How prison does nothing to make society better

I was the only grandson on my mom’s side of the family until 2016. Then, we found out about Brandon. Brandon wasn’t my uncle’s newborn son. He was 23.

I’m generally cynical about social media and the effect it has on society. Yet, when it connects a man and woman who haven’t seen each other since a fling 23 years ago, helping them realize that fling created a child, it’s hard not to see some benefit.

Brandon lives in Florida and I live in New York, so good cousin bonding time has been hard to come by. However, this past November we had a weekend together at a family wedding. He grabs a beer, grins and says, “There’s a lot to tell. What do you want to know about me?”

I wanted to know what made Brandon himself. I can’t do small talk. It’s draining and generally inauthentic. Plus, I already knew he’d grown up in the foster system not knowing who his real father was, so the man had to have important stories. I just didn’t think one of them would be prison.

Brandon was incarcerated in Duval County, Fla., the county containing Jacksonville. He wasn’t in there for anything too serious — just stealing bicycles around town to fund a weed habit.

Still, once you factored in his pre-trial detention, he was locked up for almost a year and a half. People debate whether a prison sentence should focus on rehabilitation or retribution. I’m a researcher for a criminal justice reform program so I already thought the prison should focus on rehab. There was no way I could have a different opinion after hearing of the futility of the Duval County system.

He was just a teenager when he went into the system. He figured that as a low-level offender he’d be in a part of the prison, or at least a cell, with people there for similar crimes. Instead, he said cellmate was a convicted murderer. Let’s go through how bad of an idea this is. A young kid in prison for the first time, and just for non-violent theft, is already scared. He gets the message. Bunking him with a violent or hardened criminal can only have two broad effects. At the best, the kid is in constant fear and will do whatever his bunkmate says. At the worst, his bunkmate rubs off on him, hardens him and now the state has created an environment where hardened criminals can make prisoners more of a danger to society after prison than they were before.

Luckily, for Brandon, that cellmate and his subsequent violent cellmates didn’t corrupt him. It was just one of many aspects of his incarceration which failed to realize he was a human being with untapped potential. There were no prison officials or counselors to ask him about his upbringing with an drug-addicted mother who lost custody of him, leading him to bounce around from abusive foster family to abusive foster family. There were some rehab opportunities available, but only if you were a drug addict or alcoholic. A “regular” criminal was out of luck. He craved a positive male role model, but all he saw were guards trained to consistently distrust the prisoners.

After he was released, he craved both that role model and positive employment. He realized crime didn’t pay, but that was in spite of prison, not because of it. Yet, employers only saw the “Have you been convicted of a crime?” box he checked on a job application.

Duval County did nothing for him in prison to develop job skills or provide any way for him to go to an employer and say, “This person can vouch for the transformation I made in prison.” They only addressed his weed habit, which he made sound bigger than it was just to gain access to a constructive prison activity. Essentially, prison was just a year and a half of sitting around with hardened criminals, having little chance to do anything productive and leaving there with a much smaller chance of legal employment.

Now, he’s a life coach in Jacksonville with Operation New Hope. Essentially, he’s the role model and advocate for the formerly incarcerated which he craved years ago.

Thankfully, Florida has made several positive criminal justice reforms recently, making Brandon’s life and coaching much better. He also has a thriving relationship with his real dad now. Dads want a boy to be proud of and boys want a dad to be proud of them. When that relationship is absent, the state has an amazing opportunity to inject positive role models into a prisoner’s troubled life.

Brandon finishes his beer and reflects on how a few immature decisions led to a year and a half of his life being wasted. There was nothing he could do. No one seemed to care about actually improving his life. The state saw prison as enough. How disrespectful it is to treat a human life so trivially as to not consider if prison is actually making them or society as a whole better.

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Written by Phillip Reeves

Derek Drescher’s life on the outside is finally working out

Shortly before he turned 13, Derek Drescher stole a car.

He was arrested for the first time and brought to court. At his arraignment, Drescher recalled that he didn’t understand what was happening. He asked his father to bring him clothes. That’s when his father replied, “Son, where you’re going, you don’t need to bring clothes.”

This was the start of Drescher’s tumultuous life of crime, which involved going in and out of the prison system for the next 23 years. Shuffled around from group homes and juvenile detention, Drescher quickly grew up and had to learn how to take care of himself following that first arrest.

“I had to learn how to protect myself; how to take care of myself,” he said. 

Now a fitness instructor at ConBody, an exercise program that hires formerly incarcerated people to teach workout classes, Drescher is an example of how people can lead productive and successful lives after spending years in prison. The Brooklyn native spent most of his childhood with his grandmother, an organ-playing Puerto-Rican who “spoiled the hell out of me,” Drescher recalled, by taking him on trips to Florida and spending time at the zoo. 

Drescher now advocates for more programs that help former inmates re-adjust back into society. He remains optimistic that more people are focused on equipping ex-convicts to re-enter the outside world, since many former inmates have difficulty finding a job after release.

“Ex-cons become disenfranchised,” he said. “Giving people a chance is a beautiful thing.” 

It was Drescher’s relationship with his parents was rockier. When his grandmother died when he was 12, Drescher’s downward spiral began. 

“It was almost like losing my mother,” he said. 

Drescher began getting into trouble and acting out following her death, which lead to the car theft and his first arrest. After a year in jail, Drescher was released for about two weeks before landing back in the system for another year. In his teen years, Drescher bounced around group homes. In an attempt to achieve a normal life, he joined the army once he turned 18. 

But Drescher’s bad habits resulted in him getting into trouble again, which landed him back prison after three years in the Army. The unstable life Drescher led was not without consequences. The first time he heard his seven-year-old daughter call him “dada” was over the phone while he was incarcerated. The catalyst for much of Drescher’s time behind bars was his repetitive drug use. 

“I had gotten really bad with drugs and decided I needed to clean myself up,” he said. 

Drescher, now 36, said he’d been clean for 10 months before finding himself back in legal trouble. It was then that he decided it was time to turn his life around. 

“I made a decision to start holding myself accountable for my actions,” he said. 

Drescher served his last prison term in 2012 at the Orange County Correctional Facility in upstate New York. He was 33, and he remembers telling himself: “This is your fault – you have nobody to blame but yourself.” 

Once he was released, Drescher got involved with a program called “Back On My Feet NYC,” an organization designed to combat homelessness in New York. Drescher lost 60 pounds while in the program. Drescher was turning his life around. He was asked to speak at an event with them at a Marriott Marquis Hotel, which opened more doors for him. Drescher landed two jobs that night – one as an engineer for the hotel and another as a running instructor for ConBody.

Drescher said he credits his handy abilities to his time in the military and credits his love for fitness for his time spent with “Back On My Feet NYC.” His love of fitness perfectly correlates with his position at ConBody, an organization founded by former drug dealer Cos Marte. As an ex-con striving to better himself, Drescher said he is grateful for the opportunities that the organization has provided him. He’s run two New York City Marathons in recent years.  

“With ConBody I don’t have to hide who I am. There’s no filter or mask. Juvenile delinquent. Ex-con. Military person. I’m all that stuff,” he said. “I embrace it!”  

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Interview by Madison Peace 

Written by Brianna Kudisch and Brooke Sargent

Saint Louis University program gives inmates tools needed to re-enter society

While lawmakers debate decriminalization and the trend of overincarceration over the past three decades, centers of higher education are trying to do their part by providing help to those who have served time and looking for a second chance at life.

One such program is the Transformative Justice Initiative in Missouri. It is a program operated through Saint Louis University and teaches both formerly and presently incarcerated men and women how to change their lives for the better. The program focuses on helping people be successful and join the job market upon release.

Through eight-week programs with an occupational therapist, inmates can gain the tools they need to become productive members of society. They are given an opportunity to find employment and are continually encouraged. The Missouri-based program, which began in February 2017, has helped over 40 inmates.

Father Christopher Collins, a Roman Catholic priest, is the assistant to the president for Mission and Identity at Saint Louis University. He is a major backer of the Transformative Justice Initiative and involved in the societal re-entry portion of the program.

“I try to informally coordinate a bit, to tell the story in a bigger way,” he said.

A study conducted by The Bureau of Justice Statistics on recidivism — or re-entry into the prison system — showed that 68 percent of state prisoners released in 2005 had been arrested again within three years. Within the next nine years, 83 percent of released prisoners were re-arrested.

None of the former inmates involved with the Transformative Justice Program have returned to jail after being released.

Collins said the city of St. Louis recognized the lack of constructive help for current inmates. The city hired Brittany Conners, an occupational therapist at Saint Louis University, to work inside the jails and provide rehabilitation programs for small cohorts of eight to 10 people at a time. The program operates for five hours a day and teaches people the skills they will need upon release. The program mainly focuses on providing skills such as planning, financial management, practicing positive habits and creating a space for the clients to discover what their own unique gifts are. The clients are then guided on how to turn those gifts into a career path.

Conners spends much of her time interacting with people serving time and helping prepare them to re-enter their communities.

“I provide pre-rehabilitation programs before they are released,” Conners said. “I coach them on how to find a job.”

Conners says the pre-rehabilitation portion of the program is crucial to the successful life of the individual once they leave the jail.

“We are able to help them live the lives they want to on the outside,” she said. “Once they are released in the community, we do continue occupational therapy services. We help them prepare for job interviews. Once they have a job, [we help them learn] how to keep that job.”

