This story is part of Locked Out, a special series from PJP about voting, politics and democracy behind bars. Click here to read more.

There’s an open secret in my family. Everybody whispers about it, but no one talks about it. 

It’s about my family’s history of intergenerational incarceration.

With help from some reluctant family members, I wrote down a list of names and their relation to me. I researched who I could, tried to remember the length of this cousin’s bid and that cousin’s stint in jail. 

We counted 43 relatives in total. But then I learned there were likely more: distant family members whose names have been passed down in hushed voices but whose stories have been largely forgotten. I estimate that my relatives collectively have spent over 200 years in some form of confinement. 

I knew the number was big, but I did not know the number was this big, not until I started reporting this story and actually talking to my family about this legacy.  

I am a lecturer in sociology at Ohio State University, and I teach inside prisons, so I speak often about the impact of mass incarceration on my family.

My family’s story is one of substance abuse and petty larceny, of interpersonal violence and state violence, of shame and stigma and an unrelenting desire to turn the page. 

Some of my relatives who spent time in juvenile detention, jail or prison have died. Some are still incarcerated. For those who have been released, the taint of conviction has hurt their ability to find work and housing. 

On top of that, felony disenfranchisement laws, which prevent people with felony convictions from being able to vote, exclude millions of people from participating in our democracy. 

To many in my family, that has contributed to a sense that their voice does not matter. In this way, incarceration has extinguished any sense they may have had of civic responsibility, and any faith that it would make a difference.  

Ahead of the November presidential election, I have been thinking about my family’s legacy of incarceration and its impact on their relationship to politics. In particular, I think about my aunt and uncle and their three sons, who have all spent time in Louisiana prisons for felony convictions, barring them from voting.

To talk about this, I got in touch by phone with one of my uncle’s sons, my cousin, a 44-year-old living in Louisiana. His story is his own, but its contours will be recognizable to many of my loved ones who have served time — and scores of other Americans who have been ensnared in the nation’s prison system. 

Below, I have reconstructed his remarks from a series of conversations, which he reviewed for accuracy and that have been edited for length and clarity. For privacy reasons, my cousin asked to remain anonymous.

I went to prison on a four-year sentence for possession of drug paraphernalia and violating several terms of my probation. I just got caught up, you know?  

My childhood growing up in poverty was chaotic. For Christmas, I always remembered thinking that Santa would never come to our house because we seldom had any gifts on Christmas Day. 

My mom and dad were always either on drugs or intoxicated — to the point that the smell of alcohol became normal to me. The cops were always at my house for my parents yelling and stuff, and I have some memories of the cops coming over and taking my dad away for putting his hands on Mom. There was sexual abuse as well, but I will just leave it at that.

During my incarceration, which lasted from 2008 to 2012, [Barack] Obama was running. It would have meant everything to be able to have a hand in voting for the first African American president. My father was also incarcerated during that time, so he couldn’t participate either. 

Ironically, another relative in our family has run for district judge on two occasions. Both times that he ran, myself, my father and my brothers were all either incarcerated or on probation. That stung. We couldn’t even vote for our own family member. 

My father never really said anything to me about not being able to vote. He had been in and out of the justice system for so long, I guess he had just resigned himself to the fact he would never be able to vote.

Years later, after my release and following a period of probation, I was once again eligible to vote. It was the 2012 election, when Obama was running for reelection. By this time, however, I was facing challenges with housing and employment due to my felony conviction. I was also trying to reestablish a relationship with my three kids. Voting was not a top priority. 

Following the 2012 election, I lost touch with politics completely and really started to feel that my voice no longer mattered. Since then, both my parents and brother have died, and my baby brother is currently locked up. I am still dealing with them being gone. 

Having not been eligible to vote while incarcerated, what difference would it make to vote now, anyway? It just doesn’t matter to me anymore. Voting won’t change my current situation. It doesn’t change my criminal record. And it doesn’t change the fact that I, my two younger brothers and my father forever have to carry the “felon” label.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that deciding not to vote is a good thing. I just don’t trust that it would help me with what I need. The election is in November, right? Well, I am struggling to find a job right now. My bills are due now. I am behind on child support now. My electricity bill does not care whether I vote or not; it must be paid now to keep the lights on. 

I guess what I am saying is that I am just trying to survive right now, and voting can’t help me with that at this moment.

What complicates this even more is [Donald] Trump being able to run for president again. For years I have been out here struggling to find employment and housing because of my felonies. My life before incarceration was hard, but prison took everything from me. Now, everywhere I go, I am defined by my criminal record, which makes life even harder, especially with finding work. 

Because I have a felony, I was recently turned down for a job within the construction field. I was told it was company policy that they could not hire anybody with a felony. It didn’t matter that [mine] was a nonviolent charge. It was a simple, “We can’t hire you.” And yet Trump can be convicted of multiple felonies and still run for president? Can someone explain that to me? 

Like I said, I have three kids of my own. Adam is 22 and Olivia is 19; both are in college. Meanwhile, Trenton is 16 and still in high school. Ever since I was locked up, our relationship has changed, so we don’t speak much. Even so, I don’t want to pass my negative mindset on voting to them. But what do I tell them? 

The fact that we have almost 50 family members that have done time is mind-blowing. I really don’t know what to say about that. I have my own issues with finding work. I can’t even imagine how everybody else is managing their lives. 

To tell you the truth, sometimes I feel like I was let out of prison with my cuffs and shackles on. I’m not making any excuses for the way I grew up, the way many of us grew up. But incarceration took away my family’s voice. It destroyed our relationship to politics and voting in this country. We are not patriots.