USA: the battle for voting rights in the age of mass incarceration

Shauntelle Mitchell waited in her local polling station in Slidell, Louisiana, and contemplated leaving. The October primary election would be her first time voting in years — her criminal record had prevented her from casting a ballot since 2011. This year, re-registered and finally free to vote, she felt nervous.

“All eyes was on me,” Mitchell, 43, recalled. “I started to walk out, because I felt people was looking at me, and I was like, ‘Why go through the whole process to walk away? You came here to vote, to try to make a difference, even if the candidate you picked does not win.’” She stopped herself and turned around. “I stood my ground and voted.”

Mitchell’s vote came at a historic moment: the first state-wide election held after Louisiana restored voting rights to some 36,000 people convicted of felonies, as Mitchell had been. It was a significant win for criminal justice reform activists in a state that had the highest incarceration rate in the nation until last year.

Louisiana activist Norris Henderson has been in the fight for so long, he’s been dubbed “St. Norris” by other organizers. On a recent fall day, Henderson took the stage in a round room in Philadelphia’s Eastern State Penitentiary for the first presidential town hall hosted by formerly incarcerated people. Invitations had been extended to the entire field, and three Democratic candidates for president — Sen. Kamala Harris, Sen. Cory Booker, and businessman Tom Steyer — showed up.

“This has been a journey for us to get here,” he said. The room’s rough stone walls and Gothic, arching doorways surrounded him, leading to America’s original cellblocks. “Some people question why would we do something inside a prison, particularly this prison. This was where America first experienced mass incarceration. This was the first prison built in America.”

Today, some 200 years since Eastern State opened, an estimated 2.3 million people are held across the nation’s criminal justice system in prisons, juvenile facilities, jails, and immigrant detention centers. Nearly 60 percent of this population are people of color.

The town hall’s setting spoke directly to an inherent contradiction in the democratic ideal of “one person, one vote” presented by the age of mass incarceration: For people drawn into the system, one conviction often equals no vote — sometimes for life. Even when voting rights gains are made, they can be precarious.

Laws banning former prisoners from voting in America date back to the colonial era and remain the norm in much of the nation. Only 16 states and DC automatically re-enfranchise people convicted of felonies when they’re released, and two states — Maine and Vermont — allow people to vote from prisons. During the 2016 presidential elections, more than 6 million people were prevented from casting ballots through the criminal justice system, according to the Sentencing Project.

In tandem with the growing movement to end mass incarceration, there is a building consensus that these laws disenfranchise huge swaths of the population from participating in representative politics. Between 1996 and 2008, seven states repealed lifetime disenfranchisement laws for at least some ex-offenders.

Nevada, California, New York, and Arizona have all expanded voting rights for ex-felons this year. In Wisconsin, activists and politicians pushed a bill in October to immediately return the vote to those leaving prison. When Democrat Andy Beshear won Kentucky’s gubernatorial race in early November, it was viewed in part as a win for ex-felon re-enfranchisement — Beshear had campaigned on restoring voting rights to an estimated 100,000 people.

Nowhere has this fight been more consequential than in Louisiana and Florida, where activists scored two enormous victories. Last year, voting rights were restored to an estimated 36,000 people convicted of felonies in Louisiana through bipartisan legislation and 1.5 million in Florida during state elections through the Amendment 4 ballot initiative. That such expansions took place in these Southern states has both practical and symbolic significance: Florida’s high incarceration rate meant that extending the vote to former felons is considered the largest voting rights advancement since the 1970s.

But the gains have not gone uncontested. Across the nation, voting rights wins have been undercut by laws requiring fines and fees in order to vote, relinquishing voting restoration for felons of certain crimes, and otherwise placing former prisoners in webs of bureaucracy with little clarity over how to regain their rights. It’s a lesson in the fragility of even momentous political gains, and the likelihood of setbacks.

“The right to vote is a marker of our citizenship, a marker of who counts, of who matters, a marker of who is part of our community and who is excluded,” said Micah Kubic, executive director of the ACLU of Florida. It is, he added, “essential to protecting all other rights and freedoms we care about.”

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