Many students at Saint Louis University are also involved in service at the city jails. Student athletes play basketball with inmates who would otherwise be sedentary. Nutrition and dietician students help coach them on how to grocery shop and fuel their bodies with the nutrients they need, while those studying photography have been able to get inside footage of classrooms where the program takes place.

Conners said that even after the program has ended or a person has been released, they still offer help and continue to give them the resources they need, whether that be obtaining an I.D. or transportation to a job interview.

“We see them in person, we can talk to them via phone, email, and text messaging,” Conners added.

The Transformative Justice Initiative is also an attempt to change how society views incarcerated people and promotes interaction with them on a personal level.

“These are people who have never been given opportunities or space or education. They have been derived of many experiences that other people have,” Conners said.

A report from Prison Policy Initiative noted inequalities between the education levels of formerly incarcerated inmates and the “general public.” Conners said there are some other universities with similar programs dedicated to prison outreach, but there are none with fully-funded positions such as her own. The Transformative Justice Initiative is also the only program that operates with a pre and post release model.

“We as a country are saying this is being done all wrong and [seeing] what we can do to liberate folks,” said Conners.

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Reported and written by Brooke Sargent and Kassidy Vavra

After years of addiction, Christopher Kennedy transforming into the ‘person of his dreams’

Christopher Kennedy, a bodybuilder and veteran, knows what it’s like to “do the time.” The 26-year-old has spent two of his birthdays in rehab and multiple nights in various county jails. After his 33-day sentence at Ulster County Jail, he decided to “get [his] life back” following years of battling depression and alcoholism while homeless or behind bars.

“I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror,” Kennedy said. “The last time I was in jail, I was like, this is it. I can’t do this anymore, my life is more important and this is not who I want to be.”

Kennedy was raised in the northern New York City suburbs of New Rochelle and Peekskill. His parents separated when he was two, and his mother raised him and his three brothers. He enlisted in the army when he was 17 and left for the military right after he graduated high school.

While there, he had a seizure and his mental health began to suffer. Kennedy became depressed and started to drink, use cocaine and smoke weed. He was still in the military at this time but wanted out, so he turned himself in for drug use. Six months after his seizure, he was released. Kennedy was just 20 years old.

“I was no longer in the Army, and I was happy but I was also very sad,” Kennedy said. “I felt like what I had set out to do was totally incomplete. I felt like a failure. Knowing there were people [in the army] that I knew that died, there was nothing I could do and I wasn’t there. Still feel guilty for it to this day. That was one of the main reasons why I turned to drinking.”

Kennedy said he became a full-blown alcoholic at age 22, resulting in him becoming homeless. He was frequently getting arrested for drinking in public, fighting, civilian misconduct and resisting arrest. He went to jail multiple times, typically for 24-hour periods.

“I’m talking to my girlfriend’s mom at the time, and she’s like, ‘We hadn’t heard from you, I just assumed you were in jail,’” Kennedy said. “I was like, what? I don’t want people thinking that if they don’t hear from me I’m locked up somewhere. I’ll never forget that, that she said that to me.”

When he got out of Ulster County Jail after his month-long sentence, Kennedy put himself in rehab at Samaritan Village, a facility in New York City that assists veterans. He was there for 17 months and left in December 2016.

“That summer [in 2017] was the first summer that I’ve had since I turned 21,” Kennedy said. “It kind of hit me, like, I’m free! I’m not in jail, I’m not in rehab.”

Kennedy met Derek Drescher, who later became his best friend, at Samaritan Village. Drescher introduced Kennedy to ConBody, a gym that hires formerly incarcerated individuals to teach fitness classes. Kennedy soon began working there as a personal trainer and found a solid support system through Drescher and other co-workers.

“I’ve gotten so much guidance [at ConBody],” Kennedy said. “Everybody here has had my back. If I ever needed to talk to anybody they were always there.”

Nicole Elias, a professor at John Jay College and Faculty Partner with the Prisoner Reentry Institute, teaches an independent study with formerly incarcerated students. Elias said that having a support system is vital for many people navigating reentry.”

Even though the momentum within the justice system is shifting toward a “rehabilitation perspective,” Elias said, the system needs incremental change toward deeper reform, which would include equipping individuals with basic resources and support systems they need while they are still in prison.

Kennedy said he is thankful for his job at ConBody and considers it “a ConBody family.” His rehabilitation hasn’t been easy, but he said he’s been able to overcome his addiction and encourage others who are in similar situations.

“I feel like it’s in my blood to be positive,” Kennedy said. “This is who I am. We can all do this, we can all make it. All I’m trying to do now is stay focused, I wanna be the person of my dreams.”

Recidivism is multi-faceted and depends largely on individual experience, said Ann Jacobs, director of the Prisoner Reentry Institute at John Jay College in New York. Beyond simply reentry, Jacobs said that as a society, we need to examine why certain people get locked up.

“We think it’s in our common interest to talk about who we lock up,” Jacobs said. “We should see how you can keep someone in the community and partner with them to help their life rather than lock them up. That should be our first default.”

Kennedy said he admits that some of his arrests were him “being a knucklehead, fighting and being drunk and resisting arrest.” Other times, however, he felt the judges and cops didn’t give him a chance to explain his side of the story. In one instance, the judge kept raising the price of his bail every time he tried to speak.

“I spent over a month in county jail for nothing practically, because of the high bail,” he said. “I refuse to play the victim though. Justice is faulty. It’s definitely not always served. I think the whole system needs a reform, personally.”

Even though the momentum within the justice system is shifting toward a “rehabilitation perspective,” Elias said the system needs incremental change toward deeper reform, which would include equipping individuals with basic resources and support systems they need while they are still in jail.

“The first step is not waiting until reentry occurs,” Elias said. “The whole model of our prison system should be reconsidered for reentry.”

Kennedy said he is hoping to pursue his career as model and one day have a family. He has spoken at schools and on panels about his life story, respecting others and thinking positively. He said he is constantly working to “repair any bridges if they are broken, because you never know” if someone may need him as a supporter and friend.

“I never want to be behind a cell again,” Kennedy added. “Even when I was down, I still felt like, I’m going to be somebody someday. It finally started to happen. Here I am today.”

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Interview by Madison Peace

Written by Cassidy Klein

Melissa Polonio embraces 'rebirth' after paying for her crimes

There was a time when Melissa Polonio made headlines for all the wrong reasons. The wife of a notorious drug dealer, Polonio was splashed across the pages of the New York Post and New York Daily News after killing a woman in a fit of envy in 1995. She was arrested four years later while on the lam in the Dominican Republic.

“All the bad decisions led me to my incarceration and negative things that was part of my growing up, of my life,” Polonio recalled.

A native of the Dominican Republic who moved to New York City at age nine, Polonio said her parents had warned her about marrying drug kingpin Jorge “Chi Chi” Garcia. Police at the time said jealousy led Polonio to stab and kill 26-year-old Sandra Pujol on April 9, 1995, at a party in Washington Heights.

“I didn’t listen. I was too blind,” Polonio said. “I got into this relationship that was mentally and physically abusive and I didn’t know how to get out.”

Polonio has spent the past two decades trying to piece her life back together. Polonio served 16 years behind bars starting in 1999. Polonio once topped the most-wanted 15 fugitives in the United States and at the time was just one of two women on the NYPD’s most wanted list. She was eventually apprehended and arrested by the U.S. Marshals. It was her time in prison that allowed Polonio to reflect on her life and crimes and the future she wanted once she got out.

“Life had been hard in the past. This has been like a rebirth for me. The Melissa that was meant to be in life… not that ugly person, that monster people thought I was, but the real loving and kind person that I am — not what my action portrayed that I was,” she said.

Polonio’s sons – just one and 2½ when she went to prison – didn’t see her children grow. Through the years, Polonio’s family would bring her children to visit her at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury, Conn., each month. The prison has housed some famous inmates in the past, including New York real-estate bigwig Leona Helmsley and singer Lauryn Hill, both for tax evasion.

“We were out there in the yard playing, dancing, hugging, kissing — that was one of my greatest memories while incarcerated,” she said. “I spoke with them and asked them for forgiveness because I was a woman before I was a mother and that is hard to speak with them about.”

Polonio added that her family was “disappointed at me because they didn’t raise me to be the person that I had become, but with that they have unconditional love and they supported me through my incarceration. They never left me alone; they always used to go see me.”

While doing time in Danbury, Polonio went from operating a $4,000-a-day crack empire in The Bronx to earning her associate’s degree through the Bard Prison Initiative, which provides a college education for inmates.  

“Getting out was like a new world to me. Everything was different – the phones was even a challenge for me,” said Polonio. “Dealing with situations that were foreign to me... but those are real-life situations that I had to acclimate to.”

After Polonio, a naturalized U.S. citizen, was released from prison, she enrolled in “Hour Children,” a re-entry program that provides housing and support for previously incarcerated inmates. Polonio said she was determined not to repeat her past mistakes.

“I don’t want to go back to my old block, I don’t want to go back to the same environment. I need a change I want to come home and I want to come to something different... I knew that was imperative for me to move forward in a positive light,” she recalled telling her family.

Polonio, now 49, has bucked the odds. She has earned her bachelor’s degree in sociology through Hunter College and graduated at the top of her class. She then found employment at the Ford Foundation, which gives formerly-incarcerated men and women the chance to intern there for a year.

