At every Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) prison I’ve ever landed in without a work detail already assigned to me, during classification I’m asked the same question: Kitchen or Industry?
If you’re new you’re getting assigned to one or the other, no matter your skills or experience, because both of them suck. If you’ve gotten yourself onto some other work detail, the threat is always that if you mess up you’re headed back to Kitchen or Industry. The former refers to GDC chow hall, but the latter is Georgia Correctional Industries (GCI)—a separate entity.
Most United States prison labor is some type of maintenance work that keeps the prison running, whether Kitchen or elsewhere on the compound. But every US prison system also has its own correctional industry—convoluted public-private partnerships that allow state agencies to produce goods and services using prison labor, a practice otherwise prohibited by law. The premise is that no individual person is profiting, and we’re getting valuable on-the-job (OJT) training to prepare us to join the outside labor force, should we get released.
Once you’ve logged, say, 900 hours operating a sewing machine, you get an OJT certificate and become eligible for Performance Incentive Credits that in theory go toward your parole. But in my 30-plus years of incarceration, the OJT has never really been logical. GDC did not respond to Filter’s inquiry. GCI told Filter that all media inquiries should be directed to GDC.
“GDC and GCI have developed an in-house definition for OJT, and do not currently use the parameters set forth in the US Department of Labor’s definition,” reads a Department of Education report from 1995. “GDC and GCI use the designation mainly to differentiate between classroom instruction and non-classroom instruction. Therefore, the majority of the OJT opportunities in the adult corrections system do not meet federal OJT guidelines. A more suitable descriptive term for what Georgia inmates receive might be ‘learning in the work environment by performing the job.'”
Filter spoke with seven other people currently incarcerated in GDC prisons about GCI jobs they’ve worked at within the past five years. The consensus is that these provide OJT applicable for anyone preparing to work at a sweatshop. Put another way, the only thing they prepare you for is to come back to prison and do the same jobs again.
In the poorly insulated textile plants at three GDC prisons—Central, Hancock and Washington—row upon row of mostly antique sewing machines are driven by electric motors that provide a hint of warmth in winter, and far too much in summer. A great deal of lint floats off of fabric that’s been treated with formaldehyde to prevent insect infestation. Long-term exposure to airborne textile lint has been conclusively linked to “brown lung” disease, but unlike free-world workers we must be immune because we’re not even tested for it.
The ventilation system to remove the lint consists of fresh air intake vents at the supervisor end of the building, and exhaust fans on the opposite walls. So the cloud is thinned, but never cleared. If the bosses get cold and turn the fans off, each work station swirls in a cone of thick fibrous dust. Dust masks, when in stock, must be requested from the officer’s station.
Ventilation is similar at the Autry State Prison shoe plant, where a 20-foot tall mixing mill converts dry powders and petroleum oils into synthetic rubber. Adding to the misery is a long row of vulcanizers in which the freshly produced blocks of “rubber” are melted into soles of different sizes. The machine for tennis shoes has a history of nipping off pinky fingers at the first joint. In the free world you could probably get a $10,000 personal injury settlement check by the time the ambulance pulls up to the emergency room, but here you might get a couple of weeks off work or a change in job assignment. The OJT might be useful for anyone moving to Asia, where 98 percent of US footwear is produced, but it’s difficult to do that with a felony record.
At the massive Rogers State Prison farm, prisoners raise cattle that GCI proudly advertise as ”100% beef with 85% meat and 15% fat. No fillers.” Sold for $3.60 per pound to kitchens in the governor’s mansion, state universities, State Patrol barracks, break rooms in the State Capitol building, and pretty much any state-run cafeteria except prison chow halls. GCI farm workers may be hungry, but have the opportunity for valuable OJT if upon release they’re hoping to get hired as a cowboy.
Many “seasonally available farm fresh fruits and vegetables” sold across Georgia at $0.31 per pound are also produced through GCI labor. Baking under the sun as you labor over rows of beans, peas and turnip greens stretched far into the horizon would maybe constitute OJT for transient jobs as a seasonal migrant worker, which is the kind of thing generally frowned upon by parole officers.
At the Valdosta State Prison chemical plant, once a small shop that just pressed bars of soap, GCI now has prisoners manufacturing bleach, scouring powder, disinfectant and a methanol-based window cleaner.
Inside the un-airconditioned sheet-metal structure is a constant fog of particle dust as various powdered chemicals are stirred in the ancient two-story plywood mixer. A pinkish rash is common among those assigned to the nearby warehouse. Anyone assigned to closer proximity is often a brighter shade of red, on any patches of skin not covered by clothing. There’s a box of masks at the entrance, but between the heat and the fact that all communication has to be yelled over manufacturing commotion, few people bother to wear them.
Bar soap is still churned out, on a soap press that can only be activated by pushing two palm-sized buttons simultaneously. The buttons are about three feet apart from each other, on opposite sides of the press mold, and it’s forbidden for more than one prisoner to stand in that spot at one time. A plant manager once said this was because prisoners had been cutting off fingers and suing the state. The implication was that people were losing fingers intentionally, though accidents are of course possible too. Either way, you’ll often find two people there working the mold since that works better for everyone; workers can kick back once quotas are reached, and no one’s getting sued if we cut off each other’s fingers while operating the machine improperly. No reason to slow down production. This is training us for something marketable, I’m sure.
“Special projects,” as plant supervisors call them, are the carrot dangled in front of everyone not getting paid.
A subset of correctional industry work called the Prison Industry Enhancement Certification Program allows prisoners to get paid minimum wage for their work. On paper, at least.
For starters, anything that can be labeled “Educational” on our OJT certificates means we didn’t have to be paid. And though 11 GCI plants are PIECP-approved, out of a nearly 50,000-person system there are about 250 people each year who get PIECP money.
For example, the Walker State Prison metal plant has close to 200 GCI workers; maybe four of them are getting wages through PIECP. The Hancock State Prison embroidery plant uses 100-plus prisoners to make the state-issue pants and coats we wear, but at one end is also a closed-off four-person sewing shop. Last time I was there they were making security patches for the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics.
These non-state jobs, or “special projects” as plant supervisors call them, are completed by small crews of experienced prisoners who do all the special projects at their plant. This is the carrot dangled in front of everyone else. Follow their path and you, too, will be able to afford commissary.
Minimum wage in Georgia is $5.15 an hour, so it’s superseded by federal minimum wage at $7.25 an hour. In addition to paying local, state and federal taxes, PIECP jobs require us to voluntarily sign over 20 percent of our wages to GDC; 10 percent to the Georgia Crime Victims Emergency Fund; 10 percent to any court-ordered financial obligations; and 20 percent into a savings account that can’t be accessed until release (lifers can jump through extra hoops to try to get access, if so inclined). If you owe child support then the remainder goes toward that, but if not then you may use it to buy food and toiletries.
Images (cropped) via Georgia Department of Corrections/YouTube
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