarcer­
ation must be addressed as well.15
Further, overreliance on incarceration must end. Most women in
prison, including most African American women, are excellent candi­
dates for alternatives to imprisonment. They generally are nonviolent
offenders who would benefit from drug treatment and educational and
employment opportunities.16 Prisons must provide the necessary re-
sources or training programs that will improve incarcerated women’s
chances of later sustaining themselves and their families with mar­
ketable skills and a living wage. Community alternatives to prison and
transitional programs upon release from prison will give the women
opportunities to become productive and independent.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, greater attention must be
paid to preventive efforts that reduce women’s incarceration altogether.
In one respect, prevention must address the safety of African American
girls so that they are free from physical and sexual abuse in their homes
and elsewhere. The strong correlation between women’s histories of
physical and sexual abuse and subsequent criminality demands that
families, communities, and societal institutions fulfill their roles in pro­
tecting African American youth from such harms and guiding their
progress toward healthy adulthood. Similarly, where abuse in women’s
lives originates in adulthood, serious responses to these painful and un­
lawful acts must be accorded to African American women within their
communities, and by social services agencies and legal institutions.17
Another instance in which prevention must occur lies within the
structure of the criminal justice system itself. Harsh mandatory mini-
mum sentences primarily for low-level drug offenders are indisputably
counterproductive and patently destructive of many young people’s
lives. American society is unjustified in extinguishing the life potential
of great numbers of people of color in this manner. Moreover, these laws
defy proportionality mandates for criminal punishment and do little to
promote public safety. They demand immediate repeal. RAND Institute
researchers found that drug treatment is far more effective in address­
ing direct and ancillary offenses related to drug use.18
 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS 283

Notably, such reconsideration is occurring in states where the most

stringent application of such measures originated. Increasing financial
constraints are forcing reconsideration in several states.19 In California,
notable for its three-strikes and mandatory minimum provisions, vot­
ers recently challenged a bond issue for further prison construction and
also approved a referendum requiring treatment rather than imprison­
ment for first-time nonviolent drug offenders.20 Similarly, in New York
State, extensive discussions across the political spectrum are underway
to dismantle the notorious Rockefeller drug laws.21 The fundamental
flaw in many state and federal mandatory sentences for drug offenses
is that punishment is based on the weight of the substance rather than
the individual’s involvement in the offense.22 Therefore, any efforts to
reform laws must properly focus on individual culpability rather than
be based arbitrarily on the weight of the substance.
African American women’s incarceration is not solely due to drug
offenses, however. In this regard, more pervasive systemic changes
must occur to rid the criminal justice system of all vestiges of race, gen­
der, and class bias that affect the charging decision and the chance for
fair disposition of criminal allegations.23
A third area of prevention involves judicial oversight of prisons. As
Judge Edmund Spaeth, Jr., noted three decades ago, “[I]f the courts are
to serve with honor, they must say what they expect the prisons to do,
and try to make them do it.”24 Yet, as Judge Spaeth further noted, “The
courts’ responses to prisoners’ suits have proceeded from indifference
to confusion, or . . . uncertainty.”25 More recently, Chief Judge Jon New-
man of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals, observed that “[a] con­
certed effort to disparage the vindication of prisoners’ rights and to
limit opportunities for legal redress”26 existed within the United States.
As Chief Judge Newman recognized, accounts of frivolous prisoner
lawsuits are often misleading.27 Primarily based on misconceptions and
misrepresentations about the legitimacy of inmate complaints, Con­
gress’s recently enacted Prison Litigation Reform Act severely limits in-
mates’ access to the courts.28 Thus, legislatures and courts are ceding to
prison authorities near total control of inmate access to legal redress
and public awareness of prison conditions. At a time of unparalleled
prison construction and inmate population growth,29 it is more impor­
tant than ever to ensure judicial oversight regarding correctional poli­
cies, institutional conditions, and the treatment of inmates.30
 284 PART III: CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

One hundred years ago, W. E. B. Du Bois remarked about the unre­

alized promise of Reconstruction era reforms, “Despite compromise,
war, and struggle, the Negro is not free. In well-nigh the whole rural
South the black farmers are peons, bound by law and custom to an eco­
nomic slavery from which the only escape is death or the peniten­
tiary.”31 As the French say, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose (the
more things change, the more they remain the same). Regretfully, this
aphorism renders Du Bois’ commentary as true today as a century ago
with respect to the appalling proportion of African Americans in U.S.
prisons and jails. These trends can be reversed, however, beginning in
this new century. Thus, in the end, I hope that this book, through its
data, analyses, narratives, and photographs will prompt greater recog­
nition of the value of African American girls’ and women’s lives. More
broadly, I hope that U.S. society will pursue more effective solutions
than imprisonment to address social problems and criminality. This re-
quires fundamental changes in our society, not just changes in the
women who directly experience incarceration. It is imperative that in-
equality in society and law finally be eradicated. American society must
actualize the principles of fairness that it so often espouses. If we com­
mit to a vision that encompasses African American women’s experi­
ences and perspectives within the concept of justice, we will learn to our
great benefit that everyone can contribute to society given the opportu­
nity and means to do so.
Afterword

Angela J. Davis, Professor,

American University Washington College of Law

A F R I C A N A M E R I C A N W O M E N are the fastest-growing and ar­

guably worst-treated segment of the American prison population. They
receive much more severe sentences and harsher overall treatment than
their similarly situated White counterparts. Yet although there has been
significant focus on the plight of African American men in the criminal
justice system in the scholarly literature and media, African American
women have been relatively invisible despite their growing numbers
and severe problems in America’s prisons. In Inner Lives, Professor
Paula Johnson discovers these women for us all and reveals their pain,
struggles, and triumphs.
I was a public defender in the District of Columbia for twelve years
before becoming a law professor. The racial disparities in the criminal
justice system (in the District of Columbia and nationwide) were al­
ways obvious to me, as were the unique problems and disparate treat­
ment of women. The vast majority of my male clients and all of my fe­
male clients were African American. The men who were incarcerated in
the District of Columbia received little to no rehabilitative treatment,
very little education, and inadequate health care. The women received
even less of everything, and almost all of them suffered from abuse and
lack of a basic education and health care. It seemed as if no one paid at­
tention to these women, perhaps because their numbers were relatively
small at that time. This was before Professor Brenda Smith’s ground-
breaking litigation and advocacy on behalf of D.C. women prisoners.
Since my days as a public defender in the 1980s, the number of
African American women in the criminal justice and prison systems
has grown exponentially. The proliferation of mandatory minimum

285
 286 AFTERWORD BY ANGELA J. DAVIS

sentencing laws, the expansion of prosecutorial discretion, and the dis­

criminatory treatment of African Americans at every stage of the crim­
inal process seem to have taken their toll on African American women
more than on any other segment of the prison population. Yet, with a
few notable exceptions, very little has been written about the de­
plorable, unimaginable conditions under which these women have
lived—before and after their imprisonment. Professor Johnson fills this
void.
In Inner Lives, Professor Johnson makes an extremely important
contribution to criminal justice and prison literature, to the criminal jus­
tice and prison systems, and to the lives of African American women. In
part 1, Professor Johnson provided a thorough summary and analysis
of the treatment of African American women in the criminal justice and
prison systems. This part of the book provides important historical con-
text and demonstrates how racial, socio-economic, and gender dispari­
ties have plagued African American women in the criminal justice sys­
tem from slavery times to the present day. Professor Johnson’s presen­
tation of critical data and her analysis of historical and contemporary
legal phenomena are both substantive and accessible to a broad audi­
ence.
Part 2 consisted of Professor Johnson’s powerful presentation of the
narratives of African American women who are currently incarcerated
or have previously served prison time. This part also contains the sto­
ries of women who work with African American women in the crimi­
nal justice and prison systems in a variety of capacities. The power and
passion of these women’s stories gives the book its unique strength. It
is through these narratives that the many injustices Professor Johnson
discusses in part 1 are illustrated so clearly. Certain themes resonate
throughout many of the stories: unfair treatment by law enforcement,
inadequate and uncaring defense counsel, extremely harsh sentences
for nonviolent offenses, and racially discriminatory treatment in the
court system and in prison facilities. There are the unthinkable cases of
innocent women serving many years of hard time before being released
and others maintaining innocence who may never be released. There
are also the stories of women who admit wrongdoing but received ex­
tremely harsh sentences for nonviolent offenses or for minimal in­
volvement in a violent offense. The other consistent themes that pre-
dominate the narratives of those who admit guilt as well as those who
maintain innocence: incredibly difficult lives as children and adults;
 AFTERWORD BY ANGELA J. DAVIS 287

sexual, physical, and emotional abuse as children and adults; lack of

nurturing and demonstrations of affection from their mothers; and sub-
stance abuse as a way to forget the pain.
It is very difficult to come away from these narratives without em­
pathy for these women, an appreciation of their gifts and values as
human beings, and an understanding of how good and loving people
might do bad things if the circumstances are bad enough. And this is the
power and uniqueness of this book. It provides critical information
about the plight of African American women in the criminal justice and
prison systems. But unlike other works about injustice in these systems,
it compels the reader to care by putting a human face on the cold, hard
facts. The facts about the harshness of mandatory minimum drug laws
come to life through Elizabeth’s fifty-year sentence and Rae Ann’s two
life sentences for drug distribution. Consistent physical violence and
emotional abuse in these women’s lives become all too real through the
painful childhood memories of Betty Tyson, Mamie, and Cynthia.
The narratives of the criminal justice officials and advocates are in-
spiring. Judge Newton’s firm nurturing of a young woman who ap­
peared before her and her connection to the young woman’s mother re-
mind us why diversity on the bench is so important. Professor Smith’s
advocacy, Rhodessa Jones’s theater project, and the work of the women
at Grace House and AIM give us hope. Gerald Clay’s decision to start a
gospel choir at the Franklin Pre-Release Center show us how these
women can inspire us all to do a little more.
Inner Lives should be required reading for every person who works
in the criminal justice and prison systems—police officers, prosecutors,
defense attorneys, judges, probation and parole officers, and correc­
tions officials. It will open the eyes of those who continue to deny the
obvious race and class disparities and blame the victims for their cir­
cumstances. For those who know the injustices exist but feel hopeless,
Inner Lives will inspire them to redouble their efforts. Perhaps the pros­
ecutor and judge will exercise their discretion to promote fairness and
provide rehabilitative treatment when needed. Hopefully, the defense
attorney will work harder to provide the best defense possible in every
case, regardless of the client’s income or circumstance. Maybe the
prison official will treat the women in her care with dignity and com­
passion.
Those of us who believe in justice and humane treatment for all
should work to implement Professor Johnson’s recommendations. All
 288 AFTERWORD BY ANGELA J. DAVIS

human beings deserve a nurturing and loving childhood and access to

education and health care. No one should have to endure a life of abuse
and pain. We must all work to demand that resources be provided for
preventive measures, indigent defense, and rehabilitative treatment.
We should advocate for the elimination of mandatory minimum laws
that result in the unfair and racially discriminatory treatment of African
American women. Inner Lives provides the motivation and inspiration
to renew and continue the struggle.
Appendix A
Self-Study Course on

African American Women’s History

Your time is now, my sisters. . . . New goals and new priorities, not
only for this country, but for all of mankind must be set. Formal edu­
cation will not help us do that. We must therefore depend upon infor­
mal learning. We can do that by confronting people with their hu­
manity and their own inhumanity—confronting them wherever we
meet them: in the church, in the classroom, on the floor of the Congress
and the state legislatures, in the bars, and on the streets. We must re­
ject not only the stereotypes that others hold of us, but also the stereo-
types that we hold of ourselves.
—Shirley Chisholm

T H I S R E C O M M E N D E D R E A D I N G L I S T is the basis for a course on

African American women’s history. It grows out of my belief that self-
awareness and education are essential to African American women’s
empowerment and self-sufficiency. While no one was paid for partici­
pating in Inner Lives, I wanted to leave something meaningful with the
incarcerated women I interviewed. Therefore, I gave them copies of A
Shining Thread of Hope: The History of Black Women in America by Dar­
lene Clark Hine and Kathleen Thompson. Several women wrote back
to say that they appreciated the book and that they learned much from
it. This more extensive reading list, then, is designed to introduce or
reintroduce the rich and diverse experiences of African American
women to those who need it most—African American women. While
this reading list is by no means definitive, it does provide a starting
point for information and critical evaluation of the historical, social,
political, legal, artistic, and cultural dimensions of African American
women’s lives.

289
 290 APPENDIX A

As a self-study course, these materials can be studied individually

or in discussion groups by incarcerated women and other readers.
Moreover, readers can construct their own courses by selecting read­
ings within particular subject areas that interest them. Through these
readings, I hope that African American women will find their connec­
tion to others who have faced and surmounted major challenges, and
will thereby find resonance and application in their own lives. I hope
that readers will share their experiences with the books with me so that
the course will continue to develop in a dynamic way: Which readings
did you like or not like and why? What did you learn from the different
books? Were there books, individuals, or characters that were especially
relevant to you? How will you incorporate what you have learned from
the books into your life? Are there other books or topics that you would
recommend for a course on African American women’s history and ex­
periences?
Also, I hope that readers who have greater resources will contribute
books on the list to women’s prisons and jails. Often prisons require
that books be forwarded directly from the publisher; therefore, readers
should check with prison administrators about such procedures. Also,
in Appendix B you will note listings for organizations that provide
books to inmates. You may contact them to donate books on this list.
Those who have time to donate might consider contributing to lit­
eracy efforts and discussion groups for women in prison. If you con-
tribute in any of these or in other ways, I hope that you will drop a note
to let me know about your experiences as well.

SELF-STUDY COURSE READING LIST

Herstory
Paula Giddings, When and Where I Enter: The Impact of Black Women on Race and
Sex in America (Bantam Books, 1998).
Darlene Clark Hine and Kathleen Thompson, A Shining Thread of Hope: The His-
tory of Black Women in America (Broadway Books, 1998).
Darlene Clark Hine, Elsa Barkley Brown, and Rosalyn Terborg-Penn (eds.),
Black Women in America: An Historical Encyclopedia Vol. I (A-L) and Vol. II (M­
Z) (Indiana University Press, 1993).
Deborah Gray White, Ar’n’t I a Woman (Norton, 1985).
Deborah Gray White, Too Heavy a Load: Black Women in Defense of Themselves,
1894–1994 (Norton, 1999).
 APPENDIX A 291

Autobiography and Biography

Amy Alexander, Fifty Black Women Who Changed America (Citadel Press, 1999).
Joyce A. Brown, Justice Denied (Noble Press, 1990).
Michelle Cliff, Claiming an Identity They Taught Me to Despise (Persephone, 1980).
Leon Dash, Rosa Lee: A Mother and Her Family in Urban America (Plume, 1996).
Sarah L. Delany and A. Elizabeth Delany (with Amy Hearth), Having Our Say:
The Delany Sisters’ First 100 Years (Dell, 1993).
Patrice Gaines, Laughing in the Dark: From Colored Girl to Woman of Color—A Jour­
ney from Prison to Power (Anchor, 1995).
Joanne Grant, Ella Baker: Freedom Bound (John Wiley/Sons, 1999).
Chana Kai Lee, For Freedom’s Sake: The Life of Fannie Lou Hamer (University of Illi­
nois Press, 2000).
Audre Lorde, Zami, A New Spelling of My Name: A Biomythography (Crossing
Press, 1982).
Nell Irvin Painter, Sojourner Truth: A Life, A Symbol (Norton, 1996).
Assata Shakur, Assata: An Autobiography (Lawrence Hill, 1980).

