Mass incarceration has devastated communities around the country, exacerbating poverty, inhibiting economic mobility, and causing local economies to stagnate. Vera’s new Incarceration and Inequality Project (IIP) Data Explorer is an interactive tool that gives advocates and policymakers ready access to data on the connection between incarceration and economic indicators—both nationally and within their counties. In the essay below, Demetrius Buckley shares his experience at the intersection of incarceration and poverty. 

In 2010, standing before a judge to accept a second-degree murder charge, I listened to the court-ordered fees and restitutions that would be garnished out of a trust account set up for me by the state. This was how my economic livelihood would start in a Michigan prison. People in my situation, even those convicted of low-level offenses like technical violations of probation and parole, were from impoverished areas belonging to Black and brown people. It cost money to be poor, and it seemed to be a major reason for crime to run rampant in low-income neighborhoods. It was a part of why I committed my crime and claimed a drug area that I felt belonged to me. With great disdain, the judge gave me a term of numbers—years—instead of letters (“life”), because of the victim’s extensive record. Two birds, one stone, an economic decision brought on by the state.

At the beginning of a 20-year sentence, I saw no way to maintain financial stability. How was I supposed to help my family with rent and bills without a steady income? Depending on my loved ones to send funds for phone calls, commissary items, and menial necessities would be my primary choice until I figured out some monetary gain in the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC). 

After serving more than 16 years in prison, I realized paying a debt to society has less to do with repairing the victim’s family’s true desires—especially when both victim and perpetrator are from the same demographics. My time and money went to MDOC, which makes top dollar off me and other incarcerated people.

I worked a prison job that paid the average incarcerated person $12 to $16 dollars a month, depending on their court circumstance and job description. Labor in Michigan prisons is mandatory. Not participating in the job pool could lead the incarcerated person to long-time isolation. And while the United States Constitution declares prisoners to be in servitude, it also means to be a slave to the economic serving of the state. 

Since 2020, I and other incarcerated people have been receiving email blasts explaining price spikes in clothing and food items we can order from the kiosk. In 2025, the price rose again due to tariff wars. The same institution offered access to vendors that supply shoes costing more than $70, Securepak orders (food items) of up to $150, and a tablet that can be worth—including the purchase of music and games—more than $500. Those vendors aim not for the incarcerated person to pay, but their family and friends.

The poorest communities are the ones most policed and funneled into prison. A high percentage of incarcerated bodies are poor Black and brown people. According to a survey by the Ella Baker Center, roughly 65 percent of families with a loved one in prison were unable to meet their basic needs because court-related fines and fees sent them into debt of more than $13,000 on average. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, 58 percent of families could not afford “the costs associated with a conviction.”

Since I've been incarcerated, I have accumulated books and writing materials, saved up some money to buy jogging fits and boots for the winter, and ended up out of property space. We are limited to one green duffle bag per person. Any item that can’t fit inside is labeled contraband and destroyed. The solution to obtain extra space was to buy a footlocker from Michigan State Industries. I paid $150 for an aluminum footlocker that gave me space to keep my belongings. It took a month to receive the locker, a family member's money well spent that will most likely pad the vendor’s pocket. Gladly, I caught the footlocker on sale.

Giving back to society could mean paying for the necessities that help the system of the state and in turn giving relief to the victim, who is often living in low-income, underrepresented communities. Unfortunately, this is not so. I am paying for my crime with my body and economical gains by purchasing prison products that come from vendors linked in some way to MDOC. I am unable to pay for most of what I receive inside, and my family and friends take on the task of financial support.

Paying a debt to society has less to do with helping or repairing the victim’s family’s true desires, especially if both victim and perpetrator are from the same demographic.