As the cell doors opened at about noon on Thursday, February 22, 2024, the women of the Earned Housing Unit (EHU) at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility were called into the bay room for a mandatory meeting with Superintendent Eileen Gonzalez-Russell. Once everyone was gathered, the Superintendent told us that the EHU would cease to exist at the end of the meeting, and we were deemed general population effective immediately. The news hit us hard. Every one of us had spent years striving to earn a spot on this unit, which allows incarcerated individuals extra privileges and a quieter, cleaner, more pleasant community living situation. Now everything we had worked for was being taken away—with no notice, and no reason beyond “we need the space.”
The “facility need” for extra space was said as if the facility were overcrowded and that the EHU had the only available rooms. However, this is not true and there was a clear undercurrent that spoke of punishment for interpersonal conflicts and complaints on the unit in the last six months by a handful of problematic individuals who refused to follow the proper chain of command to resolve disputes. “Now that you don’t have to worry about tickets getting you moved off the unit, do what you gotta do,” added the Superintendent.
The following night, I sat with a fellow EHU resident as she broke down crying. Up until now, the EHU was a palpable representation of the woman she had struggled to become, and an opportunity that helped her start learning how to integrate back into the community at large upon release. But within one day of the announcement, the unit had turned toxic with catty arguments and confrontations. And now, she could not help but wonder if the administration cared about the journey she walked, or how it felt to be treated as if your rehabilitation is worthless.
In January 2024, Daniel F. Martuscello III, acting commissioner of the Department of Corrections and Community Supervision, released a statewide memorandum announcing a “Season of Nonviolence.” The email, sent to every incarcerated individual in the New York State prison system, explained that the “Season of Nonviolence” — which marks the 64 days between the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi—was the perfect opportunity for I/Is to find compassion for each other and foster internal growth. So when the executive administration at Bedford Hills announced less than a month later that they considered everything we as Bedford Hills EHU residents have worked for was worthless, my heart broke. I could not fathom how Superintendent Russell could shut down the EHU without a memo or written notice from Commissioner Martuscello. Programs such as the EHU and initiatives such as the “Season of Nonviolence” give I/Is an opportunity for growth and change, and the wanton removal of these programs is counterintuitive and a direct contradiction of the department’s mandate for rehabilitation. In fact, several of Russell’s own rank-and-file security staff, including a lieutenant, said they do not support the closure of the EHU and have called for her to reverse course.
Rebecca Solnit wrote an article titled “Why Did We Stop Believing That People Can Change?” in the New York Times, which argues that we must believe in and support each other, because “we are all being carried along on a river of change.” I cannot help but feel as though the “river of change” has not only dried up at Bedford Hills, but that the drought is due to a dam built by the administration with the intent of blocking those of us incarcerated here from the waters of our wholehearted efforts to change.
The question that remains is if the administration is willing to join us in a season of growth. The women in Superintendent Russell’s custody must be seen as human beings deserving of a better lot in life. The Bedford Hills EHU, as well as every other rehabilitative program, should be supported without question. I am calling on the New York State Department of Corrections to be willing, as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. so saliently put it on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 28, 1963, to judge those in their custody both at Bedford Hills and beyond by “the content of their character” — rather than judging and condemning us based on the label of a throwaway convict not deserving of hope. There may be “no honor amongst thieves,” but in the end, honor comes from respect, and respect should be taught with the heart rather than the rod.
Sara Kielly is an investigative journalist, poet, and jailhouse lawyer whose work has appeared in Slate, Spotlong Review, the New York Daily News, National Lawyers Guild newsletter, Guild Notes, and she has regularly contributed to the Sylvia Rivera Law Project publication, In Solidarity.