The Fair Chance Lottery: A Story in Five Installments

 

After meeting Lois Lowry at ALA, I kept thinking about the quiet power of dystopian fiction, the kind where no one believes they are being cruel because the cruelty has learned gentle language. I also found myself thinking about 1984, and how power often begins by controlling words.

This story came from a question I sit with often in my work: What would a world without prisons look like if we removed the cages, but kept the habit of deciding who has earned care?

The Fair Chance Lottery is fiction. It is not a policy paper, prediction, or argument against repair. It is a thought experiment about reentry, disability access, public sympathy, surveillance, storytelling, and the ways even well-intentioned systems can make people perform deservingness before receiving the basics of life.

I’ll be sharing it in five installments, two parts at a time. This first installment introduces Mark, a Deaf man entering a society that proudly says it has ended prisons — only to find that freedom still has categories.

Enjoy! 

The Fair Chance Lottery

Part One: The Museum of Harm and Healing

The prison had become a museum, but Mark still had to walk through a metal detector to receive his fair chance.

The van let him out two blocks away because the street in front of the old building had been closed for a school visit. Mark stood on the curb with his release folder tucked under one arm and watched a line of children move through the front gate in yellow shirts.

The gate no longer locked. That was the first thing people liked to say about it.

It had been painted white. The old wire had been removed and replaced with panels of clear glass. Words had been carved into the glass in tall, careful letters.

ACCOUNTABILITY.
 RESTORATION.
 REPAIR.
 COMMUNITY.

Above the entrance, a banner stretched between two stone pillars.

TWENTY YEARS WITHOUT CAGES.

The children looked up at it the way children looked at things adults told them were important. Some of them were bored. Some were whispering. One boy dragged the toe of his shoe through the gravel and was gently corrected by a teacher with silver bracelets and a soft voice.

“Remember,” the teacher said, “this was once a place where people were kept behind locked doors.”

A girl near the front raised her hand.

“Even at night?”

“Yes,” the teacher said. “Even at night.”

The children made small sounds of horror. Mark looked at the building and said nothing.

He was tall enough that strangers usually looked up before they decided what to think of him. His hair fell past his shoulders, brown and loose, softening a face people were always trying to read too quickly. In the glass panels, he saw himself standing there in jeans, white sneakers, and an open jacket he had been given that morning because the one he came in with had disappeared sometime between property review and release.

It was not cold, but he kept the jacket on.

The teacher pointed toward the watchtower.

“That is now the Reflection Deck,” she told the children. “Visitors can go up and look out over the city. It reminds us that safety should never mean separation.”

One child asked, “What did it mean before?”

The teacher paused.

Mark knew the pause. He had seen it in officers, counselors, doctors, volunteers, reporters. The pause before a person chose the cleanest word.

“It meant we had not yet learned a better way,” she said.

The children accepted this. Children accepted many things if the voice was calm enough.

Mark shifted the folder under his arm. The papers inside were warm from his body. He had read them three times in the van, though reading them had changed nothing.

Certificate of Civic Reentry.
 Accountability Completion Notice.
 Temporary Identity Restoration.
 Fair Chance Lottery Appearance Order.

He had been free since 8:12 that morning. The time was printed on the first page in blue ink.

At 8:13, someone had handed him the folder.

At 8:17, someone had told him the Lottery studio expected him by noon.

At 8:19, someone had asked if he felt grateful.

A man crossed the plaza toward him, broad and solid, with a graying beard and a cap pulled low against the sun. His plaid shirt hung open over a faded tee. He moved like someone used to waiting outside buildings where other people made decisions.

Sid lifted one hand when he saw him.

Mark lifted his back.

Sid stopped a few feet away and spoke while signing, slower than most hearing people remembered to. His signs were not perfect, but they were clear enough to show effort.

“You made good time.”

Mark looked past him at the line of children entering the museum.

“Was I allowed to be late?” he signed.

Sid gave a short smile. It almost stayed.

“Not today.”

Mark nodded. He liked Sid more for not pretending.

Sid glanced at the folder under Mark’s arm. “You have everything?”

Mark opened it and showed him the papers.

“Good,” Sid said. “Keep those with you. They’ll scan them inside.”

Mark looked toward the museum again. The children were disappearing through the entrance now, one by one. Above the door, where the old prison name had once been carved into stone, new letters had been installed in brushed steel.

THE MUSEUM OF HARM AND HEALING

Behind the glass, the gift shop lights were already on.

Mark could see rows of postcards. A rack of shirts. Small white candles in boxes printed with the words NEVER AGAIN.

Sid followed his gaze.

“It helps people remember,” he said.

Mark signed, “Do they?”

Sid did not answer immediately. Then he said, “Some do.”

That was another thing Mark liked about Sid. He did not lie unless his job required it.

They began walking toward the studio. It was built beside the museum, where the courthouse parking lot used to be. The new building had wide windows and smooth gray stone. A large screen above the doors showed tonight’s broadcast announcement.

THE FAIR CHANCE LOTTERY
 Live Community Review — 7 PM
 Everyone Deserves a Fair Chance

Below that, in smaller letters:

Tonight, you help decide what fairness looks like.

People were already lined up outside the audience entrance. Some held coffee. Some checked their phones. A few wore pins shaped like open hands. No one looked cruel. That made it harder.

One woman saw Mark and smiled at him with sudden brightness, as though he had already done something brave.

Mark looked away.

