The pandemic has given rise to a movement of incarcerated stock traders. In the early days of lockdowns, many in the outside world who received stimulus checks and unemployment benefits began experimenting with Robinhood and similarly easy-to-learn trading apps, investing in crypto and tech stocks and the like. It didn’t take long for word to reach prisoners, who wanted in.

Collier had already been watching the markets for a couple of months, after enrolling in a Black Prisoners’ Caucus class taught by another prisoner who was an experienced stock trader. Every morning, they watched CNBC and wrote down the stock prices. When they started simulating mock sales based on the actual market, Collier’s mock profits hit $100,000. 

“I wanted to start trading with real money,” he said. “Which, it turns out, is a lot harder to do.”

Despite its rising popularity, day-trading from prison is often a nightmare.

He wasn’t the only one. A dozen or so of his neighbors were taking the same class, and many of them were rapidly realizing the potential of accessing the real market. COVID was driving up trading volume. People figured penny stocks wouldn’t lose them that much money. And it seemed like all a pharmaceutical company had to do was mention the word “vaccine” and stocks would shoot through the roof.

Collier’s side hustle had been beadwork. He put those profits into an Etrade account set up and managed by his dad and, by dictating trades over the prison phone, began trading penny stocks in the pharma and biotech industries. One of his early trades was Moderna⁠—purchased at $17, sold days later for $28.

“I thought I’d cleaned up,” he recalled with a bitter laugh. “You can imagine my consternation when the stock ended up being worth hundreds.”

In November 2021, NASDAQ peaked. Interest rates went up. Inflation soared. Collier, still learning the ropes and caught off-guard by the shift, was in for a crash course on economic policy. The buy-the-dip strategies he’d been using—watching stock on the rise but waiting to pounce until it hit a presumably short-term dip—had served him well when the market was trending upward. They did not serve him well in the new downward trend, when the dipped stocks didn’t find their way back up.

“I lost more than half of the money I’d made before I realized that I needed to switch tactics,” he said. “Some people never got past the gambling stage of just basically chasing headline stocks, [but] my experience whet my appetite to learn more.”

These days, he trades mostly options—betting on whether the market will move up or down—a more specialized arena in which he’s enjoyed some success. When not working his mandatory prison maintenance job, he can be found buried in the pages of a book on stock trading, or one of the industry magazines to which he subscribes.

“The main thing I’ve learned is that I have a lot to learn,” he said. “I’m not giving up on trading, but I’m taking some time to regroup and learn more.”

Prison labor pays pennies on the hours. Side hustles are often the only way to survive, but we face retailiation if caught.

For Collier, the stock market has become a true passion. But for most people, day-trading isn’t something they’re really doing by choice.

Despite its rising popularity, trading from prison is often a nightmare. Without reliable internet access, many rely on loved ones in the free world to do the online footwork. Long lines to use the prison phones put them at a disadvantage compared to everyone who’s able to trade in real time. 

The Washington State Department of Corrections takes anywhere from 55 percent to 100 percent of funds sent to us by loved ones for mandatory debts incurred during incarceration. Prison labor pays pennies on the hours. Side hustles are often the only way to survive, but we face retailiation if caught.

People don’t want to spend their days glued to the TV, arguing with guards to open their cell doors, standing around waiting for phones. They do it because they know that without a financial safety net already in place when they’re released, it won’t be long before they’re taken back to prison.

Photograph by AhmadArdity via Pixabay

The post Why Many of Us Began Playing the Stock Market From Prison appeared first on Filter.

Since the pandemic began, COVID lockdowns have been used to effectively suspend GRE. For the past two years, Washington prisons have been subjected to almost nonstop COVID outbreaks. Those of us incarcerated here have spent most of that time on lockdown, confined almost exclusively to our cells. Educational and rehabilitative programming has all been put on hold—programming that many of us are required to participate in as conditions of approval for GRE.

