FIFTEEN
I knew if I could just hang on long enough, things would change. I had to believe in hope, I had to believe in myself, I had to believe in the light.
—SHAYNA WELCHER
Denise is sitting in my office with six-month-old Elizabeth. The baby is happily managing to break everything she can reach, although I’ve put anything dangerous out of harm’s way. She is a beautiful child with a round face, big brown eyes, and the signs of teeth beginning to form a joyful smile. She’s also energetic, curious, and not easily contained. “She’s a wild baby,” Denise says, laughing and stating the obvious. “I hoped for a quiet baby, but I think she’s like me—she’s not gonna sit still.” I play with Elizabeth and talk about what classes Denise will be taking in the fall. A week ago, she received an email from UCLA graduate division—she’d been accepted into the MSW program.
“I never thought this day would come. You know, G-ma, I never really thought I’d get in.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. . . . I just didn’t believe it would work out. You know, I feel happy and scared at the same time. Do you think I can do it? Really? Really? I want to make sure I can.”
I wait for her to finish before reassuring her. By this time, I’m used to Denise’s staccato rhythm of speaking. She’ll ask questions without waiting for an answer. Then she’ll free-associate about whatever is worrying her. On the precipice of realizing a dream, she’s afraid it won’t come true.
I understand why Denise feels the way she does, even though her case for admission to the MSW program was a strong one. I wrote a letter of recommendation for her, but I didn’t intervene in the admissions process. Every faculty member at one time or another has advocated on behalf of a student who didn’t have perfect qualifications for admissions—it is the nature of social welfare. Sometimes it works out; sometimes it doesn’t. In Denise’s case, her acceptance was straightforward. Her undergraduate record was strong, her letters of recommendation—in addition to mine—were stellar. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she belonged in the social work profession. But I also understood her anxiety. It all seemed too good to be true.
This is why Susan Burton is a role model for women like Denise. While I might tell Denise she’ll make it, that things will work out, I just didn’t have the same credibility as Susan. Susan has faced loss, substance abuse, and incarceration—she’s the walking, talking proof that Denise and other women who’ve been locked up can make it. Still, Susan and others like her aren’t sitting around waiting for their admirers to kiss the ring. They’re all engaged in sustaining the movement that will ensure that public policy and trauma-informed programming will meet the needs of women currently and formerly incarcerated.
This commitment to sustaining the movement on behalf of women who’ve been incarcerated is part of the reason leadership and advocacy have always been among the key building blocks of A New Way of Life. At ANWOL, Susan contributes to the efforts of the Los Angeles chapter of a national advocacy effort, All of Us Or None, a grassroots organizing campaign designed to reverse the discriminatory policies and practices affecting formerly incarcerated individuals. As part of this, ANWOL is training women to be leaders and organizers in this national movement. Susan isn’t alone in these efforts. There are other devoted leaders, including Kim Carter, the founder and executive director of the Time for Change Foundation; Leyla Martinez, the founder and executive director of the Beyond the Box Initiative; and Cheryl Wilkins, the senior director of education and programs at Columbia University’s Center for Justice and the Justice in Education Initiative. All of these women and others alongside them are dedicated to changing policy, altering systems, and making sure that long-neglected women receive the services they need. It’s also critical to note that this movement is being led by Black women and women of color, many of whom have been incarcerated; all of them have confronted major obstacles in their own lives.
It’s the end of 2019, and Susan Burton is launching plans for the coming year. We’re sitting in her office, but she keeps jumping up to greet a woman arriving at ANWOL for the first time or to answer a question posed by one of the staff. She sits down in the extraordinary chair that the designer Frank Gehry gave to her only long enough to start talking about “some guy named Chris Martin who wants to give a concert to raise money for us.” While her communications manager, Christin Runkle, and I begin hyperventilating, Susan quickly turns her attention to the subject of racism and systemic change. She has no interest in Coldplay right now. Instead, she talks of her impatience with elected officials and policymakers who aren’t moving fast enough to fund more community-based options for the formerly incarcerated.
“I’m not convinced policy is the way to go,” she announces. “I don’t see it working fast enough to change lives in any way. I don’t see it reaching the people in power. I think we’re gonna have to do things differently. I think we’re gonna have to look at community organizing—bringing people together to demand that there be real change in our criminal justice system—what we do to people, women in jail and prison and what we do to them once they get out. We need to demand a better life and I think the best way to do that is through organizing.”
