Beyond the Felony: Embracing Identity and Purpose

 

                          Last week I saw STOMP with two of my 'terp buddies. It was an awesome show!!

Hi all 😊

I hope everyone's transition into spring is going smoothly. Personally, it's been a bit challenging due to my allergies—my nose gets congested, and the sneezing seems endless! Today, during a meeting with some Community Health Workers (CHWs), I mentioned feeling a bit tired. One of them remarked, "You're probably working too hard!" My response? It's worth it.

I know many of you are here for updates on the disability access project, but one of my goals with this blog is to share my whole self—quirks, passions, and all. We often hear about looking beyond labels, and I want to ensure you see the "more" beyond my felony label. Sharing these facets provides perspective for all of us.

Academic Journey

I'm currently immersed in my PhD studies, a long-held aspiration of mine. While the title and accolades are nice, the true reward is delving deeper into my passion for literature. I'm just one course away from my comprehensive exams—a daunting milestone, but an exciting one!

I've chosen to focus on medieval and Renaissance literature, exploring how historical perceptions of disability continue to influence us today. Authors like Chaucer and Shakespeare have always captivated me, making this focus feel like a natural fit. Recently, I wrote a paper on John Milton's blindness, examining how his personal experiences shaped his literary works and contributed to broader discussions on disability. Another paper I completed analyzed Sing, Unburied, Sing for my Contemporary African American Literature class, exploring themes of trauma and resilience. It's a rigorous journey filled with extensive reading and writing, but it's incredibly fulfilling. Engaging with these texts allows me to connect historical narratives to present-day issues, highlighting the enduring impact of literature on societal perceptions.

(You should read it-- Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward

(You should read it-- Paradise Lost by John Milton) 

Disability Access Project

Now, onto the main reason you're here. The first phase of our grant involves conducting site visits to understand existing programs: What accommodations are in place? Where are the gaps? What support is needed?

Today, Dr. Montag and I met with HEARD (Helping Educate to Advance the Rights of the Deaf). Our conversation was invigorating. We discussed strategies to enhance accessibility for D/deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals within correctional education programs. Recognizing the diversity within disabled communities is crucial, and the D/deaf and hard-of-hearing community represents a significant segment that requires tailored approaches.

Upcoming Conferences and Site Visits

Next week, I'll be heading to Washington, DC, for the NASFAA PEP convening. Our session, titled "Ensuring Access: Implementing Disability Services in Prison Education," will feature a panel including Dr. Montag and several other pioneers in the field. I'm thrilled to contribute to this important dialogue.

Following that, I'll attend the Horizons conference hosted by Jobs for the Future in New Orleans. This event is particularly exciting as it brings together innovators dedicated to reshaping education and workforce systems. Engaging with like-minded professionals committed to equity and access is always inspiring.

After New Orleans, I'll spend a week in Wisconsin, visiting programs in Milwaukee and Madison. Immediately afterward, we'll be in New Hampshire, visiting the Concord prisons. These site visits are integral to understanding the varied landscapes of correctional education across different states.

Reflections

This journey is exhilarating. A key message I shared during our meeting with HEARD was: one small ripple creates a splash, and a splash can lead to a wave. The more visibility and education we provide, the more widespread access becomes.

I'll be sharing live updates and photos from these locations, so stay tuned! It's surreal to think that just a few years ago, I needed probation officer approval for every trip, with many requests denied. Now, I'm traveling to collaborate with professionals nationwide. While imposter syndrome occasionally creeps in, I also feel validated. I am where I need to be.

Michael's Story

 

(Everything that is below is in the video vlog up above. ASL version is down at the bottom!) 

Hi all,

Today I wrote a short story based on a real experience—one I witnessed firsthand while working in the prison system. It’s about someone I’ll call Michael. Watching what happened to him was heartbreaking, and I often felt helpless. I struggled to understand how someone like him—a Deaf man in his 50s who couldn’t read, write, or even spell his name—ended up in prison instead of a mental health facility.