Some prisoners who have served more than a year can become eligible for partial confinement in work-release settings in the final 12 months of their sentences, and home detention in the final five months.

I’ve been incarcerated for more than seven years, and am slated for release in April 2023. In December 2021, I learned that I was approved for a GRE pathway that would allow me to transfer to a work-release facility in April 2022, then spend my last five months of confinement on house arrest.

But in order to enroll, I have to first complete a “Chemical Dependency Treatment” course, apparently because of three DUI charges I incurred nearly 20 years ago.

The person who conducted my chemical dependency evaluation told me that I didn’t seem to have a substance use disorder. At first, I panicked: Great. I won’t even be able to get into the course. But she recommended me anyway, stating that my past “criminal behavior” was similar to “using behavior.”

No one on a wait list could enroll, and no one already in a program could graduate.

Because of COVID restrictions, those of us incarcerated here in Monroe Correctional Complex are only able to attend classes with people from our same living unit, which means the chemical dependency class allows just six of us at a time.

The course would take three months. My GRE eligibility was already less than three months away. I explained my situation to the instructor in early January, asking to be admitted into the class as soon as possible.

She informed me that prisoners with court orders for treatment had priority over me, but I was sixth on the wait list. After some back-and-forth exchanges, I was up to third; I’m not sure whether this was because of my persistence or if people had just graduated and made room. This meant I’d likely finish a month or two past my eligibility date. It wasn’t ideal, but I could live with it.

Then, on January 7, my living unit went back into quarantine—one of my neighbors had tested positive for COVID. All classes were suspended. No one on a wait list could enroll, and no one already in a program could graduate.

Of the roughly two dozen people I’ve spoken to who have applied for GRE, all told me they had to take chemical dependency before they could be approved. Like me, many are here on non-drug related convictions and do not have a substance use disorder. Many of them were given no explanation for why they needed to take the class.

Prisoners who participate in educational programming are significantly less likely to be reincarcerated once released. Many here signed up for college courses under the impression that they would graduate with degrees that could help them find jobs upon release, yet likely won’t be able to complete them during their sentence.

Why isn’t the DOC providing correspondence packets?

The majority of my incarcerated neighbors who contracted the Omicron variant in recent weeks were at least double-vaccinated. In an environment like this, there’s no way to stave off outbreaks for any extended period. If education and rehabilitative courses are prerequisites for allowing those of us at the tail ends of our sentences to leave this place, reducing both COVID and mass incarceration, there’s no valid reason they couldn’t proceed with a few simple accommodations.

The chemical dependency curriculum is based on a packet of written materials. Why can’t the DOC give these packets to prisoners to complete from their cells? (DOC did not provide Filter with an answer by publication time.)

In mid-February, some programs resumed. However, during the outbreak, additional prisoners were transferred in (none were transferred out, though some were released). Many of those brought in likely have court orders to take chemical dependency course—it’s very common—so it could be that I’ve been moved back down the wait list once again. My work release eligibility is six weeks away, and there’s no telling when I’ll be allowed to start the 12-week course I’m required to complete beforehand.

GRE was supposedly designed for people like me. People who have stayed out of trouble in prison and used their time productively. People who need the opportunity to acclimatize back into society in such a way that allows us to land on our feet, once we’re finally released.

If we can’t access these programs, at a time when it’s never been more urgent for prisons to reduce overcrowding, then why do they exist?

Photograph via Pixabay

The post WA Prisons Expanded Gradual Reentry. COVID Is an Excuse to Block Us. appeared first on Filter.

Elisa Rosso has lung cancer, and has been undergoing chemotherapy. When a DOC staffer called on September 7 to make an appointment to inspect her home, she informed them of her chemo and requested that, as she was severely immunocompromised, they wear PPE. The staffer said that wouldn’t be necessary. 

Rosso’s mother was taken aback. “I don’t understand why you people have to be idiotic during a pandemic,” she told the staffer.