I know she’s right. I think back to the first time I saw Susan at the philanthropists’ tour of the women’s jail back in 2013. That seems like a million years ago, but her words are still fresh in my mind. She urged—no, exhorted—the group to think about the fact that most of the women incarcerated were awaiting trial, that the only thing they were guilty of was not being able to afford bail. The most pressing concern of these women and most of the women who were incarcerated was their children. In the short term, they were disconnected from their children, who couldn’t even visit them. In the long term, they faced the prospect of losing their children forever, in so many cases to the child welfare system. And running like a thread through all of these concerns was the utter lack of funding or programming to support women while they were locked up and afterward, when they tried to reenter their families and their communities, struggling to change and facing a list of obstacles that would stop most of the people touring the jail in their tracks.
Over the years since that tour, I have learned about efforts like Hour Children, which seeks to unite and strengthen the bonds between incarcerated mothers and their children, and I have seen firsthand the ongoing miracle of the Homegirl Café, which works to create and sustain a community of women helping one another. And, under the guidance and vision of Susan Burton, I’ve documented her efforts to establish a national network of SAFE houses for women reentering society after incarceration. These initiatives run parallel to the national movement to “Ban the Box,” so that men and women will not have to indicate that they’ve been incarcerated when applying for jobs. Finally, the movement to end money bail culminated in a series of ballot measures in the 2020 elections. All of these represent efforts to address some of the obstacles currently and formerly incarcerated women confront and reform the systems that created them.
But there is more work to be done on a number of fronts.
First, although California’s 2020 ballot measure to end cash bail failed, and so far, reform legislation in a handful of other states hasn’t been successful, the indiscriminate use of money bail must end, to be replaced by a system of determining who represents a risk to the community that offers assessments free of racism and explicit and implicit bias. Right now, the United States spends $10 billion each year to incarcerate people in pretrial detention.1 This costly investment yields absolutely nothing; research continually demonstrates that pre-trial detention increases rates of recidivism, breaks families apart, punishes poverty, and disproportionately impacts women, Black people, and people of color. The most recent research study took me back to where my work began, at the Los Angeles County women’s jail. Here was the embodiment of the problem: because women experience higher rates and longer time periods of pretrial detention than men, they are especially susceptible to these collateral consequences.2
Until recently, Washington, DC, was the only jurisdiction in the US that had effectively eliminated cash bail, except in certain instances. Given the stated purposes of pretrial detention—to reduce the risk to community safety, ensure individuals are present at their court dates (as opposed to fleeing), and preserve pretrial liberty—Washington, DC’s leadership on this issue has proved to be highly effective. Nearly fifteen years after the nation’s capital banned the practice, 94 percent of defendants have been released pretrial without cash bail, and 88 percent of these individuals have shown up to all of their court dates. Additionally, while free without cash bail, 86 percent were not arrested for any criminal offense.3 For those who were rearrested, less than 2 percent involved arrests for crimes of violence.4 Despite these positive outcomes, as of March 2021, Illinois was the only state with plans to completely prohibit cash bail, as set out in the Illinois Pre-Trial Justice Act, which will go into effect in 2023.5 Other states have made piecemeal reforms to cash bail, but not enough to constitute real change.
In the meantime, unless cash bail is eliminated nationally, taxpayers will continue to spend billions basically to incarcerate individuals for open-ended periods of time when they are presumed to be innocent. And in the cases of so many women, this often means bringing child protective services systems into the picture, decimating families and costing taxpayers even more. This all happens as authorities insist they’re addressing a problem that simply doesn’t exist. Washington, DC’s success has demonstrated that people charged with a crime don’t pose a threat to the community and still show up for their day in court. Needlessly separating women from their families and their communities only creates more problems and more costs for individuals and society as a whole. There is an alternative to punitive and costly cash bail: effective risk assessment tools can determine whether or not a woman can stay with her family while awaiting trial. Used alongside investment in pretrial services, risk assessment tools that are individualized to the particular person, independently validated on a routine basis, and evaluated to be free of racial, gender-based, and class bias can safely and effectively replace pretrial incarceration.
