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.

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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.

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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: