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Imagine working full time for 32 years and having nothing to show for it. For more than three decades, I put in my eight hours per day but couldn’t buy birthday presents for my kids. I could barely afford soap, let alone save money for the future. Why would I work for 25 cents per hour? Because, in Minnesota, I was a slave.
A headline for a recent Karen Tolkkinen column asks: “Minnesota’s Constitution allows $1-an-hour labor for inmates. Should it?” While Tolkkinen raises the right issue, she fails to understand the scope and severity of the injustice that continues to stand because slavery is legal.
Let’s be clear: The affordable-housing program Tolkkinen showcases is not representative of most prison jobs. Only a small portion of the prison population gets paid $1 per hour. Everyone else makes far less. And, at the end of the day, you don’t even get that. Even if you’re earning 25 cents per hour, half of your paycheck is skimmed off by the state for fees and restitution — but they still turn around and charge you for everyday items at inflated prices.
Tolkkinen argues that prisoners benefit from on-the-job education, developing skills and learning trades we can leverage later. While I was inside, I was lucky and got certified as a welder (a program that no longer exists). But while my labor profited others, I haven’t reaped the benefits myself: I’ve been out 14 months and haven’t been able to get a job in the field. To assume the companies that profit from our prison labor will be the first to hire us on the outside is simply not true.
Still, we must work because of a policy called No Work, No Play — if you don’t have a job, you don’t leave your cell. And nearly all prison jobs profit private companies or pad the budget of the Department of Corrections; they don’t provide skills. Instead of perpetuating the billion-dollar corrections machine, taxpayers should demand incarcerated people get minimum wage and real jobs so we can be set up for success once we’re out.
After working for 32 years I left prison with $500 — money I’d paid for from my paychecks. When I came home, I had a strained relationship with my children because I hadn’t been able to provide for them when they were kids. I was fortunate to have a wider support system to tap into, but many people don’t. Many people can’t find a job or a place to stay, and once their $500 runs out they’re out on the street, hustling to survive in ways that get them locked up again.