Electronic Promises
Courtesy of Global Tel Link (GTL).
I still remember the day the memo went up. I was sitting at a table in the day room, painting a commission of my friend’s adopted cats, when I noticed more and more prisoners gathering in front of the bulletin board. Every single one of their faces had smiles. "Have they finally changed the Truth and Sentencing laws?" I wondered.
Before I could keep guessing, Big Country, a very outspoken and rambunctious man, announced, "We’re getting free tablets! And they have a phone app!" My heart started racing, but as a seasoned veteran of prison politics, I couldn't allow myself to fall for Department of Corrections’ (DOC) usual broken promises. I put my paint brush down and went up to read the memo for myself. It said that all prisoners in the state of Illinois would be receiving free Global Tel Link (GTL) tablets, with apps for phones, messaging, music, movies, podcasts, and news feeds; education apps through which we could earn a G.E.D.; and even an app we could order commissary items from. I fell for the hype and was soon smiling along with everyone else, believing this would change all our lives in favor of our betterment and rehabilitation.
A week later, however, the memo mysteriously disappeared and a new one took its place. This new message was almost exactly the same, except now the tablets were priced at $125. There was also mention of Link Units we’d have to purchase in order to access the apps. I couldn't afford either the tablet or the units at the time, and had to write to family and friends asking for money, still believing the technology could improve my life. My people came through, and I now had enough money for a GTL tablet and $100 worth of link units.
A date was set for us to purchase the tablets from inmate commissary. When that day came, there were so many people huddled shoulder to shoulder by the commissary door that they looked like emperor penguins in the Arctic, pressing their bodies into a mass to fight the frigid cold.
In line at commissary, I calculated my budget. After my tech purchase, I would have money left over for a few hygiene items, but not enough to purchase any food in the near future. This meant I'd have to take walks to the chow hall and eat the questionable mystery meat offered, or starve. It was a sacrifice I'd happily take in exchange for readily available communication with my family and friends. Many others made the same sacrifice because we had been limited to snail mail and phone calls since I can remember, and I'd been in the Illinois DOC for over 20 years at the time.
The mail and phone situation has been untenable in every prison I've been in (I’m currently on my sixth facility) and the administration doesn't care to improve it. Our outgoing mail will sit in a box for an entire week before it gets picked up and mailed out. Our incoming mail takes weeks to reach our hands, and it often gets denied for the silliest of things—if the address on the envelope was written with a marker, DENIED. If there's a stain on the letter or the envelope, DENIED. The phone situation is even worse, especially at Dixon Correctional Center, where I'm currently being held. There are only eight phones but 148 people in every living unit. As soon as cells unlock, grown men will sprint for the phones. The scarcity leads to fights over phone usage, which can turn violent. Street gangs who have no problem demonstrating their ruthlessness hold phones hostage, leaving others unable to use them. Amidst this environment, one can see how necessary the GTL tablet was.
Upon placing an order for the tablet at commissary, I was told I'd have to wait for an IT person to come and set up a password for it. One week was nothing compared to the time I’d done without a tablet, so I patiently waited. No one came. Another week passed, and still nothing. Frustration was running through the air and then it happened. People started getting called over the PA system to pick their tablets at the Personal Property office. The control booth officer announced about 10 names, but mine wasn’t one of them. I kept waiting, but when guys returned with their tablets, they had bad news to deliver—the office had run out of tablets.
Only 100 tablets had arrived at the prison, and the next shipment wouldn't come for another three months. To make matters worse, the guys who had gotten their tablets found out there were no education apps, and no phone app. We felt like we had been duped.
As I waited for my tablet to arrive, people started noticing even more problems. The tablets only had signal in the day room, and not in cells. It wasn’t much of a problem at the beginning because we were usually out of our cells, but when COVID came we were quarantined in our cells almost 24/7. Everyone's tablets were essentially paperweights now, and the grievances people wrote about getting wi-fi boxes installed in the unit’s hallways were met with the response, “It is a GTL issue and out of the administration’s hands.”
The messaging app also had its problems. Families on the outside would have to register and be approved as a prisoner’s contact to send and receive messages, which could take several days. An average message takes up to two days to be sent and received because all communications are read, and even longer if you're monitored for “behavioral” issues or if the messaging staff are out during holidays. Each app came with its own problems, and I dealt with each one.
Three months passed, and I finally received my tablet. I started writing to the outside right away and spent 15 minutes crafting the perfect message, but when I pressed the send button, I was completely logged out of the app and my message was erased. This has now happened more times than I count, and I've often felt like throwing the tablet at the concrete wall. Even though the messaging app isn't perfect, it’s still the best form of communication that most prisoners have if they're unable to use a phone on the unit.
The music app was expensive at $19.99 a month, something I couldn't afford as a luxury. However, I soon heard that the app had educational audio books where you could learn how to speak different languages, learn about real estate, the stock market, finances, and more. I saved some money and bought a month’s worth of streaming. I learned a lot listening to those audio books, until one day all the educational books disappeared. I submitted a complaint to GTL through a form on the app, and they responded, “GTL is unable to control our vendors’ media selection. We will report the issue and inform you of any update.” Of course, they never responded.
Two years after first receiving my tablet, nothing has been improved. I've boycotted all the apps on the device except the messaging app, which is my lifeline to the outside world. I, along with thousands of other prisoners in the state of Illinois, was promised a better way of living behind these concrete walls through the salvation of an electronic device, but very little has actually come from it. GTL was just another promisor with the wholehearted intention of taking our money and giving the least possible in return.
Juan Hernandez is an incarcerated artist born and raised in Chicago. His artwork has been exhibited at Angelica Kauffman Gallery, dragonFLY Gallery, and Art in Odd Places, amongst others. He has been featured in Latino Rebels and he is a 2022 grant recipient of The Puffin Foundation. His work can be found online at instagram.com/jch_convictedart