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For D.C. residents in prison, voting is one of the last connections we have to our communities.
Learning to take part in civic life — and discovering its power through the early work of forming More Than Our Crimes while I was incarcerated — transformed how I saw myself.
It became a turning point in my rehabilitation, reshaping not only how I understood the world but where I belonged within it. For the first time, I stopped seeing myself as someone destined to live on the margins of society. I began to see myself as a citizen, someone with an equal voice and a real stake in what happened in my city. Civic engagement gave me the confidence to believe that when I came home, I could help shape what the broader D.C. community would become.
But now, a power that was pivotal to my development — and to the rehabilitation of many others — is on the brink of being taken away due to two bills working their way through Congress: the SAVE (Safeguard American Voter Eligibility) and MEGA (Make Elections Great Again) acts. (Their names represent the very opposite of what these acts would do).
The SAVE Act would require proof of citizenship to be presented in person to register to vote — an impossible standard for incarcerated individuals who cannot leave prison. In addition, the only form of ID we have is from the Bureau of Prisons. Would that suffice? Given President Donald Trump’s clear desire to make it more difficult for marginalized people to vote, I doubt it. The MEGA Act would require the same identification to cast a ballot, along with many other restrictions and changes to the voting process, especially vote-by-mail.
Together, these bills would functionally eliminate the ability of incarcerated D.C. residents to participate in the democratic process — despite the 2020 law that explicitly grants them that right.
For incarcerated D.C. residents, the ability to vote is not symbolic. Because the District has no prison system of its own, D.C. residents are housed in federal prisons across the country, often hundreds or thousands of miles from home. Voting (which is by necessity done by mail) is one of the last remaining connections we have to our community. It reinforces that we still belong, still matter, and will return not just as formerly incarcerated residents, but as engaged citizens.
Through the work of More Than Our Crimes, we have seen firsthand what happens when incarcerated people understand their civic power. Men who once believed politics had nothing to do with them study the candidates. They debate city council decisions in recreation yards. They follow legislation impacting sentencing reform, housing access and reentry services. That shift in mindset — from disconnection to becoming someone with a voice — strengthens rehabilitation. It builds confidence. It fosters long-term thinking. It reduces the sense of alienation that too often fuels recidivism.
This is not just about ballots. It is about what citizenship means. How is it productive to tell incarcerated people to prepare to reenter society as responsible citizens while simultaneously stripping them of the most fundamental act of citizenship?
For many people in prison, voting is the moment we stop seeing ourselves as outcasts and start viewing ourselves as stakeholders in our city’s and country’s future. Taking that away does not strengthen democracy. It weakens the very reintegration society claims to support.
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