Literature and Poetry

Toni Cade Bambara, The Salt Eaters (Random House, 1980).
Margaret Busby (ed.), Daughters of Africa: An International Anthology of Words and
Writings by Women of African Descent from the Ancient Egyptians to the Present
(Ballantine, 1992).
Lucille Clifton, Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir, 1969–1980 (BOA Editions,
1987).
Toni Morrison, Beloved (Plume, 1987).
Sonia Sanchez, Shake Loose My Skin: New and Selected Poems (Beacon, 1999).
Lalita Tademy, Cane River (Warner, 2001).

Social and Political Thought

Patricia Hill Collins, Fighting Words: Black Women and the Search for Justice (Uni­
versity of Minnesota Press, 1998).
Joy James (ed.), The Angela Y. Davis Reader (Blackwell, 1984).
Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Crossing Press, 1984).
Beth E. Richie, Compelled to Crime: The Gender Entrapment of Battered Black Women
(Routledge, 1996).
Barbara Smith, The Truth That Never Hurts: Writings on Race, Gender, and Freedom
(Rutgers University Press, 1998).
Alice Walker, Anything We Love Can Be Saved (Random House, 1997).

Health

Julia A. Boyd, Can I Get a Witness? Black Women and Depression (Plume, 1998).

 292 APPENDIX A

bell hooks, Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-Recovery (South End, 1993).
Charlotte Pierce-Baker, Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Stories of Rape (Nor-
ton, 1998).
Evelyn C. White, The Black Woman’s Health Book: Speaking for Ourselves (Seal,
1990).
Evelyn C. White, Chain, Chain, Change: For Black Women in Abusive Relationships
(Seal, 1994).
Beverly Yates, Heart Health for Black Women: A Natural Approach to Healing and
Preventing Heart Disease (Marlowe, 2000).

Art and Culture

Angela Y. Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism (Vintage, 1998).
Rena Fraden, Imagining Medea: Rhodessa Jones and Theater for Incarcerated Women
(University of North Carolina Press, 2001).
Chester Higgins, Elder Grace: The Nobility of Aging (Bulfinch, 2000).
Kathleen Thompson and Hilary MacAustin, The Face of Our Past: Images of Black
Women from Colonial America to the Present (Indiana University Press, 1999).
Jacqueline L. Tobin and Raymond G. Dobard, Hidden in Plain View: A Secret Story
of Quilts and the Underground Railroad (Anchor, 1999).

Spirituality
Akasha Gloria Hull, The New Spirituality of African American Women (Inner Tra­
ditions, 2001).
Iyanla Vanzant, Acts of Faith: Daily Meditations for People of Color (Fireside, 1993).
James Melvin Washington, Conversations with God: Two Centuries of Prayers by
African Americans (Harper, 1994).

Films
Julie Dash, Daughters of the Dust (Kino Int’l, 800-562-3330, www.kino.com).
Karina Epperlein, Voices from Inside: Women Prisoners and Their Children Speak
Out (New Day Films, 888-367-9154, www.newday.com).
Appendix B
Resource Directory

I G R AT E F U L LY A C K N O W L E D G E the ACLU National Prison Project

and the Prisoner Activist Resource Center for their generous permission
to reprint listings from their manuals for this resource directory. This list
of resources provides currently or formerly incarcerated women and
their families with information on a variety of issues. Please consult
these organizations if you have any questions about resources, pro-
grams, or services available to those involved in the correctional system.
As it is not possible to print every resource available, I strongly en-
courage you to consult the three organizations listed immediately
below. The Websites for these organizations provide information about
many more organizations and resources for female inmates.

American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU)—National Prison Project

733 15th Street, NW, Suite 620

Washington, DC 20005

Phone: 202-393-4930; Fax: 202-393-4931

Website: www.aclu.org/issues/prisons

Description: Seeks to create constitutional conditions of confine­

ment and strengthen prisoners’ rights through class-action liti­

gation and public education.

Prison Activist Resource Center

P.O. Box 339

Berkeley, CA 94701

Phone: 510-893-4648; Fax: 510-893-4607

Website: www.prisonactivist.org

Email: [email protected]

293
294 APPENDIX B

Description: Provides support for educators, activists, prisoners,

and prisoners’ families. Works to build networks for action and
produces materials that expose human rights violations while
challenging the rapid expansion of the prison industrial com­
plex.

Texas Woman’s University—Women in Criminal Justice

Dr. Jim Williams

Department of Sociology and Social Work

Denton, TX 76204

Website: www.twu.edu/as/wcrim/PRISN.HTM

Description: Directory of resources for inmates and their families,

and of scholars and students of criminal law.

ADVOCACY GROUPS

CURE (Citizens United for the Rehabilitation of Errants)

P.O. Box 2310

Washington, DC 20013-2310

Phone: 202-789-2126; Fax: 413-845-9787

Website: www.curenational.org

Description: Organizes currently and formerly incarcerated indi­

viduals, their familes, and concerned citizens in order to work

for reform of sentencing procedures and promote the use of re-
habilitation programs.

California Coalition for Women Prisoners

100 McAllister St.

San Francisco, CA 94102

Phone: 415-255-7036, ext. 4; Fax: 415-552-3150

Website: http://womenprisoners.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: CCWP raises awareness about the cruel and inhu­

mate conditions under which women in prison live. Advocates

change and promotes leadership of women prisoners, and
gives a voice to currently and formerly incarcerated women
and their families.
 APPENDIX B 295

Families Against Mandatory Minimums (FAMM)

1612 K St., NW, Suite 1400

Washington, D.C. 20006

Phone: 202-822-6700; Fax: 202-822-6704

Website: www.famm.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Promotes sentencing policy reform. Advocates sen­

tencing procedures that result in sentences that are propor­

tional to the crime committed.

Human Rights Watch: Prison Conditions and the Treatment of

Prisoners
Website: www.hrw.org/prisons
Email: [email protected]
Description: Advocacy organization. Raises awareness about
prison conditions in countries all over the world. Publishes arti­
cles and statistics concerning prison conditions.

Rights for All, Amnesty International’s Campaign on the United

States
Amnesty International
322 8th Avenue
New York, New York 10001
Phone: 212-807-8400; Fax: 212-463-9193
Website: www.rightsforall-usa.org
Email: [email protected]
Description: Prisoner rights advocate, worldwide. Monitors
prison conditions and prison policy.

Stop Prisoner Rape, Inc.

6304 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 205

Los Angeles, CA 90048

Phone: 323-653-7867; Fax: 323-653-7870

Website: www.spr.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Seeks to end sexual violence against all inmates in all

types of detention. SPR works nationally to shed light on the

dangers of sexual abuse in prison and to help survivors access
resources and support one another.
296 APPENDIX B

HEALTH ISSUES

The Correctional HIV Consortium

San Francisco, CA

Email: [email protected]

Description: Nationally oriented nonprofit organization providing

programs and services to county, state, and federal prisoners,

the recently released and their family members, and correc­
tional systems on HIV/AIDS, TB, hepatitis, and other infec­
tious diseases.

The National Gains Center for People with Co-Occuring Disorders

in the Justice System
c/o Policy Research Associates
345 Delaware Avenue
Delmar, NY 12054
Phone: 1-800-311-4246; Fax: 518-439-7612
Description: Partnership between the Subtance Abuse and Mental
Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), a federal agency,
and Policy Research Associates, a private-sector research firm.
The National GAINS Center conducts research, educates the
public, and works to improve mental health care within the
correctional system for individuals who have mental disorders.

Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law

1101 15th Street, NW, Suite 1212

Washington, DC 20005-5002

Phone: 202-467-5730; Fax: 202-223-0409

TDD: 202-467-4232

Email: [email protected]

Description: National Mental Health Law Center. Advocates for

persons with mental health issues/disorders. Publishes infor­

mation concerning mental health treatment, policy, and educa­
tion. Provides list of resources. Cannot assist individuals.

LESBIAN/BISEXUAL

Gay and Lesbian Prisoner Project

 APPENDIX B 297

Bromfield Street Educational Foundation

29 Stanhope Street

Boston, MA 02116

Phone: 617-262-6969

Description: Provides printed material and other sources of sup-

port to gay and lesbian prisoners. Prisoners receive complimen­

tary subscriptions to Gay Community News, health information,
and reading material.

Gay and Lesbian Rights Project of the ACLU

125 Broad Street, 17th Floor

New York, NY 10004

Phone: 212-549-2690

Website: www.aclu.org/issues/gay/hmgl.html

Description: Goal of this project is equal treatment and equal dig­

nity for lesbians, gay men, and bisexuals. Address civil rights
issues of G/L/B inmates. Files impact litigation.

National Gay and Lesbian Task Force

1700 Kalorama Road, NW

Washington, DC 20009-2624

Phone: 202-332-6483; TTY 202-332-6219; Fax: 202-332-0207

Website: www.ngltf.org

Description: National, progressive organization working for the

civil rights of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people,

with the vision and commitment to building a powerful politi­
cal movement.

EDUCATION, ART, AND LITERATURE FOR INMATES

Art Behind Bars, Inc.

P.O. Box 2034

Key West, FL 33040

Phone/Fax: 305-294-7345

Website: www.artbehindbars.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Facilitates art programs for incarcerated inmates. Col­

lects and sells inmate art for fund-raisers for charities.

298 APPENDIX B

Books through Bars

4722 Baltimore Avenue

Philadelphia, PA 19143

Phone: 215-727-0882, ext. 2

Website: www.booksthroughbars.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Works to empower prisoners by providing them

with tools for self-education. Supplies free educational and

progressive political reading materials; offers particular sup-
port to those prisoners engaged in political education study
groups.

Books to Prisoners

c/o Left Bank Books

92 Pike Street, Box A

Seattle, WA 98101

Phone: 206-622-0195

Website: http://bp.tao.ca

Description: Provides free books to inmates all across the USA.

Requests should be made in writing. Donations are greatly ap­

preciated (even postage stamps). Requests may take time to fill.
Patience is greatly appreciated.

Prison Book Program

92 Green Street

Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

Phone: 617-884-5132

Description: Dedicated to promoting prisoner literacy nationwide.

Provide free books to prisoners. Some publications in Spanish.

Inmates may request specific titles or books on general topics.

Prison Library Project

915 West Foothill Blvd., Suite C128

Claremont, CA 91711

Website: www.inmate.com/prislibr.htm

Description: Provides books and cassette tapes to individual pris­

oners, study groups, prison libraries, and prison chaplains free

of charge. Also publishes a resource list for inmates.
 APPENDIX B 299

Women’s Prison Book Project

c/o Arise Bookstore

2441 Lyndale Avenue, South

Minneapolis, MN 55405

Voicemail: 952-837-1762

Email: [email protected]

Website: www.prisonactivist.org/wpbp

Description: Provides women in prison with free reading materi­

als covering a wide range of topics from law and education

(dictionaries, GED, etc.) to politics, history, and women’s
health. Seeks to meet the specific needs of women in prison.

LEGAL AND SOCIAL RESOURCES

Aid to Children of Imprisoned Mothers, Inc. (AIM)

1514 Cleveland Avenue, Suite 115

East Point, GA 30344

Phone: 404-762-5433; Fax: 404-762-7664

Website: www.takingaim.org

Description: Provides emotional and financial support for impris­

oned mothers, their children, and families. Programs include

transportation for visits, educational assistance, counseling,
after-school programs for kids, and support groups for inmates
and caregivers.

Aid to Inmate Mothers (AIM, Inc.)

P.O. Box 986

Montgomery, AL 36101-0986

Phone: 334-262-2245; 1-800-679-0246

Website: www.inmatemoms.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Assists incarcerated women and their families to

maintain a relationship. Facilitates visitations and encourages

participation of inmate moms in their childrens’ lives.

The Center for Children of Incarcerated Parents

P.O. Box 41-286
300 APPENDIX B

Eagle Rock, CA 90041

Phone: 626-449-8796

Website: www.e-ccip.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Conducts research and provides information con­

cerning incarcerated parent-child relationships. Provides pro-

grams and therapy for incarcerated parents and their chil­
dren.

Center for Community Alternatives: Crossroads: An Alternative

for Women Offenders
39 West 19th Street
New York, NY 10011
Phone: 212-675-0825; Fax: 212-675-0825
Website: www.centerforcommunityalternatives.org
Description: A day drug treatment program specifically designed
as an alternative for women offenders. Helps women conquer
their drug addictions and acquire the economic, emotional, and
social tools they need to lead law-abiding lives. Also helps
women reclaim their lives and the lives of their children.

Center for Women in Transition

2647 Ohio Street, Suite 302

St. Louis, MO 63118

Phone: 314-771-5207; Fax: 314-771-0066

Website: www.geocities.com/cwitstl

Email: cwit@cwit

Description: Works with and on behalf of currently and formerly

incarcerated women. Helps inmates make the transition be-

tween prison and society. Works to increase public awareness
of criminal justice issues. Advocates rehabilitation instead of
punishment of inmates.

Chicago Legal Advocacy to Incarcerated Mothers (CLAIM)

220 South State Street, Suite 830

Chicago, IL 60604

Phone: 312-332-5537; Fax: 312-332-2570

Website: www.c-l-a-i-m.org

Email: [email protected]

 APPENDIX B 301

Description: Provides legal and educational services to incarcer­

ated women and their families in an effort to preserve families.

Count the Cost, Inc.

P.O. Box 1447

Decatur, GA 30031

Phone: 404-523-2178

Website: www.countthecost.org

Description: Conducts workshops on criminal justice issues, in­

cluding individual and human rights, stress, anger, and conflict

resolution. Provides support networks and programs for youth
and adults.

Families with a Future

c/o LSPC

100 McAllister St., Suite 200

San Francisco, CA 94102

Phone: 415-255-7036, ext. 320; Fax: 415-552-3150

Website: www.fwaf.net

Email: [email protected]

Description: Network of advocates dedicated to keeping incarcer­

ated women united with their children. Founded by former po­

litical prisoner Ida P. McCray in 1996.

Family and Corrections Network

32 Oak Grove Road

Palmyra, Va 22963

Phone: 434-589-3036; Fax: 434-589-6520

Website: www.fcnetwork.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Provides information on programs serving families

involved in the correctional system. Offers consultation, techni­

cal assistance and program development.

The Fortune Society

53 West 23rd Street, 8th Floor

New York, NY 10010

Phone: 212-691-7554; Fax: 212-255-4948

Website: www.fortunesociety.org

302 APPENDIX B

Email: [email protected]
Description: Community-based organization dedicated to educat­
ing the public about prisons, criminal justice issues, and the
root causes of crime. Helps ex-offenders and at-risk youth
break the cycle of crime and incarceration through a broad
range of services.

Legal Services for Prisoners with Children

100 McAllister St.

San Francisco, CA 94102

Phone: 415-255-7036; Fax: 415-552-3150

Website: http://prisonerswithchildren.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: LSPC advocates for the civil rights and empower­

ment of incarcerated parents, children, family members, and

people at risk for incarceration through response to requests for
information, education, technical assistance, litgation, and com­
munity activism.

Lydia’s Place, Inc.

711 Penn Avenue, Suite 706

Pittsburgh, PA 15222

Phone: 412-471-3410

Website: www.lydiasplace.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Interdenominational, interracial, Christian agency

dedicated to servicing the holistic needs of women offenders.

Helps women rebuild their lives, reunite with their children,
and learn to live crime-free lives.

