Barbara Allan was 30 years old when her estranged husband Gene murdered his own father in her old home on Long Island. It was 1966 and Allan had just fled her abusive marriage with her two young daughters. If she hadnât, she may well have been the one to end up shot dead on their kitchen floor.
Despite his abuse, Allan spent years visiting Gene behind bars, first at the Nassau County Jail and then at prisons in upstate New York. She found that the system that was supposed to keep people like her safe instead felt intimidating, dehumanizing, and counterproductive. She felt like sheâd been punished with a kind of invisible sentence that ran parallel to his, only she did her time outside prison walls. In the 1970s, Allan co-founded the support group Prison Families Anonymous for relatives and loved ones of incarcerated people. Over the next few decades, she watched the expanding prison system catch more and more people into its grip. âEvery time I thought about stepping back a bit, another tentacle drew me in,â she later wrote in a memoir. Now 88, she describes a sense of sadness at the entrenched machinery of mass incarceration âwhere punishment, revenge, and a lack of humanity is the norm.â
I first met Allan in 2015 at a conference connecting families of the incarcerated, in Dallas, Texas. At the time, I was reporting on then-presidential candidate Hillary Clintonâs promises to roll back the era of mass incarceration, a vow that was met with skepticism by many attendees. Bill Clinton, after all, was responsible for some of the worst âtough on crimeâ laws of the 1990s, from the 1994 crime bill to the 1996 Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act. Hillary Clinton herself had fed the myth of the juvenile âsuperpredator.â For many incarcerated people and their loved ones, the Democratsâ newfound embrace of criminal justice reform was highly suspect.
If there was a Democratic candidate who could have reached such an audience years later, it might have been Kamala Harris. Elected senator on the same night that Donald Trump won the 2016 presidential race, she went on to sponsor legislation to make the criminal justice system a little more equitable and humane. Although misgivings about her career as a prosecutor would derail her campaign during the 2020 presidential primary, her rise to the 2024 ticket was a chance to reintroduce herself to American voters, including the millions of people impacted by mass incarceration.
Instead, Harris has remained silent. In the years since her first run for president, the political mood has shifted back against criminal justice reform. The progressive gains on policing and bail policies following the murder of George Floyd in 2020 have given way to a new wave of âtough on crimeâ politics. Donald Trump, who signed the bipartisan First Step Act, has doubled down on his racist fearmongering about crime.
For anyone who pays attention to electoral politics, Harrisâs abandonment of prison reform should come as no surprise. Nevertheless, Allan is firmly in Harrisâs camp when it comes to the 2024 election. She summed up her feelings by sharing an exchange she had with a man at a diner in New York, who asked if she planned to vote for Trump. âIâd rather vote for my cocker spaniel,â she replied.
Allan mostly avoids talking politics with her fellow activists. Doing so would only interfere with her primary mission, which is to support prison families regardless of their political views. But she admitted that she does not have much patience for those who criticize Harrisâs career as a prosecutor. âShe has always talked about reentry and giving people an opportunity when they come out.â Besides, Allan sees Trump as a danger to future generations: âIâm old but I have grandchildren.â
For Allan, the reversal of Roe v. Wade was especially devastating. The lack of abortion access was inextricable to her own story. At a speech delivered in New York a few years ago, she revealed that Geneâs mother died as a result of a self-inflicted abortion when he was only 3 years old. The tragedy left him to be raised by his abusive father, who later became his victim. âI often think, if my mother-in-law had lived, what a different life he wouldâve had,â she said.
Photo: Liliana Segura/The Intercept
Mutual Indifference
I reconnected with Allan last month, at the Connecting 4 Justice International conference in Ashland, Ohio. The three-day event was a revamped version of the 2015 convening and the first to be held in person since the start of the pandemic. On the campus of Ashland University, a square canvas tent stood at the entrance of the conference, painted to look like a solitary confinement cell. At the registration table, attendees were invited to individualize their lanyards with ribbons reading âTroublemakerâ and âPlays Well With others.â (Allan chose one that read âBeen There, Done That.â)
The conference was small, with just several dozen people in the main ballroom at one time. A lot of attendees tuned in remotely, bringing the total number to about 200 people, according to organizer Kayla Victor, whose mother, Carolyn Esparza, founded the conference.
The initial vision was to host a gathering that would unite prison families with their wider community, aiming to increase awareness among Americans about the prevalence of mass incarceration’s impact on their social circles. However, this goal has proven to be challenging. “You can’t force people to care, that’s one thing I’ve come to understand,” Victor remarked. This sentiment rings especially true when it comes to elected officials. When I spoke with Esparza in 2015, she was straightforward: “I don’t trust any politician. Any.”