Sid slowed beside him. “Remember, this isn’t a trial.”

Mark looked at him.

Sid repeated it, more carefully. “It isn’t a trial. The trials ended with the old system. You completed accountability. You are not here to be sentenced.”

Mark waited.

Sid exhaled through his nose. “Tonight is about support priority. Housing, work placement, medical care, communication access, family contact, community certification. The audience helps determine order of need.”

Mark signed, “Order of deserving.”

Sid’s jaw tightened.

“That isn’t the language.”

“No,” Mark signed. “It never is.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. A group of audience members passed nearby, laughing gently at something on a phone. One of them glanced at Mark’s hands, then at his face, then quickly away.

Sid lowered his voice even though Mark was watching his hands.

“You just need to get through the room.”

Mark looked at the studio doors. They opened and closed without a sound.

“It isn’t prison,” Sid said.

Mark waited again.

Sid’s hands were still.

Then he added, “But you still have to survive the room.”

Inside, the lobby smelled like lemon cleaner and warm lights. A security guard stood beside the metal detector wearing a blue vest with the Fair Chance emblem on the chest: two open hands beneath a rising sun.

“Welcome,” the guard said.

Sid interpreted quickly.

Mark stepped forward.

“Folder in the tray, please,” the guard said. “Phone, keys, watch, loose items.”

Mark placed the folder down first. Then the temporary phone they had issued him. Then the bus card. Then the folded paper with his mother’s number written on it, because he did not yet trust the phone to keep anything.

The guard smiled as he checked the tray.

Somehow the smile made it worse.

Mark stepped through the detector. It beeped.

The guard pointed to his shoes. Mark removed them without being asked twice. He had learned a long time ago that the second request was never really a request.

Sid watched. His face had gone still.

When it was done, the guard handed Mark his things and said, “Good luck tonight.”

Sid signed it.

Mark put the paper with his mother’s number back into his pocket.

Beyond the lobby, the hallway opened into a waiting area. On one wall hung a framed photograph of the last prison closing. People stood outside a different building in the rain, holding candles and signs. Some were crying. Some were cheering. Under the photograph, a plaque read:

THE DAY WE CHOSE BETTER

Across from it, a screen displayed the names of that evening’s participants.

SAM — Housing Priority / Employment Sponsorship / Family Contact
 MARK — Communication Access / Medical Support / Community Trust
 ALINA — Family Contact / Housing Priority / Civic Restoration

The categories shifted gently beside each name, rearranging themselves in order of projected need.

Mark stared at his own name until the letters blurred.

He had been free since morning.

By evening, freedom had categories.

Part Two: The Orientation Room

A woman in a blue vest led Mark, Sid, and two others down the hallway without introducing herself.

She walked backward for part of it, smiling as she spoke, which made Mark think she had practiced this many times.

“Welcome, everyone. We know tonight is meaningful, and we want you to feel fully supported through the process.”

Sid signed what he could. Mark watched his hands instead of her mouth. The woman’s lips kept forming words that looked soft and official.

Supported.
 Process.
 Meaningful.

They passed a row of framed photographs. In one, a crowd stood outside a courthouse, holding candles. In another, a child hugged a woman beneath a banner that said RETURN IS REPAIR. In the last, Lorelai stood onstage between two people crying. Her arms were open, but not touching them.

The hallway ended at a small room with no windows.

The woman opened the door.

“Orientation will begin in just a moment.”

The room was warm. Too warm. There were soft gray chairs arranged in a half circle, a low table with sealed water bottles, a bowl of apples, and a screen mounted on the wall. Beside the screen was a poster in pale blue letters.

YOU ARE NOT ON TRIAL.
 YOU ARE IN COMMUNITY.

Mark looked at the poster for a long moment.

Then he chose the chair closest to the door.

Sid sat beside him.

Across the room, Sam was already there.

Mark had seen Sam’s name on the screen outside, but the name had not prepared him for the person. Sam was small, bright, and impossible to miss: blue hair swept to one side, black clothes, glasses catching the overhead light, one hand resting on a cane decorated with little silver stickers. They had the look of someone who knew strangers were going to stare anyway and had decided to give them something specific to misunderstand.

Sam looked up and smiled.

“Mark, right?” they said.

Sid began to interpret, but Mark had already caught the shape of his name.

Mark nodded once.

Sam tapped two fingers against their own chest. “Sam.”

Their signs were rough, but present. Better than most. Mark nodded again, this time with less caution.

The fourth participant sat near the water bottles, twisting the cap on one without opening it. She was older than Mark, with tired eyes and a careful braid. Her name tag said ALINA. She did not look at anyone for long.

The woman in the vest glanced at a tablet.

“Your Fair Chance coach may remain with you through orientation,” she said. “After that, participants will proceed to pre-interview, preparation, and live review.”

Sid signed quickly.

Mark watched the woman’s hands. They held the tablet lightly, as if nothing heavy had ever been placed there.

The screen on the wall turned blue.

A soft chime sounded.

Lorelai appeared.

Not in person. Not yet. On the screen she looked almost exactly like she did in the photographs: neat clothes, warm eyes, a calm face arranged into concern. She stood in front of the Fair Chance emblem, two open hands beneath a rising sun.

“Welcome,” Lorelai said.

The captions appeared beneath her.

WELCOME.

Mark noticed the captions were perfect for her.

“Tonight is not about punishment. Punishment belonged to another age. Tonight is about care, responsibility, and the shared work of return.”