M.A.S.S. (Mothers-Fathers for the Advancement of Social Systems,

Inc.
P.O. Box 225067
Dallas, TX 75222-5067
Phone: 214-821-8810; Fax: 214-824-6891
Description: Provides support to inmates who have been falsely
accused and incarcerated. Also provides counseling, skills
training, and mentorship programs in First Offender Return to
 APPENDIX B 303

Society Program, and Youth Programs for children of incarcer­

ated caregivers.

National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women

125 South 9th Street, Suite 302

Philadelphia, PA 19107

Phone: 215-351-0010; Fax: 215-315-0779

Description: Helps battered women who, faced with life-threaten­

ing violence from their abusers, are forced to defend them-

selves. Provides technical assistance, support, resources, net-
working, and training nationwide.

Prison Fellowship International

P.O. Box 17434

Washington, DC 20041

Phone: 703-481-0000; Fax: 703-481-0003

Website: www.pfi.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Through ministries in eighty-three countries, this or­

ganization responds to the needs of prisoners, ex-prisoners, vic­

tims, and those affected by crime.

Project Return

Robert E. Roberts

2703 General de Gaulle Drive

New Orleans, LA 70144-6222

Phone: 504-988-1000; Fax: 504-263-8976

Website: www.projectreturn.com

Email: [email protected]

Description: Provides an integrated delivery network aimed at re­

ducing the high rate of recidivism of former offenders, which

includes substance abuse and alcohol treatment, family coun­
seling, GED classes, conflict resolution training, job training,
and placement assistance.

Revelation S.E.E.D.
P.O. Box 56623
Atlanta, GA 30343
304 APPENDIX B

Phone: 404-753-6159
Description: Provides prison ministry, parenting workshops for
incarcerated mothers, support groups for formerly incarcerated
women and survivors of domestic violence, HIV/AIDS, addic­
tion, and homelessness. Also provides employment assessment
and training.

Step by Step of Rochester, Inc.

2229 Clifford Avenue

Rochester, NY 14609

Phone: 585-224-0763; Fax: 716-288-8026

Website: www.stepbysteprochester.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Mission is to assist women who have been incarcer­

ated, to reclaim their gifts and strengths as the foundation on

which to rebuild their lives.

Women’s Advocacy Project

P.O. Box 833

Austin, TX 78767-0833

Phone: 512-476-5377, 800-777-3427 (toll free); Fax: 512-476-5773

Website: www.women-law.org

Email: [email protected]

Description: Offers free legal services for any domestic violence

survivor in Texas, without qualification. Through toll-free hot-

lines, women can receive legal advice on any matter involving
family violence.

Women’s Project

2224 S. Main

Little Rock, AR 72206

Phone: 501-372-5113; Fax: 501-372-0009

Website: http://members.aol/com/wproject/

Description: Mission is to achieve social justice for women. Pro-

grams include newsletter publication, information and referral

services, AIDS education, technical assistance, producing cul­
tural activities.
Notes

NOTES TO THE PREFACE

1. Deborah Gray White, Too Heavy a Load: Black Women in Defense of Them-
selves: 1894–1994, at 11 (1999).

NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION

1. Sharon McQuaide and John H. Ehrenreich, “Women in Prison: Ap­
proaches to Understanding the Lives of a Forgotten Population,” 13 Affilia 233,
234 (1998).
2. bell hooks, Ain’t I a Woman 120–21 (1981).
3. Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness and
the Politics of Empowerment 22 (1990). See also Kimberle Crenshaw, “Demargin­
alizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidis­
crimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics,” University of
Chicago Legal Forum 139 (1989); and Kimberle Crenshaw, “Mapping the Mar-
gins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color,”
43 Stanford Law Review 1241 (1991).
4. Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness and
the Politics of Empowerment 22 (1990).
5. Ibid. at 37.
6. See U.S. Department of Justice, Sourcebook of Criminal Justice Statistics
2000, “Persons under Correctional Supervision,” table 6.1, at 488 (2000).
7. At roughly 16 percent, women remain a much smaller fraction of the
total prison population. Nevertheless, women’s increases have been much
faster and more numerous than increases in the male prison population. See
U.S. General Accounting Office, “Women in Prison: Issues and Challenges Con-
fronting U.S. Correctional Systems” 18 (1999).
8. U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Special Report:
Women Offenders” 6 (1999).

305
 306 NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION

9. U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Women in

Prison: Survey of State Prison Inmates” 1, 2 (1991).
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid.
12. U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, “A Profile of Fe-
male Offenders” 3 (1998).
13. U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Special Report:
Women Offenders” 6–7 (1999).
14. Ibid. at 10, table 24 (emphasis added).
15. U.S. General Accounting Office, “Women in Prison: Issues and Chal­
lenges Confronting U.S. Correctional Systems” 20 (1999).
16. Mark Mauer and Tracy Huling, “Young Black Americans and the Crim­
inal Justice System: Five Years Later,” Sentencing Project 1 (1995).
17. U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Women in
Prison: Survey of State Prison Inmates” 2 (1991).
18. See U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics,” Additional
Crime Facts at a Glance” (2001) (noting substantial decreases, as much as 22 per-
cent in some categories, in violent crime rates since 1994, including homicide,
rape, robbery, and assault, and similar declines in property crimes, including
burglary, theft, and motor vehicle theft. The bureau noted that some crime de-
creases in 2000 were “the lowest level ever recorded”).
19. Charlotte Pierce-Baker, Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Stories of
Rape 83 (1998) (emphasis added).
20. U.S. General Accounting Office, “Women in Prison: Issues and Chal­
lenges Confronting U.S. Correctional Systems” 24, 33 (1999).
21. U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Special Report:
Women Offenders” 8 (1999).
22. U.S. Department of Justice, National Institute of Justice, “Full Report of
the Prevalence, Incidence, and Consequences of Violence against Women” 59
(2000).
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid.
25. Charlotte Pierce-Baker, Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Stories of
Rape 84 (1998).
26. Emma Coleman Jordan, “Images of Black Women in the Legal Acad­
emy: An Introduction,” 6 Berkeley Women’s Law Journal 1, 3–4 (1990–91) (foot-
notes omitted). See also, Margaret (H.R.) Chon, “On the Need for Asian Amer­
ican Narratives in Law: Ethnic Specimens, Native Informants, Storytelling and
Silences,” 3 Asian Pacific American Law Journal 4 (1995); Jerome M. Culp, “Auto-
biography and Legal Scholarship and Teaching: Finding the Me in the Legal
Academy,” 77 Virginia Law Review 539 (1991); William N. Eskridge, Jr., “Gayle­
gal Narratives,” 46 Stanford Law Rev. 607 (1994); and Alex M. Johnson, “De-
 NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION 307

fending the Use of Narrative and Giving Content to the Voice of Color: Reject­
ing the Imposition of Process in Legal Scholarship,” 79 Iowa Law Review 803, 817
(1994).
27. Mary Frances Berry, The Pig Farmer’s Daughter 20 (1999).
28. Chester Higgins quoted in Jimmie Briggs, “Whiteout: How the Media
Ignores the Perspectives of Minority Photographers,” Photo District News, No­
vember 2000, at 38.
29. Laura Wexler, “Seeing Sentiment, Photography, Race and the Innocent
Eye,” in Elizabeth Abel et al., eds., Feminism 159, 164 (1997).
30. Katheryn K. Russell, The Color of Crime: Racial Hoaxes, White Fear, Pro­
tectionism, Police Harrassment and Other Macroaggressions xiii (1998).
31. Laura Wexler, “Seeing Sentiment, Photography, Race and the Innocent
Eye,” in Elizabeth Abel et al., eds., Feminism 159, 166–67 (1997).
32. Karen Croft, “Using Her Body,” Salon.com, February 22, 2001,
www.salon.com/sex/feature/2001/renee_cox/. See also Elisabeth Bumiller,
“Affronted by Nude ‘Last Supper,’ Guiliani Calls for Decency Panel,” New York
Times, February 6, 2001, at A1 (the mayor described the depiction as “disgust­
ing,” “outrageous,” and “anti-Catholic”).
33. Chester Higgins quoted in Jimmie Briggs, “Whiteout: How the Media
Ignores the Perspectives of Minority Photographers,” Photo District News, No­
vember 2000, at 38.
34. Darlene Clark Hine, in Hillary MacAustin and Kathleen Thompson,
Faces of Our Past: Images of Black Women from Colonial America to the Present ix
(1999).
35. For an extensive survey of his work, see Roy DeCarava: A Retrospective
(1996).
36. Howard Zehr, Doing Life: Reflections of Men and Women Serving Life Sen­
tences 3 (1996).
37. Sharon McQuaide and John H. Ehrenreich, “Women in Prison: Ap­
proaches to Understanding the Lives of a Forgotten Population,” 13 Affilia 243
(1998).
38. See Andrea L. Cole and J. Gary Knowles, eds., Lives in Context: The Art
of Life History Research (2001).
39. Beth E. Richie, Compelled to Crime: The Gender Entrapment of Battered
Black Women 16–18 (1996). See also Pauline Polkey, ed., Women’s Lives into Print
(1999); and Eleanor Miller, Street Women (1986).
40. Gwendolyn Etter-Lewis, “Black Women’s Life Stories: Reclaiming Self
in Narrative Texts,” in Sherna Berger Gluck and Daphne Patai, eds., Women’s
Words: The Feminist Practice of Oral History 43 (1991).
41. Ibid. at 52.
42. Beth E. Richie, Compelled to Crime: The Gender Entrapment of Battered
Black Women 2 (1996).
 308 NOTES TO PART I

NOTES TO PART 1
1. Lawrence M. Friedman, Crime and Punishment in American History 23
(1993).
2. Winthrop D. Jordan, White over Black: American Attitudes toward the
Negro, 1550–1812, at 45–48 (1968).
3. Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study 7 (1982).
Along these lines, Paul Finkelman also notes that enslaved African Americans
and White indentured servants worked together in Virginia during the advent
of slavery. In 1661, however, the Virginia legislature passed a fraternization law
that delineated punishments for running away from servitude. The penalty for
White indentured servants was increased if they ran away with an enslaved
African American. See Paul Finkelman, “The Crime of Color,” 67 Tulane Law Re-
view 2063, 2080–81 (1993).
4. A. Leon Higginbotham, Jr., In the Matter of Color: Race and the American
Legal Processes: The Colonial Period 395 (1978). For an informative discussion of
the differences between indentured servitude and slavery, see ibid. at 392–95.
5. See Philip J. Schwartz, Twice Condemned: Slaves and the Criminal Laws of
Virginia, 1705–1865, at ix (1988); and Lawrence M. Friedman, Crime and Punish­
ment in American History 37, 40–41, 44 (1993).
6. See, e.g., Philip J. Schwartz, Twice Condemned: Slaves and the Criminal
Laws of Virginia, 1705–1865, at ix, xi (1988) (noting that the severest punishments
were reserved for enslaved persons in Virginia, which was the largest slave-
holding society in North America between 1705 and 1865); and Lawrence M.
Friedman, Crime and Punishment in American History 44 (1993) (noting that one
of the most extreme incidents of capital punishment during the colonial era oc­
curred in New York, in 1741, in which over 150 enslaved persons and twenty
Whites were accused of an insurrection conspiracy. Over thirty of the enslaved
insurrectionists were hanged or burned alive, while four of the accused Whites
were hanged for their roles in the offense). See also Paul Finkelman, “The Crime
of Color,” 67 Tulane Law Review 2100–2105 (1993) (citing racially specific crimi­
nal laws in Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, and Delaware,
in which race defined criminal conduct or was the basis for harsher punish­
ment).
7. Paul Finkelman, “The Crime of Color,” 67 Tulane Law Review 2063–69
(1993).
8. See Estelle Freedman, “Their Sister’s Keepers: A Historical Perspective
of Female Correctional Institutes in the U.S., 1870–1900,” 2 Feminist Studies
77–94 (1974); and Clarice Feinman, “An Historical Overview of the Treatment
of Incarcerated Women: Myths and Realities of Rehabilitation,” 63 Prison Jour­
nal 12–26 (1984), cited in Catherine Fisher Collins, The Imprisonment of African
American Women 5 (1997).
 NOTES TO PART I 309

9. Paula Giddings, When and Where I Enter: The Impact of Black Women on
Race and Sex in America 37 (1984); see also Paul Finkelman, “The Crime of
Color,” 67 Tulane Law Review 2081 (1993). Notably, antimiscegenation laws re­
mained in force in the United States until 1967, when the Supreme Court struck
such laws in its opinion in Loving v. Virginia, 388 U.S. 1 (1967). After a public ref­
erendum, the state of Alabama repealed its antimiscegenation statute as late as
November 2000. See Ala. Const. Art. IV § 102; and Mike Gadd, “Views on Mixed
Marriage Are Stuck in the Past,” San Francisco Chronicle, January 7, 2001, at S6.
10. See discussion in Paula Giddings, When and Where I Enter: The Impact of
Black Women on Race and Sex in America 36–37 (1984).
11. Paul Finkelman, “The Color of Crime,” 67 Tulane Law Review 2081
(1993).
12. Brenda E. Stevenson, “Slavery,” in Darlene Clark Hine et al., eds., 2
Black Women in America 1054–55 (1993) (quoting Elizabeth Sparks, in Charles
Perdue et al., eds., Weavils in the Wheat: Interviews with Virginia Ex-Slaves (1976).
13. See discussion in Katheryn K. Russell, The Color of Crime 15 (1998).
14. United States v. Amy, 24 F. Cas. 792 (Va. 1859).
15. Ibid. at 810. Notably, Chief Justice Taney also authored the U.S.
Supreme Court’s infamous Dred Scott v. Sandford opinion, 60 U.S. 393 (1857),
holding that slaves had no recognizable rights as citizens. See also discussion in
Paula C. Johnson, “At the Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of African
American Women in Crime and Sentencing,” 4 American University Journal of
Gender and Law 16–18 (1995).
16. See discussion in Katheryn K. Russell, The Color of Crime 16 (1998).
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid. at 16–17.
19. Miss. 316 (1859).
20. The most noteworthy legal reforms of the Reconstruction era were
“Reconstruction Amendments” to the U.S. Constitution: the Thirteenth
Amendment (ratified in 1865, ending slavery and involuntary servitude); the
Fourteenth Amendment (ratified in 1868, conferring citizenship upon formerly
enslaved Africans, and guaranteeing recognition of privileges and immunities,
due process, and equal protection of the laws of the states); and the Fifteenth
Amendment (ratified in 1870, conferring voting rights on African American
men). In addition to these constitutional measures, federal civil rights statutes
were enacted during this time to ensure federal enforcement of the former
slaves’ newly acquired citizenship rights. These included the Civil Rights of
1866 and the Civil Rights Act of 1870. Congress reenacted the 1866 statute as
part of the Enforcement Act of 1870, which is now codified in Title 42 of the
U.S. Code. 42 U.S.C. § 1981 gives Blacks equal rights to make contracts and par­
ticipate in judicial proceedings, and 42 U.S.C. § 1982 gives Blacks equal rights
to own property. Recurring problems regarding the Reconstruction statutes
 310 NOTES TO PART I