Michael didn’t fully understand what he had done or why he was being punished. But what stood out most was how the system failed him, again and again. His story illustrates just how critical accessibility is in any space that claims to rehabilitate. If prison is supposed to prepare people to return to society, how are we doing that when someone like Michael is left completely out of the conversation?

This story is harrowing. But it’s also not rare. It happens every day.

----- 

Michael didn’t know much about the law. He didn’t know what “arraignment” meant or why his wrists were cold with steel when the police led him from the front porch. He had been sitting there waiting for the mail, thinking about his mother’s smile when he brought it in. He loved watching her read aloud, even if he couldn’t understand the words. She’d stroke his hair sometimes and laugh at the jokes he made in sign.

She was the only one who understood him.

He was fifty. People said that made him a man. But he’d never lived on his own. Never finished school. Never learned to read. He couldn’t even spell his name. Mom did that kind of thing for him. Always had.

The cops didn’t use their hands. Just mouths and yelling. Michael didn’t know what they were saying. He tried to sign: Where is Mom? But their faces didn’t change. He signed again. Bigger. I want Mom.

He spent three days in a cell with no one who could speak to him. No signs. Just stares and shouts. They called him names he couldn’t hear and laughed when he looked confused. One officer tossed a bologna sandwich onto the floor. He didn’t know it was for him until hours later.

In court, Mom showed up. She looked smaller than usual, her coat too big, her hair thinner. She waved when she saw him and cried.

They gave him a lawyer. A stranger who tried writing things down. Michael pushed the paper away. No read, he signed. The man just sighed and kept writing.

An interpreter came in. Her hands moved like a storm. Fast, sharp, elegant—but Michael only caught pieces. Jail. Time. No Mom.

His chest burned. He signed again, desperate: Home? Mom? Short time? Go home soon?

No one answered.

Prison was louder than jail, even in silence. Every corner had its own rules. Michael didn’t know any of them. He tried telling jokes—ones he remembered from when he was little. Kids had laughed back then. But here, the men didn’t. One day, after a joke about butts and bananas, someone threw a cup at him.

Another night, someone threw a chair at him. Several chairs.

He woke up in the hospital. Tubes. Bruises. Bandages.

Now go home? he signed, hopeful.

No one signed back. They wheeled him back to the prison van.

They put him in a class. "ABE," they said. Something about school. No interpreters. The teacher gave him crayons and coloring pages. He liked the way the green crayon felt. He drew a house with a big window and a smiling woman in it. She had white hair like Mom.

Back in the unit, his bunk was torn apart. His pictures, gone. His shoes, gone. His snacks, gone.

He screamed. He signed every word he knew for angry, hurt, mean, Mom, help.

The guards watched from the doorway, laughing.

Michael curled up on the thin mattress and signed, over and over:

Mom. Mom. Mom.

--------------

Now imagine someone who can read and write, but struggles with focus. Or someone whose addiction history makes it hard to express themselves clearly. Or someone older, isolated, unsure how to move forward. Imagine someone with severe anxiety who can’t speak up in a crowded classroom.

Disability is not always visible. And yet 38% of people in prison live with a documented disability—likely more, since so many go undiagnosed.

That’s why education inside matters. Real education. One that includes interpreters. One that honors different ways of learning. One that helps people not just survive, but prepare for life outside. Education builds confidence, communication skills, and hope.

Everyone’s story is different. Some cases will be more complex than others. But if we don’t start by asking how are we helping?—then the truth is, we’re not.

So I’ll ask again:
How are you helping?

ASL VERSION: 

 

Blog + Vlog: Let's Talk About the Gaps

So Shannon (my boss) said I should do vlogs in addition to blogs. My first reaction? Blah. Videos? 😬

I get it, though. Video is everywhere—and honestly, it does bring something out of you that writing sometimes can’t. There’s a rawness to it, a way to connect that’s more immediate. In the vlog above (yep, I did one—16 minutes!), I tell a few stories about disabled individuals I met in the system, and how painfully real the gap in services is.