Sam leaned back slightly, as though settling in for a show they had already seen.

Lorelai continued.

“Each of you has completed your accountability period. Each of you enters this room as a free person. The Fair Chance Lottery does not decide whether you belong to the community.”

She paused. It was a beautiful pause. The kind that gave people time to believe her.

“It helps the community decide how best to receive you.”

The words stayed on the screen.

HOW BEST TO RECEIVE YOU.

Mark felt Sid shift beside him.

Lorelai lifted one hand, and the image changed. Six words appeared in a circle.

HOUSING
 EMPLOYMENT
 MEDICAL SUPPORT
 COMMUNICATION ACCESS
 FAMILY CONTACT
 COMMUNITY TRUST

“These supports are not prizes,” Lorelai said. “They are pathways. Because resources must be distributed responsibly, each participant’s support package is prioritized through community voice, readiness measures, and demonstrated need.”

The circle turned slowly.

Mark stared at COMMUNICATION ACCESS until the words moved out of sight.

He raised his hands.

Sid turned toward him.

“Communication access is part of the Lottery?” Mark signed.

Sid’s mouth pressed into a line. “Part of the support package.”

“Voted on?”

“Prioritized.”

Mark looked at him.

Sid looked away first.

On the screen, Lorelai was still speaking.

“You may be asked to share your story. You may be asked to reflect on harm, hope, accountability, and future goals. Remember: there are no wrong stories. There are only honest steps forward.”

Sam made a small sound through their nose. Not quite a laugh.

The woman in the vest did not look up from her tablet.

The screen shifted again. This time, a list appeared under the heading HELPFUL RESPONSE PRACTICES.

Express gratitude.
 Acknowledge harm.
 Use future-oriented language.
 Avoid blame-centered statements.
 Show emotional readiness.
 Keep answers brief.

Mark read the list twice.

No wrong stories, he thought, unless you told one wrong.

Sid opened the folder in his lap. There were papers inside, marked with tabs. Mark could see his own name at the top of one page.

Sid tapped the page gently.

“These are suggestions,” he said.

Mark waited.

Sid continued. “Not rules.”

Mark waited longer.

Sid gave up pretending. “They’re close to rules.”

Sam smiled again, but this time it was not cheerful.

Sid ran one hand down his beard, then turned back to Mark.

“They want to hear that you understand the process. They want to hear that you’re ready for support. They want to hear that you can work with people.”

Mark signed, “I can work with people.”

“I know.”

“Do they?”

Sid did not answer.

The video ended with Lorelai smiling into the camera.

“Thank you for choosing return. Thank you for choosing repair. Thank you for trusting your community to see you clearly.”

The screen faded to the Fair Chance emblem.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Alina said, very quietly, “Do they bring them out during family contact, or is it video?”

The woman in the vest looked at her tablet. “That depends on your support level.”

Alina nodded as if she had expected that answer and had hated it before hearing it.

Mark signed to Sid, “Interpreter?”

Sid looked tired already. “The studio uses official captions.”

“For me?”

“For everyone.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“I know.”

Mark waited.

Sid lowered his voice. “They also use Meaning Assistance.”

Sam looked over sharply.

Mark signed, “What is that?”

Sid’s fingers hesitated. “It helps translate responses for public clarity.”

Mark stared at him.

“For clarity,” Sid repeated, though his face no longer believed the word.

Sam leaned forward, both hands resting on the top of their cane.

“It means if you say something messy, they make it smooth,” Sam said.

Sid interpreted, but Mark understood enough before he finished.

Sam shrugged. “Sometimes smooth gets you housing.”

Mark looked at them.

Sam’s smile had changed again. Smaller now. Less for the room.

“First round,” Sam said, “let them think you’re grateful. Second round, let them think you’re honest. Third round, if you still have enough points, you can be complicated.”

Mark signed, “That works?”

Sam’s eyes moved toward the screen, then back.

“No,” they said. “But it works better than telling the truth all at once.”

The woman in the vest tapped something on her tablet. The screen changed without warning.

A clip began to play.

Lorelai stood onstage beside a young man in a brown suit. He was crying hard enough that his shoulders shook. The audience rose to its feet. Words appeared beneath the clip.

CARE WORKS WHEN COMMUNITIES LISTEN.

The young man on the screen covered his face. Lorelai placed one hand near his shoulder, not touching him until he leaned toward her. The audience clapped harder when he did.

Then the camera cut to a small apartment. Sunlight through clean curtains. A bed made with blue sheets. A refrigerator with oranges inside.

The young man’s voice came through the speaker.

“I just want to thank everyone who believed I was ready.”

Mark watched his face more than the apartment.

He knew that face.

It was not joy. Not exactly.

It was the look of a person who had reached shore and knew the people on land were still deciding whether to pull him out of the water.

Sid touched Mark’s arm lightly to get his attention.

“Listen,” Sid said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Mark doubted that, but he let him continue.

“This is better than what came before.”

Mark looked at the poster again.

YOU ARE NOT ON TRIAL.

Sid’s hands moved carefully.

“Twenty years ago, you would still be behind a wall tonight.”

Mark did not argue. That was the hard part. Sid was right.

Twenty years ago, there would have been no museum. No glass panels etched with gentle words. No Fair Chance emblem. No public vote on whether he should sleep indoors because no one would have asked the public to pretend it was generous.