Second, if a woman is sentenced either after pleading or being found guilty, alternatives to incarceration make rehabilitative and financial sense. For most crimes, a system of community-based alternatives to incarceration, including diversion and supervision, should be established and sustained. Such an approach would allow women to remain with their children, ultimately strengthening families and communities. Because so many crimes that women are accused of involve drugs, many diversion programs for drug-related and nonviolent crimes have been created, allowing women to engage in substance abuse treatment programs. Expanding these programs to include trafficking-related and other gender-based crimes would also help reduce the rising numbers of women who are incarcerated every year. In what world does it make sense for a woman who’s been trafficked to then have to serve time? Instead, it’s both humane and critical to create courts that exclusively hear specialized cases and sentence women to alternatives to incarceration. One effective example of this occurs in California, which has instituted a Girls’ Court within the juvenile justice system for young women who have a history of trauma or exploitation or are at risk of either of these.6 Los Angeles County has also established a special program in LA County Superior Court to defer sentences while providing services for the victims of sex trafficking, most of them underage girls. Known as STAR Court, the program’s full name, the Succeeding Through Achievement and Resilience Court, actually describes the services and positive outcomes it provides through multidisciplinary teams that offer healing in place of incarceration.
For women who are no longer juveniles, the Los Angeles County court system has also created the Second Chance Women’s Reentry Court (WRC), facilitated by Prototypes, a community-based organization. WRC is designed for women charged with felonies, even if they have past convictions. This alone represents a new approach, in contrast to most diversion programs, which tend to limit eligibility to individuals with misdemeanors and “clean” prior records. Women who are eligible for WRC receive three years’ probation, along with placement in a residential treatment program, followed by an outpatient treatment program and after-care services. Women can bring two children under twelve years old to live with them in these residential programs.7 The services women receive are designed—using gender-responsive and trauma-informed, evidence-based models—to match their histories of trauma, substance use or dependence, cycles of incarceration, homelessness, and poverty. As part of their probation supervision, women must submit to drug testing, and they face sanctions if they violate any of their terms of supervision. But an emphasis on treatment, not punishment, is the guiding strategy of WRC.
A patchwork of these alternative courts and diversion programs exists in jurisdictions across the country. In 2010, the Philadelphia courts implemented the Project Dawn Court Diversionary Program, which is designed to offer alternatives to punishment for women charged with sex work and sex trafficking crimes.8 Women with a history of sex work convictions and no history of violent crimes are eligible—at the district attorney’s discretion—for their case to be processed through this alternative court. The Project Dawn Court Diversionary Program focuses on treatment and reentry services, including trauma counseling for abuse and treatment for substance abuse.9 Participants must remain clean through the duration of the program and, just as in WRC, women are subject to sanctions if they don’t comply with the terms of their supervision.
In developing these diversion programs, gender-aware courts, and alternatives to incarceration, it’s critical that practitioners adopt strength-based and trauma-informed approaches that provide the necessary conditions for women to succeed. Often, this means that the most effective programs minimize barriers to qualification, including fines and fees, and streamline the connection between women and the community-based services they require.10 Successful programs also provide an individualized approach, working to meet every woman where she is at, address her particular needs, and invest in her strengths.11
It’s critical to note, however, that each of these efforts still represents a reactive approach to what women and girls experience. Investing in girls, women, and their communities before they come into contact with the criminal justice system would do wonders in preventing the increasing and disproportionate incarceration of girls and women, especially Black women and women of color.
This approach doesn’t need to be limited to what currently exists. More counties can independently create their own “girls’ courts” and “women’s courts” that focus on providing services and gender-specific, trauma-informed care, rather than punishment. Right now, current efforts tend to focus on girls—an insensitive limitation, for traumatized women of all genders and all ages should be eligible for such judicial responses. Extending programs like these into adulthood would redirect women from the criminal justice system into a diversion program that would address the underlying conditions that propelled them into the system.
Third, programming for women that allows them to remain securely attached and relating to their children and their communities while they’re incarcerated needs to be expanded and funded. Hour Children’s efforts represent a collaboration between a nonprofit program and a prison that enables women to stay connected to their children while they’re incarcerated and helps them once they leave prison to reenter their families and communities. Happily, Hour Children is not a unique model. There are already indications that other programs are engaging in such efforts. For example, the Washington State Residential Parenting Program, offered at the Washington Corrections Center for Women, is cast from the same mold as Hour Children. The program allows women who enter prison pregnant, are convicted of nonviolent offenses, and will be released before their child turns thirty months old to live with their child during the course of their incarceration.12 Though the program is certainly a step in the right direction, its impact is limited, given its restricted acceptance criteria.
