Recently, prison officials let me go from one of the best jobs here in New Jersey’s South Woods State Prison. 

I had worked in the extended care unit, where incarcerated people with specific needs related to terminal diseases and chronic illnesses are housed. That included conditions like lost limbs, diabetes, cancer. Being around all of that suffering could be spiritually and psychologically taxing. But it was at this job where I felt most alive. 

I had been on the third shift, from 7:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m., seven days a week. Most patients needed help with basic tasks. I had worked as an assistant alongside the nurses and nurse technicians who issued medications and changed adult diapers. The nurses taught me how to care for people. 

When I wasn’t helping them, I did janitorial work, including waxing and buffing floors. I’d throw on my headphones and turn on my “buffing” playlist and dance as I buffed. Despite the chemical odors from the cleaner, there was a serenity to it. I liked knowing that, afterward, people would appreciate the way the floor shone like glass. 

The work had been never-ending because people scratched up the floor daily. Medical staff would tease me for having to buff the same spot all week. It became our running joke. This was what I liked best. I didn’t feel like other employees saw me as just a prisoner. Working that job, I felt like a human being.

Other jobs in prison

I’ve had numerous jobs over the last 25 years in the New Jersey prison system. Some have been frustrating — like when I made 58 cents an hour sewing uniforms for New Jersey’s Deptcor Industries. There, I was not allowed to talk to the person next to me. And for the same wage, I also designed signs as a graphic artist. Frustratingly, these designs were sold to clients at market rates. 

But I’ve been fortunate enough to land some good ones too. My job as a teacher’s aide in the GED program at New Jersey State Prison in Trenton was especially rewarding. For over a decade, I made $4 a day helping teach history, science and computer literacy to incarcerated students of all ages. While the role was described as a teacher’s aide, the civilian teachers mostly sat back and let the incarcerated aides do the bulk of the teaching.

And so the most fulfilling jobs were those in which the majority of my interactions were with civilians rather than officers. With corrections staff, I felt like I was condemned to live as an animal. But working hand in hand and laughing with civilian teachers, doctors, nurses and psychiatrists made me feel like a regular person. In those situations, I learned how to interact socially.

That’s why these types of jobs better support reentry into society. More than a paycheck, that kind of work gave me a sense of fulfillment and humanity. That’s what I miss the most from the job at the extended care unit.

The jobs that allow civilian interactions have highly specific criteria. To work in the ECU, for example, an applicant cannot have any drug convictions, sexual crimes, arsons or attempted escapes on file. In my estimation, that eliminates the majority of the population at South Woods, one of New Jersey’s largest prisons. For some people, working around medications, valuable supplies and nurses can prove too much of a temptation. Based on what I have observed, it seems like most people don’t last six months on the job.

Choosing humanity over a paycheck

During my time at the ECU, three people I knew from other prisons died — including someone I grew up with. This was during the height of the pandemic. At the time, there were no palliative care workers available. That meant I was the one to sit with those who were ill and make sure they weren’t alone as they passed.

The nurses were taken aback when they learned I only made $3.10 a day for this work — and that it was at the top of the wage scale. Usually they, and a small number of officers, came to appreciate our work and assistance. Some nurses even told me I was so good at my job that I should get into the health care industry. While that may not be in the cards for someone incarcerated for homicide, I appreciated the sentiment. 

In the end, keeping my job was out of my control, like everything in prison.

After two years, workers at the ECU were accused of bringing the drug K2 into the prison. This was not true, but it didn’t matter. In response to the allegations, the administration moved all of the workers to another part of the prison to try and pinpoint the source of the drugs. 

I now had a difficult choice to make. At the time, I was enrolled in a college program that required me to live in specific housing. I had already earned my associate degree while working in the ECU. I was now working on my bachelor’s. I could move and keep my job, or stay and drop out of college. In the end, I refused to miss my opportunity to get a degree from Rutgers University, which ran the prison education program. 

A week after I was fired, they moved everyone back. 

I’m working a new job now, still stripping, waxing and buffing floors. But in this role I’m only making $1.40 a day. I miss my old coworkers. My job at the ECU still hasn’t been filled and the staff have begged me to return. 

But I can’t bring myself to go back somewhere where I could risk being let go for arbitrary reasons. To the administration, it seems that all jobs are a privilege that can be taken away at any moment. They claim to care about reentry, but I lost a meaningful job interacting with members of society — one I worked hard at — because I wouldn’t sacrifice my education.

The author has since been reinstated to his prior job in his prison’s extended care unit at his original pay rate of $3.10 per day.