The call ended. The DOC never visited her house. The release address was denied. (Filter made numerous attempts to interview Rosso’s mother by phone, but was unable to do so as she continues with her treatment.)

Rosso had been living with his wife, but he couldn’t be released to their home address because she had been present when he was arrested. He couldn’t think of any other address where he could go. And that meant he would remain in prison.

DOC stipulations for a suitable home include no other residents with felony convictions; no drugs including alcohol; and that the person being released have their own room.

With the implementation of Washington’s Sentencing Reform Act (SRA) in the 1980s, mandatory minimum sentences were imposed on people with felony convictions, and the parole program abolished.

Before the SRA, prisoners went before a board to be assessed for reform and risk of re-arrest. Today, sentences are much longer. But with good behavior, people can get their sentence cut by anywhere from 5 to 50 percent depending on the charge.

But many, like Rosso, are sentenced to “community custody” upon release. This means that if they can’t find a DOC-approved address, they can be held long past their release date.

DOC stipulations include that a suitable home must have no other residents with felony convictions, no drugs including alcohol, and that the person being released must have their own room. These are high barriers, and many are unable to meet them.

He worked his sentence down with good behavior. He was moved to minimum security.

Rosso grew up in Oakland, California. His father is currently serving a life sentence in Texas. His older brother joined a gang at age 14. By the time he was 11, Rosso had too.

“My mom was really good,” Rosso said from atop an empty steel bunk in our dormitory in Monroe Correctional Complex. “But all my family was involved in gang activity, so it was just the logical step for me to join.”

When Rosso was 14, they moved to Bellingham, Washington, where he and his brother were instantly embraced by a local chapter of their gang. Within two months, his brother was already incarcerated, and soon after, so was he, on charges that were ultimately pled down to third-degree theft.

“I got out, and found out my first daughter was on the way,” he said. “I started selling drugs and tried to stay off the radar.”

He met his current partner when he was 15, and the young couple grew up fast and quickly moved in together. Rosso spent most of his teen years selling drugs to support them. When he was 18, they had a son. Money grew tighter.

“Everything started falling apart,” Rosso recounted. “Drug money was short because people were going to jail, and pipelines got closed. The only other thing I knew was doing robberies.”

He hit a local coffee shop, for which he ended up sitting in county jail for more than a year. He got 67 months for charges including first-degree robbery and possession of an unlawful short-barrel shotgun. “I guess [they] frown on having a shotgun under 26 inches.”

About halfway through serving his time, someone suggested he pursue his GED. “I was already gonna be away from my family for five years, and didn’t wanna keep disappearing on my kids,” Rosso said. “I decided I needed to take his advice.”

He got his GED, enrolled in a DOC-offered Construction Trade Apprenticeship Program and began earning an Associates of Technical Arts degree in small business management through Edmonds Community College. He worked his sentence down with good behavior. He was moved to minimum security.

Without a DOC-approved address, Rosso would be in MCC until January 2023—his release date without good behavior.

After his mother’s address was rejected, Rosso appealed the decision. For about a month, he heard nothing. In early October he was informed his appeal had been successful. But some DOC staffers told him that didn’t matter; the address would still not be approved. He submitted his wife’s parents’ address, and again waited without hearing anything.

The DOC replied to the first of Filter’s several requests for comment on the circumstances of Rosso’s release, but ultimately did not provide answers.

In late October, the DOC suddenly reopened Rosso’s case, prompted by what Rosso believes to be Filter’s requests for comment on this story. On November 4, he was approved for release into the custody of his wife’s parents. His is now set to be released on January 7, 2022.

Without an approved address, Rosso would be in MCC until January 2023—his release date without good behavior. He would remain in the environment that pressures him to embrace his old life, rather than the new one being held out of reach. His children would suffer because his mother spoke frankly.