Finally, more than anything, the approaches described in the second part of this book must become part of a sustained effort to address the needs of women reentering their families and their communities after incarceration. The Prison Policy Initiative has identified four major areas policymakers must focus on to undercut obstacles and ensure women successfully reenter mainstream life. The list is no surprise; the items are interwoven with the narratives of the women in this book and include (1) addressing the economic marginalization and poverty that formerly incarcerated women experience; (2) investing in housing and helping women establish housing stability; (3) investing in trauma-informed and gender-responsive services to prevent future recidivism; and (4) reuniting families with care and support after the trauma of family separation.13 Along with what the Prison Policy Initiative has identified, there are also huge gaps that haven’t even begun to be addressed, involving the challenges faced by non-binary individuals and trans women during and after incarceration. Once again, through the work of Susan Burton and the incredible efforts of Black and Pink, a national organization that partners with ANWOL, a light is finally being shed on these individuals and how programs and services must expand to address their needs. All of this points to the reality that there is much work left to be done.14
In the end, government, philanthropy, and private partners must band together to address one of the questions that has burned in my brain as I wrote this book: Why aren’t there enough reentry programs across the country to address the specific issues formerly incarcerated women face? With eighty-one thousand women released from state prisons annually, we can’t afford to wait.15 We don’t need any additional research studies to prove that the costs to society of failing to support these women are far greater because of the inevitable recidivism that occurs without strong support. Even those who describe themselves as “tough on crime” must acknowledge that it’s more fiscally and socially responsible to support women and prevent future crime than to keep locking them up. Of course, fundamental to this entire discussion is the commitment to investing in these women and their communities before they become involved with the criminal justice system.
What I’ve encountered and described here are some of the models for meaningful support services, and there are more. Future public, private, and philanthropic efforts to create programs for women should be informed by the best practices established through the work of A New Way of Life in Los Angeles, Hour Children in New York, the Center for Women in Transition in St. Louis, Angela House in Houston, and the handful of similar programs that exist throughout the United States. These programs all represent new and innovative approaches to serving the specific needs of women and to provide wraparound services to holistically meet their needs when they return home. Additionally, these programs demonstrate that the ideas and models that effectively serve women actually do exist and justify the further investment in these programs that is profoundly needed.
Finally, the ANWOL Sisterhood Alliance for Freedom and Equality or, as Susan Burton branded it, the SAFE Housing Network, as well as other efforts aimed at establishing housing and reentry support for formerly incarcerated women, require dedicated funding streams. These undertakings create positive outcomes for women, children, public safety, and human well-being and should be supported by public-private partnerships in a sustained manner.
It’s also important to prepare for the unexpected. Over the past year, the global pandemic has made the cliché of strategic planning a reality. By May 2020, Susan Burton was spending very little time sitting in her Frank Gehry chair. While the pandemic raged, as most people were tearing their hair out over the rate of infection and the availability of toilet paper, she was hard at work raising more money to remodel a former convent where she could shelter the women whom she lobbied LA County and the State of California to release from incarceration. The New York Times covered her efforts, describing how she was “racing against the clock to shelter those freed early because of the surge of Coronavirus cases in prisons.”16
To this day, her work during the pandemic continues unabated. I’m helping her plan an online training to add more partners to the SAFE Housing Network. Once a month, ANWOL hosts a Zoom meeting where network members gather to talk, brainstorm, and bolster one another. Susan Burton continues organizing, advocating, fundraising, and standing as a hero to women in prison systems from the United States to Kenya, Norway, and Japan.
