The Dyslexia to Recidivism Pipeline

I sat at the computer, intently. I was in the school building at Sing-Sing Correctional Facility’s Inmate Liaison Office (ILC). We shared our office with other in-house organizations (Veterans, Caribbean Unity, NAACP, etc.) and there was rarely a shortage of other people in the office. Too many distractions. So I tried my best to look extremely busy in the hopes of not being disturbed.

I was working on a dyslexia proposal. Over the last few weeks, I had researched dyslexia in every way available to me. I had recently met a woman who is a pioneer in the field of dyslexia and she had sent me a pile of information on the subject. Up until this moment, I had never thought so many people, particularly incarcerated individuals, had suffered from this literary disease.

I’m on the computer and this dude is sitting not too far from me and I can sense an interruption.

”What you working on?”

Being an ILC rep, I had become accustomed to people interrupting me with questions. Plus, I knew the dude. We weren’t friends, but we’d conversed on a few occasions.

“I’m working on a proposal?” I responded vaguely, hoping it would deter any further conversation.

“What kind of proposal?” he asked. Damn.

“A proposal on dyslexia,” I said in a way that signaled he was disturbing me.

He went quiet. Good, I thought to myself. Then, after a few minutes of typing I felt bad. I had basically shut this brother down.

”I been in ABE for 26 years,” he said with a tone of shame.

I froze. For those who don’t know, ABE is ‘Adult Basic Education.’ In a prison setting, ABE is the lowest you can go. It’s the equivalent of being in elementary school.  I looked over at him in disbelief. Suddenly, the alarms went off and before I could ask my next question, he answered it. ”I have dyslexia.”

What were the odds of meeting this dude, while working on this proposal? Then all of the facts and statistics I had read started to formulate a clearer picture.

According to “The Journal of Correctional Education,” 47% of incarcerated individuals suffer from dyslexia. A vast majority of incarcerated individuals in the NYS Department of Corrections grew up in marginalized communities and attended public school in some of the poorest districts in the state. And without the proper mechanisms in place for screening and identification and intervention, all undiagnosed dyslexics have been silently suffering from a lifetime of shame and stigma associated with being unable to read. Without help, they have been forced to repeat the educational pattern that led to them dropping out of middle and high school in the first place.

The ramifications of dyslexia on this already disadvantaged population of convicted felons began to weigh heavy on my heart. I wondered how such individuals could have defended themselves and made informed decisions during the most critical stages of their criminal proceedings if they couldn’t read? How could they understand and abide by the rules in the NYS DOCCS rule books issued to them upon their arrest? What about administrative and disciplinary hearings, appeals, writing and challenging conditions through the grievance mechanism, law library research and/or parole board proceedings?

‘You’ve been in ABE for twenty-six years?” I asked again in disbelief.
“Yeah,” he said in a whisper.
“What about the teachers?”
“They don’t know how to help me,” he said, then went on to tell me about his life story and how he had been picked on and ridiculed and passed through from elementary to middle school, until he dropped out. ”I couldn’t keep up,” he expressed with disgust.

It dawned on me that NYS DOCCS currently has no screening system in place to determine how many incarcerated individuals within its prison population are suffering from dyslexia. I am dismayed that these same individuals would inevitably be released back into society to fail. This lack of screening is antithesis to the ”individual treatment services …. and rehabilitation” promised to be provided by NYS DOCCS in its ‘Mission Statement & Policy.’ I was particularly disturbed when I considered how this form of illiteracy may contribute to incarceration in the first place and how it may have stifled the rehabilitative process for those currently incarcerated.

I began investigating the extent at which dyslexia may have affected other men in the population and was astounded at what I discovered. Many men didn’t know how to read and, more importantly, their teachers didn’t know how to help them learn how to read. One teacher I spoke to expressed frustration and feelings of inadequacy as a teacher. ”They know” he said in response to our conversation.

I realized that for most of my life, I had taken for granted the ability to read. The implications that the dyslexia crisis posed made me wonder if the system had intentionally turned a blind eye and failed to honor its promise of rehabilitation.

Perhaps this component of the system, the Department of Corrections, did not have the resources to fix the problem. It was designed to perpetuate the idea of incarceration and a culture of poverty.

I found myself overwhelmed with the implications of illiteracy and incarceration. I couldn’t help but to juxtapose it to the similarities of slavery and the staunch prohibition against learning to read. I find it hard to believe that such a systemic problem could go unnoticed. Or is it the system’s way of maintaining the status quo?