concern whether or not they prohibit private acts or discrimination, or whether

state action is required to advance such claims. In addition, § 2 of the 1866 Civil
Rights is now codified as 42 U.S.C. § 1983, which prohibits state officials from
using their authority to harass, intimidate or otherwise discriminate against
African Americans, as occurred under the Black Codes. Further, the provisions
were designed to provide federal court jurisdiction over civil rights claims
brought under these statutory provisions. For more detailed analysis of the Re-
construction statutes and U.S. Supreme Court cases interpreting them, see Gi­
rardeau A. Spann, Race against the Court: The Supreme Court and Minorities in
Contemporary America 42–50 (1993); and A. Leon Higginbotham, Jr., Shades of
Freedom: Racial Politics and Presumptions of the American Legal Process 75–88
(1996).
21. See Lawrence M. Friedman, Crime and Punishment in American History
94 (1993); John Hope Franklin and Alfred A. Moss, Jr., From Slavery to Freedom:
A History of African Americans 225 (7th ed., 1994).
22. See John Hope Franklin and Alfred A. Moss, Jr., From Slavery to Freedom
223–37 (7th ed., 1994); and Delores D. Jones-Brown, “Race as a Legal Construct:
The Implications for American Justice,” in Race as a Legal Construct: The Implica­
tions for American Justice, in Michael W. Markowitz and Delores D. Jones-Brown,
eds., The System in Black and White: Exploring the Connections between Race, Crime,
and Justice 139, 142–43 (2000).
23. W. E. B. Du Bois, “Reconstruction and Its Benefits,” 15 American Histor­
ical Review 781–99 (1910).
24. See, generally, C. Vann Woodward, The Strange Career of Jim Crow
(1966); and Leon F. Litwack, North of Slavery (1961). The U.S. Supreme Court em­
boldened White extremism by its notorious decision in Dred Scott v. Sandford
(1896), in which segregation was upheld by the highest legal authority in the na­
tion. See discussion of the analysis and impact of the Dred Scott opinion in Gi­
rardeau A. Spann, Race against the Court: The Supreme Court and Minorities in
Contemporary America 139 (1993); and A. Leon Higginbotham, Jr., Shades of Free­
dom 104, 112, 117 (1996).
25. Katheryn K. Russell, The Color of Crime 21 (1998) (citing U.S. Census,
Historical Statistics of the United States, Colonial Times to 1970, Bicentennial Edition,
part 2, at 422 (1975).
26. Barbara Holden-Smith, “Lynching, Federalism, and the Intersection of
Race and Gender in the Progressive Era,” 8 Yale Journal of Law and Feminism 31
(1996).
27. See Randall Kennedy, Race, Crime and the Law 45–46 (1997) (stating,
“The alleged need to deter and avenge rapes perpetrated by black men against
white women became the principal rationale for lynching”).
28. Barbara Bair, “Though Justice Sleeps, 1880–1900,” in Robin D. G. Kel­
ley and Earl Lewis, eds., To Make Our World Anew: A History of African Americans
 NOTES TO PART I 311

281, 306 (2000). In addition, Reconstruction and post-Reconstruction era cruelty

against Black women included repeated episodes of rape by individual White
males and groups of White racist marauders. See Dorothy Sterling, ed., The
Trouble They Seen: The Story of Reconstruction in the Words of African Americans
48–50, 91–98, 391–93 (1994).
29. New York Tribune, February 8, 1904, quoted in Randall Kennedy, Race,
Crime and the Law 44 & n.65 (1997).
30. The Crisis, July 1911, quoted in Randall Kennedy, Race, Crime and the
Law 44 & n.68 (1997).
31. Randall Kennedy, Race, Crime and the Law 49 (1997). For a useful list of
historical and research sources regarding lynching, see ibid. at 42n.57.
32. In 1884, Ida B. Wells was forcibly removed from a train after refusing to
comply with Jim Crow laws in Tennessee. Wells had purchased a first-class
ticket and refused to be relegated to the second-class smoking section. After her
removal from the train, Wells sued the railroad. While the local court ruled in
her favor in 1884, the decision was reversed by Tennessee Supreme Court in
1887. The episode prompted Wells to write in her diary, “I felt so disappointed.
I had hoped such great things from my suit for my people generally. I have
firmly believed all along that the law was on our side and would, when we ap­
pealed to it, give us justice.” Although disillusioned by the appellate court de-
feat, Wells nevertheless recounted the train incident as a turning point in her
life, which led her to champion many civil rights causes throughout her life, in­
cluding the fight against lynching. Barbara Bair, “Though Justice Sleeps,
1880–1900,” in Robin D. G. Kelley and Earl Lewis, eds., To Make Our World
Anew: A History of African Americans 301 (2000).
33. Colin A. Palmer, “The First Passage: 1502–1619,” in Robin D. G. Kelley
and Earl Lewis, eds., To Make Our World Anew: A History of African Americans
38–49, 90–95 (2000). See also Cedric J. Robinson, Black Movements in America
(1997).
34. Angela Y. Davis, Women, Race and Class 5 (1981).
35. Deborah Gray White, “Let My People Go: 1804–1860,” in Robin D. G.
Kelley and Earl Lewis eds., To Make Our World Anew: A History of African Amer­
icans 169, 193 (2000).
36. Paula Giddings, When and Where I Enter: The Impact of Black Women on
Race and Sex in America 39–46 (1984).
37. Deborah Gray White, “Let My People Go: 1804–1860,” in Robin D. G.
Kelley and Earl Lewis eds., To Make Our World Anew: A History of African Amer­
icans 195 (2000).
38. Ibid. at 195–96.
39. Barbara Bair, “Though Justice Sleeps, 1880–1900,” in Robin D. G. Kel­
ley and Earl Lewis, eds., To Make Our World Anew: A History of African Americans
293 (2000).
 312 NOTES TO PART I

40. See Paula Giddings, When and Where I Enter: The Impact of Black Women
on Race and Sex in America 46–55 (1984).
41. Suzanne Lebsock, The Free Women of Petersburg: Status and Culture in a
Southern Town, 1784–1860, at 87–88 (1984), cited in Paula C. Johnson, “At the In­
tersection of Injustice: Experiences of African American Women in Crime and
Sentencing,” 4 American University Journal of Gender and Law 24 (1995) (empha­
sis added).
42. See K. Sue Jewell, From Mammy to Miss America and Beyond: Cultural Im­
ages and the Shaping of U.S. Social Policy 35–54 (1993) (noting that “[r]esearch on
cultural images of African American women has revealed that, until the 1980s,
there were essentially four categories in which African American women have
been portrayed. They are mammy, Aunt Jemima, Sapphire, and Jezebel or the
bad-black-girl”).
43. See, e.g., Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Con­
sciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment 92 (noting, “Most African American
women simply do not define ourselves as mammies, matriarchs, welfare moth­
ers, mules or sexually denigrated women. The ideology of domination in which
these controlling images are embedded is much less cohesive or uniform than
imagined”).
44. See, e.g., Adam Fairclough, Better Day Coming: Blacks and Equality,
1890–2000 (discussing African American resistance movements).
45. See Deborah Gray White, Too Heavy a Load: Black Women in Defense of
Themselves: 1894–1994 (1999); and Cheryl Townsend Gilkes, ”If It Wasn’t for the
Women . . .”: African American Women, Community Work, and Social
Change,” in Maxine Baca Zinn and Bonnie Thornton Dill, eds., Women of Color
in U.S. Society 229–46 (1994).
46. See, e.g., Adam Jay Hirsch, The Rise of the Penitentiary: Prisons and Pun­
ishment in Early America xi (1992).
47. Norval Morris and David J. Rothman, “Introduction,” in Norval Mor­
ris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Practice of
Punishment in Western Society vii (1998). See also Lawrence M. Friedman, Crime
and Punishment in American History 48–50 (1993) (noting that in the colonial era,
imprisonment took two forms: jails and workhouses. Jails were primarily for
debtors and criminal defendants awaiting trial, while workhouses were re-
served for vagrants and paupers).
48. David J. Rothman, “Perfecting the Prison: United States, 1789–1865,” in
Norval Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The
Practice of Punishment in Western Society 100, 103 (1998).
49. The movement for greater use of prisons between 1796 to 1800 was led
by Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Virginia, Kentucky, and Massachu­
setts, with Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maryland following suit shortly
thereafter. See ibid. at vii.
 NOTES TO PART I 313

50. Ibid. at 106.

51. Ibid.
52. Ibid. at 112.
53. Ibid. at 157.
54. See H. Bruce Franklin, ed., Introduction, Prison Writing in 20th Century
America 4–5 (1998).
55. For example, the death rate among leased Alabama Black convicts in
1869 was 41 percent. H. Bruce Franklin, Prison Writing in 20th Century America 5
& n.5 (1998). See also, David M. Oshinsky, “Worse than Slavery”: Parchman Farm
and the Ordeal of Jim Crow Justice 35–36 (1996) (noting, “[B]efore convict leasing
officially ended, a generation of black prisoners would suffer and die under
conditions far worse than anything they had ever experienced as slaves”).
56. Edgardo Rotman, “The Failure of Reform, United States, 1865–1965,”
in Norval Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison:
The Practice of Punishment in Western Society 159 (1998).
57. Ibid. at 170.
58. Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners, adopted by
the First United Nations Congress on the Prevention of Crime and the Treat­
ment of Offenders, reprinted in United Nations, A Compilation of International In­
struments: Volume I (First Part) Universal Instruments (United Nations, 1993),
E.93.XIV.1, at 243–63.
59. Norval Morris, “The Contemporary Prison: 1965–Present,” in Norval
Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Practice
of Punishment in Western Society 202 (1998).
60. Norval Morris and David J. Rothman, “Introduction,” in Norval Mor­
ris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Practice of
Punishment in Western Society xii (1998).
61. Lucia Zedner, “Wayward Sisters: The Prison for Women,” in Norval
Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Practice
of Punishment in Western Society 295, 297 (1998) (further noting that women in-
mates were provided individualized cells at a much later date than male in-
mates. Even where women were provided separate accommodations within
male prisons, they were placed with vulnerable male inmates such as inform-
ants or insane persons. Prison staff and fellow inmates sexually exploited girls
and women who were incarcerated in these facilities).
62. Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial Justice 16–21 (1990). Federal prisons for
women also lagged behind their male counterparts. The first federal prison
was built in 1891, in Leavenworth, Kansas. However, the first female federal
prison was built in Alderson, West Virginia, in 1928. It followed the reforma­
tory model of women’s prisons, as cottages were located around the unfenced
grounds.
63. Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial Justice 16 (1990).
 314 NOTES TO PART I

64. Lucia Zedner, “Wayward Sisters: The Prison for Women,” in Norval
Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Practice
of Punishment in Western Society 316 (1998).
65. Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial Justice 21 (1990).
66. Ibid. at xxviii.
67. See Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison: Inside the Concrete Womb 196
(1996).
68. Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial Justice xxviii (1990).
69. Ibid.
70. See Lucia Zedner, “Wayward Sisters: The Prison for Women,” in Nor­
val Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison: The Prac­
tice of Punishment in Western Society 321 (1998); and Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial
Justice xxix (1990).
71. Nicole Hahn Rafter, Partial Justice xii (1990).
72. See Paula C. Johnson, “At the Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of
African American Women in Crime and Sentencing,” 4 American University
Journal of Gender and Law 29–31 (1995).
73. David M. Oshinsky, “Worse than Slavery”: Parchman Farm and the Ordeal
of Jim Crow Justice 79 (1996).
74. Ibid. at 125 & n.40 (1996).
75. Ibid.
76. See also Catherine Fisher Collins, The Imprisonment of African American
Women 15–17 (1997), for a compelling discussion of the Texas prison lessee sys­
tem as well.
77. David M. Oshinsky, “Worse than Slavery”: Parchman Farm and the Ordeal
of Jim Crow Justice 174–75 (1996).
78. Ibid.
79. Ibid. at 176–77.
80. Gates v. Collier, 501 F.2d 1291 (5th Cir. 1982); Gates v. Collier, 371 F. Supp.
1368 (D.C. Miss. 1973); and Gates v. Collier, 349 F. Supp. 881 (D.C. Miss. 1972).
See also David M. Oshinsky, “Worse than Slavery”: Parchman Farm and the Ordeal
of Jim Crow Justice 241–55 (1996); and Sheldon Krantz, Corrections and Prisoners’
Rights in a Nutshell 200, 301, 311 (1988).
81. Most notably, sociologists Freda Adler and Rita Simon sought to deter-
mine the impact of the women’s liberation movement on female criminality.
Both researchers believed the women’s newly found freedoms and participa­
tion in the workforce would provide impetus and opportunity for criminal
conduct. Beyond this, Adler argued that African American women’s overrepre­
sentation in the criminal justice system was due to their long-standing “libera­
tion” from White women’s domestic confines. See Catherine Fisher Collins, The
Imprisonment of African American Women 30–31 (1997; and Kathryn Watterson,
Women in Prison: Inside the Concrete Womb 39 (1996).
 NOTES TO PART I 315

82. As Myrna Raeder notes, “It is the absence, rather than the availability
of employment opportunity for women [that] seems to lead to increases in fe­
male crime.” Myrna S. Raeder, “Gender and Sentencing: Single Moms, Battered
Women and Other Sex-Based Anomalies in the Gender-Free World of the Fed­
eral Sentencing Guidelines,” 20 Pepperdine Law Review 905 (1993).
83. Symposium, “Developments in Law: Alternatives to Incarceration,”
111 Harvard Law Review 1921, 1927 (1998).
84. Norval Morris, “The Contemporary Prison: 1865–Present,” in Norval
Morris and David J. Rothman, eds., The Oxford History of the Prison 202 (1998).
85. For discussion of the impact of drug law disparities with regard to
African American women, see Paula C. Johnson, “At the Intersection of Injus­
tice: Experiences of African American Women in Crime and Sentencing,” 4
American University Journal of Gender and Law 41–45 (1995).
86. See David Rudovsky, “Law Enforcement by Stereotypes and Serendip­
ity: Racial Profiling and Stops and Searches without Cause,” 3 University of
Pennsylvania Journal of Constitutional Law 296 (2001); and Angela J. Davis, “Be­
nign Neglect of Racism in the Criminal Justice System,” 94 Michigan Law Review
1660 (1995).
87. Dateline NBC, “Color Blind? Disproportionate Number of Black
Women are Strip-Searched by U.S. Customs Agents,” April 27, 1999, program
transcript.
88. African American women recounting their customs search experiences
on WMAQ-NBC News, Chicago, in 1998, quoted on Dateline NBC, “Color
Blind? Disproportionate Number of Black Women are Strip-Searched by U.S.
Customs Agents,” April 27, 1999, program transcript.
89. Statement of Janneral Denson, Testimony before the Subcommittee on
Oversight, of the House Committee on Ways and Means, Hearing on the U.S.
Customs Service Passenger Inspection Operations, May 20, 1999,
www.house.gov/ways_means/oversight/106cong/5-20-99/5-20dens.htm.
90. Ibid.
91. Dateline NBC, “Color Blind? Disproportionate Number of Black
Women are Strip-Searched by U.S. Customs Agents,” April 27, 1999, program
transcript.
92. Ibid.
93. Statement of Edward M. Fox, Esq., Testimony before the Subcommittee
on Oversight, of the House Committee on Ways and Means, Hearing on the U.S.
Customs Service Passenger Inspection Operations, May 20, 1999,
www.house.gov/ways_means/oversight/106cong/5-20-99/5-20fox.htm. By
comparison, White females were searched 23 percent of the time and White
males were searched 11 percent of the time. Ibid.
94. Ibid.
95. Dateline NBC, “Color Blind? Disproportionate Number of Black
 316 NOTES TO PART I