There have been many changes in the lives of the women this book has followed. In the summer of 2021, almost six years after their guilty verdict, Ivy and Janeth’s case is on appeal, while they both serve their sentences at Chowchilla, the state prison three and a half hours from Los Angeles. Ivy’s sentence has already been reduced by five years because the judge made a mistake and added too many years to the original sentence. However, there are even more important developments in their appeal, which is pending before the California Supreme Court. Ivy’s is an important case because it’s testing a new California law based on Senate Bill (SB) 1437, which reverses what’s long been known as the natural and probable consequences theory. “My brain hurts when I think about this theory,” Elie Miller tells me, but as soon as she explains the new law, it makes sense. Ivy’s and Janeth’s original guilty verdicts were based on a law that said that during the time a felony is committed, if someone dies, the charge is murder and everyone involved can face first-degree murder charges. So, as in the case of Ivy and Janeth, you could face murder charges even if you never actually killed anyone. Under SB 1437, you can be charged with first-degree murder only if you’re the person who actually killed someone or if you actively helped someone else kill that person. You have to be a major participant in the crime, playing an active role helping someone kill another person. Anyone who successfully appeals their sentence on a previous crime can have the time they serve reduced, because they avoid felony murder charges. In many cases, other murder charges end up with sentences of fifteen years to life. Of course, there’s been lots of opposition to SB 1437 and the changes in sentencing. Luckily, efforts to oppose the law’s constitutionality have all failed. Janeth and Ivy’s appeal is scheduled to go forward, and there’s a reason for hope.
For Janeth, there’s an additional promising development. Due to a new ruling in case law, she will be eligible for what’s known as a “youth offender parole hearing.” The law states that if an individual was under the age of twenty-six when they committed the “controlling offense”—the crime that earned the longest sentence—then they qualify to be considered a youth offender. Janeth was twenty-two when she was charged, so she’s eligible to be considered a youth offender. Until recently, youth-offender parole dates could not be moved forward because of what are called “conduct credits.” This has now changed: conduct credits can advance a parole date. This means that an individual who’s been involved in an activity such as getting an education earns credits that can translate to taking years off of their sentence. Janeth has already qualified for conduct credits. Her original parole eligibility date was 2039, but it was advanced to 2036. This doesn’t mean she’ll automatically be released that year, but if she keeps out of trouble while she’s in Chowchilla, she has a chance of her parole eligibility date being advanced again.17
While they await the outcome of their appeal, both women remain far from their children. Ivy’s son is being raised by his paternal grandparents, and Janeth’s daughter has been adopted by the child’s paternal grandmother, Myra. Adela is in touch with all the grandparents, making sure the memory of Ivy and Janeth stays alive with their children. Erika has stayed in touch with Jessie’s grandparents and is certain of their love for him, telling me, “Sonia loves him so much, she loves him as if he were her own. He’s been with her since Ivy was locked up—she has given him the unconditional love he needs.”
Denise Marshall is well into her first year of the MSW program at UCLA, and her daughter is flourishing. Rosa Lucero is working part-time at Homeboy Industries and has applied to a vocational training program to learn to write computer code. After receiving two years’ probation, Carmen and her children still live in subsidized housing. With her usual resilience, she is working at a new job, as a case manager for a Covid-relief program. Adela Juarez continues her work on behalf of women at Interval House and is moving forward with plans to open her own shelter. To raise funds for this effort, we’re already gathering material on a book about her life, with proceeds to go to fund the shelter. Angela Washington and her partner, Simone, are still together and she is now joyfully reconciled with her son Tyrone, whose girlfriend is expecting their first child.
And then there is Clara Vasquez.
I’d planned to end Clara’s story as she finished community college and applied to a four-year university. But when I reached out to see how she was doing, I changed my mind. She’d applied to three California state universities—Northridge, Los Angeles, and Long Beach—and was accepted at all three. She chose Cal State Long Beach because it had a specific program for sign language interpretation.
School was exciting, although the pandemic had changed things, as Clara explained: “I’m hands-on—I need the professor right there in front of me. I know now, I have a learning disability and it’s challenging being online. I can survive in the street with my eyes closed, but school is different. I love learning—my problem is retention. Now I know, it’s not that I’m stupid; it’s just that I learn differently.”
Clara and I were talking on the phone—even with masks available, we didn’t want to take the chance of meeting in person. Despite all these limits, she was just as open as she’d been during our past “in-person” conversations, telling me how she felt unsure of herself when she first stepped on campus, far from her comfort zone in community college. She enrolled in advanced courses and then had to drop two classes and enroll in their prerequisites. “I kept going, even though I made mistakes. I was determined to do it.”
In the end, the most difficult problem she faced had nothing to do with school: her daughter Veronica had started acting out and running away. While she protected Veronica’s privacy and stayed away from giving me the details, Clara told me, “A lot of things happened, and she was placed in foster care.”
That was devastating news. Clara had thought the child welfare system was all behind her, but, unbelievably, she was once again dealing with DCFS and the family reunification process. “I was fighting for custody, I was going to parenting class, I was going to counseling. Plus, I was adjusting to school. So, it was just a little overwhelming for me.”
