Photo gallery at the end of the article.
Before entering the Hillsborough Correctional Institution for the last time, the group gathers for a prayer. The t-shirt is from an organization named Passion for Prison, a ministry that works with inmates: www.passionforprison.com. Mitch Traphagen photos.
Kimberly is an attractive, articulate and witty woman. In speaking with her, anyone would get the impression that she is a woman with better things coming. She has only six classes left before receiving her degree from Eckerd College. She has her children. She has life experience that few possess. She is warm and open. She is competent and confident.
But her eyes tell a slightly different story. In her eyes, there is hope and there is despair. She has reason for both, with, optimistically, hope winning out.
In her case, and for others like her, gathered on a warm and humid June morning at the gates of what was the Hillsborough Correctional Institution in Balm, the despair is all too real. Life isn’t fair. It should be, but it isn’t.
HCI was the only state prison in Hillsborough County. A facility for women, it was closed in 2012, despite arguably being the greatest success story of the Florida Department of Corrections. It had among the lowest recidivism rates of any prison in the state.
The residents of Sun City Center and Valencia Lakes got involved in helping make that happen. With an inmate population of approximately 300 women, there were, at times, 500 volunteers working with the women. And despite that the state claimed HCI had a high cost per inmate, the volunteers freely poured in their own money — once going so far as to raise the funds to fix a roof.
Kimberly was a five-time offender. She said that if HCI had been her first stop in the correctional system, it would likely have been her last. At HCI, the volunteers and much of the staff let the women know that they were more than a number in a Department of Corrections computer. They were human beings. They were worthwhile. They have value.
That stuck with many of the women. For the first time, from behind the razor wire surrounding HCI, they began to have hope. They learned from the caring, compassionate and loving volunteers that life didn’t have to be this way.
No one is perfect. It’s easy for many people to cast a wide net of blame for bad decisions. But for some people, perhaps those losing from birth the lottery of circumstance, the reality is that sometimes life presents very few options, and too often none of those options are good. Kimberly was released in 2006, and has worked harder than most people could imagine to get her life onto a good and right path, both for her children and for herself. But the passing of nine years hasn’t been enough. Far too often, employers define her by her past, rather than seeing the capable, smart and hard-working woman standing before them.
Former inmates, volunteers and guards hold up a banner thanking the residents of Sun City Center for changing their lives inside of HCI. At times with 300 inmates, there were 500 volunteers. The prison had among the lowest rate of recidivism among all prisons in Florida.
Despite being released, in some ways Kimberly’s sentence continues to this day. How much time is enough? In 2006, as a society, we escorted her out past the razor wire and out the front gate of HCI with the simple message that she had paid her debt to society and now she should go forth and make something of herself.
She is trying. But the message she received that day was a mixed one. The debt she has supposedly paid in full follows her like a dark cloud.
She said that men have an easier time of it. No matter what they do to get into prison, once out, they can always find jobs in construction or something like that. Women, by and large, have far fewer options. All she wants to do is to become a productive member of society. She paid her debt. She’s earning her degree. Fair or not, she knows she’ll have to work harder than others to simply meet the standards of a productive citizen. She is willing to do that. She expects to do it.
But first, someone needs to give her a chance. They need to see the woman she is. This day was not her first time back to HCI since being released nine years ago. She came back to counsel and to help others.
The gate opened, and everyone gathered in what was a visitor parking lot at HCI. There were former inmates, former guards and many former volunteers, a number of whom are still volunteering, now making much longer drives to facilities near Ocala or in Hernando County.
They gathered to say goodbye to the place that changed their lives forever. The property upon which HCI sits has been sold and will be developed. The developer was generous enough to let them in, one last time, to say goodbye. There were tears and hugs and there was laughter. That anyone could tearfully say goodbye to a prison says something about the place. Without words, all of the women said something, too. HCI changed them. And despite the challenges, their time there gave them hope and a feeling of worth. To a woman, that feeling was palpable. They have a great deal of worth, and their life experience, as difficult as it was, has tremendous value for others.
They have seen a dark side and have chosen to walk away from it. They have faced challenges in life that relatively few can imagine, and they have triumphed over them. They will never be able to stop working on that.
Before walking in, the former inmates and volunteers held up a banner that said, “Sun City — Your love empowers us — You’re our example! We love you, too!” The banner was filled with handwritten notes of gratitude.
Nature was beginning to reclaim HCI. Flowering trees grew unchecked, obscuring barred windows. The group walked around the campus before settling into the chapel. That is where most of their time was spent that day.
The chapel was mostly gutted and the growing heat of the day made it stifling. One woman began singing Amazing Grace and the tears began to flow anew. Suddenly the chapel became much more than a gutted, darkened and stifling room. It somehow became restorative.
For many volunteers and for the former inmates, faith was an extremely important part of the success at HCI. Faith remains an important part for them.
Whether or not any given groups of people agreed with the positions of former Hillsborough County Commissioner and state Senator Ronda Storms, no one could argue that she was not passionately committed to those things she saw as important. Despite no longer being a public figure — she emphasized the word “former” when I described her as such in conversation — her commitment remains, certainly to HCI.
As an elected official, she recognized the success of the facility and fought hard to keep it open. But that commitment was more than that of a mere lawmaker. When she walked up to the chapel with her two children, people rushed out to greet her and to give her hugs. Ronda Storms knew these women and they knew her. Even her children gave and received hugs.
Cindy is a wonderful, outgoing woman with a beautiful smile, a warm heart and an always-ready hug. She guided me through HCI with stories, and what was striking was there were no complaints. There was no assignment of blame. At one point, standing next to a burly young man, she wrapped her arms around him and said, “He was a guard,” and then placed a big kiss on his cheek. The photo my camera captured shows him smiling, happy, with his cheeks perhaps just slightly, temporarily red.
And through Cindy, it was most striking that given any other location than an abandoned prison, no one would ever guess that she had once been incarcerated. Nor would any guess that about Kimberly or any of the women.
At HCI, they learned that they mattered, that they have great value. Cindy personifies that. Her life since release hasn’t necessarily always been easy, but she takes the next step, gives another hug and continues on. Her value, like that of Kimberly, like that of the others, cannot be measured.
Along with a friend, Lori Colbert, Cindy is currently working on starting a nonprofit called Integration & Restoration. The hope is they will be able to tell their stories and find help for newly released inmates. Long term, they hope to find ways to open transitional housing.
“There are so few safe places for [former] inmates to go these days,” Cindy said. “This is our dream, and we are making it come true.”
Five hundred volunteers for roughly 300 inmates. A prison, even an abandoned one, still surrounded by razor wire, is a place few would choose. But through the dedication of so many, lives changed in that place.
From the chapel, small groups wandered the grounds for a short time before gathering again in the parking lot. There were more tears and hugs. And there were smiles and some goodbyes.
Despite that it should be, life isn’t always fair. Yet, for a few hours in an abandoned prison with former inmates, volunteers, guards and even a (former) public figure, it truly was fair. There was a powerful sense of freedom and hope there. In the parking lot, Cindy gave me a hug goodbye.
It mattered.
