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.

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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.