Justice Notes: Incarcerated Women
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
For this week’s Justice Notes publication, I’m posting a guest essay from Gina Pendergraph, a fellow member of the White Collar Support Group.
White Collar Support Group is a space where people navigating prosecution, incarceration, and reentry try to make sense of what happened and what comes next.
Gina’s story is not one of sensational headlines or dramatic courtroom moments. It is quieter than that. It is about proximity — about what she witnessed while serving her sentence, and what she cannot unsee.
What she saw were the ways incarceration falls differently on women. Especially mothers. Especially women without privilege.
In the essay below, Gina reflects on her time inside federal prison and the lessons she now studies in her sociology classes: how power shapes sentencing, how stigma shapes reentry, and how generational trauma deepens when women are removed from their families.
Her story is not written in anger. It is written in witness.
From Prison to Classroom
Reentry, Stigma, and the Inequality We Don’t Want to See
On October 25, 2025, I was released from the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons and began three years of supervised release.
My 24-month sentence officially ran from May 20, 2024, to October 25, 2025. I served seven months in prison, several months in a halfway house, and the remainder on home confinement, including a final six months of home detention.
I am now a sociology student. And I’ve come to understand something clearly:
The criminal justice system does not simply punish people. It structures inequality.
Through Conflict Theory, we see how power and privilege shape sentencing and reentry. Through Labeling Theory, we see how the word “felon” can become a life sentence long after incarceration ends.
My story is not one of extreme oppression. It is a story of proximity. I witnessed racial, gender, and economic disparities up close. I watched generational trauma deepen instead of heal. And I now use education and advocacy to support women at every stage of the system.
My Story: Proximity, Not Oppression
I surrendered to FCI Victorville Camp on May 20, 2024. I was assigned the top bunk in a room with “Amy” (not her real name), a woman serving 156 months. She had already been inside for more than seven years.
Within weeks of my arrival, Amy’s daughter overdosed and lay on life support just 45 minutes from camp. Amy begged for a furlough to say goodbye. She was denied. By the time administrators reconsidered, her daughter had died.
This October, it happened again.
Amy’s son overdosed. This time she was granted a furlough. She held his hand as he was brought out of a medically induced coma. The breathing tube was removed while she sat beside him. She told him she loved him. She told him to keep fighting.
When it was time to return to camp, he cried, “I don’t want you to leave.”
He died the day before Thanksgiving.
In less than eighteen months, Amy lost both of her children to overdoses while serving a long sentence for a non-violent drug transportation offense committed nearly a decade ago.
These are not isolated tragedies. They are the predictable outcome of generational trauma compounded by incarceration: poverty, untreated addiction, childhood exposure to violence, and decades-long sentences that fracture families.
As a middle-class white woman, I received leniency and access to programs Amy never saw. My proximity to her suffering — not my own hardship — is why I speak.
Conflict Theory: Who the System Protects
Conflict Theory argues that society is structured around power. Those with wealth and influence create rules that protect their interests and maintain their position.
Criminal law often reflects that reality.
People with resources are less likely to be swept into the system. When they do violate the law, they typically have access to experienced attorneys, social capital, and mitigation strategies that shape outcomes. They are also less likely to carry a felony record for life.
Poor women — especially poor women of color — rarely have that shield.
I sat beside women serving decade-plus sentences for cases similar to mine.
My 24-month sentence — much of it served in the community — stands in stark contrast to Amy’s 156 months. National data consistently show racial disparities in sentencing, particularly for drug offenses. These disparities are not accidental; they reinforce economic and racial hierarchies.
Reentry continues the pattern. A felony conviction limits housing access, employment opportunities, professional licensing, and in some states, voting rights. Formerly incarcerated women experience unemployment rates significantly higher than men. Black women, in particular, face compounded wage gaps after release.
When mothers lose custody or visitation, children are pushed further into instability — increasing the risk of future system involvement. That is generational trauma in action.
My access to college and programs like Rising Scholars reflects social capital many women never receive. Education reduces recidivism — but only when it is accessible.
My lighter sentence and academic path are not proof of greater virtue. They are evidence of privilege.
Labeling Theory: When “Felon” Becomes Identity
Labeling Theory argues that deviance is amplified by society’s reaction to it. Once someone is labeled a criminal, that identity can become their “master status” — the lens through which all other traits are viewed.
The label follows long after release.
Amy was labeled “high risk” and denied a furlough to see her dying daughter despite being housed at a minimum-security camp. Compassion was filtered through bureaucracy and stigma.
The label affects children, too. When a parent is incarcerated for years, children are often labeled “at risk.” Removing their mother for over a decade does not stabilize their lives — it destabilizes them.
Even in academia, language matters.
This semester, my 283-page Statistics workbook repeatedly used the word “convicts” in word problems. I was so angry I walked out of class one day. After meeting with my professor, she agreed that future editions will use “justice-impacted individuals” instead.
It may seem small. It isn’t.
Language is where identity begins.
We counter labels through action. When I mail crochet patterns, books, and educational materials to women inside, I am reinforcing alternative identities: artist, student, mother, future graduate.
Research consistently shows education is one of the strongest turning points in desistance from crime. It replaces “inmate” with “scholar.”
The Broader Reality
Women are the fastest-growing incarcerated population in the United States. Since 1980, the number of incarcerated women has increased dramatically. More than 60% of incarcerated women are mothers.
Separation matters.
Children of incarcerated parents face elevated risks of incarceration and substance-use disorders themselves. The cycle is not mysterious. It is structural.
Formerly incarcerated women also face steep economic barriers post-release, including significant wage penalties years after reentry. Black women remain incarcerated at disproportionately high rates compared to white women.
These statistics are not abstract. They have names and faces.
Amy is one of them.
What We Can Do
I cannot dismantle the system alone. But I can connect and amplify.
You can:
Mail approved books or patterns to incarcerated women.
Support reentry and job-training programs.
Replace “convict” and “felon” with “person” in everyday speech.
Language shapes policy. Policy shapes lives.
Conclusion: Witness to Ally
The system creates inequality through sentencing. Labels deepen that inequality through stigma. Generational trauma fills the space left by absent mothers.
And yet — education, compassion, and community can interrupt the cycle.
Every book I mail, every pattern I send, every conversation that replaces “convict” with “person” is not an act of rescue. It is an act of solidarity.
I am not a savior.
I am a witness who chose to become an ally.
Healing does not happen in isolation.
It happens in community.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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