As a transgender woman incarcerated in a men’s prison system, each day was a fight to maintain my sense of personhood. At times contraband drugs helped me to cope. But the lifeline that saw me through was a different contraband item, one even more villainized by the Georgia Department of Corrections and by corrections departments across the country: a cell phone.
“A contraband cell phone in the hands of an inmate can be used as a deadly weapon and gives them the ability to continue their criminal enterprise. We are incensed by the length these individuals go to in continuing those activities and endangering the public,” GDC Commissioner Tyrone Oliver stated in June. “As attempts to infiltrate our facilities with contraband cell phones evolve, access to jamming technology is paramount.”
Cell phone signal jammers are prohibited by federal law, and for the moment at least it appears they’ll stay that way. But the more Georgia Attorney General Chris Carr and other AGs across the country continue to push for legislation to authorize the technology as a contraband-fighting measure, the more phones are scapegoated for systemic problems.
Cell phones represent lost revenue for private contractors that profit off incarcerated people and their loved ones. Meanwhile, rising prison violence is being blamed on the influx of contraband drugs, and that influx is blamed on contraband phones. While the prison tobacco market is associated with frequent violence, recent increases owe largely to understaffing—reducing those harms could be accomplished by anything from calling in the state National Guard to selling vapes at commissary, but not cracking down on phones.
So far in 2024, GDC has reportedly confiscated around 150 cell phones from staff and visitors attempting to smuggle them in, and more than 10,000 phones from people in custody. The Bureau of Prisons is authorized to use signal jammers at federal facilities, but appears not to actually do so. Some have K-9 units trained to sniff out cell phones.
Cell phones are everywhere in GDC, but that doesn’t mean people can pull them out in the presence of officers—who may charge them a hefty finder’s fee to buy the phone back. A few carefully chosen staff members can be trusted here and there, but the ever-looming threat of getting caught remains stressful.
Even without additional punishment, the prospect of having to replace a confiscated phone is its own stress. Depending on supply, and of course on the make and model of the individual phone, they sell for anywhere from $300 to $1,000; at various other prisons around the country they might sell for several thousand dollars.
I knew the risks. In Georgia, having a contraband cell phone is punishable by up to five more years in prison. I knew more than one person who was prosecuted, went to court and ultimately served additional time. I’d have about a two-hour window each weekday evening, and most of the day on the weekends. I’d have to carefully schedule every minute, even to just connect with friends.
I had around four contraband phones over the span of a decade or so, prior to paroling out in 2023. Without them, I’m certain I would be in prison right now.
Using a contraband cell phone, I earned a doctorate. The phone became my portal to scholarship applications, crowdfunding and ultimately a doctorate in theological studies from an online university. Achieving academic milestones that once seemed out of reach filled me with a profound sense of accomplishment that even rubbed off on some of my peers.
I learned Spanish. Speaking a second language seemed like a practical goal for me when I re-entered society, especially since I knew I’d have to register as a sex offender and my employment options would be severely restricted. I downloaded multiple language-learning apps and used them to make flashcards that my peers could help me study with during the day. In the evenings when it was safe to take out the phone again, I’d chat with people in predominantly Spanish-speaking countries by appointment and practice my conversational skills in real time. Each new word and phrase mastered was a small victory. The moment I realized I could hold a basic conversation in Spanish was a powerful affirmation of my efforts toward a better life.
I became a freelance journalist. I wrote under a pseudonym and was careful to only accept deadlines I’d be able to meet during my limited hours. Writing offered me a safe space to express my emotions and make sense of my experiences, in arenas where my voice was respected. Writing also became my primary source of income. The fact that I had a growing nest egg gave me hope that I’d survive re-entry when the time came.
As the COVID-19 pandemic deepened, judges seem much less interested in prosecuting people over contraband phones. But by then I had parole on the horizon, and getting caught could absolutely jeopardize that. It was during my final months in prison, however, that a contraband phone was vital as never before.
In 2023, my freedom within reach, I had to find a sex offender registry-compliant release address in order to get out. This required overwhelming research and an inordinate number of calls. Securing housing is no small feat, and while in theory there are counselors paid to assist it’s common for people nearing release to be left to figure it out on their own. I submitted address after address to the Department of Community Supervision, which rejected them due to unrealistic zoning restrictions with my parole supervision requirements. Each rejection notification felt like a personal failure. It took months before I found an address that was approved. How was I supposed to have navigated this without a phone?
Staying connected with my network of support, mastering a new language, earning a doctorate and starting a writing career all had a profound impact on my emotional well-being and sense of identity. Having a contraband cell phone brought me peace during the darkest time in my life, and helped me build a life for myself on the other side. They do more for prisoner rehabilitation than GDC ever did.
Top image (cropped) via California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation/YouTube. First inset graphic (cropped) via National Telecommunications and Information Administration. Second inset graphic via Office of Justice Programs.
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