In 2023, for the first time in almost thirty years, the government restored Pell Grant eligibility to those of us who are incarcerated. What this means, theoretically, is that incarceration in no longer a barrier to an applicant’s Pell approval, opening the door to incarcerated people—who are by definition low income—being able to receive federal aid for college tuition. In actuality, however, there are still many barriers standing between incarcerated individuals and college enrollment.
Where do these obstacles come from? The answer is complex. I know the barriers all too well; I’ve faced many since starting my studies while incarcerated. I studied for associate’s degrees in business administration and arts through Jackson College’s program from 2020 to 2023. Then I transferred to a bachelor’s program facilitated by Eastern Michigan University’s College in Prison (CiP) program that began in the fall of 2023 and that I’m still enrolled in.
I’m incarcerated in Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility (WHV), the only women’s state prison in Michigan. With regard to education, that’s actually fortunate. In many other facilities, prospective incarcerated students have to overcome the obstacle of ensuring their facility has a partnership with an outside college. This may mean having to try to be transferred to an entirely new facility, just to participate. At WHV, meanwhile, my program is one of two CiP programs offered to the 1,800 women here. Enrollment in these programs is quite low, though. While there are the two CiP programs, as well as a vocational training program, as options for pursuing higher education here at WHV, only around 5–6 percent of the population is enrolled in an associate’s degree program, with another 1–2 percent currently participating in the bachelor’s program. (For context about the dismal state of education in U.S. prisons, though, I will add that even with those small numbers, our bachelor’s program is still one of largest in the nation for incarcerated women.)
Are these minimal enrollment numbers due to a lack of effort by incarcerated students? Hardly. That would require more people even knowing how to navigate the process of becoming an incarcerated student. CiP opportunities aren’t widely known because the facility keeps a stranglehold on the expansion or promotion of these programs. So while theoretically people at WHV know that there are college programs here, in reality the admissions process is a mystery to most.
Here, it’s important to consider the culture of corrections as big business. One factor is that Pell Grant funds aren’t funneled through the institutions but instead are handled through the administering college’s financial aid departments. This means the prison doesn’t get to take a cut. With no skin in the game, they lack an incentive to assist in facilitating these programs. Universities are left to overcome ever-increasing barriers to inform the populations of the benefits of college.
Even if you are one of the few who knows about these programs, getting cleared to attend is another struggle entirely. An individual’s history of tickets and general behavior determines the amount of attention paid to their application. If you weren’t already regretting whatever embarrassing behavior you may have shown while adjusting to prison, here’s where it comes back to haunt you—and possibly exclude you from the opportunity to participate in something that will greatly benefit your entire life.
If chosen to be one of the few who are enrolled, clear conduct must be maintained throughout the entirety of participation. If an incarcerated student gets a misconduct, they are dismissed from the program for a minimum of six months, and must go through an entire process to reenroll. In essence, this puts a target on enrolled incarcerated students and can position them unfairly in many situations, with so much to lose. If I get a speeding ticket outside, I don’t lose my access to college for six months. Unfortunately, inside students constantly have to withstand the added pressure that comes with wanting more.
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It’s not just the students who feel the weight of these rules. The professors who come in to teach us face their own set of obstacles. Before professors are even allowed to enter WHV to teach, they must go through an approximately nine-hour training and orientation, the focus of which is to perpetuate stereotypes and give an unrealistic view of the people they’re about to interact with. Even after that, they are given only the most limited access to incarcerated students. They’re often left waiting to be admitted to the facility well after the scheduled class times, then forced to wait until all other professors are finished before being escorted to leave.
Very few accommodations are granted to incarcerated students either. Frequently, women must choose between being on time to class or getting to eat dinner. This could easily be resolved by calling the education unit to dinner earlier each day, but that would require the facility wanting to do so. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stood outside the school building in the sweltering heat with my stomach growling because I had skipped dinner in an effort to make it on time to my 5:30 p.m. class—only to glance down at my watch as the time ticks to 6:00, 6:15, sometimes even 6:30 before the professors are escorted into their classes.
But the prison loves to keep us all guessing. Each time I’ve risked dashing to the dining hall to grab dinner beforehand, I’ve found myself interrupting class as I slide into my seat at 5:45 p.m.
Dinner at the chow hall is hardly gourmet, so it might not seem like much to give up in exchange for gaining an education. The reality for many incarcerated individuals, however, is that that meal is the only dinner option. Missing it really means going without dinner altogether. If I’m taking a full course load, I have to miss dinner four nights a week for the sixteen weeks of the semester to get to class on time. It adds up, either in nutrients lost or extra money spent purchasing food from the commissary to replace lost meals.
