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February/March 2005
Every Sentence A Life Sentence
Vivian Nixon, Executive Director, College and Community Fellowship, Center for the Study of Women and Society (CSWS), Graduate Center, CUNY
The recent softening of New York’s draconian Rockefeller Drug Laws include some long overdue relief for many first time, non-violent offenders. The reform will release some people from prison, but release will present new challenges for these individuals whose lives have been permanently altered and whose futures are fragile.
Changes in the Rockefeller Laws include an end to life sentence for some
offenders and reduced penalties for others, but do not include a return
to judicial discretion in sentencing. Mandatory minimums now in place
restrict the ability of judges to make exceptions in cases where it would
clearly serve justice to do so. In addition, the changes do not offer
new opportunities for treatment options in lieu of jail or provide funds
to expand existing treatment programs.
Imprisonment Generates a Web of Consequences
There are compelling reasons to continue rethinking sentencing policies and to employ successful alternatives to incarceration. Imprisonment generates a web of collateral consequences. These are evident in the diminished social status of poor women of color, in housing policies that evict innocent people from their homes because of the suspected criminal activity of others, and in the devastation of communities that have been deprived of the presence and contributions of husbands, sons, and fathers for multiple decades. The overwhelming majority of the current prison populations was convicted of non-violent drug crimes and represent a widespread persecution of poor people of color. These individuals are punished not only by virtue of the time they actually spend in prison, but, also, by virtue of invisible lifetime punishments inflicted upon release. The consequences of a felony conviction include voter disenfranchisement, travel restrictions, denied access to public housing, restrictions on federal educational benefits, limited access to jobs and job training, and an irreversible stigma that permeates every aspect of life for the emancipated felon.
Parolees Get Little Support
The life of a parolee is stressful under the best of circumstances. For example, a New York State female parolee is released to New York City with a $40.00 discharge allowance from the Department of Corrections. With $40.00, she must eat, sleep, dress, and look for a job. The Department of Social Services does not assist parolees until they have been out of prison at least thirty days. Could you make $40.00 last for thirty days in New York City?
Imagine living under that kind of pressure without a vast network of emotional,
financial, and spiritual support. Without adequate support or assistance,
many parolees fail to find meaningful employment, build relationships,
or integrate successfully into a community. Often they return to prison
as a consequence of few services, conditions that almost guarantee failure,
and systems that expect little from them. Those who successfully manage
to stay out remain stigmatized by the requirement that they forever identify
themselves on legal documents, job applications, school applications,
and numerous other places, as an ex-felon.
Out of Place
There are deeply personal ways in which every sentence becomes a life sentence. As a formerly incarcerated woman of color, I have found the enduring effects of incarceration most evident in my awareness of my place in this free society we call America. I always knew that prison had changed me forever. I wasn’t sure exactly how it had changed me, until I returned to the Albion Correctional Institution as an invited guest to give an inspirational talk at Inmate Awareness Day this past November. I thought walking in would be difficult. It was easy. The gate, the razor wire, and the jeering officers – it all should have felt menacing, but instead it felt strangely familiar and comfortable. Walking the grounds, surrounded by the deadly silence that descends between the time inmates are confined and the time they are allowed to move from one location to the next, I felt out of place – vulnerable, as though I could be caught and punished. Then I remembered that “out of place” is indeed a punishable charge for inmates.
The World Demands that I Fit In
Just as the prison library, A, B and C Blocks, the Administration Building, the Chapel, and the Infirmary were all still in place, so remained the fear that had been eternally etched into my spirit. That fear had been simpler to live with at Albion because I knew why it was there. At Albion the rules are clear, the expectations external, the choices predetermined.
What was hard was leaving, knowing that the sense of foreboding would
travel with me when I cleared the gate. I had to face culture shock all
over again. I returned to a society in which I am no longer truly welcomed,
a world that demands that I fit in while making no room for a person whose
life encompasses a multiplicity of experiences, including mental illness
and incarceration. The juxtaposition of these two worlds terrifies me
even now.