Women are Strip-Searched by U.S. Customs Agents,” April 27, 1999, program
transcript.
96. See Sharon Anderson et al. v. Mario Cornejo et al., 199 F.R.D. 228 (N.D.Ill.
2000) (granting plaintiffs’ motion for class certification in lawsuit for purposes
of injunctive relief against the U.S. Customs Service). As of March 2002, discov­
ery was largely completed in the case, with a trial date anticipated later in 2002.
Personal correspondence with Attorney Ed Fox, Ed Fox and Associates, March
4, 2002, on file with author.
97. Harvard Law Review 1419 (1991). Professor Roberts has written exten­
sively and quite cogently on the denial of African American women’s repro­
ductive rights within criminal law regimes. Among her works, see also Killing
the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of Liberty (1997); “Mothers
Who Fail to Protect Their Children: Accounting for Private and Public Respon­
sibility,” in Julia Hanigsberg and Sara Ruddick, eds., Mother Troubles: Rethinking
Contemporary Maternal Dilemmas 31–49; (1999); and “Racism and Patriarchy in
the Meaning of Motherhood,” 1 American University Journal of Gender and Law
1(1993).
98. Dorothy Roberts, “Punishing Drug Addicts Who Have Babies: Women
of Color, Equality, and the Right of Privacy,” 104 Harvard Law Review at 1424.
99. Vivian Berger, “No Way to Treat a Baby,” National Law Journal, Novem­
ber 13, 2000, at A21.
100. Forty-two women were arrested and incarcerated based on the detec­
tion of cocaine from urine samples. Forty-one of the forty-two were African
American. Notably, only women who were suspected of crack or powder co­
caine use were tested without their knowledge or consent although the proto­
col was directed at “all drug use.” Vivian Berger, “No Way to Treat a Baby,” Na­
tional Law Journal, November 13, 2000, at A21. See also 121 S.Ct. 1281, 1284–86.
101. S.Ct. 1281 (2001).
102. The women were charged with drug possession, child neglect, and
distributing drugs to a minor, offenses which carried penalties of two to twenty
years. Rachel Roth, “Policing Pregnancy: Civil Rights of Pregnant Drug Users,”
The Nation, October 16, 2000, at 6.
103. Vivian Berger, “No Way to Treat a Baby,” National Law Journal, No­
vember 13, 2000, at A21. As Professor Roberts describes, “[L]ori Griffin was
transported weekly from the jail to the hospital in handcuffs and leg irons for
prenatal care. Three weeks after her arrest, she went into labor and was taken,
still in handcuffs and shackles, to MUSC. Once at the hospital, she was kept
handcuffed to her bed during the entire delivery.” Dorothy Roberts, Killing the
Black Body 166 (1997) (emphasis in original).
104. Vivian Berger, “No Way to Treat a Baby,” National Law Journal, No­
vember 13, 2000, at A21.
 NOTES TO PART I 317

105. See, e.g., Terry A. Adirim and Nandini Sen Gupta, “A National Survey
of the State Maternal and Newborn Drug Testing and Reporting Policies,” U.S.
Department of Health and Human Services Public Health Report 292–96 (1991)
(estimating that at least 10 percent of all babies were exposed to drugs while in
the womb). But see Deborah A. Frank et al., “Growth, Development, and Be­
havior in Early Childhood Following Prenatal Cocaine Exposure: A Systematic
Review,” 285 Journal of the American Medical Association 1613–25 (2001); and
Jacquelyn Litt and Maureen McNeill, “Biological Markers and Social Differen­
tiation: Crack Babies and the Construction of the Dangerous Mother,” 18 Health
Care for Women International 31–41 (1997) (noting that previous estimates and
harmful effects were exaggerated).
106. Rachel Roth, “Policing Pregnancy: Civil Rights of Pregnant Drug
Users,” The Nation, October 16, 2000, at 6. See also 121 S.Ct. at 1290 (noting, “Re­
spondents argue in essence that their ultimate purpose—namely, protecting the
health of both mother and child—is a beneficent one”).
107. This point was made by Judge Blake in her dissent in the Fourth Cir­
cuit’s opinion: “[I]t . . . is clear from the record that an initial and continuing
focus of the policy was on the arrest and prosecution of drug-abusing mothers”
(186 F.3d 469, 484 (1999) quoted with approval in 121 S.Ct. at 1290.
108. In testimony before Congress, Commissioner Kelly assured the sub-
committee members, “In response to these shortcomings, we’ve undertaken a
variety of important measures, [including] the formation of internal and exter­
nal committees to review our search procedures; immediate reforms to certain
steps in the personal search such as strengthening the role of supervisors; and
far-reaching changes to our passenger processing environment that focus on
improved information, training, and technology.” Statement of Raymond W.
Kelly, Commissioner, U.S. Customs Service, Testimony before the Subcommit­
tee on Oversight, of the House Committee on Ways and Means, Hearing on the
U.S. Customs Service Passenger Inspection Operations, May 20, 1999,
www.house.gov/ways_means/oversight/106cong/5-20-99/5-20kell.htm. See
Sanford Cloud, Jr., “Independent Advisor’s Report to Commissioner Kelly on
the U.S. Customs Service’s Personal Search Review Commission’s Findings and
Recommendations,” June 21, 2000. The Customs Service significantly revised
its search procedures after findings and recommendations by the Personal
Search Review Commission and the Independent Advisor.
109. With respect to the MUSC program, the Civil Rights Division of the
Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) had investigated possible vi­
olations of African American women patients’ civil rights. In 1994, at the risk of
losing millions of dollars in federal funding, MUSC suspended the “test-arrest”
program as part of a settlement agreement with HHS. See Dorothy Roberts,
Killing the Black Body 168 (1997).
 318 NOTES TO PART I

110. See Henry Weinstein, “Racial Profiling Gains Support as Search Tac­
tic,” Los Angeles Times.Com, www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la­
092401racial.story, September 24, 2001.
111. See Aviation and Security Act, 49 U.S.C. § 114 (2001) (enacting greater
passenger screening and other security measures at U.S. airports).
112. See N.Y. PENAL LAW § 70.00(2) (a), 70.00(3) (a) (I) (McKinney 1998);
see also Paula C. Johnson, “At the Intersection of Injustice,” 4 American Univer­
sity Journal of Gender and Law 1 (1995).
113. See Paula C. Johnson, “At the Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of
African American Women in Crime and Sentencing,” 4 American University
Journal of Gender and Law 1 (1995).
114. Pub. L. No. 104-38, § 2, 3 (1997); and U.S. Sentencing Commission,
“Special Report to Congress: Cocaine and Federal Sentencing” (1995).
115. As David Cole cites, African Americans comprise 90 percent of those
found guilty of crack cocaine crimes, but only 20 percent of those found guilty
of powder cocaine crimes. David Cole, No Equal Justice 8 (1999). Cole further
notes that “Black defendants have challenged the crack/powder disparity on
constitutional grounds, but every federal challenge has failed. . . . Even though
black cocaine offenders in the federal system serve sentences on average five
years longer than white cocaine offenders, the courts see no constitutional prob­
lem.” Ibid. at 141–46. See also U.S. v. Armstrong, 517 U.S. 456 (1996); and U.S. v.
Clary, 846 F. Supp. 768 (E.D. Mo. 1993), rev’d , 34 F.3d 709 (8th Cir. 1994), cert. de­
nied, 115 S.Ct. 1172 (1995).
116. William Spade, Jr., “Beyond the 100:1 Ratio: Towards a Rational Co­
caine Sentencing Policy,” 38 Arizona Law Review 1233, 1254–55 (1996). Eric Ster­
ling, a former staff member of the House Judiciary Committee, described the
passage of the legislation as “this frenzied panic atmosphere. . . . It was the
crassest political poker game.” Ibid. at 1255. See also U.S. v. Clary, 846 F. Supp.
768, 784–87 (1994) (discussing the lack of congressional deliberation on the co­
caine sentencing laws).
117. U.S. Sentencing Comm’n, “Special Report to the Congress: Cocaine
and Federal Sentencing Policy,” 198 (1995).
118. This majority consisted of Chairman Richard Conaboy, Commission­
ers Wayne Budd and Michael Gelacak, and Judge David Mazzone. The major­
ity recognized that the sentencing scheme resulted in more lenient sentencing
of higher-level powder-cocaine dealers than the crack dealers whom they sup-
plied. The racial disparities in the sentencing ratio led this group to advocate a
one-to-one ratio. U.S. Sentencing Commission, “Materials Concerning Sentenc­
ing for Crack Cocaine Offenses,” 57 Criminal Law Reporter 2129 (1995). See also
William Spade, Jr., “Beyond the 100:1 Ratio: Towards a Rational Cocaine Sen­
tencing Policy,” 38 Arizona Law Review 1235 (1996).
 NOTES TO PART I 319

119. U.S. Sentencing Commission, “Materials Concerning Sentencing for

Crack Cocaine Offenses,” 57 Criminal Law Reporter 2131 (1995).
120. Ibid.
121. F. Supp. 768 (E.D. Mo. 1994), rev’d, 34 F.3d 709 (8th Cir. 1994), cert. de­
nied, 115 S.Ct. 1172 (1995).
122. F. Supp. at 778–79.
123. U.S. 456 (1996).
124. Ibid.
125. Katheryn K. Russell, The Color of Crime 32, 133 (1998).
126. Mark Mauer and Tracy Huling, “Young Black Americans and the
Criminal Justice System: Five Years Later,” The Sentencing Project 19 (1995).
127. See, generally, Paula C. Johnson, “A Legal and Qualitative Study of
the Relationships between Incarcerated African American Mothers and Their
Children” (unpublished, on file with author).
128. See Myrna Raeder, “Gender and Sentencing: Single Moms, Battered
Women, and Other Sex-Based Anomalies in the Gender-Free World of the Fed­
eral Sentencing Guidelines,” 20 Pepperdine Law Review 938 (1993) (noting
“African American women received nearly ten percent fewer family departures
than their percentage in the sentenced female population”).
129. See Paula C. Johnson, “A Legal and Qualitative Study of the Relation-
ships between Incarcerated African American Mothers and Their Children”
(unpublished, on file with author) (discussing impact of ASFA on incarcerated
African American women and their children); see also Steven R. Donziger, ed.,
The Real War on Crime 154–55 (1996).
130. David Rudovsky, “The Impact of the War on Drugs on Procedural
Fairness and Racial Equality,” 1994 University of Chicago Legal Forum 237 (1994).
131. Ibid.
132. Paul Finkelman, “The Second Casualty of War: Civil Liberties and the
War on Drugs,” 66 Southern California Law Review 1389, 1406 (1993). See also Em­
ployment Division, Department of Human Resources of Oregon v. Smith, 494 U.S. 872
(1990) (aff’g Oregon’s right to punish members of a Native American church
who took the hallucinogen peyote as part of their religious practice). And see
Garrett Epps, To an Unknown God: Religious Freedom on Trial (2000) (discussing
the Smith case).
133. David Rudovsky, “The Impact of the War on Drugs on Procedural
Fairness and Racial Equality,” 1994 University of Chicago Legal Forum 237 & n.89
(1994).
134. Paul Finkelman, “The Second Casualty of War: Civil Liberties and the
War on Drugs,” 66 Southern California Law Review 1451 (1993).
135. 18 U.S.C. § 3141 et seq. See also Marc Miller and Martin Guggenheim,
“Pretrial Detention and Punishment,” 75 Minnesota Law Review 335 (1990).
 320 NOTES TO PART I

136. Paul Finkelman, “The Second Casualty of War: Civil Liberties and the
War on Drugs,” 66 Southern California Law Review at 1452. See also john a. pow-
ell and Eileen B. Hershenov, “Hostage to the Drug War: The National Purse, the
Constitution and the Black Community,” 24 University of California-Davis Law
Review 557 (1991).

NOTES TO PART II
Chapter 8
1. Sandeep Kaushik, “Hard Times: Ohio Is Spending Hundreds of Millions
on 15,000 Prisoners Who Should be Paroled,” February 20, 2002, p. 10.

Chapter 10
1. F.Supp. 1265 (D.C.Tex. 1980), stay granted by 650 F.2d 555 (5th Cir. 1981),
and aff’d in part, rev’d in part by 679 F.2d 1115 (5th Cir. 1982), amended in part, va­
cated in part by 688 F.2d 266 (5th Cir. 1982).

Chapter 12
1. See U.S. v. Walls, 841 F.Supp. 24 (D.D.C. 1994), aff’d in part, remanded in
part 70 F.3d 1323 (D.C.Cir. 1995), cert. denied Campbell v. U.S., 517 U.S. 1147
(1996), and cert. denied Jackson v. U.S., 519 U.S. 827 (1996), and cert. denied Walls
v. U.S., 519 U.S. 827 (1996), and on remand to sub. nom. U.S. v. Campbell, 959
F.Supp. 20 (D.D.C. 1997), and appeal after remand sub. nom. U.S. v. Blakney, 132
F.3d 1482 (D.C.Cir. 1997), and on remand to sub. nom. U.S. v. Campbell, 985
F.Supp. 158 (D.D.C. 1997), aff’d by 172 F.3d 921 (D.C.Cir. 1998).

Chapter 13
1. H. Rap Brown, now known as Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin, was former
minister of justice for the Black Panther Party. He later became an imam of a
Muslim community in Atlanta, Georgia. In 2002, he was convicted of killing one
Fulton County, Georgia, deputy and wounding another.
2. In the 1960s, the FBI began a counterintelligence program—COINTEL-
PRO—that targeted leftist and progressive political organizations in African
American, Native American, and Latino communities, in addition to student
and youth groups that opposed the Vietnam War. See Ward Churchill and Jim
Vander, The COINTELPRO Papers: Documents from the FBI’s Secret Wars against
Dissent in the United States (South End Press, 2002).

Chapter 15
1. F.Supp. 1265 (D.C.Tex. 1980), stay granted by 650 F.2d 555 (5th Cir. 1981),
 NOTES TO PART III 321

and aff’d in part, rev’d in part by 679 F.2d 1115 (5th Cir. 1982), amended in part, va­
cated in part by 688 F.2d 266 (5th Cir. 1982).

Chapter 17
1. People v. Thompson, 190 A.D.2d 162 (N.Y.App.Div. 1993), leave to appeal
granted by 81 N.Y.2d 1022 (N.Y. 1993), and leave to appeal granted denied by 82
N.Y.2d 727 (N.Y. 1993), and order rev’d by 83 N.Y.1994).
2. People v. Broadie, 332 N.E.2d (N.Y. 1975).
3. Gideon v. Wainwright, 372 U.S. 335 (1963).

Chapter 22
1. Women Prisoners of the D.C. Dep’t of Corrections v. District of Colum­
bia, 899 F.Supp. 659 (D.D.C.), vacated, in part, remanded 93 F.3d 910 (1996).
2. Amnesty International, “Not Part of My Sentence”: Violations of Human
Rights of Women in Custody (1999).