Now, let’s talk about the grant—because I’m genuinely excited. It gives me and my traveling partner, Dr. Jenifer Montag, the chance to connect, collaborate, and network with programs across the country. Our goals are twofold:

1. Research

2. Training Manual Development

Step one? Identify pilot states that want to be part of this work. And that means—yes—travel.

While I won’t name specific programs or people (because privacy matters), in just the past month I’ve been in touch with folks from Wisconsin, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Colorado, Georgia, South Carolina, Washington, Hawaii, Alaska, Texas, New York, Maine, California, Tennessee, Arizona, Virginia, and Puerto Rico. There are more, but the point is: this is happening. These states see the urgency and relevance of this project—and that matters.

One thing I keep hearing as we connect with people is:

• “This doesn’t apply to us.”

• “This doesn’t affect our students.”

• “There’s no funding.”

• “Pell doesn’t cover it.”

I get it. Budgets are tight. But here’s the thing—collaboration is key. The DOC, disability services, and prison education programs all need to be on the same page. And in the meantime, while you're waiting on that Smart Pen or interpreter? What can you do? How can you get creative?

Because here’s the reality: when I was inside, I was told more than once, “You don’t have to go to class today—no interpreter’s coming.” Sounds small, right? But that day of missed class? That content could show up on a test. That matters. It robbed me of something I was already fighting to earn.

---

Short Story Time
I want to end with a short story I wrote. It doesn’t focus on disability—but it captures another part of the journey. The personal part. The layered part.

“Goodbye” 

I think the hardest moment going to prison involved leaving my dog. Sure, it would be hard to leave my parents or my friends—but at least they knew where I was going. They understood I’d be back home eventually. My dog didn’t understand that, though. He gets upset when I’m gone for hours, let alone months or years. But he wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t tell him where I was going or that I would be back, eventually. How could I explain? I felt like I had failed him.

My son said that Nemo waited on the stairs for me every single day. He never gave up waiting. My bedroom and office were both upstairs, so it was a comfort area for him. I always hoped to come home after this three-year sentence to my dog. I kept a picture of him by my bed. I had my family, too—but he was family. He was just the one family who would never understand. 

The prison had dogs that you could train to eventually be ready to go out into society. I thought it was a great program—but just looking at them made me hurt. What about the dog that was waiting for me on the stairs? My dog was the one innocent victim in all of this. All he did all of these years was treat me with kindness and love. How do I repay that love? I disappear.

Towards the end of my sentence, I was getting ready to come home. I was excited, I would get to eat pizza again. See my friends and family again. Nemo would see that despite everything, I was back. 

He died the day after Christmas, at thirteen years old. I had him since he was a baby. Goodbye, Nemo. 

A Strange Journey: The Path to Disability Access in Prison Education

 

One of my favorite sayings is that life is a strange journey. We take so many different roads and paths—some bumpy, some smooth. There are construction sites blocking our way, and sometimes fascinating landmarks, like the World’s Largest Basket Building. But no matter what road you take, it keeps going—as long as you let it.

Why This Blog?

Hi all,

I wanted to start a blog for a few reasons—
One, to keep myself in the habit of writing.
Two, to keep you all updated on my work and the progress (and fallbacks!) we experience.
And three, just to be nerdy sometimes.

Maybe I’ll post a short story I wrote, or a poem that inspired me, or an update on my PhD journey. I feel like blogging is a lost art form—we’re too used to TikTok or short little snippets on Twitter. And sure, keeping things brief can be good, but reading about someone’s journey? That can be powerful, too.

So... Who Am I?

Whenever someone asks me to describe myself, I never quite know what to say. Which journey do I talk about? Which path do I present? So, let’s just have at it.

