Life After Prison: A Few Hours with JustDane’s Returning Prisoner Simulation
By Katie Mulligan
Walk a mile in someone’s shoes before you render judgment. I had a chance to follow that familiar advice last December.
The occasion was a simulation program of what it is like for a person leaving prison and trying to survive in the outside world. JustDane, a criminal-justice organization, offered this program, in which each attendee adopted the persona of a newly released prisoner who struggles to meet such ordinary needs as food and housing.
My role-playing shoes belonged to Lester Jacoby, a Black man on parole after serving a 25-year sentence for a murder committed when he was 19. Lester had worked in the prison kitchen and hoped to go to MATC to study culinary arts. He had a temporary home in his sister’s trailer.
This simulation program was to cover the first four weeks after release from prison. Fifteen minutes were allowed to accomplish tasks typically designated for a week. A loud bell announced the end of each segment, and those not in their chairs risked a return to prison.
I found a birth certificate, transportation vouchers, and $300 in cash in Lester’s folder, along with a rubber band for my wrist. I had my first encounter with the reality of my situation when I learned that Lester had to wear an electronic monitoring device as a condition of his parole – and use his scant funds for the privilege.
“Make sure you get your basic needs met,” urged the organizers. “Basic” didn’t mean easy. One side of the room was lined with a long table of people sitting behind signs. The first sign read “sex offender registration.” I became most familiar with the person behind the “parole officer” sign. Each of us had to sign in with our parole officer every week – or risk a return to prison.
Lester and I had a relaxed first week. “Our” sister had not yet tired of my presence. I used a transportation voucher to get my official ID and stood in line to report to my parole officer. But when I returned to my seat, I learned that my calm was undeserved.
Quite a few attendees reported that they had spent time in jail for violations of their parole conditions. The list of possible offenses was long and included failure to pay restitution, register as a sex offender, or pass a drug test. I noticed men wearing badges circling the room and reading name tags, in search of other offenders. I began to sense what it would be like to live with the constant fear of breaking a rule that could mean a return to prison.
I headed for the room containing the job center and had my first taste of a bureaucratic challenge. After spending precious minutes in the line behind the job counselor’s desk, I learned I had to wait in another line for a form. I rushed back to the table to sign in with my parole officer and waited in line again. The bell rang before I could return to the job center.
During week three, I arrived at the job counselor’s desk and pleaded for a job that would help me pursue my interest in culinary arts and allow me to move out of my sister’s trailer. The best offer was a position as a cafeteria assistant in a hospital that paid $257 a week.
By week four, I had nearly abandoned the idea of pretending I was Lester and was just angry about the incredible odds against anyone in his situation. I got the list of available apartments and found the cheapest was $625/month for a studio. By the end of the simulation, I was arguing with the person playing a social worker who advised me to get a roommate.
My last words in the simulation were, “I’m a 45-year-old Black man who was convicted of murder and has a very low-paying job. No one is going to rent to me in this market.”
What did I learn from this experience? I knew, of course, that finding a good-paying job for someone with a prison record and minimal work experience would be difficult. But I was astounded by the number and variety of obstacles that confront someone trying to survive in a changed and challenging world.
Attendees reported that they received only a two-week supply of medication for physical and mental conditions. Many of them had a mental illness, which likely was exacerbated by their incarceration. Opening a bank account posed a whole new set of problems, but it was important for finding housing. Cell phones and credit cards were unfamiliar items. All of us struggled with transportation problems as we tried to find work and housing.
I knew that Wisconsin has a particularly shameful record concerning its rate of revocation of parole and subsequent return to prison. The state has 18 rules of supervision that include such vague requirements as “avoiding conduct not in the best interest of the public welfare.” A person can be revoked and sent back to prison for breaking a rule that does not involve a crime. However, I did not anticipate how stressful it would be to try to find a job and a place to live while fearing I would break a rule I did not understand.
The simulation could not begin to capture what must be one of the most difficult aspects of life after release. Many people struggle alone with these demanding challenges. This idea was reinforced in the panel discussion that followed the simulation. One of the panelists, who had been out of prison for five years, said he had considered suicide two years ago. “I was saved because I could talk to my friends at JustDane,” he said. “They had become my family.”
JustDane offers programs that address many of these problems. Circles of Support is particularly relevant. Five community members meet with a person before s/he leaves prison and develop a reentry plan. Thereafter, they meet weekly for up to a year to provide support and help resolve problems. Check out the website at https://justdane.org for other efforts. The organization has an almost 50-year history (it used to be known as Madison Area Urban Ministry) and boasts a two-year recidivism rate of 9-10% for its participants, compared with the state average of 67%.