He would simply have been gone.

Mark looked down at his hands.

Then he signed, “Tonight I have to convince strangers I deserve a door.”

Sid closed the folder.

Across the room, Sam looked away.

The woman in the vest stood.

“Pre-interviews are ready,” she said. “Sam, you’ll be first.”

Sam rose slowly, adjusting their grip on the cane. They smoothed the front of their black shirt, touched their blue hair, and took a breath. It was small, but Mark saw it: the moment Sam gathered themself into someone the room would know how to reward.

At the door, Sam glanced back.

“Don’t start with the thing you care about most,” they said.

Then they went out.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

The screen returned to the emblem: two open hands, a rising sun, no shadow anywhere.

Mark flexed his hands once, then let them fall still.

In the next room, stillness would look safer than the truth.

From Castles to Prison to Castles: A Narrative Essay

 

From Prisons to Castles- Youtube Video

Note: This blog is meant to come across as a creative essay, rather than a report. I will definitely be sharing a report at some point, but this is more personally driven than professional.

I’ve been obsessed with castles, fortresses, and manors ever since I was a kid. The Sleeping Beauty castle offered the opportunity to imagine running down the seemingly endless corridors. Beauty and the Beast had a library with books that reached the sky. King Arthur had a castle that could withstand the might of many. To be able to imagine being in the keep of Casterly Rock and imagine the waves crashing against it from below. Imagine being in a castle where the staircases move! The obsession became reality when I started a project from the ground up. I’ve always been passionate about fundraising and event hosting; I even won a national award when I was 13 for the carnivals and bake sales I loved to plan. The causes were just as important, and that made it all the better. So, I started a Castle, Home, and Garden contest in a virtual world called Second Life. (If you don’t know what that is, it’s like The Sims but with real people behind the avatar!) I asked people to build castles, then during a certain week, people would come and “vote” for these castles by paying real money for their votes. I also solicited for sponsors to donate money to have a judge’s prize– $100,000 linden to the winning team’s kiosk for the American Cancer Society (that’s about 350 USD). The stakes were high, the fight against cancer was real, and I got to soak in my obsession. I got to marvel at the design of each and every castle someone made, even though it was virtual. You still got to walk through each castle– every throne room, bedroom, library, and moat. It was an amazing experience. I’ve always been fascinated by how castles were the forefront of so many fairy tales we hear today. Funny enough, I was fascinated by dungeons, too. They ranged greatly– some had little holes that they would dig at the base of the castle and then put a door that would lock the person down this little hole. There was no light, lots of maggots, and no protection from water seeping through. There was no sunlight, no opportunity to see other people, and no chance to rehabilitate and learn. All you did was manifest so many mental disorders that it would be almost impossible to recover. Other dungeons weren’t so cruel, so to speak– some had the standard bars where you would basically just sit and rot away inside the bars, and get fed, maybe. 

Fast forward many years– never did I think I would be in my own dungeon. I’ve always been the hopeful, optimistic type of person. I tried to not let anything get me down. But let me tell you, the dungeon I was in (yes, I mean prison) really tried to get me down. But, you know what? I have always been obsessed with castles. That never went away. When I was locked up, I wrote more for two novels that I have written, Coldbane Manor and Faraway. Coldbane Manor features a sentient home that has a library with towering books, and corridors that seem endless (sound familiar?), and Faraway had the Disney-esque castle we all picture– white base with blue, birds flying high, and hopes to the sky. I never gave up on those worlds– never. 

It was difficult being in the dungeon for so long. I have always had some amount of anxiety, but prison made it ten times worse. Before prison, if I had to go to a new work site with unfamiliar people, I’d try to be a few hours early because I knew I would get in the parking lot, then leave, then go back, then leave, then go back– it was my way of telling myself, it’ll be okay, I can do this. Now that I’m out of prison, I can barely manage to get out of my house at all. I find myself looking out the windows before I take my dog out to go to the bathroom. I get all panicky and nervous going to a store by myself. Somehow, I managed to get used to airports– what I like about airports is that there’s a routine, a checklist– you walk inside, you go up to the desk, you go through security, you go to the gate. It’s the same no matter what airport you’re in. That gives me a lot of peace and a sense of security. But a store? My brain goes, what if someone comes up to me and tries to talk to me? What if a cop sees me, decides that I did something wrong, and arrests me? Even if I’m shopping for milk, that fear is always in the back of my mind. Even when I’m in my own home, I wake up randomly thinking that a cop is at my door and I didn’t hear it, so therefore he will come in and arrest me and say I disobeyed orders and then my dog is confused and no one watches my dog then I lose my job then I lose my house… Who wants that kind of paranoia? It’s even worse if I go somewhere. 

I went out of state a week before I needed to for a symposium I was presenting at. I wanted to push myself and go to a water park that I really wanted to get to, but just couldn’t imagine going there alone. I had been to the water park before, so I thought maybe it would help if I tried to go alone. Maybe some of my anxiety would go away. Unfortunately, I ended up staying in the hotel room most of the days. But hey– I did accomplish some things! I went to the cafeteria (more than once), then one day I went to the lazy river for a few hours, then I finally went into the water park. I only went once, and I meant to go twice, but hey– I got myself out! What a silly accomplishment, right? But to go from not being able to walk outside without being hyper vigilant to going to the cafeteria to get some pizza… What an amazing thing!