“I know what I did wrong. I don’t want to go back,” she said. “I know what I want to look forward to... I want to make up for the things that I did.”

Looking ahead to the future, Polonio said she envisions a life where she can become an integral part society.

“If I can help the people that are in need, then that’s what I want to do,” said Polonio. “Me giving back is the way to say, you know, I’m sorry for the pain that I have caused to others, the pain I have caused my family, my children. I cannot take the things that I did back, but I can make things better.”

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Interview by Madison Peace

Written by Wes Parnell and Kassidy Vavra

Year 1 by Takia Parham

Because of Rehabilitation through the Arts, Takia Parham had the opportunity to take poetry classes in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Her work has since been published in Duende Literary Journal’s “Incarcerated Writers Feature,” and Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors, Vol. 5, an anthology from Southeast Missouri State University Press.

Since being released from prison in December of 2016, Parham has lectured on the transformative power of the arts at The New School, Marist College, and Hunter College. Parham is working toward her bachelor’s in theatre and new media at Marymount Manhattan College and teaches youth through the Arts 10566 theatre program.

“Year 1”

My feet made of bronze in the morning

wishes the groundhog of this monotonous day wouldn't see my shadow

letting the day die young and tender

before the routine of heating my hot water in a hot pot

brushing my teeth in a faded mirror

occurs

Die tender

yes

swollen with hope

plump with future potentialities

Before the shadows come

Beneath eyelids sunken

heavy

ropes with burden lines

blurred over time lends me age.

Days gone by aching to be filled

deep.

It is year one and preparations for my appeal merge with r.e.m.

sleep awake

shock

noise trauma

flash bulbs of horror no one knows

no one believes

so I persist like a toddler on wobbly legs

I'm too green for the high grass to know what lies ahead in my journey.

Sun yet still shining on my face

I envision palm trees

I can smell them in the breeze of the yard air

beyond wired fences

my moment of freedom

when my shadow has yet to surround me

Coss Marte Part 4: Building the Business, Getting Success and Reconnecting with Family

On Hiring the ConBody Staff

“It’s not your normal process. I start a conversation and just sit down and feel them out. I just try to keep it as real as possible and not like a sit-down interview. I don’t say, ‘So, tell me something about yourself.’ I don’t really fucking care about your résumé. Like, if you’re a genuine and nice person and you show up on time, you know, that’s what matters.

I get fan jail mail, where people are writing me letters from inside prison and telling me, ‘I got five years left. Save me a spot.’ And I’m like, I hope this...let’s just keep working on it, and let’s see if we could provide more jobs and opportunities. And then I also partner up with other nonprofits, like Defy Ventures. I hired a guy from Defy Ventures. I hired my first guy from my internship at Goodwill. Hour Children. Back on My Feet. I’ve partnered up with a few nonprofits.”

On Participating in the Defy Ventures Business Competition Himself

“When I came home in March 2013, I was out for about two months when I heard about Defy. I was [involved with] another non-profit, Career Gear, that helps men who need suits and interview clothes to go on an interview.

I reached out to [Career Gear], because I needed a business suit. And all the clothes I had...I went from, like, a size 40 to a size 30. I had all my clothes in storage, and I gave them away to Bowery Mission. And I went over [to Career Gear], and they gave me, like, a thousand-dollar Theory suit. And I was like, what? I’m getting this for free? And they were like, you can get more stuff if you join our program. So, I joined it and was going to their workshops and one day, Defy Ventures, this guy named Ryan José, spoke about the program and explained everything about it.

And they was like, if you want to start your business, we give up to a 100,000 dollars in microloans. And I was like, what? I wanna do this ASAP. So I signed up for it and got involved and stayed in the program for a little over a year. It was an extremely hard program and intense and a lot of work, but it paid off.”

On His Relationship with His Son

“So my relationship with my son going in, I don’t know...He was not really talking and communicating that much. So [what I told him] was just basically that I’m going away. And his mom would bring him to the visit rooms when I was on Riker’s Island very often, probably like once a week.

She did a good job of raising him...But, yeah, I mean, I taught my son how to say the ABCs over the phone and stuff like that.

My kid’s going to kindergarten, you know, and having him speak on the phone, I was just like, I’ve seen the whole transition—from him not being able to speak to him writing me little cards with messed up handwriting…

[Now,] I see him once a week mostly. Our relationship is great. He sees me and brags about me at school in class, and he’s like, ‘My daddy’s stronger than your daddy,’ you know...He’s very proud.”

On His Siblings and How They Dealt with His Incarceration

“I have two sisters and a younger brother. I say that my family, not gave up on me—they were there, and they were supportive—but they didn’t really believe that I was coming home and doing the right thing when I came home. It took a little while...not until I joined the Defy program and they seen the dedication I had.

Sometimes, my siblings even said that they wouldn’t mention that they had another brother.

Both my sisters grew up in the Dominican Republic and came [to New York City] when they were 13 or 12 years old in the early 90s. They just grew up in a different lifestyle.

My sisters became very successful. My sister was the first Hispanic woman to reach executive director at Goldman Sachs. My other sister is at an insurance company as an underwriter. My brother is now running for city council for the downtown district, which he’s most likely going to win. We all took different routes. I just made more money than them in a different way [through selling drugs]. I was crazy.

On “Broome and Eldridge” (ConBody’s Slogan)

“I grew up around Broome and Eldridge, and my mom is two blocks away from Broome and Eldridge and Rivington Street. But Broome and Eldridge was, like, the block where I was allowed to sell drugs at, because somebody already had the corner on Rivington. So, every block was like a different drug corner. And then Broome and Eldridge, I was like, basically I had a mentor—a drug mentor—and followed his footsteps and worked for him. And that was the corner where I started really selling drugs at.

Now we have the gym on that corner. Broome and Eldridge is something we’re trying to brand—how it’s more than just, like, the name of the street. It’s how things can turn around and come back full circle in a positive way.”

On How ConBody Ended Up in Saks Fifth Avenue

It’s crazy. So, I’ve been doing a lot of speaking engagements, and I had the opportunity to speak at FounderMade, which is a huge wellness conference. It happens once a year in February. And I was the keynote speaker there, alongside, like, the founder of CRX and these huge fitness CEOs. And I spoke there, and everybody just felt my story because it was just so real. There were so many other wellness companies that are boojie—you know, pilates and spinning classes and shit. I just kept it real, and a lot of people approached me afterwards. And this lady came up to me—and I didn’t know who she was—and was like, ‘I wanna help you; I wanna help you.’ And I was like, alright, okay.

She was like, let me get your card. And I was like, I don’t use cards. I send out e-mails. So I sent her an e-mail right away, and we communicated. And then she responded with: ‘Saks Opportunity.’ And I’m like, ‘Saks opportunity,’ what the hell is this? So, we hop on the phone, and she tells me about the wellness space [the Wellery].

This is just three months ago. And she was like, ‘Are you down?’ And I was like, fuck yeah! And we quickly moved and made things happen ASAP.

On the ConBody Clientele

“I say primarily females. About 75/25 percent split between female and male. Young professionals, 25 to 35. A lot of millennials who believe that, you know, investing in a social-movement company is the right thing to do…They come and want to hang out with us, and we really break down the stereotype between formerly incarcerated individuals and young professionals.”

On Reintegrating Formerly Incarcerated Men and Women Back into Society

“I think people need to realize that everybody is human, and everybody commits mistakes. I feel like everybody’s probably gotten in a car with somebody who’s, like, drinking or somebody has smoked weed or some little crime that could probably lead you in the same situations that we were in. And we just need to realize we were young or grew up in different neighborhoods where, you know, authorities targeted us more than other places. That we’re just human beings...real people who want to be accepted and just move forward.”

On How You Can Get Involved with ConBody

“Sign up for ConBody.com. $5 a month. You can virtually work out with your favorite formerly incarcerated individual. Come support us. Follow us on Instagram @conbody.”

Takia “Judah” Parham Part 3: Family, Reconnecting and Moving Past Shame

On her family

“They were affected a lot. We we all were affected. When I went into service, we were happy. I have a sister, an older sister. I have five older siblings, one of whom I grew up with. She’s 43 years old, and she has two children. My oldest niece, Jasmine, is 22. She just turned 22. I was released the day before she turned 22. My youngest niece, Ariana, I left when she was three. I actually…the last time I would see anyone in my family before coming out would be the year that I said goodbye to my grandmother. She passed away when I went to Iraq in 2008. And while I was at my first duty station in Fort Drum, N.Y., I had lost my aunt in basic training first, in S.C. Two days after I went off to basic training, my aunt passed away. But she had cancer, and we had been preparing. It didn’t go into remission, but she was very supportive of me going into the service. My uncle ended up passing away from cancer, as well, lung cancer.

I was already in a grieving state before going to Iraq. But what compounded it—I had enough time between those two deaths to slow down and really contemplate what that means and what’s next for me and the fact that as soon as I left, everyone started passing away. But when my grandmother passed away, I was in Iraq. I had already been late the week before we were about to go off to war. I had been late coming back, so I was facing an Article 15 right before coming into the country, because I had missed the training a day before.

So I experienced those deaths and then while I was over there, of course I had to come back and bury my grandmother. At that time, that impacted my family so much that everyone lost a piece of theirselves and began leaving Baltimore City, which is where I am originally from.