Just a little overwhelming? I got anxious even listening to Clara. The strength, the resilience, the will to get her daughter back—again—was shining through her account. As a formerly incarcerated woman, she carried the weight of her past traumas and how they affected her daily life, including her children. Yet, there was no stopping her. I thought about Rosa, I thought about Adela, I thought about Denise. These women all continued undaunted in the face of so many obstacles. I feel in awe of them.
“What kept me going was that I didn’t want her to continue in my footsteps. I was sticking to that purpose,” Clara told me. “At the same time, my sister passed away. She committed suicide—she’d had mental health issues. Then my boyfriend got deported. I felt like, my God, why is this happening? I had to break myself in ten pieces so I could take care of everything.”
She didn’t do as well as she wanted in her courses, passing two and failing one, but she stayed in school. That in itself was an accomplishment. And Veronica returned home. “She came back to me right before Thanksgiving. Even the judge told me, ‘Congratulations, you did everything in five months. You’re a great mother.’ All I could think was, I did it! I reunified my family!”
Veronica was happy to be home—the experience strengthened her and Clara’s relationship. The two of them went to therapy, and Clara “reached out to her school to get her the help that she needs so she can succeed.” While she focused on helping Veronica, Clara also encountered new economic pressures. Her boyfriend had been a large source of financial support; once he was deported, she feared she would be evicted. She was notified that she had to move and couldn’t believe she was going to be homeless again. Reluctantly, she reached out to a social worker at the House of Ruth, who helped her apply for government aid. Despite feeling ashamed at first, she went ahead, reasoning, “I’ve worked since I was fifteen years old. I’ve paid taxes, so I’m allowed to apply for help whenever I need it.”
Once she started receiving TANF (Temporary Assistance for Needy Families) funds, as well as funding from CalWorks, she budgeted carefully, going to food banks for fresh food and milk. She was hired as a student worker at school, which spurred her to become involved with several on-campus programs, including the Guardian Scholars, an organization for formerly incarcerated students. “After my first semester, I was getting the hang of university life. Then my counselor at Guardian Scholars asked me why I wasn’t in the Equal Opportunity Program. I told her, ‘I don’t know. I applied, and they denied me.’ She said I should have been in it from the start! So, she helped me get into EOP.” Her counselor then sent her to the Bob Murphy Access Center, a program for students with disabilities, which helped with her learning disability. There, the counselor recommended she stick to three classes a semester. Clara was into her second semester when the pandemic struck. The idea of a school year attending classes online intimidated her as she confided, “I’m scared of failing. And my girls are my priority.”
She drew encouragement to continue from her daily life. “When this whole quarantine happened, there were long lines at the grocery store. There was a deaf lady trying to get in and the security guard was trying to communicate with her, and of course, they weren’t understanding each other. I stepped in to help. The lady was so grateful, it just made me feel so good, like yes! This is my passion, this is my calling. I will do it—with school or without it.” Clara is dedicated to being trained and plans to apply to an interpreter program once she has accumulated enough credits. “I’m going to try,” she tells me. “I mean, the worst thing they can say is no. And then I can apply next year.” There is steel in her voice, even as she giggles. “I’m taking this slow. I joke around and tell my kids, ‘By the time I finish school, it will be time for me to retire.’ Then they laugh and say, ‘Hey, Mom, but at least you got your degree. You got what you wanted.’”
I soon learn why Clara was referring to multiple kids: her oldest daughter, Theresa, has moved in. She’ll graduate community college in a year, the same time that Veronica graduates from high school. Theresa’s baby, Juana, Clara’s first grandchild, now seven years old, rounds out the family—three generations of women under one roof. Theresa is applying to transfer to UCLA and plans to one day be a history professor; the impact of Clara’s love and example lives through her. “She told me, ‘Mom, you’re an inspiration to me. Because of everything you’ve been through—and you’re still staying in school.’”
Clara has never let go of Aracely, either. She is now twenty and living in Bakersfield with one of her father’s sisters. Continuing her education in community college, she calls Clara every week and sometimes every day for information and support. “Our relationship is getting stronger—she’ll always be my daughter—and I love advising her about school!” Clara laughs with pleasure. All three of her daughters deeply value education and are committed to succeeding in school. This is Clara’s legacy.