Did I mention that I’m obsessed with castles? Guess what… Germany has plenty of them. I had some contacts through universities in Germany and they wanted to learn more and potentially replicate our disability initiative, so I decided to set up a trip to Germany. I also have a group of friends from Germany that I wanted to see while going to these universities. In Germany, I used castles to motivate me in going from place to place.

I got on a train, a bus, and even went to a CASTLE all by myself. Neuschwanstein Castle… which inspired the Sleeping Beauty castle. Of course, one of the castles that inspired me as a kid! I needed a written English guide since I couldn’t hear the tour guide, and my German isn’t strong enough. I took it upon myself to ask for one– and I soaked in every word. I remember going up the endless stairs into the first room of the castle, and my tears just flowed down my face. I didn’t really care if anyone saw me– no one did since I was the last person in the group in every room to leave the room (I was always lingering– I wanted to see every last detail, from the floor to the bed to the windows to everything!!) 

I usually quote Dolly Parton in my essays, but I’m inspired by another set of lyrics:

I’ve heard it said

That people come into our lives

For a reason

Bringing something we must learn

And we are led

To those who help us most to grow

If we let them

And we help them in return

Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true

But I know I’m who I am today

Because I knew you

I’m notorious for not liking most foods. I have food sensitivities that are too hard to explain, but I do know what I like. One of my German friends was picking on me because I wasn’t trying very many German foods, but you know what I said? I said that there are so many new things I’m trying right now– I’m in a foreign country, I went past border control, I went to a castle all by myself, I was on a bus all by myself, a train all by myself, this whole trip is an endeavor I never thought possible. I went from castle to dungeon in real life, and to imagine that I could go from dungeon to castle was not in my cards. I did so many new things, and I’m proud of myself for it! 

You know what else this trip helped me realize? That we are a community. I may work for the Community, and sometimes it annoys me when I try to say “I work for the community at the Community”, I always feel redundant, but it’s so perfect because that is what we are. I have had the pleasure, the honor, the privilege of working with so many of you– from higher education to re-entry to formerly and currently incarcerated. I’ve worked with Presidents of Universities and even Justices of the Court. People ask us how we make strides in this work. I’m constantly asked, “How can I do what you do?” You know what, the answer is– utilize the community.

When you do that, you then realize that we are each other’s castles. Castles are meant to fortify, to protect, to unite kingdoms. They often have a place in the middle where communities can come. There’s a castle in England that had underground chambers that protected people during World War 2. We are each other’s castles. You need to spread your wings to fly, and think about the lyrics I just shared. We don’t let our pasts define us, but remember– we are led to those who help us most to grow. We have to let others help us, and help them in return. You might not believe that, but I am who I am today because I knew you. If you’re wondering if I mean YOU, yes.. Of course I do. 

I am obsessed with castles. Look at me– I went from dreaming about them, to writing about them, to being in a dungeon, then I got to go to a real castle. It is real. 

And I can see the light of a clear blue morning

And I can see the light of a brand new day

I can see the light of a clear blue morning

And everything’s gonna be all right

It’s gonna be okay 

Colorado, Correspondence Courses, and the Difference Between Access and “Access”

 

I want to start with a quick apology: I haven’t posted in a while. Lately, my energy has been fully tied up in Stop the Stigma planning—and just last night, we rehearsed Brick by Brick. It was one of those moments that reminds you why the work matters. It was emotional in ways that linger.

So yes, I’ll say it plainly: if you’re on my LinkedIn, I really hope you’ll watch Brick by Brick on February 20 at 6:00 PM EST—and while you’re there, I hope you take advantage of the panels as well. (Register here-- https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSe4Z0LI5JpkPH3eKBw-8ANquRWRxNJKwpS465KOStu3Jb4v_A/viewform?usp=share_link&ouid=104026462342619638257 ) 

This post, though, is about Colorado.

I had the opportunity to attend a symposium hosted by the University of Colorado Denver, and it genuinely moved me. Denver itself is beautiful—though I didn’t get much time to explore. What did surprise me was the weather: it was around 50 degrees there, while southwest Ohio was sitting at about 15. Make that make sense.

What really stayed with me wasn’t the city—it was the room.

There was a breadth of representation I don’t always see: ABE instructors, financial aid professionals, HEP practitioners, and even a city councilwoman. And just as importantly, formerly and currently incarcerated individuals weren’t simply present—they were welcomed, listened to, and treated as essential voices. That matters more than we often acknowledge.

It also created the right context for a conversation that’s becoming increasingly unavoidable in prison education: correspondence courses.

Sitting with correspondence

I’m continuing a thought I started earlier, because correspondence education is expanding quickly, and we don’t yet have shared clarity about how to do it well.

I’ve been directly involved in a correspondence-style model through The Community. We developed curriculum based on community health worker training as a pre-apprenticeship program, in partnership with several organizations. The original intention was to run this as an in-person cohort. For a variety of reasons, the first cohort ended up being largely correspondence-based.

I won’t unpack all of those reasons here. What matters is what that shift forced me to confront.

Correspondence can expand access—and it can also quietly create new barriers.

What correspondence does well

I want to be clear: I am not anti-correspondence, and I am not here to endorse it uncritically either. I am pro–students succeeding.

On the outside, I’ve benefited greatly from remote learning myself. The flexibility matters. Being able to work at your own pace matters. The ability to pause when your brain is done matters—especially when the material is dense, unfamiliar, or intimidating.

