By Rev. Jamesina E. Greene
When we talk about prison systems, the conversation often turns to correctional officers, administrators and budgets. But what remains invisible—and too often unacknowledged—are the caregivers who actually keep prisons functioning: the incarcerated themselves.
My son, Byron, is serving time in Maryland. Like so many others, he has become a lifeline to those around him. Recently, he was tasked with caring for a fellow incarcerated man who could not care for himself. Byron lifted him to the toilet, made sure he ate, wheeled him to medical for his medication and ensured he had the dignity of being seen as human. None of this was provided by staff. It was one incarcerated man caring for another.
And this is not an isolated incident. Inside, men and women mentor each other, give legal advice, share food and commissary funds and lift each other’s spirits when despair creeps in. They carry one another through grief, through sickness and through unbearable conditions like excessive lockdowns and extreme heat.
This quiet network of care is not in any Department of Corrections report. It does not get funding. It is not measured in annual reviews. But without it, the prison system would collapse under the weight of its own neglect.
If society is willing to admit this truth, then the question must follow: Why do we continue to dehumanize those who are already carrying one another in the hardest of places? Why do we ignore the fact that incarcerated people are functioning as nurses, chaplains, social workers and brothers without recognition, support or protection? Instead of acknowledging this humanity, incarcerated men and women like my son are stuck in a constant cycle of lockdowns and are left to suffer the effects of sweltering heat in prisons without ventilation and air conditioning.
If we acknowledge that incarcerated people are already functioning as caregivers, then we must take the next step: put policies in place that recognize, support and protect this hidden labor. States like Maryland should create peer caregiver training and certification programs, mandate real healthcare staffing and require transparency about who is actually providing care inside. Until we face this truth, we will continue to exploit compassion without accountability.
My son is living proof that even behind bars, love and compassion survive. It is time for policymakers to act, because the humanity of our loved ones behind bars depends on it. It is time that our prisons actually serve as a place of authentic rehabilitation, not constant punishment and harsh conditions.
This is the statement that I am sending to lawmakers: “I urge you to consider legislation, such as a Prison Care Standards Act for Maryland, that would mandate adequate healthcare staffing, recognize and support peer caregivers, and require transparency about how care is actually being provided inside our state prisons.”
The opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the writer and not necessarily those of the AFRO.