Photograph via Flickr/Creative Commons 2.0

The post “Good Behavior” Gets Us Early Release—If Corrections Decides to Honor It appeared first on Filter.

Here in the Minimum Security Unit of the Monroe Correctional Complex, where I’m housed, one of our commutation-eligible neighbors finally returned to his loved ones in early September. Others—many of them waiting for their own sentences to be reviewed—watched him go, trying to reconcile their happiness for him with their envy.

Paul Fuentes, 46, has been incarcerated since 2005. In 2016, he was caught with a small amount of methamphetamine, and thrown into segregation.

“Usually, when you get caught with drugs in prison, you just go to the hole for a long period of time,” Fuentes said. “But they made an example of me because I did a long period of time in the hole, then, a year and a half later, I was charged with possession of a controlled substance.” He was sentenced to an additional one year on top of the 19 he was already serving.

When the Blake decision was handed down, people in county jails on possession charges were immediately released, their charges dismissed. Gov. Inslee announced he was working on a plan to provide relief to those currently in prison on possession charges.

Fuentes soon learned about a form he would need to complete in order to have his case reviewed. “I filled it out and sent it in right away, but I never had a response, so I had somebody check online,” he said. “She found out that the judge had signed off on my case months ago. She had to pay for copies, to send me, and I showed them to my caseworker, and then they finally changed my release date.”

The Blake decision stemmed from a 2016 case in Spokane, Washington. Shannon Blake was arrested for simple drug possession—a baggie of methamphetamine found in the jeans she was wearing. After arguing that she had received the pants from a friend and had no knowledge of the pockets’ contents, she was found guilty. Later, the statute under which she was convicted was found to have violated due process, and therefore to be unconstitutional.

Fuentes is not the only eligible person to have difficulty getting the Blake decision applied to their sentence.

“I had to go through the Court of Appeals to have mine overturned.”

When a person is convicted of a felony in Washington state, the amount of time they’re sentenced to falls within a standard range based on their offender score. For instance, someone who is convicted of robbery and has nine previous felony convictions would have a sentencing range of 120 to 160 months, while someone convicted on the same charge who has no priors would qualify for a much lower range.

Now that possession is no longer a felony, people with prior convictions who are currently incarcerated on charges ranging from larceny to murder have lower offender scores, and qualify for resentencing within a lower range. Fines related to past possession convictions are sometimes wiped or refunded, too.

Eric Thibert, 51, has been incarcerated since 2019 for delivery of a controlled substance. Though his previous possession convictions were finally wiped from his record in late summer, he wasn’t resentenced because his non-drug charges were so numerous it wouldn’t have made a difference. 

“I got the felony points taken off, and I got refunded for the fines I’d paid,” Thibert said. “My wife was in jail, doing a 90-day commit for drugs, though, and they had to release her after only two weeks.”

Ron Markovich, 61, has been incarcerated 51 months on charges of possession with intent to distribute. With an offender score of “8” at the time of his conviction, his standard range was 60 to 120 months. Since he had six prior felonies for simple possession, the Blake decision reduced his criminal record significantly—yet he still faced barriers to getting the decision applied to his case.

“I had to go through the Court of Appeals to have [my convictions] overturned,” Markovich said, “because they were from another state.”

On September 3, he received a manila envelope containing legal paperwork informing him he now has an offender score of 2. His new standard range is 12 to 20 months. He smiled as he showed me the three words he’s waited eight months to read:

“Remanded for resentencing.”

Markovich will be released as soon as this order is put into motion. But there’s no way of knowing when that will be. He probably won’t be given any information about when he can expect it. Like so many people here, he’ll simply be left to wait. 

Some prisoners consider the Blake decision a distraction from real reform.

Many of us incarcerated are skeptical about this prolonged process. After a recent decision that decriminalized possession of marijuana, we witnessed some of our neighbors being released within weeks. Why is the Blake decision taking so long?