My name is Ben, and I was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. My parents are obsessed with Ohio State, and as much as I tried to resist following in their footsteps, I ended up graduating from OSU as well. I got my BA in English Literature from Ohio State, then went on to earn my Master’s in Education, specializing in Special and Deaf Education. I like to say I was ABT—“all but thesis”—if that’s even a thing…

I earned my teaching license and taught for roughly ten years. Some of the things I’m most proud of during those years: I volunteered for Relay for Life of Second Life and ended up coordinating The Castle, Home and Garden Contest and co-coordinating the Christmas Expo for many years. We raised well over twenty thousand dollars each time we held those events. I was knee-deep in that passion.

I also adopted a teen named Cameron—and while he’s on his own strange journey now, one of our proudest moments together was him getting his high school diploma. Oh, and I was a dog dad, too—my dog Nemo was the pride and joy of my life!

Back at OSU—With a Secret

Yesterday, I was back at Ohio State, providing training to faculty who work with individuals in prison. When I started doing my intros and whatnot, I didn’t disclose something that’s pretty important to the work I do. Sometimes I feel like my credentials and identity are enough—I have the degrees, the experience, and the knowledge to present to a crowd like this.

But as the training went on, I started to realize that some of the instructors might have hesitation about working with those on the inside. So, I told my anxiety it could take a break for a few moments.

I was scared. Scared that Ohio State—my second home for so many years—would never welcome me back. I wanted to be seen as a scholar, as an equal. But I also knew that if I wanted them to understand why their work mattered, I had to share my story—my strange journey.

The Hardest Part of the Journey

In 2018, I was falsely accused of a crime. The wheels of justice (and the strangeness of life) led me into incarceration—for three years.

I’ll probably write about it more here and there, but when I was first incarcerated, I honestly didn’t know what to do with myself. What was my purpose now? I couldn’t go back to what I was doing before. What was my next?

It’s a very strange feeling—to wake up and think, “There’s nothing for me to accomplish today.” Go back to sleep.

Eventually, I told myself I had to keep going. I had strengths. I found out there was an ABE program, and a lot of the students had disabilities. I told them I’d been a special education teacher and offered to help.

What I found? Most of the students were just coloring. Not learning anything practical. That experience—and so many others—is what sparked the path I’m on now.

Imposter Syndrome and a Tiny Violin

I was not thrown out of Ohio State. My brain said I would be, but I wasn’t. Still, I felt like an imposter.

As we were leaving campus, I was walking with my co-presenter, Dr. Montag. I got my tiny violin out and told her how sad it made me to be back at OSU. I used to dream of teaching there—but now, with a felony on my record, I figured that dream was gone.

She looked at me and said, “Do you realize you were just teaching, in that building, just now, here at Ohio State?”

Perspective. I can always count on her to hand it to me straight.

The Grant and the Work Ahead

I recently received a large grant to support this work. The Community—the organization I work for—is hosting the grant. It’s doing two major things:

One: Researching the real number of incarcerated individuals with disabilities.
As of 2017 (published in 2021), the Bureau of Justice Statistics reported that about 38% of the incarcerated population in the U.S. had a disability. I know that number is low.

If you haven’t been in prison, it’s hard to understand—but people don’t want to be perceived as weak in there. So how many undisclosed disabilities are we missing? How many undiagnosed? What about hidden disabilities? And the population is aging, too—what about them?

Two: Creating a national training manual for instructors on how to support students with disabilities in prison classrooms. This applies to ABE, GED, vocational, and college programs.

From Ohio, With Grit

I’ve been working hard on this—trying to build as many connections as possible. Thanks to the grant, I’ve been able to travel, meet new people, and collaborate on what this manual should look like. I even got an email from the UK expressing interest!

This whole journey started right here in Ohio. It’s fitting, isn’t it?

With connection, with collaboration, and with grit—we can go far. It’ll take time. But we can get there.

Thank you for reading. I’ll try to post regularly—I mean it! This isn’t the most high-tech blog, but I wanted to keep it simple, real, and mine.

Two quotes of the day, my two favorites to start us out--