I was facing military sexual harassment. I was going to two different schools while overseas. And all of this blurs together when I actually end up going to prison right thereafter. And it had been a continuous stretch. And even when I look back now, it was a continuous stretch. And I say that my family was impacted because I was gone so long—I had been a support system for my immediate family, my nieces and my sister. And when my mother passed away, I had ended up getting sentenced the day before her birthday. I ended up going to Bedford Hills a day after her birthday. Her birthday’s May 15. I went May 16 to Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. That’s when I arrived, and she still hadn’t told me then that she had cancer. Now, my family, they had been going through this with her for four months. We had just lost my grandmother three years ago, so it was still kind of fresh for everyone. It was like a year of grief and then another year to get themselves together.

And then another year they hear I’m arrested. Okay, I was already at war. They’re hoping; everyone’s praying; fingers crossed. You know, we just lost another loved one. Coupled with all of that, now I’m sitting in jail for 14, almost 15 months. They didn’t know when they were going to see me again. There were a lot of tears, and they were in disbelief. ‘Takia’s in prison? She’s going to prison? She’s in jail? What? This is not…when is she getting out? This is not her lifestyle. This is little Takia. This is grown…’

Now I’m, by the time I left Iraq, when I got back from overseas, I was 26, just about to turn 27 when this happened. It was a shock to everyone. It was a loss for my sister. We had been each other’s support systems. I didn’t have to see my mother go from a 230-pound woman to an 80-pound woman. My sister had to bear that and my oldest niece. My youngest niece didn’t quite know what was going on, but she felt the impact of losing a grandmother. She once was here, and now she’s not. This is while I’m in Iraq. This is the transition that’s happening while I’m in Iraq. These transitions were happening with my family. By the time I got to prison, mind you, there were 90 days in between…by the time I got to jail and got to prison, my mother passes away now that I’ve been in prison for a year. I went through a whole year with her, of her struggling and me only being able to call her, her getting phone calls and hearing my voice. The time just before she passed away, my birthday is March 15, they tried and tried to get her up there. But by that time, she was very sick. And so the burden of having to take care of someone who is losing their life with stage 4 cancer affected them. And then me being away. The question was: What’s happening to the family unit now? We’re losing people in different ways. They were affected, and I was affected.”

On whether her family had experienced the effects of incarceration before

“I can’t really speak for my father’s side of the family. I was raised primarily by my mother. By the time I was six years old, my father had been incarcerated. For about six years. When he came out, I’m 12 or 13 years old. And, of course, we formed a good relationship. And after that, he hadn’t been incarcerated any more to my knowledge. So my family hadn’t experienced anything quite like this, especially all at once. They didn’t really know my story and the other side.

Which was: I’m going to two schools. I just got a degree when I came back. That month. That next month, I had my degree. I’m having an issue where I’m locked in a relationship that I do not want. And this is a superior officer, and I can’t tell anybody, because it’s a woman, and we were under ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Who do I tell that this superior officer is not only abusing me, but is pretty much forcing me in a relationship? No one; there’s no one I can tell. Coupled with the abuse and having to call the police, and I’m upset because I’m being hit and there’s nothing I can do. Coupled with not knowing this person and this person not knowing me and the strangeness of it all, I am emotionally bearing a lot of weight that I’m keeping from my family, because we are facing our own little troubles, and I can take care of my own stuff.”

On keeping in touch with her family while incarcerated and reconnecting with them in December

“I lost contact with my family for a little while when I was incarcerated. It was touch-and-go. One, it’s very expensive to call out of state. They come up every month now that I’ve been out. This is like a vacation spot. Which is a good excuse, because I’m here. Now this is a good place to vacation, in the Big Apple. We went right back into our relationship as if no one was missing. There was a lot of tears and not a recognition of where I just came from. But to finally tell my 10-year-old niece, who just turned 11, where I’d been. She had not known. She thought I was still in the military.

For her to first find out…I did a documentary that [my sister and nieces] were part of in April last year. And the filmmakers went to interview them. They took a part of that, and that’s when my 10-year-old niece, that’s when she actually learned where I was. And she cried immediately. And then she went on the internet to see if it was true. And the internet, I hadn’t been aware, made me a monster. And it made both of my nieces cry and my sister cry. Everybody’s crying, and they’re watching me give an interview on this big screen at a school.

They’re filled with emotion, because this is my auntie, and she’s been missing out on my life, and I thought she was at work. It’s all coming together, because my sister prepared her for what she was about to hear, but she let her have her own emotions. My oldest niece, of course, knew where I was.

And by that time, she had a child, who was now a year old. And when I met him, it was amazing. I had to meet him. It wasn’t like, he’s born and I’m there. I had been there for both of their births, so now this new addition has never seen my face. He’s looking at me, and he’s adamant because he doesn’t know this stranger. But he sees our interaction and the love that we have for each other, and he loosens up. This must be someone important. This must be someone someone loves, because they’re crying and they’re hugging. And now he’s used to seeing my face, whether he comes up or we’re Facetiming, which is a new feature in my life. There’s a lot of stuff I had to relearn after six-and-a-half years of being away, which was almost overstimulating.”

On moving past shame

“One thing that I’ve learned is that a prison sentence is supposedly the punishment for whatever you’ve been convicted of. But I’ve also learned that the time in between is sometimes manipulated to further that affliction. Daily, it’s a punishment. And it’s not supposed to be that way. It’s supposed to be correctional, meaning correcting of behavior or thinking, being. It never really talks about what you’re going to build in place of what is being destroyed. But it’s constantly being destroyed—the self. What is being rehabilitated or corrected is not really addressed. It never can really be individualized, because one: it’s a system. But it’s also, it’s not doing its job at all. I don’t know if the chicken or the egg came first. It’s a blurry line. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Stanford Experiment, where sometimes as an incarcerated individual, people are looking at me saying: I don’t know who the true criminal is at this point, because the people who are over us are committing a lot of crimes…humanitarian crimes and also other illegal things of that nature. Correctional officers, the administration sometimes. And how do you weigh that out without making it even harder for them to come in and do their jobs or those particular individuals who are performing in a criminal manner…It furthers the damage that was already done to the person to begin with.

To link that back together, I can be fierce in my desire to be a better person, and I felt like this was the ultimate judgment. And it felt like a constant judgment. It wasn’t just ‘Do your time.’ It was the in-between part of me trying to do my time that made more difficult. I [had] an issue coming in with trusting authorities, because authority figures in a government organization led me down a path that I could nothing about, so I was already powerless in that situation, which led me to a dread of living.

And so, who will build me up when I’m broken down? Of course I’m ashamed, because I was under international law, and now I have the national law…I wasn’t welcomed back with open arms. And that’s a little way that the military failed me. It failed me in a lot of ways, because I came back already sick and unaware. But the first day that I was given the suggestion to go to an outside therapist, because they were seeing things that I couldn’t see in my own behavior…I was completely depressed, and I didn’t know it. And it was awful. That is the time where instead of giving me that advice, which I took, I should have been taken out of the military altogether on medical discharge, because nobody really dug into what was happening to me, nor was I able to fend for myself. And for 14 months I spent in jail with not one visit from the military, not JAG, not anyone from my battalion, not a sergeant major, no one. I didn’t hear from the military at all. I can’t tell you why. I can tell you that I had no say over anything that had to do with myself, and that took me to prison, where again, I’m helpless, and I’m still not getting the therapy I need…not for the personal loss, not to deal with this transition. I’m speaking as if I’m there now, because it’s still very emotional. And now, I feel a bit of bitterness, but I also feel triumph. There’s an arc of triumph at the end of all this, because it’s still a learning opportunity. And it was very shameful to be there. And I was ashamed of my country, not just myself. But I was what the country created. If I was representation of a failed system, let’s talk about the places in which each system failed.”

Coss Marte Part 3: Working Out, Developing The Program, and The Prison Theme

On How He Started Doing the Workout

“I started the workout mainly because of my diet. I was on Riker’s Island for about a year, and then I went upstate and doctors told me I had all these health issues…I was in Greene Correctional Facility. That’s when I really started working out, when I was in Greene. I was in reception…in reception, they basically take you blood tests and tell you your results. When they brought it back, they said that my cholesterol levels were so high that I could probably die in prison. And I was like, ‘What?’ and they were like, ‘Within five years, you could die of a heart attack if you keep living the way you’re living.’ And I’m like, ‘No way!’ 

But I went back to my cell…they recommended exercising and eating correctly. I started working out in my cell right away and lasted for about five minutes and passed out on my bed. [The last time I had worked out] was when I was in prison the last time, between 19 and 20. I came out in decent shape. But I fell back to the lifestyle of drinking and smoking and not doing anything—no mobility at all. I was just sitting in a car and eating.

The exercises I learned from back then were the ones I implemented again and used that to lose weight. The next day, I woke up and started thinking on my bed in my cell, just thinking, ‘What should I do?’ And I got up and I started running. And I just started running laps and laps, and nobody was running in the yard. If anybody would run in the yard, they’d get made fun of, like crazy…People would call me ‘Forrest Gump!’ and scream at me and say all this bull shit.

It was a time for me to escape and concentrate on my body. Every time I would run, I would focus and be committed.”

On the Workout

“It’s like a military-based workout with prison stuff. I went through this program called ‘Shock Incarceration,’ and it’s ex-Marines and ex-army-people-turned correctional officers. And I did that program three times. It’s pretty intense.