NOTES TO PART III

1. Michael Tonry, “Why Are U.S. Incarceration Rates So High?” 10 Over-
crowded Times 1, 8 (1999) (noting increased procedural protections for criminal
defendants in the European Union, in contrast to reductions of such protections
in the United States).
2. See Charles R. Lawrence, “The Id, the Ego, and Equal Protection: Reck­
oning with Unconscious Racism,” 39 Stanford Law Review 317 (1987).
3. New York v. Thompson, 596 N.Y.S.2d at 422–23 (Judge Newton ruled
that “sentencing her to 15 years to life without wiping out the possibility of An­
gela Thompson . . . would be . . . an unconstitutional sentence”). At the time of
the trial, Thompson was an eighteen-year-old African American women, a first
offender who was a minor player in her uncle’s drug operation. She lived with
her uncle after being passed to various relatives after losing both of her parents.
See extensive discussion of New York v. Thompson in Paula C. Johnson, “At the
Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of African American Women in Crime and
Sentencing,” 4 American University Journal of Gender and Law 1 (1995).
4. Ellen M. Barry, “Health Care Inadequacies in Women’s Prisons,” A.B.A.
39, 40 (Spring 2001). See also D. S. Young, “Contributing Factors to Poor Health
among Incarcerated Women: A Conceptual Model,” 11 Affilia 440 (1996).
5. Ellen M. Barry, “Health Care Inadequacies in Women’s Prisons,” A.B.A.
39, 40 (Spring 2001).
6. Jo Lydia Sabur, Coordinator, Center for Community Alternatives
Women’s Choices Program, interview on file with author.
 322 NOTES TO PART III

7. Human Rights Watch, All Too Familiar: Sexual Abuse of Women in U.S.
State Prisons 1–2 (1996).
8. See U.S. General Accounting Office, “Women in Prison: Sexual Miscon­
duct by Correctional Staff” (1999).
9. Ibid.
10. Cathy McDaniels Wilson, “The Relation of Sexual Abuse History to the
MMPI-2 Profiles and Criminal Involvement of Incarcerated Women,” unpub­
lished dissertation, Ohio State University, 1998. See also Brenda V. Smith, “Sex­
ual Abuse against Women in Prison,” A.B.A. 31 (Spring 2001).
11. Amnesty International, “‘Not Part of My Sentence:’ Violations of
Human Rights of Women in Custody,” 25 and n. 72 (1999).
12. This research was conducted by telephone during October and No­
vember 2000. Admittedly, this was not an extensive study and further inquiry
along these lines is planned. Initially, however, it was conducted informally in
order to gain an impression as to whether or not prison programming recog­
nized and addressed the particular needs of the overwhelmingly African Amer­
ican female inmate population. The survey questionnaire is on file with the au­
thor.
13. See Linda Grant, “Helpers, Enforcers, and Go-Betweens: Black Females
in Elementary School Classrooms,” in Maxine Baca Zinn and Bonnie Thornton
Dill, eds., Women of Color in U.S. Society 43 (1994) (noting that stereotyped role
casting of African American girls in primary schools may emphasize their so­
cial development at the expense of their academic development, which may be
a disadvantage to them in the long run).
14. See Paula C. Johnson, “A Qualitative Study of the Relationships be-
tween African American Incarcerated Mothers and Their Children” (unpub­
lished paper, 2001).
15. See Katherine Gabel and Denise Johnston, eds., Children of Incarcerated
Parents (1995); see also Paula C. Johnson, “A Qualitative Study of the Relation-
ships between African American Incarcerated Mothers and Their Children”
(unpublished paper, 2001).
16. See Symposium, “Alternatives to Incarceration,” 111 Harvard Law Re-
view 1898–1919, 1921–44 (1998); Morris and Tonry, Between Prison and Probation
(1990); and Patricia O’Brien, Making It in the “Free World”: Women in Transition
from Prison (2001).
17. See Paula C. Johnson, “Danger in the Diaspora: Law, Culture and Vio­
lence against Women of African Descent in the United States and South Africa,”
1 Iowa Journal of Gender, Race and Justice 471 (1998); Beth E. Richie, Compelled to
Crime: The Gender Entrapment of Battered Black Women (1996); and Linda Am­
mons, “Mules, Madonnas, Babies, Bathwater, Racial Imagery and Stereotypes:
The African-American Woman and the Battered Woman’s Syndrome,” 1995
Wisconsin Law Review 1003.
 NOTES TO PART III 323

18. Jonathan P. Caulkins et al., “Mandatory Minimum Drug Sentences:

Throwing Away the Key or the Taxpayers’ Money?” RAND (1997).
19. See Fox Butterfield, “Tight Budgets Force States to Reconsider Crime
and Penalties,” New York Times, January 21, 2002, at A1 (noting prison closures
and staff lay-offs in California, Ohio, Michigan, and Illinois; in addition to re-
consideration of the number of offenses falling under the three-strikes provi­
sion in California).
20. See Evelyn Nieves, “Storm Raised by Plan for a California Prison,” New
York Times, August 27, 2000, at 16 (noting that a broad coalition of groups sued
to stop prison construction despite vigorous lobbying by the economically de-
pressed farm town of Delano, Department of Corrections and California Peace
Officers Assn., for another maximum security prison. Groups argued that a ref­
erendum requiring alternatives to incarceration for nonviolent drug offenders,
an eight-year crime drop, and a reduced prison population made a proposed
new prison superfluous). See also Proposition 36, adopted by California voters
on November 7, 2000; codified as the Substance Abuse and Crime Prevention
Act of 2000, Cal. Health & Saf. Code § 11999.4 (2001). California noted the ben­
efits of the Drug Medicalization, Prevention, and Control Act of Arizona (1996),
as reported by the Arizona Supreme Court, which found “the Arizona law ‘re­
sulting in safer communities and more substance abusing probationers in re­
covery,’ has already saved state taxpayers millions of dollars, and is helping
more than 75 percent of program participants to remain drug free.” And see
Michael Isikoff, “A New Front in the Drug War,” Newsweek, August 28, 2000, at
29.
21. Over 95 percent of drug offenders in New York prisons are African
American or Hispanic, although they comprise less than one-third of the state’s
population. First enacted in 1973, these laws have accounted for a prison popu­
lation that soared from 12,500 in 1973 to more than 71,400 in 2000; the drug-in-
mate population was less than 2,000 in 1980, and grew to 22,000 in 2000. See
Terry Tang, “New York’s Busted Drug Laws,” Rolling Stone, October 12, 2000, at
55.
22. The Rockefeller drug laws impose a fifteen to life sentence for posses­
sion of more than four ounces of cocaine or heroin, or for sale of two ounces or
more of those substances. N.Y. Penal Law § 70.00(2) (a).
23. See Sentencing Project, Reducing Racial Disparity in the Criminal Justice
System: A Manual for Practitioners and Policymakers (2000).
24. Edmund B. Spaeth, Jr., “The Courts’ Responsibility for Prison Reform,”
16 Villanova Law Review 1029, 1031 (1971).
25. Ibid.
26. Jon O. Newman, “Commencement Address to Brooklyn Law School,”
in Daniel Burton-Rose et al., eds., The Celling of America: An Inside Look at the U.S.
Prison Industry 55 (1998).
 324 NOTES TO PART III

27. Ibid. at 55–57 (providing the underlying facts of several prisoner claims
that attorneys general of four states described as frivolous).
28. Pub. L. No. 104-134, §§ 801–10 (1996).
29. See, e.g., Eric Schlosser, “The Prison-Industrial Complex,” Atlantic
Monthly, December 1998 (discussing employment creation and economic prof­
iteering generated by prison overcrowding, especially noting the growth in pri­
vate for-profit prison construction).
30. See Cassandra Shaylor, “‘It’s Like Living in a Black Hole’: Women of
Color and Solitary Confinement in the Prison Industrial Complex,” 24 New Eng­
land Journal on Criminal and Civil Confinement 385 (1998) (questioning the in-
creased use of control units in women’s prisons, disproportionately applied
against women of color).
31. W. E. B. Du Bois, quoted in Dorothy Sterling, ed., The Trouble They Seen:
The Story of Reconstruction in the Words of African Americans 67 (1994). Obviously,
the lives of African Americans have improved greatly since the Reconstruction
era; nevertheless, as the Urban League’s recent report states, “Today, as a result
of struggle, the rights and privileges of African Americans have changed. . . .
[t]here is much left to be done.” Urban League, “The State of Black America”
(1999).
Bibliography

Addis, Adeno. “‘Hell Man, They Did Invent Us’: The Mass Media, Law and
African Americans.” Buffalo Law Review 41 (Spring 1993): 523–626.
Adleman, Jeanne, and Gloria M. Enguidanos-Clark. Racism in the Lives of
Women: Testimony, Theory and Guides to Antiracist Practice. New York: Ha-
worth Press, 1995.
Adler, Freda. Sisters in Crime: The Rise of the New Female Criminal. New York: Mc-
Graw-Hill, 1975.
American Correctional Association (ACA). The Female Offender: What Does the
Future Hold? Washington, D.C.: St. Mary’s, 1990.
Armour, Jody. “Race Ipsa Loquitur: Of Reasonable Racists, Intelligent
Bayesians, and Involuntary Negrophobes.” Stanford Law Review 46 (April
1994): 781–816.
Arnold, Regina. “Process of Victimization and Criminalization of Black
Women.” In Barbara Price and Natalie J. Sokoloff, eds., The Criminal Justice
System and Women Offenders, Victims and Workers. New York: McGraw-Hill,
1995.
Atwood, Jane Evelyn. Too Much Time: Women in Prison. London: Phaidon, 2000.
Austin, James. America’s Growing Correctional-Industrial Complex. San Francisco:
National Council on Crime and Delinquency, 1990.
Austin, James, Barbara Bloom, and Trish Donahue. Female Offenders in the Com­
munity: An Analysis of Innovative Strategies and Programs. National Council
on Crime and Delinquency. Washington, D.C.: National Institute of Cor­
rections, 1992.
Austin, Regina. “‘The Black Community’, Its Lawbreakers, and a Politics of
Identification.” Southern California Law Review 65 (May 1992): 1769–1817.
Avery, Byllye. “The Health Status of Black Women.” In R. Braithwaite and S. E.
Taylor, eds., Health Issues in the Black Community. San Francisco: Jossey-
Bass, 1992.
Baldus, David, George Woodworth, and Charles A. Pulaski, Jr. Equal Justice and
the Death Penalty. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1990.
Barry, Ellen. “Pregnant, Addicted and Sentenced.” ABA Criminal Justice Journal
5 (Winter 1991): 22(6).
———. “Pregnant Prisoners.” Harvard Women’s Law Journal 12 (1989): 189–205.

325
 326 BIBLIOGRAPHY

———. “Women Prisoners and Health Care: Locked Up and Locked Out.” In
Kary Moss, ed., Manmade Medicine: Women’s Health, Public Policy and Re-
form. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1995.
Barry, Ellen, River Ginchild, and Doreen Lee. “Legal Issues for Prisoners with
Children.” In Katherine Gabel and Denise Johnston, eds., Children of Incar­
cerated Parents. Lexington, Mass: Lexington Books, 1995.
Baunach, Phyllis Jo. Mothers in Prison. New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Books,
1985.
Beardsley, Edward. “Race as a Factor in Health.” In Rima Apple, ed., Women,
Health and Medicine in America: A Historical Handbook. New York: Garland,
1990.
Bell, Derrick. And We Are Not Saved: The Elusive Quest for Racial Justice. New
York: Basic Books, 1987.
———. Faces at the Bottom of the Well: The Permanence of Racism. New York: Basic
Books, 1992.
———. Race, Racism, and American Law. Boston: Little, Brown, 1992.
Bennett, Lerone. Before the Mayflower: A History of Black America. New York: Pen­
quin, 1993.
Bloom, Barbara, Meda Chesney-Lind, and Barbara Owen. Women in California
Prisons: Hidden Victims of the War on Drugs. San Francisco: Center on Juve­
nile and Criminal Justice, 1994.
Boudouris, James. Parents in Prison: Address the Needs of Families. Lanham, Md.:
American Correctional Association, 1996.
Branham, Lynn S., and Sheldon Krantz. The Law of Sentencing, Corrections, and
Prisoners’ Rights. 5th ed.. St. Paul, Minn.: West Publishing, 1997.
Bresler, Lewis, and Diane K. Lewis. “Black and White Women Prisoners: Dif­
ferences in Family Ties and Their Programmatic Implications.” Prison Jour­
nal 63 (Autumn–Winter 1983): 116–23.
Brown, Joyce Ann, and Jay Gaines. Joyce Ann Brown: Justice Denied. Chicago: The
Noble Press, 1990.
Bullough, Vern L. The History of Prostitution. New Hyde Park, N.Y.: University
Books, 1964.
Burke, Peggy, and Linda Adams. Classification of Women Offenders in State Cor­
rectional Facilities: A Handbook for Practitioners. Washington, D.C.: Cosmos
Corp. for the National Institute of Corrections, 1991.
Calhoun-Stuber, Susan. Women Arrested for Domestic Violence: Views of Self, Defi­
nitions of Abuse, and Use of Violence. Denver: University of Denver, 1995.
Carlen, Pat. Alternatives to Women’s Imprisonment. Philadelphia: Open Univer­
sity Press, 1990.
Chapman, Jane Roberts. Economic Realities and the Female Offender. Lexington,
Mass.: Lexington Books, 1980.
Chesney-Lind, Meda. “Chivalry Reexamined: Women and the Criminal Jus-
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 327

tice System.” In Lee H. Bowker and Meda Chesney-Lind, eds., Women,

Crime, and the Criminal Justice System. Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books,
1978.
———. “Girls, Delinquency, and Juvenile Justice: Toward a Feminist Theory of
Young Women’s Crime.” In Barbara Raffel Price and Natalie Sokoloff, eds.,
The Criminal Justice System and Women. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1995.
———. “Patriarchy, Prisons, and Jails: A Critical Look at Trends in Women’s In­
carceration.” Prison Journal 71 (Spring–Summer 1991): 51–67.
Collins, Catherine Fisher. The Imprisonment of African American Women: Causes,
Conditions, and Future Implications. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland and Com­
pany, 1997.
Cose, Ellis. The Rage of a Privileged Class. New York: HarperCollins, 1993.
Crockett, George W. “The Role of the Black Judge.” In The Criminal Justice Sys­
tem and Blacks. New York: Clark Boardman, 1984.
Daly, Kathleen. “Criminal Law and Justice System Practices as Racist, White
and Racialized.” Washington and Lee Law Review 51 (Spring 1994): 431–64.
Davis, Angela J. “Benign Neglect of Racism in the Criminal Justice System.”
Michigan Law Review 94 (May 1996): 1660–86.
Davis, Angela Y., et al. If They Come in the Morning. New York: Signet Books,
1971.
Davis, Peggy. “Law as Microaggression.” Yale Law Journal 98 (June 1989):
1559–77.
Diaz-Cotto, Juanita. “Women and Crime in the United States.” In Chandra Tal­
pade Mohanty, Ann Russo, and Lourdes Torres, eds., Third World Women
and the Politics of Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991.
Ellison, Ralph. The Invisible Man. New York: Vintage, 1947.
Enos, Sandra. Mothering from the Inside: Parenting in a Women’s Prison. Albany:
State University of New York Press, 2001.
Erikson, Erik H. Childhood and Society. New York: Norton, 1964.
Ethridge, Philip, and James Marquart. “Private Prisons in Texas: The New
Penology for Profit.” Justice Quarterly 10 (March 1993): 29.
Families of Prisoners. San Francisco: Nurturing Press, 1988.
Feinman, Clarice. “An Historical Overview of the Treatment of Incarcerated
Women: Myths and Realities of Rehabilitation.” Prison Journal 63 (Au­
tumn–Winter 1983): 12–26.
———. Women in the Criminal Justice System. New York: Praeger, 1980.
———. Women in the Criminal Justice System. 2d ed. New York: Praeger, 1986.
Finkelman, Paul. “The Crime of Color.” Tulane Law Review 67 (1993): 2063–2112.
———, ed. Race Law and American History 1700–1990: The African American Ex­
perience. New York: Garland, 1992.
Fletcher, Beverly R., Lynda Dixon Shaver, and Dreama G. Moon, eds. Women
Prisoners. A Forgotten Population. Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 1993.
 328 BIBLIOGRAPHY

Flowers, B. Ronald. Minorities and Criminality. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood,

