INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTS

Aishvarya: Could you just start by stating your name?
Yolanda: Yolanda [ ].
Aishvarya: Can you walk me through your experience with the justice system? How old were you when you were first impacted by it?
Yolanda: My first time being incarcerated, I was in college back in 1988 or 1989. During that time, I experienced bugs in my food and dark isolation. It wasn’t a well-kept jail. Later, I went to one of the most crowded jails in Atlanta several times. That facility is currently unsafe and under several lawsuits.
My longest incarceration was six years, between 1999 and 2005. I’m 56 now. I experienced many unsafe conditions there. When I say unsafe, I don’t just mean physical harm from other inmates. It was a place where I didn’t feel safe enough to share concerns, and there was a lot of injustice regarding the food.
Aishvarya: You mentioned the living conditions—could you talk about a typical day inside? Maybe the routine or chores?
Yolanda: A typical day involved waking up at 4:30 or 5:30 to eat breakfast, followed by chores or cleaning assignments. If you were in school, you went to classes. Pill call happened two to three times a day. We had to adjust to a society with rules that wouldn't seem normal out here. For example, you can’t just stop by a friend’s room to talk.
We had the commissary where we could buy ingredients, but we weren’t allowed to mix them. We would make “cakes” out of honeybuns, candy bars, and hot chocolate, but that was considered contraband. Our mentality had to switch just to survive.
Aishvarya: How did you manage to maintain your mental health in that environment?
Yolanda: I’m a big advocate for walking. We weren’t able to do that there. Now, I start walking programs in facilities because a walk gives you a reset. Sometimes back then, I felt I had to get into a fight just to be put in lockdown so I could finally be by myself and decompress.
I’ve seen fights, suicide, and abusive officers. You couldn't report anything for fear of retaliation. The judge gives you a sentence, but we also pay for an officer’s bad mood or frustration. Even after release, the stigma of being an “ex-felon” means we continue to pay for crimes we already served time for.
Aishvarya: Are you comfortable sharing some of the trauma you witnessed?
Yolanda: I once saw a young lady get her ear cut off over a debt of cigarettes. The officer allowed it to happen without repercussions. We also knew sexual abuse was happening, but it was our word against the officer’s.
I remember a girl named [name] who committed suicide while I was in lockdown. These things happen because we don’t get proper mental health treatment. Counseling sessions were often just places to hang out and watch a movie rather than actual therapy. It takes you out of a human state and puts you into an animal state focused only on survival.
Aishvarya: In those times where you struggled to keep your sanity, what gave you a sense of purpose?
Yolanda: It was a personal thing. I knew I didn’t belong there. I fought for hope. Because of my personality, some officers genuinely liked me as a person and looked out for me. My spirituality also played a huge role. I felt like God sat me down to look at my life like a movie, which helped me not let my mind be institutionalized.
I knew I was too talented and gifted to let that be my life. I saw people go home and come back, and I didn’t want that to be my story. I think I was just built differently.
Aishvarya: You mentioned your upbringing—how did that shape you?
Yolanda: I’m a preacher’s kid. I was automatically an outcast, which led to me trying to please people and fit in. I had a spiritual connection, but it wasn’t the one I was taught. I was told God would send me to hell for my sexuality, so I had to find a God of my own understanding.
I was sheltered and strict growing up, so I couldn't wait to be on my own. I started getting in trouble in college with drugs and alcohol while trying to be the “cool kid.” I’m now eight years sober. It took a while to realize drugs were the problem that caused my criminal life.
Aishvarya: Can you talk about life shortly after you were released? Were there resources that helped you rebuild?
Yolanda: My first job was with a sign company. I was determined to be a productive member of society. When people told me I couldn’t vote during Barack Obama’s first term, I did it anyway. I branded myself as "I am the Evidence" to show others they can do it too.
I now own two businesses: an apparel company and a graphic design sign company. I also joined Girl Trek, a nonprofit focused on Black women’s health. I lead walking programs for justice-impacted women. I used to feel I wasted so much time being high or incarcerated, so I knew I needed to do something meaningful.
Aishvarya: What is the biggest misconception people have about incarcerated individuals?
Yolanda: That they haven’t changed. While the system isn't always designed for rehabilitation—often focusing on isolation instead—many people do want to change. Isolation doesn’t mean rehabilitation. The system has a responsibility to provide mental health and job skills so people aren't knocked down before they even get a chance.
Aishvarya: What policy changes would make a substantial difference?
Yolanda: I would implement free phone calls. Staying connected to family and lawyers is vital. I’d also demand healthy food. We see so much unidentified food, and not everyone has family who can send money for the commissary. If we provide healthy food and communication, it would change the environment significantly.
Aishvarya: Regarding the commissary, do people work jobs in prison to earn that money?
Yolanda: I worked jobs but didn’t get paid. I’ve heard some places pay a quarter an hour, but it’s not a living wage. If you can’t afford the store, you should at least be provided with basic necessities regularly. When the food is bad, the commissary becomes a luxury rather than a choice.