This article is part of the Black Magic Project, which is a series of stories focusing on those who do inspiring things in the black community. If you're a Facebook user, you can join our Black Magic Project group, where we talk about stories and issues concerning black Alabamians.
LaTonya Tate was recovering from surgery in her Birmingham home in 2001 when she got a call about her son's arrest.
The news was a spiritual blow that tore deeper than her physical wounds ever could. Her son, who was raised in the church pews, was charged with robbery. For a family who has only been summoned to court for traffic tickets, Tate was thrown into a different world when her son was sentenced to 20 years in Jefferson County.
Tate's son served eight years in prison and is currently on parole for the remainder of his sentence until 2021. As Tate watched her son weave in and out of the court system, she detoured from nursing to criminal justice as she started seeing glimpses of a system she wanted to change.
"What intrigued me was that my son was a first-time offender. Why weren't there any alternatives for him? Why are there so many African American men going to prison?" Tate asked "But I learned throughout this journey there aren't any alternatives."
In July, Tate and 15 other individuals from across the nation were given $1.4 million total to conduct their own deep dives into the country's criminal justice system. A trans filmmaker in New York is investigating how the system affects gender nonconforming and transgender communities. An Arizona journalist is publishing a multimedia project exposing violence against indigenous women and girls.
Tate's will be using her $87,000 to create the Alabama Justice Initiative, an organization that will not only assist those adjusting to life after imprisonment, but will also provide support for their families.
"You're out, but you're not free. You are still on some kind of supervision," Tate said
Tate will be using her funds to integrate community-based practices into the Alabama's parole system. She will be talking to law enforcement officials to get an idea of the state's past and present practices.
She's holding her first forum on Oct. 22 from 5pm until 8pm at St. Paul UMC in Birmingham, where political candidates will talk about the criminal justice system. She's also starting a social media campaign, which will educate the public about the state's probation and parole practices and amplify the stories of formerly imprisoned people with the slogan #NotFree.
'Where did I go wrong?'
When her then 18-year-old son went to prison, Tate's main fear was for his safety. She heard stories from friends about family members getting jumped by inmates.
Part of the safety problem in Alabama is the overcrowding. If every state was its own independent country, Alabama's incarceration rate would rank fifth at 946 people in jail or prison for every 100,000 people. That's lower than 987 per 100,000 in 2016, but higher than the United States' incarceration rate of 698.
Health issues -- both physical and mental -- are also well known problems in Alabama's prisons. In 2017, a federal judge ruled in favor of groups who sued the state because Alabama provided constitutionally inadequate mental-health care for inmates. An agreement has been reached between the plaintiffs and the state to provide more responsive care. A meningitis outbreak at Ventress Correctional Facility in Barbour County last month left an inmate dead. The inmate's family is accusing correctional officers of providing "insufficient medical care."
But while Tate was aware of the dangers her son faced in jail, she also made sure he knew the dangers of his actions by putting him in the victim's shoes.
"I had to make him think like, 'What if that were your grandmother or me? Would you want somebody to rob us?" Tate said. "'What if somebody tried to rob me while me while you're in prison and there's nothing you can do. It would have devastated you.' He is sorry for his mistake."
Tate was also shrouded in guilt. After having her son at 17, she made sure he was cocooned in support. Tate's mom and grandmother took care of him while she went to college and graduated as a licensed practical nurse in 1995. The family took him to church every Sunday, where he was baptized at an early age. Although he was going through a rebellious stage, she didn't see his arrest coming.
"Spiritually, I was like questioning myself, 'Where did I go wrong?'" He said.
While driving to visit her son in prison during a Saturday afternoon in 2006, she found herself teary-eyed and boiling with rage. She was angry at the court system and at God. After wiping her eyes and walking into the correctional facility, she found herself asking the question that gave her the clarity she needed.
"I just questioned God, 'Why am I going through this?" Tate said. "God just spoke to my heart, 'Because I am going to use you to set the captive free. I'm going to send you on another journey."
Following the calling
The revelation was powerful enough to break her away from a career she loved since she was a child. She was working at the Jefferson County Health Department when her son was arrested. When she tried to go back to college to become a registered nurse, she said a calling stirred inside of her. She received her bachelor's degree in criminal justice in 2007 from the University of Phoenix and shortly after graduating, started working as a probation officer for the Florida Department of Corrections.
As an advocate, Tate examines what happens to a person before, during and after imprisonment. Doing so could prevent individuals from either going back to jail or prevent them from being incarcerated in the first place.
"Why aren't we getting to the root of what is causing these individuals to spin out of control?" Tate said. "Is it some type of mental illness? Is it some type of sexual abuse? Something has transpired in this person's life that made them travel down this road."
As she was changing the trajectory of her profession, she rooted herself in her faith, family and friends to receive spiritual healing. The shroud of guilt she once wore before fell off of her as her brothers convinced her she didn't do anything wrong and her friends of over two decades encouraged her to keep her head up.
"I have talked about what I have been through as a mother to release the hurt so I can heal and go forward," Tate said. "I believe all of that has led me to the journey I am on now."
Her son's situation kept her dedication to the criminal justice field burning. She could change lives in this field, even if that meant moving to Enterprise, Alabama, and commuting 55 minutes to Walton County, Florida, where she was a probation officer. While Tate said her coworkers believed in jailing people as soon as they stepped out of line, she believed in adding a personal touch of care. If someone failed a drug test, she would offer long-term rehabilitation programs. If someone was homeless, she would go on a hunt for their housing. She taught GED classes in the jail. As the prison liaison, she educated inmates who were going to be released about the resources available in their home county.
Between the commuting and the caring in 2008, Tate studied and received her master's degree. Becoming a probation officer and studying the field at the same time gave Tate a chance to see how the criminal justice system worked and the places where it could be flawed.
"Every decision I made when I supervised a person on probation, I always put my son in the equation," Tate said. "I think we should do everything possible to find alternative ways and measures besides putting a person in jail. We need to get to the root of what is really transpiring. We need to see why these people are doing what they are doing."
She retired in 2014 and moved back to Birmingham, where she advised others what to expect after a loved one was arrested or imprisoned. It was clear she wanted to do more in the field. So she applied for the 18-month long Open Society Foundation's Soros Justice Fellowship, which funds individuals desiring to build programs and projects geared towards criminal justice reform.
"You're supposed to go to prison and be a model prisoner in an atmosphere with thousands and thousands of individuals, which is impossible," Tate said. "You put people in theses spaces while they were already having some form of mental illness. There are a lot of people coming out of prison with post-traumatic stress disorder."
One of the main things she wants to attack are people's attitudes towards formerly imprisoned individuals. Tate wants people to see them as leaders in the community instead of criminals. She knows many individuals who tell their stories of imprisonment as they mentor children and teens. She plans to go to churches to educate pastors and their congregations about the hardships of reentry and why they shouldn't be afraid to talk to those who have been imprisoned before.
"We know, especially in the South, people are not forgiving," Tate said. "We sit in church every Sunday and we don't forgive. We walk around like we are these perfect people living in this perfect world and we don't want to give people a chance."
Tate said her organization will extend beyond the incarcerated individual to support their family members, the ones who are probably embarrassed by the conviction. She's creating support groups and wants to educate them about how to be criminal justice advocates.
Tate remembers feeling embarrassed to talk about her son, who is now back in church and raising a daughter. It wasn't until she started telling her story in supportive environments that her healing begun, she said. She wanted to let other family members of imprisoned individuals know they don't have to break themselves down. They can build themselves up through advocacy work for their family and others.
"You have to teach a family member that your son, your daughter or your husband may be in prison, but there are things you can do on the outside," She said.