Even setting aside the issue of delays, some prisoners consider the Blake decision a distraction from real reform. People who serve long stretches for more serious crimes are less likely to recidivate. 

As commutations are handed down haphazardly, it also feels like people incarcerated on “violent” charges in addition to simple possession, who should now be eligible for lower sentencing, are the ones whose cases are being delayed—while people incarcerated on “non-violent” charges are the ones whose cases are being moved forward.

Issac Sweet, 44, has been incarcerated 26 years for a robbery he was charged with at 18. 

“The courts and legislators need to start looking more closely at people with the term ‘violent’ attached to their name or crime,” Sweet said.

“The only thing that should matter is that we do what’s in the interest of the safety of our communities. That means looking to provide relief to the people in our prisons who are mentally and physically prepared for release—whether the stigma of violence is attached to them or not.”

Photograph of methamphetamine via Federal Bureau of Investigations

The post Hundreds of WA Drug-War Prisoners Can Be Freed. We’re Still Waiting. appeared first on Filter.

Biendl, 34 when she died, had been working as a guard at MCC since 2002. She was named the facility’s Correctional Officer of the Year in 2008. On the evening of January 29, 2011, she ushered a group of prisoners from her usual post in MCC’s chapel after a religious service. The sanctuary looked like any church in the free world: colorfully decorated stained-glass windows, a stage full of musical equipment, a pulpit, rows of chairs arranged like pews.

Later that night, prisoner Byron Scherf murdered her there. In 101 years, it was the first time a guard had been killed at MCC. And it will be the last: MCC, Washington’s second-largest prison and home to its second-oldest operating prison unit, is currently in the process of being shuttered. 

It seems there simply aren’t enough people going to prison these days. Department of Corrections (DOC) admission rates have dropped by more than half since the pandemic began, leaving too many empty beds to justify maintaining facilities like ours. Those of us incarcerated here are being “consolidated” into other facilities. The state is now losing more correctional officers than it’s able to retain, reaching 180 vacancies as of May. 

Often when something bad happens to a DOC employee, prisoners have little sympathy. This isn’t because of any widespread sociopathy within our community, but because of a mindset systematically implemented by the DOC. Staff are trained to hate and mistrust us. They’re taught that if they treat any prisoner as equal to themselves, or simply come to view them as human, that they’ve been “compromised.” This is a psychological power move, and contributes to recidivism.

The incarcerated felt the hands of their captors tighten around their necks under the guise of enhancing security.

Those of us intimately acquainted with the American criminal justice system know it to be a trap. It’s designed to collect people from the most disenfranchised walks of life and strip them of their humanity in order to create the most marginalized community in the country—so that various corporations can profit. It is difficult, then, to view prison guards as moral individuals; they have chosen work in a modern-day slave trade that’s more culpable for the nation’s crime rates than any one prisoner ever could be.

A rare few, however, seem able to wear the uniform while transcending the oppression it represents, and while recognizing the basic rights of those whom they police. Though I didn’t know her personally, few MCC prisoners I know have ever spoken ill of Jayme Biendl; she seemed to be well-liked by everyone. Most tell me she treated them as equals and genuinely seemed to care that they were disenfranchised and oppressed. She used to sit amongst incarcerated churchgoers and participate in services.

Most of us understand that until our prison-industrial complex is, at the very least, replaced with a rehabilitative model—like Norway’s—the best we can hope for is to have the occasional decent person working here.

A handful of guards were fired following Biendl’s death. Some for failing to note that she hadn’t come over the radio to report her area secure. Others for allowing Scherf to walk back to the chapel after hours. Though Biendl’s coworkers were more responsible for her death than any prisoner other than Scherf himself, all were rehired—with backpay. Meanwhile, the incarcerated felt the hands of their captors tighten around their necks under the guise of enhancing security.

