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Giant, money-sucking phone companies are only one
symptom of the monolithic prison-industrial complex that rules this country.
But they’re a potent one. They’re a burning reminder that within this insidious
system, destruction - of families, of communities, of human lives - turns a
profit.
Late last week, I opened my email to find a message
with a sad, guilt-trip-laden subject line: “It’s Been Awhile.” I opened it up
to a blaring announcement - “WE MISS YOU!” - accompanied by a photo of a woman
smiling encouragingly. No, this wasn’t a tender note from a group of sweet long-lost
cousins or old high school chums.
This email was a message from Securus, the private
phone company that services the Illinois prison system. It wanted my business
back.
About four months ago, to the immense joy of my
family - most of all, to the joy of her baby daughter - my sister was released
from prison. While she was incarcerated, I spoke with her at least every other
day, and as you may have heard, prison phone calls cost a lot. My
calls totaled $4.10 apiece. Illinois prices recently were lowered to
$3.55, but that’s still steep for many prisoners’ families; most don’t
have much money to spare, so they’re often forced to do without calls. In some
states, costs are even higher. (A recent FCC ruling set caps on prices for
interstate prison phone calls, but the change doesn’t affect calls made from
prisons in state.)
A 2011 investigation by Prison
Legal News disclosed some of the motives behind the pricey rates:
These contracts are priced not only to unjustly
enrich the telephone companies by charging much higher rates than those paid by
the general public, but are further inflated to cover the commission payments
[kickbacks to state contracting agencies], which suck over $143 million per
year out of the pockets of prisoners’ families - who are the overwhelming
recipients of prison phone calls. Averaging a 42% kickback nationwide, this
indicates that the phone market in state prison systems is worth more than an estimated
$362 million annually in gross revenue.
For people with multiple incarcerated loved ones,
those companies’ kickbacks can mean back-breaking sacrifices. My friend Barbara
Fair, who lives in Connecticut, knows the prison phone struggle well. Each of
her seven sons has been locked up at one point or another. (There’s a reason,
she notes, saying, ”The greatest factor influencing my sons ending up in
prison is the fact that they are young African-American males,
and thus the targeted commodity for the prison industry.”)
For Barbara, phone calls were just one of the many,
many burdens piled on top of her during those incarcerations. Her phone bill at
one point amounted to $400 per month. She lost service often, trying to keep up
with payments. In poor communities of color, the theft enacted by private
prison phone companies exacts an ongoing, chronic financial and emotional toll.
So - why keep talking on the phone? The thing is,
phone calls are not a frivolous luxury for the families of prisoners. They’re
an essential component of maintaining relationships, as most prisons are so far
from home that frequent visits are impossible for poor people (and for most
busy people, for that matter). Sixty-two percent of parents in state prisons
are placed more than 100 miles from home. For federal
prisoners, distances are often much vaster.
Lower-priced phone calls - or even free phone calls -
won’t “solve” the disaster that is the institution of prison. In fact, when it
comes to having a loved one in prison, phone calls are a small consolation.
Speaking to each other can simply become a reminder of how your family member,
partner or friend has been deprived of freedom and disappeared from society.
But for incarcerated people, phone calls are one of
the few meager ties that link them to their community, if they’re lucky enough
to have a community to call their own. Bonds with family and friends are
crucial to prisoners inside the institution and upon their release - when they’ll
need support to stay afloat, and, if possible, avoid a return to prison. Stats
show that people are a whole lot less likely to recidivate if they’ve stayed in touch
with family while locked up.
As long as there are prisons, people behind
bars must be able to communicate with their loved ones on the
outside.
Giant, money-sucking phone companies are only one
symptom of the monolithic prison-industrial complex that rules this country.
But they’re a potent one. They’re a burning reminder that within this insidious
system, destruction - of families, of communities, of human lives - turns a
profit.
So, Securus: You miss me? You’re sad that it’s been
awhile? Well, for the moment, I’m going to take a pass on your services. For
good measure, you’re going straight to the spam box. As for myself, I’m going
straight to work, to see what I can do to make you go away for good.
If you’re interested in learning more about and
taking action against the prison-industrial complex and all its minions, here
are a few sites to peruse:
Copyright, Truthout. May not be reprinted without permission.
Maya Schenwar is Truthout’s editor-in-chief and the
author of Locked Down, Locked Out: Why Prison Doesn’t Work and How We
Can Do Better. Follow her on Twitter @mayaschenwar.
Previously, she was a senior editor and reporter at
Truthout, writing on US defense policy, the criminal justice system, campaign
politics, and immigration reform. Prior to her work at Truthout, Maya was
contributing editor at Punk Planet magazine. She has also written for the Guardian,
In These Times, Ms. Magazine, AlterNet, Z Magazine, Bitch
Magazine, Common Dreams, the New Jersey Star-Ledger and others. She also
served as a publicity coordinator for Voices for Creative Nonviolence. Maya is
on the Board of Advisors at Waging Nonviolence.
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