Ivy and Janeth’s legacy is heartbreaking. Their trauma, never fully addressed, continues to shadow their lives, undoubtedly growing more severe while they are incarcerated. Through all of these accounts, their story serves as a reminder of how women desperately need gender-sensitive, trauma-informed support and services to change. Elie Miller is adamant about this, telling me, “Those two women should never have been locked up. They needed help, they needed services, they needed to heal.” But all of the other women whose stories make up this book are the jewels at the bottom of Pandora’s box: hope. Not one has returned to prison or jail. Their strength, their lives, and those working to give them a fair chance, offer the promise of a pathway forward into the light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would never have been written without the help of the eighty women who shared their lives with me. Over the past fourteen years, as I’ve talked with them, giggled, gossiped and cried with them, all the time learning their stories of courage and resilience, I’ve never stopped being both in awe and grateful for everything they’ve given me. My debt to them is incalculable. Their lives and their stories have changed me forever.
I am honored that Adela Juarez, Rosa Lucero, Denise Marshall, and Clara Vasquez allowed me into the most intimate parts of their lives. Their strength and honesty was—and is—the heart of this work. Denise once explained, “I like the idea of owning my life for a change.” Whatever the motivation for the candor and authenticity you four have blessed me with, words fail as I try to express my gratitude. Thank you.
Susan Burton is connected to all of these women and so many others. As this book strives to make apparent, she is a leader, a role model, and an advocate all rolled into one. Her devotion to the cause of formerly and currently incarcerated women globally is unparalleled. It was my good fortune that Dr. Bob Ross and the California Endowment connected the two of us all those years ago, allowing me to begin working with A New Way of Life. That organization and the people who comprise it—including co-directors Michael Towler and Pamela Marshall, Ingrid Archie, Claire Arce, and Margaret Dooley-Sammuli—continue to inspire me with their devotion to the lives of formerly and currently incarcerated women everywhere. I will forever be committed to ANWOL.
This parallels my commitment to Homeboy Industries and the women of the Homegirl Café. To this day, they are a singular part of my life. While my beloved Pati Zarate, Shannon Smith, and Erika Cuellar have moved on to new projects, the soul of the café remains unchanged with Arlin Crane “now leading its efforts.” I remain in contact with and steadfastly admire all of the women I grew to know and love through its work and Homeboy Industries’ mission to provide “hope, training and support to formerly gang involved and recently incarcerated men and women, allowing them to redirect their lives and become contributing members of our community.” I continue to deeply respect the contributions of all the Homeboy leadership staff, including my friends Tom Vozzo, Shirley Torres, and Hector Verdugo. I am also in awe of the loving dedication of Myrna Tellez.
It’s impossible to think or write about Homeboy Industries, the Homegirl Café, and the struggles of women who have come of age in the shadow of gangs and incarceration without thinking of the one person who has taught us all about kinship and compassion. There is no one on this earth like Father Greg Boyle. He has been and will always be a constant source of knowledge, reassurance, and delight. Understanding that women’s struggles are born of trauma and pain, he continues to be part of my journey as I bear witness to women’s stories in the spirit of kinship and humility. His love, wisdom, and friendship are all one of the great joys of my life.
The truism “it takes a village” was never more apparent to me than throughout the stages of writing this book, which spanned a global pandemic and the ongoing demand for racial and social justice ignited by the murder of George Floyd. From the beginning, Helene Atwan at Beacon Press served as both an insightful editor and a great source of support. She is simply extraordinary. I’m also indebted to Pam MacColl, Beth Collins, Susan Lumenello, and Katherine Scott. This is my third book to be published by Beacon Press, words I am honored to write. Their commitment to social justice and the quality of the works they publish have served as an inspiration to so many readers—including me.
I’m deeply indebted to my friends and colleagues at the UCLA Luskin School of Public Affairs and the Department of Social Welfare. While they’re too numerous to name, I’m grateful to Rosina Becerra for taking a chance on me thirty years ago and to Laura Abrams, whose research and guidance is part of this work. I’m also thankful for Dean Gary Segura, Michael Dukakis, Anastasia Loukaitou-Sideris, Ian Holloway, Gerry Lavinia, Susana Bonis, Ann (F-Ann-Tastic) Kim, Jianchao Lai, Monica Macias, and Livier Guttierez. Although Annalisa Enrile teaches at “the other school” (USC), her scholarship and insights have deeply informed efforts to achieve justice and equity for women all over the globe. Along with Marcia Cunha, she’s the best boss lady I know! The amazing Whitney Gouche helped turn this manuscript into a well-organized piece of work.