This distrust was a common sentiment among attendees at the conference. While many leaned towards Harris over Trump, they largely viewed her as the lesser of two evils, with very few recognizing her past efforts in criminal justice reform. The upcoming election was not a focal point of the conference agenda, and most participants were not enthusiastic about discussing the potential impact of the candidates on prison families. “They probably don’t care enough to even think about that,” one attendee joked, saying, “I might write in myself.”
Yet, the Ashland conference served as a reminder of how significant an impact a presidential administration can have on the lives of incarcerated individuals, for better or for worse. The small Christian school, located between Columbus and Cleveland, has become a leading provider of education for those in prison, thanks to the reinstatement of Pell Grants for prison education. In the wake of the crime bill’s cut to prison education funding, the Obama administration introduced the Second Chance Pell Experimental Sites Initiative. The Trump administration further expanded access to Pell Grants, and President Joe Biden has aimed to increase funding for this initiative. As reported by the Marshall Project, by late 2020, Ashland University’s correctional education program had expanded to over 100 prisons and jails in 13 states.
While some have criticized Ashland’s model of prison education for being entirely online through JPay-provided tablets, for those on the inside, this program can be a vital resource. Mario Redding, who attended the conference with his wife after being released from a 17-year prison sentence, proudly shared that he had graduated from Ashland’s college program with a bachelor’s degree and a 3.7 GPA.
Redding, who grew up in Cleveland and went to prison in 2007, found inspiration in Barack Obama’s presidency as a young Black man. This experience motivated him to pursue education and self-improvement during his incarceration. Despite the criticism towards Trump, Redding saw him as a shrewd figure and recognized the appeal of his success story to individuals in his community. While Harris’s candidacy had its strengths as a Black woman, her past as a prosecutor and her association with Biden, who played a role in mass incarceration, were seen as drawbacks. Redding pointed out Biden’s significant involvement in the 1994 Crime Bill as a particular concern.
Formerly incarcerated presenter David Nalls expressed optimism that Harris could positively impact the criminal justice system, acknowledging the challenges she faced as a prosecutor. Another speaker, Kyle Hedquist, who had his life sentence commuted, saw promise in Democratic vice presidential nominee Tim Walz for his efforts to restore voting rights to formerly incarcerated individuals in Minnesota.
These men emphasized that there were other crucial issues beyond criminal justice that needed attention in the election. Redding, in particular, underscored the importance of education in securing the future of the next generation. He highlighted the disparities between suburban and inner-city schools and expressed a desire for candidates to focus on education policy. However, he noted a lack of discourse on education during the election campaign.
The conference featured a variety of sessions, from restorative justice introductions to workshops on ESL education for incarcerated individuals. Discussions often circled back to the stigma and challenges faced by families with loved ones in prison. One exercise aimed to facilitate difficult conversations through hypothetical scenarios, such as a mother hesitant to inform her son about his father’s incarceration and a woman experiencing mistreatment during security procedures. Other situations highlighted the challenges of organizing with individuals who have been traumatized by the very system they are trying to change.
One session involved an exercise on personal finance, using jelly beans and candy corn to represent monthly resources. Participants had to consider what sacrifices they would make to save money for commissary or phone expenses for their incarcerated loved ones. Would they give up a car, new clothes, or internet access? Everyone was willing to prioritize their loved one’s needs over their own comfort.
Within these discussions, the upcoming presidential election seemed distant to many prison families. Their primary focus is on daily survival, with limited mental and physical energy left for political engagement. Advocacy efforts often revolve around the specific circumstances of a loved one’s incarceration, navigating through bureaucratic barriers and instances of cruelty.
Despite the importance of presidential policy, many impacted communities feel that mass incarceration is a bipartisan issue that remains constant regardless of who is in power. The daily experiences of those inside prisons are more directly impacted by local governments, district attorneys, and judges. Policy-focused attendees at the conference were mainly working within their own communities to effect change at a local level.
Outside the conference center, Lois Pullano, an activist against solitary confinement, shared her experience advocating for reform in Michigan. She emphasized the need to work across party lines to achieve meaningful change. Other advocates at the conference expressed a willingness to collaborate with any policymaker who shows concern for incarcerated individuals, although they have low expectations of the presidential candidates addressing prison reform.
The conference provided a source of support for local women with incarcerated loved ones, who often feel overlooked by their communities. Despite differing political affiliations, many felt that neither presidential candidate would significantly improve their lives. Their experiences with local candidates and volunteers highlighted the lack of understanding and empathy towards individuals impacted by the criminal justice system.
Overall, the conference shed light on the challenges faced by those with loved ones in prison and the importance of advocating for change at both a local and national level. The personal stories shared underscored the need for greater awareness and compassion towards individuals affected by incarceration.
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