In prison settings, correspondence can also reduce logistical barriers. It lessens reliance on classroom space, reduces movement complications, and can theoretically expand the range of courses available beyond what a single on-site instructor can offer.

That last point is important. Many incarcerated students are limited to whatever major happens to be available where they are housed. Variety matters. Exposure matters. Choice matters.

Where correspondence gets complicated

This is where the conversation needs to slow down.

First, accommodations are harder to deliver by default. Assistive tools—like scanning pens, CCTV, FM systems, or screen readers—can be used safely in secure environments. Some facilities already manage this through supervised use or check-in/check-out systems in education units or libraries. But correspondence models often require extra coordination to make that happen, and if accessibility isn’t built in from the start, students who need accommodations are the first to feel it.

Second, communication delays aren’t just inconvenient—they change who can participate. When learning relies heavily on mail, everything slows down: feedback, clarification, momentum, and connection. Even when electronic messaging exists, it’s not equally accessible to all students. Phone calls are often treated as the default “real” communication method, yet they are inaccessible or anxiety-inducing for many, particularly deaf and hard of hearing students.

Third, cross-state programming adds another layer of friction. Imagine a prison education program based in one state trying to serve students housed in facilities in another. Disability services and program staff may be navigating entirely different DOC rules, approval processes, and technology restrictions. That complexity alone can become the reason accommodations never fully materialize.

And finally, foundational skill gaps collide with independent-study assumptions. Many students are rebuilding academic confidence from the ground up. Some earned a GED without ever having consistent instruction in writing, structure, or academic vocabulary. A correspondence model that assumes students can independently “read the packet and write a response” can unintentionally function as a gatekeeping system—especially without regular instructor interaction.

There is an irreplaceable value in having an instructor present. Someone who can catch misunderstanding early, re-teach in the moment, and scaffold skills as they develop. That kind of support is hard to replicate entirely through correspondence.

Why this conversation matters right now

Distance, correspondence, and restricted-technology models are growing. Sometimes that growth comes from necessity. Sometimes it comes from a desire to scale quickly. Sometimes it comes from pressure to serve more students with fewer resources.

At the same time, we know that education in prison is associated with better outcomes. We also know that incarcerated students are not a uniform group. They include second-language learners, students with disabilities, students with long and short sentences, students with trauma histories, students who are academically advanced, and students just learning how to write a paragraph.

So when we talk about correspondence, we can’t pretend we’re serving a single type of learner.

Inclusion, not compliance

This is where I want to be very intentional.

Compliance says: we have a process.
Inclusion asks: are students actually able to learn and demonstrate what they know?

If correspondence courses are going to continue expanding, the field needs a broader conversation—one that includes DOC leadership, disability services, instructors, program administrators, and incarcerated students themselves.

That conversation needs to move beyond whether correspondence is “allowed” or “efficient” and toward questions like:

• How are accommodations planned from the beginning?

• What communication options exist beyond phone calls?

• How is assistive technology made realistically available?

• How are foundational skills supported, not assumed?

• How do programs coordinate across states without losing students in the gaps?

Where I land—for now

I don’t have a neat conclusion, and I don’t think we should rush to one.

Correspondence courses can open doors. They can also close them quietly if we aren’t careful.

If the goal of prison education is opportunity, transformation, and equity, then the format matters far less than whether students can actually use what we provide.

Access isn’t just availability.
It’s usability.
And inclusion has to be intentional.

That’s the conversation I hope we keep having—together.

And yes—if you’re still reading, I hope you’ll join us for Brick by Brick on February 20 at 6:00 PM EST.

Across Oceans, Glaciers, and Deserts: Fighting Isolation in Prison Education

 

Hello everyone!

Sorry I haven’t posted in a bit—it’s been a month. I was in Hawaii, Alaska, Nevada and got Covid, all in September. It was my first round with Covid—and as odd as it sounds, it plugged straight into the theme I kept feeling everywhere: isolation.

Hawaii

All three states were incredible, but Hawaii felt almost otherworldly. I swam with dolphins—looking down into blue water with no bottom in sight and watching six dolphins slip through the deep beside me. We also snorkeled close to shore, where I watched our guide dive about ten feet to free a fishing line from a coral head. That tiny act—pausing the tour to protect the reef—embodied the aloha spirit for me: community, care, connection, responsibility.

That’s the energy I felt collaborating with programs in Hawaii, too. But even paradise has fractures. Hawaii has one of the highest rates of homelessness among the states; in 2024 the rate reached 80.5 people per 10,000 residents (the top rate among states that year). On recent Point-in-Time counts, many counties reported majorities of people experiencing homelessness living unsheltered (e.g., Kauaʻi 88%, Hawaiʻi Island 72%).

And when it comes to prison education, distance compounds isolation. Many college-in-prison offerings are based on Oʻahu—and people serving longer sentences are often transferred to Saguaro Correctional Center in Arizona, thousands of miles from home, which has disrupted students’ progress. We also know that family connection and visitation are linked to better reentry outcomes and lower recidivism. So if you’re shipped from Hawaiʻi to Arizona, how do you keep that lifeline alive?

Alaska

Alaska held the same paradox, at a different scale. I took a long glacier boat tour—ice calving like thunder, seals sunning on floes, mountains breathing in the distance—and then met with community members to talk through local realities. The land is breathtaking; the distances are brutal. Kotzebue, for example, sits ~550 miles from Anchorage—no quick hop by road to see family. The sense of “if you live here, you’re one of ours” is strong; the logistics of staying connected are still hard.