I took some of the moves that I learned from their routines and then I used some of the moves that I learned from inmates who’d done, like, 20 to 30 years, who I was incarcerated with, who I worked out with, and just combined them. So it’s a mix of cardio, calisthenics, and aerobics.”

On Why ConBody Has a Prison Theme

“When I first came home, I named the company Coss Athletics, and we had a tagline. It was ‘prison-style boot camp.’ It was like a small little tagline that nobody really could see. You would just see Coss Athletics. And there were just some times when I would start classes and start the work out and nobody would know what it really was, so I would explain to them that this is a prison-style boot camp. It was all derived from me losing weight, almost 70 pounds in six months.

And I would explain my story, and there were a few people that would walk out and not even touch me and discriminate right away. I’ve had it happen a good handful of times. And then I was like, you know what? Fuck it. I’m gonna own the brand.

I decided this was what I was going to do. And I also had a job. I did an internship at Goodwill. And there were people who were formerly incarcerated who would come there asking for help and stuff like that. And nobody knew I was formerly incarcerated, because I just went in there as an intern. Nobody really knew my background, so I just kept quiet about it. But I would to see other employees talk shit about formerly incarcerated people and all these people who would never amount to something and, you know, probably end up going back to jail...And I got frustrated and I told them: ‘Look, I’ve been incarcerated.’ You know, it took a while and it took a little bit of courage. But I just, like, owned it.

And then I was like, I'm going to build this whole thing to look like a prison and call it ConBody. And now you know what you’re going to get into. Yeah. And if you don’t like it, then you’re probably not going to come.”

Coss Marte Part 2: Moving In and Out of the System

On Moving In and Out of the System and How He Changed His Ways

“I did time when I was 15 to 16, 19 to 20, and then 23 to 27. When I came out when I was 16, I went right back to the streets. Nothing really changed me, and I didn’t really care about anything. Then when I went in from 19 to 20, I wanted to come out and do something, but I got quickly tempted and already had the drug operation running from when I was in prison. I came out, and it was handed back to me. It was my responsibility to take over and continue what I started. And then I got locked up at 23 again.

Change happened [because] when I went in the last time, my son was two years old. And it was just devastating to see him, an innocent child, grow up without his father. I was facing 12 to 24 years because of the crime I had committed, and I got really lucky and got 7. But that really hurt me, and I really wanted to provide for him. But facing 12 to 24 years, you’re like, I can’t do anything. Whatever happens happens, and I’ve just got to deal with it. But I got lucky and had the opportunity to come home early. And I was just really looking forward to doing the right thing and getting out. I got out when he was 6. What really changed me was not only him but a series of events. 

I went into the box. I was sent to solitary confinement toward the end of my incarceration. I got into some trouble with an officer. He basically put me on a wall and started to search me and touch me in inappropriate places. I moved, and he hit me. He hit me so hard that I dropped down to the ground. At the time, I was wearing glasses. I went to pick up the glasses and then I turned around on him. He pulled the pin. The pin is like this walkie talkie. As soon as they press that, you need to brace for impact, because about a dozen officers came to the scene. They beat the crap out of me, and they put me in solitary. I was devastated, because I only had two months to go to go home. My son…he came to visit me the week before, and my family. I told them, ‘I’m coming home’ and this and that. They all prepared for me to leave. And then because of this situation, I was facing three more years in prison. I ended up doing a year. I was supposed to come home in three and did four. I was in this prison cell, and I’m banging my head against the wall going, ‘What the hell?’ What’s gonna happen?’ And I wrote a letter out to my family, letting them know I’m not coming home. I fucked up. I close this letter and then realize I don’t have no stamp to send it out with. 

Not until my sister wrote me back. My sister’s super religious. She writes me and tells me to read Psalm 91 from the Bible. And it’s this Bible she gave me early on in my incarceration when I was at Riker’s Island. And that’s the only item you could get while you were in solitary, your religious item…When I read that, I thought, ‘Fuck no. I don’t give a fuck about the Bible and religion.’ But sitting there for 24-hour lock-down, not having anything to do, I decided to pick it up. And I read Psalm 91. And as soon as I started reading it, a stamp fell out of my Bible. And it was the stamp I needed to send out this letter with, to communicate with my family about the trouble I was in. 

As soon as that happened, I felt like there was a spiritual awakening. I felt chills. I started reading the Bible from front to back and started realizing what I was doing was extremely wrong. I felt so much guilt and started realizing I was not only affecting the people around my circle but the thousands of people I sold drugs to. Their families were being affected, and I was just creating this whole web of destruction. I started praying and asking God, ‘How can I give back?’ And the idea of ConBody came to play there. I was already helping the guys in the yard lose weight and work out, and I was like: This is what I want to do. I started writing out my whole workout routine, and I started working writing what exactly I wanted to do when I came home. I came home about a year later, and I really stuck to it. I stuck to a regimented schedule and was really disciplined. (I was way more disciplined than I am now.) It’s just been crazy. Now I’m at Saks [running a workout studio on the second floor at the Wellery].”

Coss Marte Part 1: The Lower East Side, The Drug Trade and His Mom

Growing up on the Lower East Side, Coss Marte wanted one thing: to be rich. At the age of 19, he had achieved his dream. He was making over $2 million a year selling cocaine and marijuana on the corner of Broome and Eldridge. As a drug kingpin, he was driving fancy cars and could buy anything he wanted—until he got caught at the age of 23 and was sentenced to seven years in prison. 

At his physical examination in prison, the doctor told him that his cholesterol levels were so high—because of the sedentary life he had lived as a drug dealer—that he would likely die within five years. Marte was in such bad health that he could not even run two laps around the prison yard.

But with a two-year-old son on the outside, Marte was determined not to die in prison. He started doing pushups in his small cell and within six months lost 70 pounds. He started teaching his workout to fellow inmates and learned that he liked teaching and that his workout routine had a similar effect on others. While in solitary confinement, Marte hatched a plan to open his own studio when he got out. 

After serving four years of his sentence, Marte was released. He came back to the Lower East Side and started a boot-camp-style workout company, Coss Athletics, often teaching classes in Sara D. Roosevelt Park. He later rebranded the company to ConBody, wanting to be up-front about the fact that all of his trainers are all formerly incarcerated men and women. ConBody now has two studios that offer multiple classes each week day—one on the Lower East Side, close to the corner where Marte used to sell drugs, and one in the Wellery, a floor at Saks Fifth Avenue that is dedicated to health, beauty, and fitness. One of the studios is designed to look like a prison cell, the other a prison yard. ConBody’s slogan is “Do the time.” Marte has had incredible success and is committed to giving his clients a better workout and his employees a second chance.  

On Growing up on the Lower East Side and Getting Involved in the Drug Trade

“I was born and raised in the city, and the Lower East Side was where I was raised at. The Lower East Side, back in the day, was more of a community but more dangerous. I say now it’s less of a community but safer, so it’s like a give or take. Growing up, I seen drugs in my neighborhood at a very early age—people shooting up heroin in the staircases. It was just crazy, hearing gun shots and seeing gang members and stuff like that and having family members go down that line themselves. I was exposed to a lot of that stuff as a kid.”

On His Relationship with His Mom

“My relationship with my mom was pretty close [growing up]. But growing up in a Hispanic family is pretty different, where you don’t, like, hug or say ‘I love you’ or stuff like that. It’s more of a tough love situation. My mom worked in a sewing factory on Bleecker St. She didn’t really have childcare for me, so she used to bring me and sneak me under the sewing machine, and I would watch her work. She had to sew these little t-shirts for, like, babies. And for every item she sewed, there was a like a commission of ten cents or a few cents. And she was making—I don’t know—nothing. That’s how I grew up, and that’s what I seen. Growing up in that lifestyle and seeing my mom, not having much, provide for me. I would go to school, and people would have everything they want, around my neighborhood. It’s not a very rich neighborhood, but other kids had more than me. And I wanted that stuff. And people would ask me, ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ and I would tell them I wanted to be rich. And that was my goal in my head all the time. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to really make it, and the first opportunity was through the world of drugs. I started messing around with the guys on the corner. A few of them were my family members, so I would just hang out there. It was another sort of childcare, because my mom was working so much. And I would see them selling drugs, and it was just a normal thing. At 13, I started dealing drugs with them, and I got arrested. It just quickly starting progressing. From 13 to 27, I went in ten times. I was arrested 10 times…three-time felon. It [became] a revolving door. As soon as I got arrested the first time and had cuffs on me as a kid, I felt like ‘Whatever. I’ve already started this lifestyle; I’m just going to continue it. I’m in a gang; nobody’s going to take me out.”

Takia “Judah” Parham Part 2: Prison and Bedford Hills

On how she ended up in prison 

“I was at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for five-and-a-half years. A year and four months, I spent at Jefferson County Jail in what they call Watertown. Originally how it started was…I was overseas in combat, because I’m a combat veteran. I was in Operation Iraqi Freedom from 2008 to 2009. 90 days or a little bit more after I came back from combat, I got into a car crash. I was deteriorating, and my unit, they knew it. So I went to therapy. Then I got into a car crash, and I was already injured previously. My back was injured overseas. And then after the car crash, it was a little worse. And I accidentally overdosed on the medication they had been giving me. And I was so depressed at the time that…well, it really wasn’t overdosing. I took too many—I took two—that was it, one too many. I was already in a depressed state, so it just furthered that affliction. I was admitted into a hospital—the Soldiers and Sailors Hospital—in the psych ward and was diagnosed with a major depressive disorder.

