At my prison in South Florida, I run one of our three canteens. Canteens are the prison general stores that sell food and other choice items people may need or want. Our three canteens serve 730 women. At mine, I’m responsible for $10,000 worth of inventory at any given moment.

In total, I make $50 per month. This is a big deal in Florida prisons, because we are not guaranteed any pay for our work. According to a report from 2024, Florida is one of seven states that pays no wages for the majority of its prison jobs.

Because of this, you could say it is a privilege to have a paying job like I do. But there is one hitch: I’m paid less than I could be, and I’d like to make the most money possible. According to a statewide change last year, commissary managers like me can make up to $75 per month — $25 more than I make per month right now. 

It is challenging, however, to ask for and secure a raise in prison.

Since I have the privilege of being one of the only paid residents at my prison, it seems audacious to make too much noise inquiring about a pay increase. My job is highly coveted, and I enjoy perks no one else has.

The job 

A typical workday starts around 8:30 a.m., when I enter my air-conditioned store, one of the rare places that is cooled in prison. When I arrive at work, I heat up coffee in the microwave and use a private bathroom. My beverages chill in the cooler all day, until I want one. I’m able to shop at any time with access to exciting foods like Ruffles cheddar and sour cream chips. I also have first dibs on scarce items like makeup and vanilla caramel candy. 

Beyond that, I can’t put a price on being away from my noisy, 50-woman dorm. At the commissary, I have peace and quiet. Meanwhile, all the other workers at my prison labor for free. If they refuse to work, they can be sent to solitary confinement or lose the ability to shorten their prison sentences with good behavior.

Still, my job is demanding. As a store operator, I’m always on call. Even when the store is not open, I must restock items, break down boxes, clean, defrost freezers, complete paperwork and inventory checks, and bundle loose items such as condiments and coffee singles. 

During my work days, there are three windows of time that people can come to shop: in the morning, afternoon and evening. After about 11 hours of work, I close up just before 8 p.m. 

I am seldom able to take a full day away from work. A “day off” for me usually means working three to six hours, instead of 11 hours. Truck deliveries sometimes arrive on my day off, and sometimes I have to work if my boss needs to take monthly inventory. On those days, the store being inventoried is closed for at least two to three hours. That means that I need to open another canteen so that there are at least two stores open.

Another recent rule change has made my job more difficult. Prisoners’ weekly spending limit at the canteens in Florida prisons has increased from $100 to $150. The higher spending limit has resulted in larger truckloads of inventory to unload and put away and more time spent on bundling products. And since people can buy more from the commissary, they spend more time ordering at the counter, and people wait in line longer. This requires longer operating hours.

The risk of asking for a raise

I often work up to 70 hours a week, which means I generally earn only 20 cents per hour.

I have asked my boss for a pay raise and submitted official paper requests to the administration. But I have not received an answer. Perhaps, no one knows how to properly address the situation. 

In my prison, if we file grievances too often, the administration might ship us to a different prison. My former cellmate once filed a grievance because the kitchen staff was not adhering to her pre-dialysis and allergy-related dietary restrictions. After she filed her complaint, this 68-year-old woman with numerous medical issues, was awakened early one morning, given 15 minutes to pack and shipped off to another prison.

I’m currently at Homestead Correctional Institution, about 90 minutes southeast of Miami. This is the only women’s prison in Florida where you have only two people housed in a cell. The prison campus is designed like an apartment complex and features a pond, with wandering ducks and iguanas.

The other women’s prisons have higher security and open-bay dorms with 70 women stuffed inside. I would prefer to stay here if I can. We all dread being transferred from this prison.    

Having a job, making money and paying bills and taxes are expected societal obligations. You would think it a worthy goal — if not the actual point — of rehabilitation. Gaining the ability to sustain employment and live independently could help people never return to prison again. 

If I got this raise, I could make an extra $300 a year — a meaningful amount of money behind bars. With that $300, I could buy extra food or hygiene products. Or send money home to my family or to my son, who is also in prison. 

But to get that raise and extra money, I would have to press the issue with prison staff. I applaud those who boldly take risks and stand up for what is right. By inquiring about a pay raise with the administration, I have already taken a bigger risk than most do. 

So, will I keep my head down and continue to work 11-hour days, six-and-a-half days a week, collecting $50 every month? 

Or will I keep pressing the issue, demanding the extra $25 the state says I could make?

For this not-so-dauntless inmate, I think not.