Isolation isn’t abstract for me. During my incarceration—much of it during Covid—visits were cut. I thrive digitally; my social battery charges fine online. But without my family physically near, I felt hollow. I talked to my mom every day, and still felt it. (I’m acutely aware I was lucky she could keep my account funded. Many can’t.)

Covid (the bridge)

The week I got home from Alaska, I was supposed to join my FICGN FIELD cohort in Wisconsin to celebrate finishing our CNP course. Instead, Covid pinned me to bed with a 102° fever. And there, in that fog, it clicked: isolation isn’t just a feeling; it’s structural and relational. Whether you’re sick and stuck at home, living in a remote Alaskan village, or shipped from Hawaiʻi to Arizona, the question is the same: how do we stay connected when systems and geography push us apart?

Nevada

I had only a few days to recover before Nevada. We started in Reno. A formerly incarcerated person told me plainly: “I feel alone.” That landed. Jen Vega (The Community’s Operations Director) and I drove seven hours to Las Vegas—long stretches of empty desert. We stopped in Tonopah to tour the infamous Clown Motel (yes, of course we did), and then—boom—Vegas: neon and noise against a beautiful expanse of desert sky. Imagine being from a small town like Tonopah and getting sent to a Las Vegas facility—far from family, far from familiarity. In that contrast, I feel alone, too.

Disability turns isolation into a multiplier

People with disabilities are profoundly overrepresented in US prisons. Depending on definitions and measures:

• The Bureau of Justice Statistics found 38% of people in state and federal prisons reported at least one disability in 2016.

• A 2022 analysis of the same dataset estimated roughly two-thirds (about 66%) of incarcerated people have a disability, including 40% with a psychiatric disability and 56% with a non-psychiatric disability.

• Snapshot summaries echo the overrepresentation (e.g., ~40% in state prisons vs. ~15% in the general population). 

Layer disability on top of distance, cost, and restrictive communication policies, and you don’t just get isolation—you get compounded exclusion.

What kept me going this month

Despite all this, September reminded me that connection pushes back. Dolphins in the vast ocean. A guide pausing to free a coral head. Glacier thunder and boat-deck conversations. Escape rooms won with friends. Program leaders and teachers showing up with heart. That’s where disability and justice begin: not with a form, but with people refusing to leave others alone.

Calls to action (what we can build—now)

1. Keep people closer to home. Limit out-of-state transfers; when unavoidable, create continuity-of-education agreements so enrollment, credits, and accommodations follow the student. 

2. Subsidize connection. Make calls/video visits free or truly affordable; prioritize ADA-compliant platforms for Deaf/Hard-of-Hearing and other disabled people.

3. Center disability access. Treat accommodations as essential infrastructure (interpreting, captioning, assistive tech, accessible testing/learning spaces), not add-ons.

4. Build family-support pipelines. Protect visitation, transport assistance, and remote participation options, given the strong link between family contact and reentry success. 

5. Measure who’s included. Track disability participation and outcomes in every carceral education program, and close the gaps with resourcing—not rhetoric.

Where I’m headed

As Dolly sings in Travelin’ Thru, “I can’t tell you where I’m going”—but I know what I’m building toward. I’m gearing up for Stop the Stigma, our three-day conference focused 100% on incarceration, stigma, and disability. The lessons from Hawaii, Alaska, and Nevada—ocean-deep connection, last-frontier grit, and desert-bright resolve—are steering me there. Together, we’ll make sure isolation doesn’t get the final word.

Facility Transfers Doubly Affect Disabled Students

 

Hi everyone! I am in Alaska right now, enjoying the beauty of the Last Frontier. In the meantime, I want to feature a guest blog post from none other than Dr. Jenifer Montag. This post is especially important in states like Alaska, where individuals live in remote areas and are transferred many hours away from their families. 

Ben has doing an amazing job highlighting all that we have been learning about

disability access in prison education programs through the grant that he has received.

There is still a lot more left to learn, I’m sure.

One of the points that Ben has discussed with me is the impact that prison site transfers

have on students enrolled in prison education programs. There are many ways students

are impacted, especially the college students. Generally speaking, unless there are

transfer agreements or compacts between colleges, students may “lose” earned credits

when they transfer between prison sites, if the same college is not teaching inside the

new prison. Additionally, students may have to change majors if college change when

moved between prisons. Or students may no longer have access to college education

because the new prison does not have a prison education program. And vocational

training programs vary across all the sites of a state’s prison system – not every prison

offers HVAC, or plumbing, or welding, or automotive maintenance.

While those speed bumps on the pathway to postsecondary education and training can

be very disruptive to any student seeking education, there are additional gaps, almost

like sinkholes, that occur in the pathway for disabled students who are transferred

between prison sites.

As many of you already know, at the college level, there is no “special education”, rather

the college’s Disability Services office will work with students who identify and request

accommodations because of a disability to create approved disability accommodations.

Due to the nature of higher education disability services, each college sets their own

policies and procedures related to the processing of disability accommodation requests.

For example, some colleges require specific documentation of a disability, including the

evaluation must be current (usually within three to five years, but sometimes may

require annually updated evaluation or letter from qualified medical professional); adult-

normed; and include all the evaluation data (such as achievement and aptitude scores

for learning disability evaluations. On the other hand, some colleges are more flexible

and willing to review previous documentation (such as a high school IEP or 504 Plan)

and engage in a conversation with the student about the disability impacts in the

learning environment and how accommodations have helped the student previously

(part of the interactive dialogue the colleges must engage in with the student requesting

accommodations).