But it wasn’t verified yet. A week later, I came out and went back to work. Two weeks after that, allegedly I committed a crime with another soldier who was my superior officer and had been harassing me and sexually forcing herself on me. At the time, I didn’t have a choice but to submit to the influence of that officer. And I did. And it ended up being eight months not only of discomfort, but it cost me eight years of my life. 

From Jefferson County Jail, I ended up at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for five-and-a-half years. I just got out five months ago, on December 29.”

On her experience at Bedford Hills

“I had spent 14, almost 15 months, not myself. I had to go through therapy pretty much by myself and that continued. I’ll get into more detail about what I mean about ‘by myself’ because therapy, you think, really is by yourself. What I mean is that in the prison system or in the jail systems, you get at least one hour’s worth of therapy. With that therapy, because you’re one of many people who need therapy, the federal law looks at you as a person who has been convicted of a crime. Innocent or guilty, you have been convicted, meaning that you already have a mental illness, because you cannot perform well in society. So there’s a mental illness underlying that is how they perceive it. 

With that, I did most of my self-searching alone. I had experienced a lot of death from the time I joined the military to the time my military contract ended in prison and until the time, pretty much, during the time of my incarceration. With that, I learned that I had to find some way to not only survive prison but to survive some of the tragedies and things that I went through. Personally, I did my own therapy by spending a lot of time by myself. I’m in a cell, maybe getting in trouble for this, that, and the third. Any opportunity to even present yourself as free is a danger, because you could end up being isolated. Any solitude is not always good in that environment, because it’s not like you can control the solitude. If you can control the solitude, then that is more healthy and rehabilitative. And so my therapy, I pretty much found my own and did my own.”

“I had experienced a lot of death from the time I joined the military to the time my military contract ended in prison and…during the time of my incarceration. I learned that I had to find some way to not only to survive prison but to survive some of the tragedies and things I went through…I did my own therapy by spending a lot of time by myself.”

Takia “Judah” Parham Part 1: Background, Struggles and Identity

Background

At age 28, after returning home from Operation Iraqi Freedom and getting into a car accident, combat veteran Takia “Judah” Parham allegedly stabbed a woman with whom she had served in the military and with whom she had been intimately involved. (It is unclear as to whether the involvement was, at some point, voluntary.) Parham pleaded guilty to second-degree attempted murder and spent five-and-a-half years at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, a maximum-security facility for women in upstate New York. At Bedford Hills, Parham became involved with Rehabilitation in the Arts, a non-profit organization that runs arts programming in prisons to “develop social and cognitive skills that prisoners need for successful reintegration into the community.” Parham participated in plays RTA produced and also took poetry, hip hop, and comedy classes through the program. She was released from prison in December 2016. One of her poems will soon be featured on the Six by Eight website.

On her name and Faith

“I’m Takia Parham. I’m also known as Judah. I go by that name, and I will probably forget my first name I hear Judah so much.

My nickname was Tip, meaning Takia Israel Parham. When I got to jail in 2010, someone named Tiffany was there, and they called her Tip. So, I began reading the Bible, and I liked the ring of Judah and all that it detailed. It’s not only a place or a group of people, but it has a large history to Christians and Jewish people.”

“I am [a person of faith]. At this point, it’s spirituality. I study a lot of different religions. I have all of my life. It’s seeking myself also. I have come to a comfortable place where my beliefs are just my beliefs. It doesn’t necessarily condemn or judge me; it’s just part of my faith and believing that I got through most of the stuff that I got through in life because there was a higher power that wasn’t banging a gavel on me but getting me through some of the roughest times.”

Takia Parham + Charles Moore, Part 3: On What the Public Should Know About Welcoming the Formerly Incarcerated Back

Charles

Denny Renshaw/6x8 Portrait

Denny Renshaw/6x8 Portrait

“That’s the famous question. I think that the general public needs to somehow take more interest in trying to see what’s going on in prison. Prison is a very isolated city, meaning that there’s very little oversight. That’s why things happen; that’s why you have the issues that you have at Riker’s Island. That’s why you have some of the abuse that you have on the state level, because there’s really no oversight. People need to be able to come in and do random tours, to come in and just see how the conditions of the institutions is. Because I believe in prisons. I believe that if you do wrong, you know the Constitution is set up that if you do wrong, this is the result of your actions. But you are not sent to prison to be abused, and there is a lot of abuse in prisons. So, you know, if you believe in the justice system…if I do A, this is the consequence of my actions. Prison is to isolate you and hopefully rehabilitate you, not to abuse you. I believe there needs to be more oversight. That is what I’d like the public to know. And when I go out and speak on behalf of RTA, I always try to close with: Welcome people home from prison after they do their time with open arms, because they’ve done their time. It’s not like they escaped from prison. It’s not like they went through the window. They have done their time. And do not judge ’em. Give them an opportunity to reintegrate back into society. Don’t always judge them: oh, ‘ex felon.’ They have a new term now; it’s ‘returning citizens.’ That’s a cute word, but it leaves a question: returning from where? So you still have to go back and define…it’s better than some of the words we use, but it leaves a question. So if we could have a fair chance to be reintegrated back into society, that would give a lot of us a better chance at success.”

Takia

“I work for the state, at ten cents an hour, because I’m property of the state, working for the state. According to the Constitution, I am a slave. According to the Constitution, I owe a service. I have a debt that has to be worked off in the sentence. It doesn’t mean I’m going to be constantly whipped, like every day. I’m doing the time, because this is what the judge judged me for. He banged a gavel; the gavel shouldn’t be banged again until they’re saying dismissed from doing that time…”

“Solitary confinement in prisons should be altogether abandoned. If there is not physical contact, the length of time in which a person spends alone, no one to talk to…maybe except for the person who is giving them water out of a gardening bucket, a gardening-tool bucket every other day. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday is when they get to wash for 15 minutes. That type of treatment of people who are supposed to being rehabilitated…you’re not even in a program when you’re in solitary confinement, so it’s not contributing to anything except to the deterioration of the mind of the person who’s supposed to be rehabilitated or corrected.”

Takia Parham + Charles Moore, Part 2: On the Surprises and Challenges of Reintegration

Charles

“After doing 17 years and then being released to the big city of New York, never having been here before in my life, not even to visit, this whole thing was like a culture shock…subway system, fast pace, 125th. But to put it in plain terms: technology. The cell phone being the life line. 

I remember just asking for an application and this young 21-year-old says, ‘Oh, yeah, you can go over there and use the kiosk.’ What’s a kiosk? They don’t even do paper applications anymore? It’s been my experience so far that they’re kind of like fading out money. Everything is plastic, somehow, someway. Even public assistance. There’s no exchange of cash. You use your debit card to pay for this, that, and the other. You don’t get food stamps anymore. It’s all on a card. 

Denny Renshaw/6x8 Portrait

For me, it was really the fast pace of being in New York…let alone all the technology changes. In prison, we had access to computers, but very basic. We don’t have internet access. The closest we can get to internet access is the law library.”

Takia

“For me, it was technology also. I was telling you the story of how I went to a McDonald’s. It was the first thing I wanted to do upon coming out. My family asked me: ‘Where do you want to eat?’ And I said, ‘I really want sushi, but let’s go to McDonald’s first. I want some fries. I’ve got a taste for fries.  Of course, after eight years, you’re going to have a taste for something. 

So we went to a McDonald’s in the area I was at, and I was overwhelmed, because everything was…there were screens that were high-tech. Even the pixels themselves in the screens were like, everything was popping out at you 3-D. It was sensory overload. Because when you’re in prison, you’re almost a century behind.

We’ve gone from eight-tracks to CDs to MP3 players. Most prisons, like the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, they’ll allow you to have cassette tapes as entertainment. They don’t allow you to have CDs or MP3 players. Now, it’s different for probably federal and other prisons. But that’s what I had become used to—fast-forwarding and rewinding. And when I went in, there was a slight change—we were starting to get into the streaming. Now it’s nothing but streaming. I can stream a movie; I can stream music; I can stream a stream! I’m learning! I’m getting good! 

So when I actually came in [to McDonald’s], I asked for a Super-Size fry. And of course the young woman who was behind the counter was probably 18-years-old, and she looked at me and said: ‘You mean large?’ And I said, ‘No, Super Size.’ And she said, ‘There’s no Super Size.’ And I said, ‘Well, let me explain to you. I’m fresh out of prison. Don’t believe me?’ And I pulled out my parole card. Because for me, it’s not a shame anymore. I’ve been through that process of feeling shamed by it. But there’s a story here. And even if I cannot tell the whole story because I have dual relationship to this particular case, which is also the military, I don’t speak anything except for what they convicted me of. I will not speak the truth of what actually happened in detail, for the simple fact that I’m not going to open up a bag of worms with our military. They still have taken care of me. No matter what I’ve been through and what the internet says—or what I’ve been convicted of, because I took a plea deal. Sometimes, we all know that most people are taking plea deals, because they don’t have any other options or money or avenues to get a lawyer other than a public representative. 

