Three, seven, eight,

two, four,

zero, three, seven.

Hodge.

Three seven eight two four
zero three seven.

I went to prison; that was my federal
inmate registration ID.

The first thing that happens when you go
to prison is they take away your name,

and from that moment forward,
you're that number.

Hodge; three seven eight
two four zero three seven.

It's the beginning of the dehumanizing
experience of mass incarceration.

In 2001, I was a businesswoman.

My organization and I became investigated.

I went to trial believing
justice would prevail,

and instead I was originally given
an 87 month federal prison sentence,

as a first time, non-violent,
white collar offence.

In addition to that,
I received three years probation.

Now, like so many of you,

I wasn't aware of mass incarceration
until it visited my doorstep.

I had family members
who went to prison, distant relatives,

and friends who had gone to prison.

But prison was something
that happened to other people.

While I was in prison, I wasn't Theresa.

I wasn't Irma and Charlie's daughter,

I wasn't Darcelle,

Charlene, Tammy, or Latanya's sister.

I wasn't even Lauren's mother.

I was Hodge; three seven eight
two four zero three seven.

In 2006, was when I was convicted,

and I had six months to prepare
for going to prison.

It's kind of funny
when I think about that,

because how do you really
prepare to go to prison?

I did it, and I still
don't know how I did it.

My mother, my four sisters,
and my daughter and I,

we got in two cars, we left Maryland,
and we headed to West Virginia.

Alderson Federal Prison Camp;
the first federal prison for women.

It was established in 1927.

The reality is, everything about a prison
was designed for a man.

While I was in the parking lot,
I had three big concerns.

The first one, I was afraid I would never
see the women who took me to prison again.

I was facing six years inside the prison,
and death was a possibility.

So I was very fearful of that.

The second thing was, I was concerned,
would I be relevant again?

Would I find meaning in my life,
professionally or personally?

The third fear was for my safety.

I was afraid.

Television had informed me
up to this point,

and what I was afraid of

was that I possibly would have to fight
my way through prison,

or that I could be raped.

Somewhere on television,
that stuck in my mind as a possibility.

The reality is, "Orange
is the New Black" was not out yet,

and I didn't have anything
else to inform me.

When I arrived in prison,
what I discovered was something different.

I found amazing women
who too were in prison.

Prison is kind of a microcosm
of the rest of the United States.

It's a combination of everybody,
with one exception:

we have more black and brown men
who are incarcerated.

There's 2.3 million people
in American prisons today.

America has 5% of the world's population

and 25% of the world's prisoners.

The number of women imprisoned
from 1980 to 2011 has increased by 586%.

Today, there are 200 000 women
who are in prison,

and another one million who are under
some form of correctional supervision.

There are three million children
who have a mother,

or maybe a mother
and father, who's in prison.

The reality is, we are incarcerating
too many people for too long.

Two years into my prison sentence,
I received a sentence reduction,

and my prison sentence 
as reduced to 70 months.

That's five years and ten months.

The good news for me at the time
was I had already served over two years,

and whereas when I first walked in,
I wasn't sure if I could do the time,

at this moment, I actually knew
I could go the distance.

And so I was really excited,

because I had about two and a half years
to go when this happened.

When it was time to leave prison,
I was really excited.

But, to be honest, I was afraid again.

This time I wasn't afraid

when it comes
to the women who I met.

I was afraid when I was leaving
what would happen to many of them.

A lot of them didn't have
the support system I had;

I was concerned that they were going back
to under-resourced communities,

not a support system like mine,

and I was concerned

that many wouldn't be able to reconnect
back to society in a meaningful way.

I never met a woman who was lying
on her bunk saying,

"I can't wait to go back to prison."

It's absolutely no way of life.

And yet, 70% of people who go to prison,
within three years return.

That's not just an indictment
of our government,

it's an indictment of all of us.

Because at the end of the day,
we've made coming home entirely too hard.

I'm going to tell you a story.

It's actually one of the worst things
that happened to me since I came home,

but it is the one thing
that motivates me the most.

As I was preparing to start
this business with my daughter,

I needed to get a job
to just pay a few of the bills.

I had managed to keep
my overhead extremely low,

because I was determined
I wouldn't allow prison to ruin my life.

I was going to be an entrepreneur again.

A girlfriend of mine
called me, and she said,

"I think I've found a job that you can do
while trying to start this business."

I said "Okay", and she sent me a link,

I took a look at it, and I agreed;
it looked like a job I actually could do.

I would be working from my home,
using my computer, and my internet,

to do some back office work
for an organization.

It paid probably slightly
above minimum wage.

So I went online
and I applied for the job.

I put in my name, my address,
my phone number,

and very basic information.

Then, the question appeared;

the dreaded question that those of us
with an arrest or conviction fear.

"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

I took a deep breath,
and I checked "Yes", and I hit "enter".

The screen went black.

Then a message appeared.

It said,

"Something you answered
disqualified you for this job."

Well, I knew it wasn't my name.

(Laughter)

I knew it wasn't my address,

so it was pretty obvious.

There's so much going on
in the news around "Ban the Box";

that is a real life example
of ban the box.

It's the reason why the box needs to go.

It's not even the right conversation
we should be having.

We shouldn't be allowing employers

to discriminate
against millions of Americans,

keeping them locked into sentences

and mistakes they [made] five, ten,
fifteen, thirty years ago.

We can't even have the right conversations
around the right to work

until we ban the box.

So as you hear all of this going on,
pay attention to it.

Because we need people
who are coming home from prison

to have their human capital restored,

so that they can be good mothers
and fathers, good community members.

and take care of their families.

So what can we all do?

We all have a role to play.

Three things.

First:

language matters.

Stop using the word "ex-offender",
"ex-felon", "convict".

When you are referring to someone,

if you're not sure what
to say, say their name.

Second thing: on Wednesdays,
take five minutes,

read an article, learn about this topic,
share it on social media,

talk to someone about it.

And the third thing:

if you're an employer, employ someone;

give them a second chance.

If you're a legislator,
humanize this topic.

Bring people in, talk to them,
get to know them.

I can assure you
that if you get to know people,

you won't feel like you need
to discriminate against them.

Last: for me, I stand firmly in my shoes,

I embrace the 14 years

that I was in conflict
with the criminal justice system.

I have incorporated
that experience into who I am,

and today it's neatly tucked into me.

It's a part of my past.

I am not three, seven, eight,

two, four, zero,

three, seven.

I am Theresa Hodge.

Thank you.

(Applause)