The night Biendl was killed, a hulking guard burst into one of the living units yelling, “You’re all lucky you’re locked down right now, or I’d kill one of you motherfuckers myself!” He was answered by pleas from countless prisoners to be left alone with Scherf themselves. They were angry, too. And none of them had anything to do with Biendl’s murder.

MCC’s entire incarcerated population spent most of the next three months locked in our six-by-nine-cells, unable to let our loved ones know we were alright. We were deprived of regular access to basic amenities such as toilet paper, razors or clean clothes.

MCC houses medium- and minimum-security prisoners who have earned the right to be here through “good behavior.” But in reality, our movements are micromanaged, making it very difficult to prepare for reintegration into society. Since Biendl’s death, guards like her have become so rare they’re almost nonexistent. Staff have increased their spitefulness toward us, and most aren’t shy about why: It’s because one of them was murdered by a prisoner.

The numbers don’t lie: Prison staff pose a much greater threat to the incarcerated than we do to them.

In addition to the annual ceremony, murals have been erected and T-shirts printed in Biendl’s memory. This is understandable. But consider that prisoners here die at the hands of the DOC not once in a century, but all the time. As far as I know, the flag on MCC’s grounds has never even been lowered to half-mast in remembrance of one of them.

Like Sidney Potts, and the countless others here forcefully exposed to COVID.Or Richard Mejia, who died from sepsis after prison administrators refused to take him to an outside hospital. Or the three prisoners who died under the negligence of MCC’s former medical director. The numbers don’t lie: Prison staff pose a much greater threat to the incarcerated than we do to them. Moreover, we’re the ones locked in with the Scherfs of the world, many of us sharing cells with them every night.

MCC will likely be empty by the end of this year, leaving it little more than a century-old memorial to the medieval style of incarceration of which some factions of society can’t seem to let go. Biendl’s murals will remain in the darkened building with nobody to look at them, save the ghosts of those who were marched into the confines of the 30-foot brick walls, knowing they would someday die here. Her memory will live on in the hearts of the friends, family and coworkers who loved her, and of the prisoners who appreciated her. We can only hope that the hatred ushered in by her death stays behind.

Photograph via Pixabay

The post Our Prison Is Closing, With a Bitter Legacy of Contrasting Deaths appeared first on Filter.

Though Black, Latinx and Indigenous people collectively make up around one-third of the country, we account for more than 50 percent of the country’s incarcerated; and the vast majority of incarcerated white people are more acquainted with poverty and mental illness than what we think of as “privilege.”

Though it’s well documented that environmental issues like air pollution and climate change disproportionately affect marginalized communities, what’s seldom noted is how these ill effects are accelerated in places like WSR. Or the role of these factors in putting us at a much higher risk of contracting COVID-19.

When an outbreak began in our facility over the holidays, nearly 300 prisoners were infected in less than two weeks. “It’s the ventilation,” said Travis, a 29-year-old veteran and certified heating, ventilation and air-conditioning (HVAC) technician. “I’ve been here for years and never even seen them change the air filters in the units.”

The Washington State Department of Corrections (DOC) told Filter that the air filters are currently being changed on a quarterly basis. As of publication time, MCC reported 525 current cases of COVID and 160 new cases within the past month, though those numbers are MCC-wide and a breakdown of cases by specific prison unit, such as WSR, was not available. 

A Growing Crisis

When COVID guidelines were issued in the free world, confining people to their houses and thinning the crowds in public spaces, the DOC adopted a similar model. Visitation and all programming in WSR—religious, educational or otherwise—were suspended in order to limit the inflow of potential carriers from outside. Numbers of incarcerated individuals permitted in the gym, recreation yard and activity day rooms were reduced.

At first glance, these measures seemed reasonable. But it soon became clear that they had merely restricted the incarcerated population (which was still swelling from transfers from other prisons), almost exclusively to the oldest, most high-risk parts of the facility: the living units.