Those shocking things, to me, it was an opportunity to teach and also let her know, ‘Listen, this isn’t a place you want to be, right?’ And she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want to be there. Yes, you’re right.’ And that was an opportunity to teach just a little bit about what happens when you’ve been gone for six-and-a half years, and you come to something as simple as McDonald’s, and it’s advanced, as it is now. 

Another thing was when I first had to go to the dentist at the VA, the Veterans Administration, and they were so gentle, I later cried to myself and by myself in my room. And the next time I saw that same dentist, which was another thing that was wonderful because it was a black woman, and she had to be at least 22-years-old, and people were like, ‘So what? She’s 22 years old. She’s a dentist.’ But that’s not really common for me to see, because one, I’m from Baltimore City. It’s very seldom that I’ve seen in my own experience, professional black women. And I just came from a place that was at least 90 percent minority. In that capacity, you forget what you’ve seen before. All I know now is there are some soldiers, and, oh, a lot of correctional officers, and then a whole lot of inmates—black women. So it was that, and then also the fact that she was gentle.  I spent six years with B-rated doctors and dentists in the prison system, and I was used to having the issue where there was always something wrong afterwards, and I had to sign a consent form before I even sat in that chair, and of course something was wrong. And that’s what happens all the time and it’s a little rougher. So I cried, because she was so gentle. I didn’t feel a thing; I didn’t need medication afterwards. I didn’t have a headache. I didn’t have to hold my face, nothing was swollen, I didn’t have an infection. I didn’t feel like someone had run a tractor through…I was thankful. Those are the little things…that when you learn how to be rough and tough all the time, when do I become soft and womanly? The things we consider womanly. Because the military stripped me; the prison system stripped me. And even now, I’m finding my comfortability and my identity in my femininity once again.  And those are the small things that have happened in the five months that have been very impactful in my life.”

Takia Parham + Charles Moore, Part 1: Background and Rehabilitation

Background 

Rehabilitation through the Arts (RTA) is a non-profit organization that runs arts programming in prisons with the goal of helping “develop social and cognitive skills that prisoners need for successful reintegration into the community.” The organization was imagined in 1996 when its founder, Katherine Vockins, went to a graduation ceremony for New York Theological Seminary in Sing Sing Correctional Facility, a maximum-security prison in Ossining, New York. She asked an inmate if there was a theatre program in the prison, and he said there was interest but no program. A year later, Katherine started what became RTA. Today, the organization regularly serves over 200 prisoners in New York State, providing inmates with opportunities to participate in theatre, poetry, dance, music, writing, and visual arts initiatives.

Charles Moore and Takia Parham are both alumni of Rehabilitation through the Arts. Charles served 17 years in prison—12 in Sing Sing and five in Woodbourne Correctional Facility—and Takia served five-and-a-half years in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Here, they share about their experiences with RTA, some of the challenges they faced when they were released from prison, and how our society can do a better job of welcoming formerly incarcerated people home. 

On their experiences with Rehabilitation through the Arts

Charles

“I went to Sing Sing in 2000. RTA has been around Sing Sing since 1996. They have special events in prison. Sometimes they have a concert; sometimes they have plays and stuff like that. In 2001, they had a special event, which was a play inside of Sing Sing’s auditorium. They were doing A Few Good Men. They did an excellent job, and I went to see it twice. The second night I was walking around the facility and starting to meet people and I was like, ‘That guy looks like he was in the play last night. Then I started to see more people. And then I was like, ‘Why do all these people seem like they were in the play last night?’

I thought people from the outside came in. I hadn’t known there was a theatre program inside the prison. Then some of my friends that I began to get to know said, ‘They have a program in Sing Sing called RTA. It’s a theatre program. The guys that put the play on are prisoners. I was like, ‘Wow!’ At first, I didn’t think anything of it. I just enjoyed it and went to some other productions. 

I eventually signed up, and it took me two years to get in. I got involved in 2003, my first production being Jitney by August Wilson. [I’ve done] Jitney, West Side Story, an original piece called N Word in which we took the word ‘nigger’ to trial. We did a lot of Shakespearean plays, Of Mice and Men, and The Silence of the Art.

I was involved in about 12 productions. I don’t consider myself an actor, so most of the time, I would shy back to production manager or stage manager-type roles. But when duty calls, I will act. I acted in Starting Over; I acted in West Side Story; I acted in N Word.

The first play that I was in, going back to Jitney, my role was the telephone. If you know anything about the play Jitney, it’s about a cab station. The cab station is revolved around the ringing of a phone, because everyone is calling in for a jitney. So I was the person who would ring the phone on my keyboard. And lo and behold to me, thanks to the director…Dr. Joanna Chan was the director…She was a nun, an Asian nun, and she would sit down and casually talk to us about it and make sure we understood the production. And then she asked this famous question one day. She said: ‘What’s the most important role in the play?’

And everyone would raise their hand and say, ‘Becker, because I’m the father, and I’m the one who shows wisdom’ and stuff…and then Timbo would raise his hand. And she said:

No, everyone’s important, but the most important part of the play is the telephone, because the telephone moves the play.

And that was me. Being in prison for what I was in prison for, that was like the best thing I ever heard. It made me feel like I was important again. So I went to rehearsal every day. I made sure I was there, and it was one of those feelings that came to me because I was not seen. I wasn’t on stage acting, but my presence was needed. It started to bring my humanity back to me.”

Takia

“In 2013, I had been invited to see a performance. My friend Pamela Smart actually invited me to see her perform in Amazing Grace. It was a play that the inmates had put on theirselves that they had created themselves, based loosely upon their life experiences. And it was superb. I was so shocked that something like that was being done in prison. I mean the quality of the actors’ abilities, the story line, the fact that there were costumes. This presentation, it was nice. And I hadn’t been to anything like that…I hadn’t heard anything like that in the two years prior to that moment that I had been there. 

And that invite…I was sitting in the second row, watching Amazing Grace, watching my peers put on Amazing Grace. And it was through Rehabilitation through the Arts. And I said, I’m signing up for it. How come you didn’t tell me sooner?I didn’t know that this is where you were going, and this is what you were doing.

But I had gravitated to the inmates who, not only did they have a longer amount of time, they also demonstrated just a certain character themselves. Which, after the loss of my mother, I wanted to find out: How am I going to do the rest of this time? So I gravitated toward those who had already done 10 years, 15 years, 20 years. And had just a little bit to offer some insight as to how to do my time. And when I found RTA, that was how I was going to do my time. In it, I also found therapy…which it’s not a therapy program. But, I guess, a part of art itself is therapeutic. And so with that, I continued from 2013 until the day I left in RTA. And that’s every course that was being given from theatre to poetry to hip-hop dance, physical theatre, comedy. There were so many different areas that you could participate in, and it was a voluntary program. It wasn’t a program that was mandated by the state, based off of your alleged crime, be it anger management or money crimes where you have to take a financial mandatory program.

This was voluntary, so you had the option of doing it and finding something in it…and so I did.

[RTA] allowed me to stop acting and to start acting. And what I mean by that and that play on words is there’s a posture you have to have in that subculture of prison because there’s always the threat of your body being harmed, not only by your peers but also by correctional officers and staff, be it a misunderstanding, a blatant issue of disrespect or harm or harassment, or simply just misunderstanding. They have a job to do, and they do it with the utmost force. They’re not required to respect you, and you’re not considered a human being necessarily. The normal rights that one has under the Constitution…you lose that. That doesn’t stand when you are a convicted felon. 

So, it gave me the opportunity to let my hair down in the sense of I don’t have to walk around with a mean face or that those who are a potential threat to my body or my well-being or my peace of mind will think twice before they come to me to harm me. I didn’t have to posture any more. I could put on a new self through a character or by exploring my emotions…they don’t always have to be negative. Those are things that happen to most people. To find joy in the moment or to look at any issue where you have to be told every minute what to do—10 minutes is the max you have to be privately in your room, because there’s a window in which officers will come around every 30 minutes to check and see if not only are you all right, but are you doing something you’re not supposed to? Mostly they come with the attitude of: What are you doing in there? Well, there’s a toilet here, too, where I sleep, so I may be using that. And you don’t have the right to say, I’m going to make a curtain and I’m going to close that area off, so you can’t see me. It is a dual reason for that. And again, they have a job to do. And that sense of dignity being taken and stripped from the normal person. You try to find something—anything—that will make you feel dignified and still have a sense of self and identity and esteem. And so, that’s what RTA did.

And I say it was life-changing, because I cleave to it. The two hours that I would get to learn something new—be it someone’s bringing in art that I had never heard of or artists I had never heard of in any theme or area of art. It was enough to say, I needed this break right now, between the hours of 6 o’clock to 9 o’clock, I needed this break. And that’s what it did.”

Tobias Brown, Part 3: Leaving, Reintegrating, and Rebuilding His Life

On leaving the Blackstone Gang

After he came to faith, Tobias knew he needed to leave the Blackstone gang. But leaving a gang is not easy—and can be life-threatening. He shares about his experience. 

“It was a hard decision, because I knew the consequences. I’ve seen guys leave the gang in the past, and I’ve known what happened to them. I was just at a place in my life where I was tired of fighting. I was tired of getting more and more time because of the things that I was doing while I was in prison. There was something that was stirring in my heart, a conviction that was growing that there was something more to my life. 