1990.
———. Women and Criminality: The Woman as Victim, Offender and Practitioner.
Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1987.
Foner, Eric. Reconstruction: America’s Unfinished Revolution, 1863–1877. Harper
and Row, 1988.
Forer, Lois G. Criminals and Victims. New York: Norton, 1980.
———. A Rage to Punish: The Unintended Consequences of Mandatory Sentencing.
New York: Norton, 1994.
Freedman, Estelle. Their Sister’s Keepers: Women’s Prison Reforms in America,
1870–1930. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1981.
French, Laurence. “An Assessment of the Black Female Prisoner in the South.”
Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 3 (Winter 1977): 483–88.
———. “Incarcerated Black Female—The Case of Social Double Jeopardy.”
Journal of Black Studies 8 (March 1978): 321–35.
———. “A Profile of the Incarcerated Black Female Offender.” Prison Journal 63
(Autumn–Winter 1983): 80–87.
Friedman, Lawrence M. Crime and Punishment in American History. New York:
Basic Books, 1993.
Gabel, Katherine. Legal Issues of Female Inmates. Washington, D.C.: National In­
stitute of Corrections, U.S. Department of Justice, 1982.
Gabel, Katherine, and Denise Johnston. Children of Incarcerated Parents. New
York: Lexington Books, 1995.
Genty, Philip M. “Procedural Due Process Rights of Incarcerated Parents in Ter­
mination of Parental Rights Proceedings: A Fifty-State Analysis.” Journal of
Family Law 30 (August 1992): 757–846.
———. “Protecting the Parental Rights of Incarcerated Mothers Whose Chil­
dren Are in Foster Care: Proposed Changes to New York’s Termination
of Parental Rights Law.” Fordham Urban Law Journal 17 (Winter 1989):
1–26.
Gillmer, Jason. “U.S. v. Clary: Equal Protection and the Crack Statute.” American
University Law Review 45 (December 1995): 497–565.
Glick, Ruth, and Virginia Neto. National Study of Women’s Correctional Programs.
Washington, D.C.: National Institute of Law Enforcement and Criminal
Justice, Law Enforcement Assistance Administration, U.S. Department of
Justice, June 1977.
Hacker, Andrew. Two Nations: Black and White, Separate, Hostile, Unequal. New
York: Ballantine, 1992.
Harden, Judy, and Marcia Hill. Breaking the Rules: Women in Prison and Feminist
Therapy. Binghamton, N.Y.: Haworth Press, 1998.
Harris, Jean. Marking Time: Letters from Jean Harris to Shana Alexander. New York:
Scribner’s, 1991.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 329

———. They Always Call Us Ladies: Stories from Prison. New York: Scribner’s,
1988.
Harris, Trudier. Exorcising Blackness: Historical and Literary Lynching and Burning
Rituals. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984.
Henriques, Zelma Weston. Imprisoned Mothers and Their Children: A Descriptive
and Analytical Study. Washington, D.C.: University Press of America, 1982.
Herman, Judith. Trauma and Recovery. New York: Basic Books, 1992.
Higginbotham, A. Leon, Jr. In the Matter of Color: Race and the American Legal
Process. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978.
———. Shades of Freedom: Racial Politics and Presumption of the American Legal
Process. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996.
Higginbotham, A. Leon, Jr., and Anne F. Jacobs. “The ‘Law Only as an Enemy’:
The Legitimization of Racial Powerlessness through the Colonial and Ante-
Bellum Criminal Laws of Virginia.” North Carolina Law Review 70 (April
1992): 969–1070.
Hill, Gary D., and Elizabeth M. Crawford. “Women, Race and Crime.” Crimi­
nology 28 (November 1990): 601–26.
Immarigeon, Russ, and Meda Chesney-Lind. Women’s Prisons: Overcrowded and
Overused. San Francisco: National Council on Crime and Delinquency,
1992.
Jackson, George. Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson. New York:
Bantam Books, 1970.
James, Jennifer. The Prostitute as Victim: Criminal Justice System and Women. New
York: Clark Boardman, 1982.
Johnson, Byron R., and Paul P. Ross. “The Privatization of Correctional Man­
agement: A Review.” Journal of Criminal Justice 18 (July–August 1990):
351–58.
Johnson, Paula C. “At the Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of African
American Women in Crime and Sentencing.” American University Journal of
Gender and the Law 4 (Fall 1995): 1–76.
———. “Danger in the Diaspora: Law, Culture and Violence against Women of
African Descent in the United States and South Africa.” Journal of Gender,
Race and Justice 1 (Spring 1998): 471–527.
———. “Silence Equals Death: The Response to AIDS within Communities of
Color.” University of Illinois Law Review 1992 (Fall 1992): 1075–83.
Johnson, Sheri L. “Black Innocence and the White Jury.” Michigan Law Review 83
(June 1985): 1611–1708.
———. “Racial Imagery in Criminal Cases.” Tulane Law Review 67 (June 1993):
1739–1805.
———. “Unconscious Racism and the Criminal Law.” Cornell Law Review 73
(September 1988): 1016–37.
Jones, Ann. Women Who Kill. New York: Fawcett, 1980.
 330 BIBLIOGRAPHY

Kairys, David. The Politics of Law. New York: Pantheon, 1990.

———. With Liberty and Justice for Some. New York: New Press, 1993.
Kennedy, Randall. Race, Crime, and the Law. New York: Pantheon Books, 1997.
Kruttschnitt, Candace. “Respectable Women and the Law.” Sociological Quar­
terly 23 (Spring 1982): 221–34.
Lawrence, Charles R., III. “The Id, the Ego, and Equal Protection: Reckoning
with Unconscious Racism.” Stanford Law Review 39 (1987): 317–88.
Lekkerkerker, Eugenia. Reformatories for Women in the United States. Groningen,
Netherlands: J. B. Wolters, 1931.
Levy, Howard, and David Miller. Going to Jail: The Political Prisoner. New York:
Grove Press, 1971.
Lewis, Diane, and L. Bresler. “Black Women Offenders and Criminal Justice—
Some Theoretical Considerations.” In Marguerite Q. Warren, ed., Compar­
ing Female and Male Offenders. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage, 1981.
Lombroso, Cesare, and William Ferrero. The Female Offender (1895). Reprints.
New York: D. Appleton, 1915, 1920.
Lord, Elaine. “A Prison Superintendent’s Perspective on Women in Prison.”
Prison Journal 75 (June 1995): 257.
Mann, Coramae Richey. “Women of Color and the Justice System.” In Barbara
Price and Natalie Sokolaff, eds., The Criminal Justice System and Women Of-
fenders, Victims and Workers. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1995.
———. Unequal Justice: A Question of Color. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1993.
Mauer, Marc. “Intended and Unintended Consequences: State Racial Dispari­
ties in Imprisonment.” Washington, D.C.: The Sentencing Project, 1997.
Mauer, Marc, and Tracy Huling. “Young Black Americans and the Criminal Jus­
tice System: Five Years Later.” Washington, D.C.: The Sentencing Project,
1995.
Mauer, Marc, Cathy Potler, and Richard Wolf. Gender and Justice: Women, Drugs,
and Sentencing Policy. Washington, D.C.: The Sentencing Project, 1999.
McConahay, John B., Courtney J. Mullin, and Jeffrey T. Fredrick. The Uses of So­
cial Science in Trials with Political and Racial Overtones: The Trial of JoAnn Lit­
tle. Durham, N.C.: Center for Policy Analysis, Institute of Policy Sciences
and Public Affairs, Duke University, 1976.
Menninger, Karl. The Crime of Punishment. New York: Viking Press, 1968.
Merlo, Alida V., and Joycelyn M. Pollock. Women, Law, and Social Control.
Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1995.
Morrison, Toni, ed. Race-ing Justice, En-gendering Power: Essays on Anita Hill,
Clarence Thomas, and the Construction of Social Reality. New York: Pantheon
Books, 1992.
Moyer, Imogene L. The Changing Roles of Women in the Criminal Justice System:
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 331

Offenders, Victims and Professionals. Prospect Heights, Ill.: Waveland Press,

1992.
Myrdal, Gunnar. An American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and Modern Democ­
racy. New York: Harper, 1944.
National Criminal Justice Commission. The Real War on Crime: The Report of the
National Criminal Justice Commission. Ed. Steven R. Donziger. New York:
Harper Perennial, 1996.
National Criminal Justice Reference Service (U.S.) and National Institute of Jus­
tice (U.S.). Topical Search: Inmates and Their Families. Rockville, Md.: U.S.
Dept. of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, National Institute of Justice,
1995.
Norman-Eady, Sandra, and George Coppolo. Cross-gender Body Searches in Cor­
rectional Institutions. Hartford: Connecticut General Assembly, Office of
Legislative Research, 2001.
O’Brien, Patricia. Making It in the “Free World”: Women in Transition from Prison.
Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001.
O’Shea, Kathleen A. Women and the Death Penalty in the United States, 1900–1998.
Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 1999.
Owen, Barbara, and Barbara Bloom. “Profiling Women Prisoners: Findings
from National Surveys and a California Sample.” Prison Journal 75 (June
1995): 165.
Owens, Charles E. Mental Health and Black Offenders. Lexington, Mass.: D. C.
Heath, 1980.
Pollak, Otto. The Criminality of Women. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylva­
nia Press, 1950.
Pollock, Joy. “Early Theories of Female Criminality.” In Lee H. Browker, ed.,
Women, Crime and the Criminal Justice System. Lexington, Mass.: Lexington
Books, 1978.
Pollock-Byrne, Joycelyn M. Women, Prison and Crime. Pacific Grove, Calif.:
Brooks/Cole Publishing, 1990.
Rafter, Nicole. Partial Justice: State Prisons and Their Inmates, 1800–1935. Boston:
Northeastern University Press, 1990.
Roberts, Dorothy. Killing the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of
Liberty. New York: Pantheon Books, 1997.
———. “Punishing Drug Addicts Who Have Babies: Women of Color, Equality,
and the Right of Privacy.” Harvard Law Review 104 (May 1991): 1419–82.
———. “Racism and Patriarchy in the Meaning of Motherhood.” American Uni­
versity Journal of Gender and the Law 1 (1993): 1–38.
Rogers, Helen Worthington. “A Digest of Laws Establishing Women’s Refor­
matories in the United States.” Journal of the American Institute of Criminal
Law and Criminology 13 (November 1922): 382–437.
 332 BIBLIOGRAPHY

Rudovsky, David. The Rights of Prisoners. Revised ed. Carbondale: Southern Illi­
nois University Press, 1988.
Russell, Katheryn. The Color of Crime: Racial Hoaxes, White Fear, Black Protection-
ism, Police Harassment, and Other Macroaggressions. New York: New York
University Press, 1998.
Sellin, J. T. Slavery in the Penal System, 1896–1930. New York: Elsevier, 1976.
Seymour, Cynthia, and Creasie Finney Hairston. Children with Parents in Prison.
Washington, D.C.: Child Welfare League of America, 1998.
Simon, Rita, and Jean Landes. The Crimes Women Commit, the Punishments They
Receive. Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books, 1991.
Smith, Brenda V. An End to Silence: Women Prisoners’ Handbook on Identifying and
Addressing Sexual Misconduct. Washington, D.C.: National Women’s Law
Center, 1998.
Smith, J. Clay. “Justice and Jurisprudence and the Black Lawyer.” Notre Dame
Law Review 69 (July 1994): 1077–1113.
Spade, William, Jr. “Beyond the 100:1 Ratio: Towards a Rational Cocaine Sen­
tencing Policy.” Arizona Law Review 38 (Winter 1996): 1233–89.
Stampp, Kenneth. The Peculiar Institution: Slavery in the Antebellum South. New
York: Knopf, 1956.
Swan, L. Alex. Families of Black Prisoners: Survival and Prayers. Boston: G. K. Hall,
1981.
Thomas, Dorothy Q. All Too Familiar: Sexual Abuse of Women in U.S. State Prisons.
New York: Human Rights Watch, 1996.
Thomas, Jim. Prisoner Litigation: The Paradox of the Jailhouse Lawyer. Totowa, N.J.:
Rowman and Littlefield, 1988.
Tidwell, Mike. In the Shadow of the White House: Drugs, Death, and Redemption on
the Streets of the Nation’s Capital. Rocklin, Calif.: Prima, 1992.
Tilbor, Karen. Prisoners as Parents: Building Parent Skills on the Inside. Portland:
Edmund S. Muskie Institute of Public Affairs, University of Southern
Maine, 1998.
Tonry, Michael. Malign Neglect: Race, Crime and Punishment in America. New
York: Oxford University Press, 1995.
U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, National Institute of Health.
Substance Abuse among Blacks in the U.S. Washington, D.C., February 1990.
U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics Special Report. (Tracy
Snell.) Survey of State Prison Inmates, 1991: Women in Prison. Washington,
D.C., 1991.
U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics. (Lawrence A. Greenfield
and Tracy Snell.) Women Offenders. Washington, D.C., 1999.
U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons. “Race of Females in Fed­
eral Prison Facilities as of January 1, 1996.” Correspondence with Denise
Golvbaski.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 333

U.S. Department of Labor, Office of Policy Planning and Research. (Daniel P.

Moynihan.) The Negro Family: The Case for National Action. Washington,
D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1965.
U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons. (Sue Kline and Patty Garretti.) Research Report:
Black Females in Bureau of Prison Facilities. Washington, D.C., October 13,
1991.
U.S. General Accounting Office. Foster Care, Parental Drug Abuse Has Alarming
Impact on Young Children. Washington, D.C.: GAO/HEHS-94-89, April
1994.
U.S. Sentencing Commission. Cocaine and Federal Sentencing Policy. Washington,
D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1995.
Van Anterwerp, Kathleen. “I can’t go to school today—my Mom’s in prison and I
don’t have a ride”: A Collection of Stories. Ventura, Calif.: Quiet Thunder Pub­
lishing, 1998.
Watterson, Kathryn. Women in Prison: Inside the Concrete Womb. Boston: North-
eastern University Press, 1996.
Wells-Barnett, Ida B. On Lynchings: Southern Horrors, a Red Record, Mob Rule in
New Orleans. New York: Arno Press, 1969.
West, Cornel. Race Matters. Boston: Beacon Press, 1992.
Wicker, Tom. A Time to Die: The Attica Prison Revolt. Lincoln: University of Ne­
braska Press, 1994.
Wilson, James Q. “Crime, Race and Values.” Society 30 (November/December
1992): 90–93.
Wilson, William J. The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and
Public Policy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.
Wolfgang, Marvin E. Crime and Justice. New York: Basic Books, 1977.
———. “Making the Criminal Justice System Accountable.” Crime and Delin­
quency 18 (January 1972): 15–22.
Women’s Press Collective. Save JoAnn Little. Oakland, Calif.: Women’s Press
Collective, 1976.
Index

Abuse, 15, 285, 287, 288; in adulthood, 51, Bibliography, 323–331

275, 287; in childhood, 51, 287 Black Codes, 23, 28

Addiction, 44. See also Drug use; Substance Black feminist thought, 4, 13

abuse Black liberation, 23

Adolescence, 14 Black women, xv, 4, 7, 10, 19, 21, 26, 43;

Adoption and Safe Families Act, 48. See images of, 9, 10, 26; media images of, 3,
also Federal Adoption and Safe Families 10; roles, 21, 39, 44; stereotypes of, 11, 26
Act of 1997 (ASFA) Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS), 5, 6, 34,
Adulthood, 14 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 52
Africa, 25
African, 9, 10, 20–21, 25 Cahill, Judge Clyde, 47

African Americans, 11, 23, 25, 27–28, 47, Centers for Disease Control and Preven­