At UCLA, I also met the man who changed my professional life. Todd Franke is a gifted professor who cares deeply about his students. He is also the most brilliant research methodologist I’ve ever known. I’m so grateful that he took me by the hand almost twenty years ago and taught me more about research and evaluation than I ever could have imagined. I’m grateful every day for the role he continues to play in my life.
My village is also populated by the friends and chosen family that surround and support me, whom I simply could not live without. I am so grateful for the love and wisdom of my Watts family, including my mommy, Betty Day, my forever partner, Elder Michael Cummings, Donny Joubert, Deborah Riddle, Perry Crouch, John King, Kathy Wooten, Amada Valle, and the men and women who participate in the Watts Leadership Institute. My appreciation for and support of the men of Project Fatherhood and the women of Motivated Moms is enduring; their devotion to their families and to Watts is a source of both hope and awe. I’ve also been inspired by a talented collection of individuals who care deeply about the communities of both men and women who live in the shadow of violence and incarceration. With deep respect, I am grateful for Connie Rice, Sandy Jo MacArthur, Emada and Phil Tingirides, Aqeela Sherrills, my wonderful E—Elizabeth Ruebman, David Kennedy, Melvyn Hayward, Aquil Basheer, Ben Owens, Blinky Rodriguez, Robert “Bobby” Arias, Gerald Cavitt, Skipp Townsend, Fernando Rejon, Andre Christian, Reginald Zachery, Jose Rodriguez, Alex Sanchez, my brother Kenny Green, and my daughter forever, Bertha Cordova.
My partner at the UCLA Watts Leadership Institute who also serves as the director of the Social Justice Research Partnership, Karrah Lompa, deserves all the praise I can heap upon her and so much more. Over the years we have worked with a remarkable group of community researchers and scholars, including Susana Bonis, Callie Davidson, Sergio Rizzo-Fontanesi, Crystal Thomas, Adriana Ariza, Samantha McCarthy, Sophia Bilodeau, and Katie Saenz. Stephanie Benson was integral to the work at ANWOL, and her efforts in that endeavor were second to none.
I cannot begin to describe what my friend Carol Biondi means to me. I constantly draw upon her strength and steadfastness; her friendship is a gift I could never have imagined. Bill Resnick and Michael Stubbs have served as thought partners in this endeavor, and their support for formerly and currently incarcerated women is a living example of compassion and philanthropy. In all of this, Alexis Rizutto has answered the phone, helping me as a true friend and sounding board as I thought about what this work should encompass.
My beloved second father, therapist, friend, and mentor, Dr. Joseph Rosner, is ninety-nine years old and warned me that I had to finish this book before he turned one hundred. I needed that “encouragement” just as I drew upon the support of my two brothers and their families: Tony and Margie, and Chris and Kim. My heart belongs to them and to the members of my chosen family whose love and support I treasure every day of my life: Shelly Brooks and Ben Goff, Tina Christie and Michelle Parra, Gerry Chaleff, Joe and Malinda Kibre, Nina Bende, Penny Fuller, Larry Pressman, my GT Marcia Berris, Anne Taylor Fleming, Ann Herold, Julio Marcial, my beloved Greek sister, Sofia Liosis, John and Nicolette Skrumbis Phillipopoulos, Jack Rosner, Heather and Joe Fier, Robert Green, Katie Sparks and David Jackson, Gail Egstrom Clarke, Marcy Jones Erickson, and the incredible Sean Kennedy.
Along with the incomparable and brilliant lawyer Elie Miller, the journalist and scholar Celeste Fremon is my “justice sister.” Her intellect and humor are a constant in my life. Both of these women have sustained me through many struggles.
Like so many other individuals, the global pandemic affected my personal life. I am grateful beyond words for the care and compassion of Dr. Cheryl Charles and Dr. James Caplan. Their efforts reinforce the significance of affordable healthcare for all women, honoring the memory of two women I loved deeply: my Thea Ernie—Virginia Manos Pappas—and the irreplaceable Beatriz Solis.
Finally, there are the two people who are, quite simply, the center of my world. My husband, Mark, and my daughter, Shannon, have given me a dream of life. Together they have taught me the meaning of unconditional love.