Recently, I sat on a plastic chair across from Shakir, my teenage son. He had traveled with his older brother from about an hour away to visit me here in Trenton, at New Jersey State Prison. The three of us were discussing the importance of putting knowledge before wisdom when, out of nowhere, Shakir began to cry.
At that moment, my son felt the weight of a cruel fact: He wasn’t able to easily access regular, on-demand guidance from his father. As the son of an incarcerated person, Shakir had to overcome the logistical and bureaucratic hurdles of the visitation process just to have a face-to-face conversation with his father. He seemed to realize he was being deprived of not having this support on a daily basis.
I understood his pain, but I couldn’t give him a hug or a shoulder to cry on — because doing so would have resulted in a terminated visit on the spot.
The New Jersey Department of Corrections inmate handbook claims the department is dedicated to promoting bonds with loved ones. But enforcing a policy that forbids me from comforting my son while tears stream down his face contradicts that claim.
Contact visits for general population are held on weekends. Often, the registration process is so time consuming that visitors wait two hours for a visit that is scheduled to last 90 minutes.
Unfortunately, these visits rarely start on time and often end early. They’re frequently only 70 minutes. Meanwhile, the visitation room is sparse and unwelcoming: no tables, just chairs. No vending machines or designated play area for young children to be children. None of this promotes bonds and family ties.
What does promote bonds and family ties? Conjugal and extended-stay family visits. Historically, the primary benefits of these extended visits were intended for the husband and wife. But they are also tools for children to cultivate relationships with their incarcerated parents.
Imagine a situation where kids can come and stay with their parent for a full day. A child could bring his homework; that way, his father could show interest in his educational development. They could play board games or video games or sports. This type of interaction between parent and child helps solidify bonds that transcend the stigma associated with incarceration.
Conjugal visits and extended family visits help couples maintain emotional and physical bonds, reducing the likelihood that families fall apart during lengthy prison terms.
Plus, it is commonly understood that children who grow up in single-parent households and are subjected to poverty are more likely to end up in prison. By refusing to provide meaningful visitation programs, the New Jersey Department of Corrections is arguably perpetuating the cycle of crime.
What’s good for kids and families is also good for society. Research shows that consistent visitation from loved ones leads to less misconduct in prison. And we also have evidence that strong family support systems during incarceration lowers the chance that people will return to prison.
We also know that prolonged isolation from loved ones can contribute to depression and feelings of hopelessness among incarcerated people. Allowing private, extended family visits can stave off the effects of isolation and substantially improve morale, reduce stress and help incarcerated people maintain a sense of normalcy. For the majority of people in prison who will eventually return to society, that’s extremely important.
If statistics show visitation is good for society, why aren’t more states doing more of it in the form of conjugal or extended-stay family visits?
Conjugal visits are only permitted in California, New York and Washington state. Connecticut also allows extended family visits but requires the presence of a minor child. Two decades ago, extended visits were permitted in 17 states. But a significant shift in correctional philosophy — from a focus on rehabilitation to a more tough-on-crime sensibility — swept away practices that genuinely benefited incarcerated people and their families.
To justify doing away with these programs, departments of correction have cited a whole host of reasons, including the increased security costs and the risk of introducing contraband or spreading sexually transmitted diseases. But states that allow conjugal or extended family stays have implemented various security protocols, as well as rigorous approval procedures, to ensure safe and above-board visits. In 2025, the Washington State Department of Corrections approved over 2,500 extended family visits, according to its website.
What’s more, the United States is a relative outlier when it comes to denying incarcerated people these opportunities for connection. Much of Europe and Latin America permit conjugal visits; so does Saudi Arabia. In 2024, Italy’s Constitutional Court recognized a fundamental right to affection, paving the way for so-called “intimacy rooms” in some of the nation’s correctional facilities.
A person may be serving a sentence, but their children and spouse are serving a different kind of sentence: that of separation. Allowing periodic private family visits and conjugal visits decreases the impact of that harsh reality.
“The state sentenced me to prison, not my wife, not my children,” said Keshawn McNeil, a devoted Muslim who has been incarcerated for 19 years. “My marriage shouldn’t have to suffer.”
Richard Toledo, a representative from our prison wing, asked a major here why conjugal and extended family visits weren’t allowed. He said the major responded: “It will never happen because we don’t have the space, security or staff to conduct those type of visits.”
Most states that provide such visits have erected self-contained structures like mobile home trailers or small apartment-style units on prison grounds. They are not fancy. Typically outfitted with a bed, a kitchenette and maybe a TV, they provide the bare minimum of comfort for a couple or family to enjoy each other’s company. Surely New Jersey State Prison could find the space — perhaps even off prison grounds — for a modest structure that allows families a brief but meaningful respite from the disconnection of incarceration.
Sha-Day, my youngest child, was born six months after I was incarcerated. Now she’s 17 and loves to cook. On the phone recently, she told me about the falafels she makes. If this prison allowed extended family visits, we could finally share our first meal together.