Now, let’s say you bite the bullet and enroll anyway. Even when you manage to make it to class, the challenges don’t stop there. We have little to no access to technology, which means doing the work the old-school way, painstakingly writing everything by hand. The result is that we all dedicate extensive time to school—even more than our peers on the outside. Combine that with the constant behavior surveillance and the involuntary hunger strike required if you want to be on time to class, and it may not seem like a very appealing program.
Despite these challenges, there are many incarcerated people who would love to attend these programs. Some of those potential students, at least here at WHV, are prevented due to “lack of space.” The number of individuals approved to enroll is determined by the number of classrooms allocated for each program, not by demand or interest in education. Only one building is designated for the entire prison’s CiP programs to take place in, and there only from 5:30–8:10 p.m., Monday through Friday, and 12:30–3:10 p.m. on Saturdays. There are ten classrooms inside this building, but never in my four years of college here have I witnessed more than six rooms being used simultaneously. Additionally, the number of students per class is kept at sixteen students, citing pandemic guidelines as the reasoning.
Even when we calculate the numbers for these designated spaces, classroom availability, and enrollment caps, things don’t add up. We technically have 960 slots each week for students to fill: 16 students multiplied by the 10 available classrooms equals 160; multiply that by the 6 time slots and you get the 960 open slots. The Pell Grant used to require that students take a minimum of 2 classes each semester (classified as half-time enrollment); that is no longer necessarily the case, but if we went by that minimum we’d have space for 480 students. If we had students who each took 3 courses at a time, that’s still space for 320 students. Full-time students, carrying four classes each semester, would cap the attendance at 240, but it would allow for much faster program completion and open up space for new students more quickly. At WHV, we have fewer than 200 incarcerated students, 40 of whom are enrolled in the BA program. Less than 25 percent of these incarcerated students are taking a full-time course load; the majority take 2–3 classes; some even take just a single course at a time. Meanwhile, the waiting list for CiP programs numbers in the hundreds and continues to grow.
It’s frustrating to see so many people eager to learn, only to be turned away because of arbitrary limits on space. Even more so because, when you zoom out, it becomes clear that these barriers aren’t just about logistics—they’re part of upholding a system that profits from keeping people locked up, not lifting them up. Prison administrators see rehabilitative programs as catastrophic to the continued success of prison as a business. The U.S. prison–industrial complex has created a sector that is reported to cost $182 billion each year to run, with about 4,000 companies deriving profits from mass incarceration. Nationwide, more than 350,000 people are employed as corrections officers—and that’s just one of the many employment opportunities the carceral system creates. Maintaining these numbers is entirely dependent on the continued growth of the prisoner population, making rehabilitative programming their natural enemy.
The institutional failings of the prison certainly pose the highest barrier to accessing education, but inside these walls, the day-to-day challenges of living alongside others can make pursuing an education even harder. I’m currently four credit hours from completing my BA and have a 4.0 GPA since I transferred to the bachelor’s program. But early in my program, we had no control over the conditions of our daily environment, and I often dealt with inconsiderate cellmates whose actions put my education in the balance. Once, I failed a class because my living situation made it impossible to focus. Another time, staff found hooch in a common area and I got written up for a major misconduct because of suspicion around my cellie, forcing me to take a full semester off of school. Some of those challenges, at least, have been lessened; for the past two years, college students have been housed in an education unit. I’m grateful for that change. At least I can do my studies without being caught in the crosshairs of others’ choices.
Of course, further issues persist. Like I said, I’ve missed meals and stood outside in every type of weather, waiting for staff to unlock the school building. Some of these problems have simple solutions: Why can’t they feed us dinner earlier, consistently, and then open the door at 5:30? There are so many small ways to make college in prison a more attractive option for people, so many opportunities for incarcerated individuals to thrive through education. The success rates would skyrocket.
Despite the obstacles, I’ve seen firsthand how transformative these programs can be—not just for me, but for the women around me. If we can just break down a few more barriers, I know these programs could change even more lives. As I get close to finishing my degree, I can’t help but think about how far I’ve come—and how far we still have to go. The money is there, the desire is there, and the potential is undeniable. All that’s left is to tear down the walls standing in our way. In the meantime, I’ll keep wearing layers and stocking up on rice and beans.
Image: Homo studio / Unsplash