280, 284, 286 tion, 7

African American women, viii, ix, 3, 4, 7, Charging decisions, 283
10, 12, 15, 16, 17, 19, 26, 31, 32, 34, 37, 39, Cherry Hill Plan, 27
40, 43, 44, 46, 48, 52–53, 273, 276, Chesney-Lind, Meda, 40
278–281, 283, 284, 285–288; images of, 4, Civil War, 22, 27, 31, 32
9, 10, 26; incarceration of, 3–6, 45, 49; in Class. See Social Class
the U.S., 3, 9, 52 Class oppression, 15
Age, 4, 13, 43, 51
Cocaine: crack and powder, 44, 46–47, 273;
AIDS. See HIV
sentencing scheme, 46- 47, 273–274
Aid to Children of Incarcerated Mothers
Collins, Patricia Hill, 4
(AIM), 188, 275, 277, 287 Colonial era, 19–21
Alternative sentencing, 273, 282–283 Constitutional rights, 43, 44, 48, 49; eighth
American Correctional Association, 29 amendment, 34, 49; first amendment, 48;
American Prison Association, 29 fourteenth amendment, 34, 48, 49; fourth
Amnesty International report, 280 amendment, 40, 44, 48; seventh amend­
Anderson v. Cornejo (U.S. Customs Service), ment, 48–49; sixth amendment, 48
43–44 Convict leasing, 28, 32, 33–34. See also
Angelou, Maya, 1 Labor of prisoners
Anti-Drug Abuse Act, 46 Cooper, Anna Julia, 26
Antimiscegenation laws, 21 Correctional system, 5, 12, 13
Arrests, 5–6, 28, 40, 45. See also Crime Counseling needs, 7, 280–281; of Black
Rates women, children and caregivers,
Atlanta washerwomen’s strike, 26 277–278, 282
Auburn Plan, 27 Cox, Renée, 10
Crime prevention, x, 17
Bail Reform Act, 49
Crime rates: increases and decreases, 6; of
Barnhill, Sandra, 277
women, 6
Barry, Ellen, 279
Criminal adjudication, 14, 274
Bedford Hills Reformatory for Women, 31
Criminality, 3, 4, 5, 17, 19, 28, 40, 280, 282,
Behavioral modification, 29
284; onset of, 14
Behavioral science theories, 28
Criminal justice policy, 5, 6, 40
Berger, Vivian, 44
Criminal justice system, ix, 4, 5, 8, 11, 12,
Berkley Women’s Law Journal, 8
16, 19, 24–25, 34, 40, 273, 275, 282,
Berry, Dr. Mary Frances, 8
285–287

335
 336 INDEX

Criminal law doctrine, 5, 19–25, 39, 273

Federal Adoption and Safe Families Act of
Criminal offenses, 23
1997 (ASFA), 48
Crisis, The, 24
Federal Bureau of Prisons, 6, 16, 280
Cross-gender body searches, 275
Female caregivers, 51; during incarcera­
Cross-gender supervision, 279
tion, 5, 48, 281; following incarceration,
Culturally specific programming,
5; grandmothers, 277
280–281 Female inmates, 6, 7, 31, 35, 52, 278
Cross-gender body searches, 275 Ferguson v. City of Charleston, S.C., 44–45
Custodial institutions, 30, 31–32 Finkelman, Paul, 20
First Amendment, 48
Data analysis, 12, 13, 19, 284, 286. See also Fourteenth Amendment, 34, 47, 48, 49
Methodology Fourth Amendment, 40, 44, 48
Data collection, 51. See also Methodology Franklin, Bruce, 28
Davis, Angela J., 285
Davis, Angela Y., 25 Gallie, Eliza, 26

Dean, Sara Ruth, 33 Gates v. Collier, 34

Death penalty, 20, 27, 34 Gender, 13, 15, 20, 21, 22, 25, 40, 44, 274,

DeCarava, Roy, 11 280, 283, 286; determinant of criminal­

Demographic disparity, 40 ity, 4; entrapment, 15; incarceration, 5–6,
Denson, Janneral, 41–43, 273 32; stereotypes, 31
Department of Justice, 47; Bureau of Jus­ General Accounting Office (GAO), 6, 7, 35,
tice Statistics (BJS), 5, 6, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 52, 280
39, 52 George v. State, 22
Discrimination, 34, 39, Gideon v. Wainwright, 218
Disenfranchisement, 4, 19, 25 Grace House, 133, 140, 275, 278, 287
Disproportionate representation, 6, 37, 46 Great Depression, 31
District of Columbia, 278, 280, 285 Guiliani, Rudolph, 10
Diversity, 8, 13, 14; of correctional staff,
276; in training, 276 Hammond, John, 21

Domestic violence, 51, 280. See also abuse Harper, Ellen Frances Watkins, 26

Draconian punishment, 49 Harvard Law Review, 39

Drew, Marion, 33 Harper, Ellen Frances Watkins, 26

Drug laws, 5, 45–47, 273–274, 276, 287 Health care, 288

Drug-related offenses, 6, 37, 40, 45, 49, 274, Higginbotham, A. Leon, 20

282–283 Higgins, Chester, 9, 10, 11

Drug treatment for incarcerated women, Hine, Darlene Clark, xv, 10

44, 280, 282 Historical era, 4

Drug use, 44, 51, 273, 287 HIV, 279

Du Bois, W. E. B., 23, 284 hooks, bell, 3

Huling, Tracy, 6

Education, viii, 51, 275, 276, 280, 281, 282, Human Rights Watch report, 279–280

285, 288
Ehrenreich, John, 3, 11 Images of Black women, 9, 10, 11, 26

Eighth Amendment, 34, 49 Imprisonment, viii, 5, 14, 27–29, 34, 39, 45,
Ellison, Ralph, 11 53, 273, 274, 276, 278, 284; experiences,
El Sadawi, Nawal, 52, 53 3–4, 14
Emancipation, 26 Incarcerated parents, 281
Employment issues, 282 Incarceration, 6, 19, 37, 39, 49, 273, 275,
Ethnicity, 4 279, 283; alternatives to, 17, 282; gender
Etter-Lewis, Gwendolyn, 13 and race variations, 5–6, 25, 32, 34, 46;
Ethnicity overall rates, 5, 45; prevention of, 282;
Equal Protection Clause, 47 projected rate increases, 6; regional
rates, 32, 37–39; reliance on, 17, 273,
Faces of Our Past: Images of Black women 282
from Colonial Times to the Present, xv Incarceration of women, 8, 278; history of,
Family relationships, viii, 5, 15, 16, 34–39, 19, 30–31; percentage of, 3
48, 277, 281 Indeterminate sentencing statutes, 29
 INDEX 337

Indiana Reformatory Institution, 30

Overcrowding, 31

Inmate autonomy, 275

Overrepresentation, 32, 38, 47, 278, 279

Interviews of study participants, ix, 1, 2, 3,

12, 14, 15, 16. See also methodology Parchman Prison Farm, 32–34

“invisible man” (Ellison), 11 Parental roles, 51

Invisibility of women prisoners, vii, 3, 285 Parks, Gordon, 11

Parole, 5, 13, 28, 31

Jackson, Jane, 32
Parole, 28, 31

Jim Crow laws, 23

Participants’ narratives, 4, 5, 12, 51–53,

Jordan, Emma Coleman, 8

273–278; criminal justice system officials
Jordan, Winthrop, 19
and support networks, 205–271, 276,
Judicial oversight, 283
286, 287; currently incarcerated women,
1–2, 15, 55–130, 286: formerly incarcer­
Kennedy, Randall, 24
ated women, 131–204, 286
Klu Klux Klan, 23
Pat searches, 40, 43, 273

Payton, Lewis Jr., 9

Labor of prisoners, 28, 32, 34

Pennsylvania, 27

Lebsock, Suzanne, 26
People v. Broadie, 216

Legal trends, re crime, sentencing and

People v. Thompson, 212, 218

punishment, 19 Photographers, African-American, 9, 10, 11

Life history research methodology, 13–14 Photography, 5, 9, 10, 11, 16, 284

Lynching, 23–24, 26 Physical abuse, ix, 7, 15, 51, 275, 282, 287;

in adulthood, 7, 51, 287; in childhood, 1,

Mandatory minimum sentences, 5, 37, 7, 51, 287
45–46, 47–48, 282, 283, 285- 286, 288 Physical health issues, 14, 277, 278–279
Mauer, Marc, 6 Pierce-Baker, Charlotte, 6–7, 8
McQuaide, Sharon, 3, 11 Poverty, 39, 44, 273, 278
Medea Theater Project, 276, 287 Pregnancy, 26, 41–42; substance abuse,
Medical and health issues, 275, 278–279, 44–45; treatment of pregnant prisoners,
280, 285 44–45
Medical University of South Carolina, Preventative detention, 49
44–45; “test and arrest” scheme, 44–45 Preventative Detention
Mental health issues, 14, 275 Prevention, 53, 275, 279, 282, 283, 288
Methodology, 4, 12–17 Prisoner lawsuits, vii, viii, 283
Miscegenation, 20–21 Prisoners rights, 29, 275
Mississippi Vagrancy Act, 23 Prison Litigation Reform Act, 283
Modern demographic trends, 34–39 Prisons, 19, 27, 30, 34, 286; construction,
Modern legal trends, 39–48 283; history of, 27- 29; population, 5, 6,
Morris, Norval, 29, 40 17, 30, 32, 278, 279, 283, 285; reforms,
Mothers, 44, 277, 282, 287 28–29
Mount Pleasant Female Prison, 30 Probation, 5, 13, 28
Progressive era, 23, 28, 31
Narrative, 4, 8, 13, 15, 52, 53, 273, 276, 284, Property crimes, 37
286, 287 Prostitution, 32, 274
National Institute of Justice, 7 Public order offenses, 37
Newman, Chief Judge Jon O., 283 Pullian, Denise, 40–41, 273
New York State, 27, 30, 31, 45, 283 Punishing Drug Addicts Who Have Babies:
New York Tribune, 24 Women of Color, Equality, and the Right of
Non-violent offenses, 6, 37, 51, 282, 283, Privacy, 44
286 Punishment, 4, 5, 19, 20, 22, 23, 27, 29, 44,
Notes, 303–322 45, 273

Offenses, types of, 27

Race, 9, 13, 15, 20, 21, 22, 32, 33, 36, 39, 40,
Oppression, 16, 25; structural, 15
44, 274, 278, 280, 283, 286; determinant
Oppression, 16
of criminality, 4, 19, 20
Oshinsky, David, 32–33
Racial demographics, imprisonment rates,
Overcrowding, 27, 29, 31
6, 32, 34
 338 INDEX

Racial discrimination, 19, 22, 32, 34, 45, 47, Substance abuse, 44, 275, 280, 287
286, 288 Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Stories
Racial profiling, 40, 43, 45, 48; of Black of Rape, 6
women, 40–43, 43–44 Substance abuse, 275, 287
Racism, 4, 16, 47
Rafter, Nicole Hahn, 30 Taney, Justice Roger B., 22
RAND Institute, 282 Theraputic model, 28, 29

Rape, 7, 22, 24. See also Abuse; Physical Thompson v. New York, 218, 276

abuse; Sexual abuse Three-strikes laws, 5, 45, 283

Recidivism, 274 Tonry, Michael, 273

Reconstruction Era, 284; laws and consti­ Too Heavy a Load, x

tutional amendments, 23 Transitional programs, 282

Reformatory movement, 30–32

Rehabilitation, 27, 28, 29, 31, 280, 281, 285, United Nations Standard Minimum
287, 288 Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners,
Release and transition, viii, 14, 275, 29
278 United States Customs Service, 40; deten­
Reproduction, 44 tion and search of Black women, 40–44,
Residential programs, 13 45
Resistance, 4, 14, 16, 25–26 U.S. Sentencing Commission, 46

Richie, Beth E., 13, 15 U.S. v. Amy, 22

Roberts, Dorothy, 44 U.S. v. Armstrong, 47

Rockefeller Drug Laws, 45, 283 U.S. v. Clary, 47

Rothman, David J., 29 U.S. v. Walls, 167

Rotman, Edgardo, 28
Rudovsky, David, 48 Vagrancy Act, 23

Ruiz v. Estelle, 153, 194 Victimization, 7, 10, 16, 273

Russell, Kathryn K., 9, 47 Victimization, 16, 273

Violence against women, 7–8, 274–275,

Sabur, Jo Lydia, 279

279, 287
Sanchez, Sonia, 52
Violent crimes, 37, 51, 286
Segregation, 23, 34
Virginia labor tax statutes, 21; “tithable
Sentencing, 28, 45–47, 274, 285–286; alter­
persons,” 21
nate approaches to, 273, 282–283; gen­ Visitation, 277, 281–282
der and race disparities, 46–48; guide- Vocational skills training, 276
line schemes, 45; policies, 6, 37; prac­ Voices: of African-American women, 3, 8,
tices, 39; reform, 5 14; absence of, 3, 6, 8
Sentencing Project, 6

Seventh Amendment, 48–49

War on Drugs, 44, 45, 48, 49, 274

Sexism, 4, 16
Weems, Carrie Mae, 11

Sex offenses, 22
Wells-Barnett, Ida, 25, 26

Sexual abuse, ix, 7, 15, 51, 278, 280, 282,

Wexler, Laura, 9, 10

287; in adulthood, 7, 287; in childhood, White, Deborah Gray, ix-x, 25

7, 287; in prison, 279–280 Wilde, Oscar, 273

Sexual orientation, 4, 275 Williams, Marvin and Morgan, 11

Silence, 8 Wilson, Cathy McDaniels, 280

Sixth Amendment, 48 Women in prison, vii-viii, 3, 5, 14, 15, 34,

Slave codes, 21–22, 23 39, 52, 53, 278, 279, 285

Slavery, 11, 19, 20, 21, 25, 28, 284, 286 Women Prisoners of D.C. Dep’t of Corrections
Slowest Car in Town (film), 9 v. District of Columbia, 252
Sobriety, 274 World War II, 29
Social class, 4, 8, 9, 13, 22, 32, 40, 44, 274,
283, 286 Yo Mama’s Last Supper, 10
Spaeth, Judge Edmund Jr., 283 Young Black Americans and the Criminal Jus­
Sparks, Elizabeth, 21 tice System, 6
Strip searches, 41, 43, 273
Study participants, 12–13, 51–53 Zehr, Howard, 11
About the Author

PA U L A C . J O H N S O N is professor of law at Syracuse University Col­

lege of Law, in New York. She received her B.A. from the University of
Maryland, College Park, her J.D. from Temple University Law School,
and her LL.M. from Georgetown University Law Center. At Syracuse
University, she teaches criminal law, criminal procedure, voting rights,
professional responsibility, and a seminar on women in the criminal jus­
tice system. She also has taught at the University of Arizona, the Uni­
versity of Baltimore and Northern Illinois University.
Her legal writings include “Danger in the Diaspora: Law, Culture
and Violence against Women of African Descent in the United States
and South Africa,” 1 University of Iowa Journal of Gender, Race and Justice
471 (1998); “The Social Construction of Identity in Criminal Cases: Cin­
ema Verité and the Pedagogy of Vincent Chin,” 1 Michigan Journal of
Race and Law 347 (1996); “At the Intersection of Injustice: Experiences of
African American Women in Crime and Sentencing,” 4 American Uni­
versity Journal of Gender and Law 1 (1995); and “Silence Equals Death: The
Response to AIDS within Communities of Color,” University of Illinois
Law Review 1075 (1992).
Her photographs, particularly of African peoples and landscapes,
have been widely exhibited.
She was raised in Washington, D.C., and Maryland, and currently
resides in New York. Her email address is [email protected].

339