I approached one of the guys when we were out in the yard one day. I told him that I had found Jesus. That conversation spurned on into a full-blown testimony about what that process was like. As I was sharing with him the story about what God was doing in my heart, I just noticed his countenance start to soften. After I shared my testimony with him, after I shared my story with him, I just remember him looking at me and saying that he wished that he had the conviction to do what I was doing when he was my age. He was serving a life sentence for the Blackstones, and no one wrote him, no one talked to him, no one called him. He told me: Go out there, make a difference, and that he didn’t want to see me back in there again. And that if he did, then he was going to kill me. We made a deal, and the rest is history. 

We made a deal, and the rest is history.

Even after that conversation, there were still moments when my life was being threatened by the former gang I was a part of. But what kept those guys from doing any physical harm to me is that there were other rival gang members who would seek out my counsel and advice on spiritual matters. And they would tell me after every conversation they had that they weren’t going to let anything happen to me. So even though I wasn’t a part of any gang, there were two gangs in the prison that I was that essentially let everyone there know that if something was to happen to me, there was going to be an upscale riot.

There was a promise that God made to me before I made the decision to walk out of the gang: that if my ways please Him, then He would make even my enemies to be at peace with me. And that’s what I saw happen.”

On his relationship with his parents

“My mom was devastated [when I received my sentencing], and my dad was heartbroken. My mom lived with a lot of anxiety and fear because being in the system, especially when I was first introduced, I would be in a particular place for three months, and then they would ship me off. And they wouldn’t tell my parents, and my parents would have to call the jail and go through the process of trying to locate me and where I was in the system. There was this sense of fear and anxiety that my mom had. My dad said that he felt like a failure. He felt like he didn’t do a good job with raising me.

But they stayed committed. They visited me at least once a month, and depending on how close I was to Chicago, they would make trips out there twice a month. But there was a time when they sent me way down south in Illinois, near the Illinois-Kentucky border, and that was really hard for my parents [as it was about a five-hour drive].

When I told them that I gave my life to God, everything changed. Everything changed. Their response toward me and their response toward others who criticized them—because being in the church world and my dad being a pastor, people just automatically judged them and just assumed that it was bad parenting. When they found out that I gave my life to the Lord, it was a cause of celebration. They told everyone that their son was following Christ in prison. That really helped to redeem a lot of the frustration and a lot of the anger and guilt that they struggled with. And it really helped me to ride out my last year in prison with a sense of peace and comfort that God was in control of my life and over my time there.”

On the pressure to join gangs in Chicago

“The whole idea of family and loyalty, it was a myth. It was what those guys used to attract me and pull me in. I was a disillusioned individual, a young man just trying to find his identity. I couldn’t connect with what my parents were doing in terms of ministry. And I run into these guys, and they look cool. They look like family; they look like they’re all for each other. But the deeper I got into the gang lifestyle, the more I realized that there were a lot of dissensions, a lot of inner tensions and rivalries. And there was a lot of death. You don’t see that initially. But it’s just this vicious cycle of watching people die. And it’s something you become blinded to initially. The first time you see something…it starts out with something simple, like a fight. One of my friends gets hurt in a fight, and we’d go back and retreat and the next minute you know, we’re retaliating with guns. And then they’re retaliating. And it’s just this cycle. You had to keep these anniversary killings going. It’s just something you don’t know or realize initially. 

If I would’ve known that, I would’ve never joined. I would have never been a part of it. I thought it was a group of guys who hung out and shot dice and smoked weed and got all the girls. But it’s much more sinister than that.”

On reintegration

“It was a bit of a double-edged sword. I was excited because I was re-entering as a new person. I had this zeal for God and this new passion for learning and education. I was pretty optimistic, but the reality hit when I went in for the first job interview, and it didn’t matter how saved you were. It didn’t matter how much of a believer you were. It didn’t matter what your grades were in school. You have a prison record, and it was discouraging. There were moments when I had second thoughts of maybe going back into the lifestyle I was a part of. They weren’t serious, but those thoughts were there.

I was trying to do what was right and redeem the time and get an education and get on the right path, and no one was giving me a chance. That was pretty discouraging.” 

It took a while. The first time someone really gave me a chance, I was a junior in college at Moody Bible Institute. I got the job from a friend who went to Moody, and he was managing the store. He just put in a good word for me, and I didn’t have to put in an application…They gave me the job; I talked to the top manager. We had a really good conversation, so there was a sense that there were no questions asked…I had a lot of friends at the time who were speaking well of me. That was the first job I ever got.

I remember telling myself that I wished that others had given me a chance, because I was a hard worker…The senior manager didn’t realize I was in prison until a few years later…He couldn’t believe I was in prison.

It was exciting but it was discouragement and a lot of frustrations, as well. Because you really don’t realize how much a felony record affects you. And I never lied on an application. I always was up front and honest, and I never got a call back. I never got to first base.”

On how society can serve those who have been incarcerated better

“Just having a prison record in society…you can’t redeem that. Society really needs to rethink how they treat former inmates and start looking at them as individuals and not as animals who they think are going to go and commit more crimes.

I think there need to be programs that keep inmates up to date with what’s going on and with relevant job skills. When I was released back in the ’90s, there were really no programs.”

Tobias Brown, Part 1: Growing up in Chicago, Blackstone, and the Criminal-Justice System.

Background

Tobias Brown grew up as the son of a pastor on the South Side of Chicago in the 1980s and early 1990s. When he was twelve years old, he got involved with the Almighty Black P. Stone Nation, a Chicago-based street gang that is known for its leaders’ conspiring to commit terrorist acts in the U.S. on behalf of the Libyan government in the late 1980s. 

As a teenager, Tobias was sentenced to prison for a violent assault related to his involvement with the Blackstones. While in prison, he came to the Christian faith and successfully severed ties with the gang. After his release, Tobias earned his B.A. at Moody Bible Institute and his masters in theology and Christian doctrine from the University of Wales, Spurgeons College, in London. He now serves as the associate pastor at a nondenominational church on the Upper West Side, Trinity Grace Church. 

On getting involved with a gang in Chicago

“I was twelve years old, and I was walking down the street with a group of friends in the projects just around the corner from my neighborhood. There was a group of guys who were shooting dice, and me and my friends, we went over there and started watching them. And one of the guys looked at me and he asked me, ‘Who you be with?’ I didn’t understand the question. Then he looked at me and said, ‘You’re a Blackstone.’ From that moment, I was pulled into the [gang] lifestyle. I was taken up under this guy’s wing and followed him wherever he went. I was kind of like his protégé. That happened when I was twelve years old, and I was involved with [gangs] until I was eighteen years old.” 

On his first taste with the criminal-justice system

Tobias’s parents introduced him to the criminal-justice system, calling the police on him several times when he was a teenager. He recalls his first encounter in jail.

“The first time that happened was when I brought a gun to church, and it accidentally fell out of my pocket. My dad thought that one of the best examples that he could give to me was to call the cops, and that’s what he did. They processed me and kept me in a cell for a few hours. That was the first time I ever found myself locked away in the holding pen. It was cold. It was sterile. That was my first taste of the criminal-justice system.”

Tobias Brown, Part 2: Conviction, Prison, Faith

On being tried and convicted 

“It was 1995. I actually turned myself in for a crime that I had committed, because the police had caught a few other accomplices who were with me. I heard that they were interrogating them in some really harsh ways. The only way it would stop is if I turned myself in…I made a full confessional to the crime. The process was really long and exhausting—more emotionally exhausting for my family who had to come to court to watch me be sentenced and to hear the sort of case that they had against me.

In November of 1995, I was sentenced to six years in prison on a plea bargain. I was originally looking at 15-30 years as a felon. I was only sixteen years old. 

My public defender told me I had no chance to win this case, because I had a signed confession. So the only thing I could do was plead guilty and get a minimum of six years…

The first two years I was going to do in juvenile detention, and then the last few years I was going to be in adult penitentiary.”

On entering prison 

“I was afraid.  I remember before they sent me upstate, I was told by some random guy on the bus I was riding: ‘Don’t ever let anyone take advantage of you. Don’t be afraid.’ I took that mindset. When I first went into the system, I was greeted by guys who were part of the gang that I was part of. Usually the way that they flag you is that when you walk into the detention center, there’s a group of guys waiting and they flash up all these gang signs. When you see your gang sign being flashed, you respond back. That’s the way they plug you in the system, so that you have a family—someone to take care of you and give you soap and shampoo and all this other stuff if you need it. If you didn’t have anyone sending you these things, that’s what the gangs were for.”

On coming to faith

“I was in solitary confinement because of a riot that I was a part of. When I was in solitary confinement, there was a Catholic priest who was walking up the galleries, and he gave me this Bible to read. As I was reading the Bible, there was a connection between the Jesus that I grew up listening to and hearing about and the sort of words I was hearing on the pages of this book. It was the first time the Bible came alive for me and to me. It was almost as if I was encountering the tangible presence of Christ in my jail cell.

My life changed. There was peace; there was joy. I used to have a lot of nightmares and a lot of fears and a lot of guilt from some of the things that I’ve done and from some of the people that I’ve hurt. And there was a sense of freedom that I no longer needed to carry that and that I was forgiven—that God was with me. And not only was He with me, but He was with me all along. His presence was with me all along. 

It was in solitary confinement that I really made a commitment to follow Christ…I knew it was God speaking, and I knew it was time to release to Him all of my fears, all of my guilt. I found freedom there.”