A Barrage of Barriers

I was a teenager when I found myself surrounded by walls, entombed; I thought my life was over. My existence was on pause within the rigid enclosure. It was a suffocating experience. My dreams and aspirations, once burning brightly, became mere echoes of what could have been. The sunshine that made its way through the tiny cracks in the walls came in the form of education. I was assigned to the Mountain View Unit in Gatesville, Texas. It was one of the few correctional units that, through Central Texas College, offered college programming to women who were incarcerated.  

I was determined to not let my past define my future. I thought that enrolling in college would provide me with an opportunity to acquire knowledge and serve as a platform for personal growth and transformation.  

I was naïve in my thinking. I came to realize that support for any educational programming simply did not exist for women within the system. The majority of prison officials did not care if we wanted to improve ourselves. We were to be punished, nothing more. We were never to forget that we were security threats, and therefore did not deserve anything. Not even education. 

Classes were scheduled to start at 5:45 p.m. but typically began around 6:30 due to any number of mishaps. We were to be ready at 3:45. We would sit and wait for an officer to escort us to the front gate where we were strip-searched. Our textbooks and homework were inspected for contraband. Disciplinary cases were written if we were found to have used our school-issued notebook paper for anything other than schoolwork or if we had more than the allotted amount of paper.    

Next, we were handcuffed and loaded onto a van or bus to be transported half a mile down the street. The transportation vehicles are not well ventilated, therefore they are extremely hot in the summer, with temperatures reaching the triple digits, or freezing cold in the winter, so much so that you can see your fingertips turning blue during the ride.    

Once we arrived at the college unit, we were strip-searched again and escorted to the education building. Usually by this point, I was nauseated from being in a moving vehicle, and I had been made to get naked twice. And then I had to gather myself to be mentally acute and productive and attend class.

"I came to realize that support for any educational programming simply did not exist for women within the system. The majority of prison officials did not care if we wanted to improve ourselves. We were to be punished, nothing more. We were never to forget that we were security threats, and therefore did not deserve anything. Not even education."

We were marched in a single file line to the education building where the officer would issue us a three-inch pencil with no eraser and five sheets of notebook paper, stamped with “PROPERTY OF TDCJ” in large black ink across the top of the page. The stamp made it seem like my own thoughts were not my own but property of the State. 

The instructors did their best to provide us with the same teaching experience as in the “free world.” However, they also were subject to the pat-downs and inspections for contraband. They saw firsthand the daily drama of life on the inside and did not remain in these positions for very long.  

Halfway through class time, occasionally, the officer allowed for a bathroom break. Only two “offenders” at a time, since groups are not allowed to loiter in the hallways. It’s not safe. Security comes first no matter what. The general sentiment during class time was security, not rehabilitation, not education. But more often than not, security would “forget” to give us a bathroom break, so we often expected to be unable to relieve ourselves for the duration of our “college” time. Because of this, I have seen grown women urinate on themselves and then have to sit in soiled garments for the remainder of the night. We received our education through the filter of punishment.  

At 8:45 p.m. classes are dismissed. We would be stripped again and made to wait for the transportation vehicle to return us to our home units. Since trying to arrive on time for the class was the priority, returning us to our dorms to eat, rest, or shower was a perpetual afterthought. We usually returned after 10:30 and would be stripped for the fourth time before we were finally able to get back to our dorms.  

In spite of the long hours, the strip searches, and the inability to relieve myself for hours, I was willing to endure. For 12 years, I endured the inhumane cruelty that accompanied my education. I endured through limited course offerings that started out as five classes a week and then dwindled to only one. The classroom became my sanctuary where I was defined solely on my intellectual contributions rather than my past mistakes. No matter what, I chose to endure.

The Real World

Despite the transformative power of education, my euphoria associated with earning a degree quickly dissipated after my release. I was blindsided by a series of barriers that hindered my reintegration. The moment I stepped foot outside of the prison, I was confronted with a society that viewed me through the distorted lens of my mistakes. 

In spite of my bachelor’s degree, newfound knowledge, and drive to succeed, I was often met with skepticism and prejudice during the job application and interview process. The experience of having served time in prison was a perpetual thorn in my side. 

One of the mandatory conditions of my parole was to be employed. I was unable to adjust to being free without the looming urgency of finding a job. I applied as a waitress at a family-owned steak house. The application did not ask about my criminal history, and I was lucky for this oversight as it allowed me to get a job easily. However, this was not often the case. I was denied a position as a cashier at an aluminum recycling center because I was told by HR that the company was a “family business,” and I would not fit into the culture. This was after two interviews and receiving an offer letter. In another instance, a manager had to “fight” with HR because the organization’s policy clearly states that background checks only go back seven years. My conviction being 25 years old should not have been an issue.   

I was also unable to rent an apartment in my name due to lack of rental history and inability to pass a background check. I was denied a credit card because of lack of credit history. I quickly learned what a secured bank loan was—I basically had to borrow my own money and pay interest on it in order to begin establishing credit.   

I applied to graduate school at the same university system where I received my undergrad degree only to be denied because of my criminal record. There was no clear pathway for me to continue my education.