The relatively “simple” act of moving a student from facility A where College X is

teaching to facility B where College Y is teaching, may mean the student with disabilities

is delayed in setting up and receiving accommodations from College Y.

Additionally, as Ben and I are finding out on our work on building out the training manual

for disability accessibility in prison education, not every college prison education

program has been deliberate in developing processes for students with disabilities to

request accommodations and connect with the college disability services office in a

quick manner. For example, College X may have established a formal process where

students are notified at the new student orientation to request accommodations and the

request is submitted to the college disability services that same day and a pass is

provided to the student to attend the interactive dialogue meeting with the college

representative from disability services within a week. College Y may not have

considered nor established any formal process for students to request disability

accommodations. The disabled student who is transferred to facility B and enrolls in

College Y may encounter delays in getting connected to the disability representative

from College Y. The representative may then also need additional time to figure out how

to facilitate the needed accommodations, such as American Sign Language

interpreters, real-time live captioning of class lectures, accessible audio textbooks,

braille or large print materials, extra time on tests and tests read aloud, or even the

simple accommodation of a notetaker for lectures, inside the constrained environment

of the prison setting.

Complicating the transfer situation for disabled students enrolled in postsecondary

education and training programs inside prison settings is the issue of documentation.

Originally, College X was able to receive and review the students previous IEP and with

that and the interactive dialogue, the college disability services representative was able

to determine the appropriate accommodations for the student in College X’s classes

and degree program. However, that documentation is on file at College X and does not

follow with student who is moved between facilities to facility B where College Y is

offering classes. College Y would now be expecting documentation from the student

requesting disability accommodations. However, the student likely does not have that

documentation themselves, though it may be on file at College X. That documentation is

not automatically transferred from College X to College Y, though a student can request

a FERPA release from the original college and a signed release of information form

from the original college’s disability services office in order to have College X fax the

documentation to College Y at the student’s request. But the student would need to

know to make that request and College X would need to be ameniable to sharing

documentation they have received. Some colleges may deny sharing out third party

(like a high school IEP, or a doctor’s letter of documentation) with another organization,

but may be okay with providing a copy to the student directly – but there is the

complicating factor of whether or not an individual under the care of a state DOC can

possess any of this type of information (medical / educational records) or if that could be

considered contraband.

So far, we have only discussed two rather common “sinkholes” that might occur for a

disabled student who is administratively transferred between two prison facilities with

different colleges providing education inside. Additional barriers may pop up because of

the differences between what the prison administration at each facility may or may not

approve for the college disability services staff to bring into the facility for

accommodations.

Even something as general as the depth of experience that the college disability

services staff has with specific types of accommodations will vary between institutions.

Some disabilities are considered “low-incidence” meaning the number per 100,000 or

per 1000 students is lower than other disabilities, making that disability a bit more

infrequent in showing up in the student population (even on the main general campus).

Hearing loss and vision loss are two of the disabilities that are more infrequent on

college campuses, especially students who are Deaf and use American Sign Language

for communication or students who are Blind and use Braille for reading. Some college

campuses may have educational programs that draw more students with hearing or

vision loss to the campus (such as an undergraduate Teachers for the Deaf or Teachers

for the Blind and Low Vision degree programs). That means the college disability

professionals have likely had more experience with specific accommodations such as

interpreters, real-time captioning, closed captioning, assistive listening devices, braille,

large print, screen reading software, portable magnification devices, tactile diagrams,

and accessible textbooks than a staff member who may not have worked with a blind or

Deaf student in the five years they have been working in the disability services field.

Having a student who is Deaf and reliant on sign language interpreters for

communication moved between facilities may also impact the number and quality of

interpreters available for in-person interpreting. This is critical if internet is not an option

and therefore remote interpreting is not a possible accommodation that can be arranged

for the Deaf student in the college classes. There is currently a lack of qualified

interpreters for the level of need across the United States. Since interpreters often are

freelance and only earn money when they are in front of a Deaf person interpreting,

interpreters will be located where large populations of Deaf persons are located –

usually in large cities and suburbs. More prisons seem to be located in less urban

areas, more rural locations, and removed from large populations of Deaf persons and

the co-existing larger population of ASL interpreters that would be available to interpret.

This means the college disability professional would have to try and secure qualified

interpreters from further away, including cities that may be 1, 2, or even 3 or more hours

away, increasing costs and coordination efforts.

Since this is a blog and that means it should be short, I will close with the knowledge

that we will continue to engage in the conversation about impacts on education for

disabled students who are moved between prison facilities.

Jenifer Montag, Ed.D., is the Associate Director of the National Center for

College Students with Disabilities (NCCSD) through AHEAD. She has over

20 years of experience in postsecondary disability service provision, at a

variety of higher education institutions, along with having taught graduate,

undergraduate, and community college classes. Previously, as the college

disability services professional, she facilitated college disability services,

including ASL interpreters, real-time captioning, ALDs, and magnification

technology for students enrolled in Marion Technical College classes at two

state prisons. Along with facilitating these complex college

accommodations in the highly constrained prison environment, she has

also been fortunate to be able to teach the college’s First Year Experience class to students enrolled in the MTC prison education program.