Vicente, a Mexican immigrant, understands that the only people who could be bringing COVID into our home are the prison staff. He wishes we had doors, rather than bars; when staff pass his cell, they’re often so close he can smell their breath. “I tried to move somewhere different,” he said, “where they’re not always passing by, but they won’t let me.”

“What really worries me is that people might not know they got it, and then they’ll just spread it more.”

Dominique, a 31-year-old Black man, has become increasingly convinced that everybody here will soon have the virus. “What really worries me is that people might not know they got it, and then they’ll just spread it more,” he said. “And the old people who catch it might not be healthy enough to withstand it.”

On January 6, Sidney Potts passed away from a heart attack, as his family and the DOC confirmed to Filter. His preexisting health conditions were exacerbated by the fact that he became infected with COVID-19. Potts, a 70-year-old Indigenous man, had been incarcerated on drug charges. His living-unit housed 160 residents when the outbreak began; within roughly a month, all had been moved to quarantine quarters because they’d tested positive for the virus. Potts had sued the DOC over their handling of his health problems. But they kept him in an environment where he had zero chance of avoiding contraction, rather than moving him somewhere secluded and safe.

Brooks spent 13 years as a police officer prior to his incarceration. These days, he assists those lobbying for various types of reform, and observes the unconstitutional conditions into which he used to usher others. “We’re confined in a very old building that in any other circumstances would have been condemned decades ago, and doesn’t even meet modern prison standards,” he said. “Our drains constantly stink, and DOC claims they can’t smell it, but we clearly can. It’s raw sewage.”

Outdated Facilities

WSR is over 100 years old, making it the second-oldest prison in the state. Constructed from brick and steel, it is a monument to outdated architecture, meant to create living conditions that strip incarcerated individuals of their humanity and provide the minimum amount of comfort required by law.

Six-by-nine-foot cells are stacked four tiers high, and positioned about a foot apart from each other. Poor ventilation and air-conditioning ensure that in the summer it’s often hotter inside the building than outside, while the odor of rotting rodents rises from the ancient plumbing. The winters are unbearably cold, and even before the current pandemic, seasonal viruses spread like spilled water.

Travis recalled one summer when it grew so hot that he and his cellmate took shifts sleeping on the cement floor because it was the only thing that cooled them down. “It’s hard because it dominates all parts of your life,” he said. “It’s either too hot to sleep, or too cold to even read a book outside of your blanket.”

“We’re in an open-bar environment. We don’t even have access to bleach.”

“We’re in an open-bar environment,” Brooks added. “And the CDC set a six-foot standard, but cells here are less than 18 inches apart. We don’t even have access to bleach. I work as a janitor in the unit, and when I ask for it, they treat me like I have some kind of ulterior motive.”

The DOC told Filter that people incarcerated in the complex have access to hand sanitizer “at supervised locations,” and are tested for COVID “if they are identified as part of contact tracing, self-identify symptoms and/or if they are identified by staff as being symptomatic.” My neighbors and I, however, have not had access to this purportedly available hand sanitizer since July 2020; it was removed within a few hours of being introduced so that people would not drink it. Spray bottles were taken away, although soap has been provided to us individually.

Regardless of one’s political beliefs about “crime and punishment,” it’s nothing short of willful ignorance to look at the racial and economic disparities in US prisons and not conclude that the criminal justice system is every bit as effective at capturing and dehumanizing the disenfranchised as the Confederate slave market once was.

And though we haven’t yet as a nation collectively recognized that a modern-day slave trade is an unacceptable response to crime, neither my nor my neighbors’ sentencing paperwork mandates that we be disproportionately exposed to extreme conditions—including deadly viruses.

This article has been updated with additional context about the death of Sidney Potts, as well as access to hand sanitizer and soap within Washington State Reformatory.

Photograph of an Monroe Correctional Complex cell via Washington State Department of Corrections

The post Our Outdated Washington Prison Leaves Us Vulnerable to Climate and COVID appeared first on Filter.