What’s it like to come home from prison? Reentry simulations let people experience it firsthand

You have just been released from prison after being incarcerated for several years. How do you start a new life?

Your first impulse might be to try getting a job or finding an apartment. But before you can build any of those foundational pieces, you realize your Social Security card and birth certificate are long gone; those weren’t necessary to sell drugs or for other illegal activity, but they are now. You still owe fines and fees to the court, which can get you reincarcerated if you don’t pay.

And how are you going to eat?

There is a dizzying number of potential pitfalls with reentry for inmates coming out of state and federal prisons. The Pennsylvania Department of Corrections found that nearly two-thirds of the 20,000 people released from state prisons in 2016 were rearrested or reincarcerated within three years. Of that group, 75% of them did so within the first 16 months after their release.

Some people close to Philadelphia’s reentry process are working to change that high recidivism rate. On Tuesday evening, the Philadelphia Bar Foundation, Philadelphia Bar Association and the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania hosted a reentry simulation for legal professionals and reentry advocates seeking a deeper understanding of what it is like to come home from prison.

“I’m hoping that people, in walking in the shoes of a reentering citizen, understand fully all the barriers to reentry,” said U.S. Attorney Jacqueline Romero.

Since 2007, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the Federal Defender’s Office, and the U.S. Probation Office have worked together on a supervised release reentry program, called Supervision to Aid Reentry (STAR), or otherwise known as Reentry Court, which is intended for people with middle to high risk of recidivism. Regularly conducting these reentry simulations with various organizations is a key component to the U.S. Attorney’s Office’s work on reentry.

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“Whether it’s housing, it’s getting an ID, whether it’s figuring out your daily budget for the week and putting food on the table ... it is something where if they don’t figure it out and the stress builds up and the stress builds up ... reentering citizens might go out and do something desperate,” Romero said.

At the start of the simulation, each person was given a name and a “wallet.”

Inside the wallet was an information sheet with details about the reentering person they would be portraying. It described such things as how many years they were in prison and the crimes they were charged with, what their living situation was like immediately after leaving prison, or whether they owed additional money for child support or restitution. Each wallet also held other items such as different amounts of cash, forms of identification, and a card representing personal items they could pawn, if necessary.

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Then, the clock started. The simulation was divided into four 15-minute blocks, each meant to represent a week in the first month of reentry. The goal by the end of the month was to fulfill a list of financial and legal tasks, all while staying out of jail and making sure to buy food each week.

Fourteen stations around the room represented different institutions that a reentering person might interact with: social services, probation, court, a career center, a homeless shelter, among others. If a person needed to earn a GED, participants could fill out a word search puzzle. By design, the exercise was frantic.

Bianca van Heydoorn, executive director of the Youth Sentencing & Reentry Project, quickly realized that as “Jaquay,” she needed another form of ID before she could even apply for a job or donate blood for cash. She joined a long line at the identification station, which took up most of her first “week” out of prison. Most of the simulation participants had to do the same, a measure to represent the frustrating bureaucracy involved in reentry.

At her meeting with her probation officer, van Heydoorn handed over some of her cash for a mandated drug test. Van Heydoorn flipped over a card on the table at random to see her test result — she’d failed. By week three, “Jaquay” was back in jail.

Theodore McKee, judge for the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit, met the same fate while role-playing as “Beatrice.” It wasn’t a surprise to McKee; he’s gotten to know people who’ve struggled with reentry during his years on the bench.

“It’s not easy to stay out,” he said. “The obstacles are everywhere and they are constant.”

With the pressure mounting to pay rent and fines as the weeks ticked by, some decided that it was time to take a risk. At the “chance” station, people could pick a card representing an illegal activity such as robbing a bank or selling drugs, and flip it over to see whether their desperation paid off. At one point, the volunteer overseeing the station said that three-quarters of the people who took a chance had been sent to jail.

“I see how easy it is to give up and go back to what you know,” said Selina Carrera, a teacher at the Philadelphia Juvenile Justice Services Center.

After the simulation ended, van Heydoorn said she “felt vindicated” about her advocacy work on behalf of incarcerated and reentering young people. She explained how even though much of the focus on reentry work is working against recidivism, the simulation showed how much a person could still be going through even if avoiding reincarceration.

“You could stay out of jail and still be struggling,” she said.

Aslam Ashari, 63, experienced the simulation differently than others. He’s been through the real thing.

“That seemed fun, but it ain’t fun,” he said in a panel discussion following the simulation.

“It ain’t nothing compared to coming home and you ain’t got nothing ... you’re starting over again.”

Ashari is a graduate of the STAR program after spending 11 years in federal prison. He was born and raised in North Philly, but now lives in Chestnut Hill. He said that he ended up in prison because he “lost patience” and didn’t believe in himself enough to create the kind of life he wanted to live without illegal means.

As he was released in 2021, his parole officer mentioned the STAR program as a possibility; Ashari was skeptical at first, but was willing to give it a try. STAR helped him get his IDs, housing, job training and enrollment in an entrepreneurship course at the University of Pennsylvania. Now he works for Resources for Human Development, a human services nonprofit.

Today, Ashari is full of the self-confidence that he once lacked.

“I ain’t going back in there. That’s over with. I’m too smart for that,” he told The Inquirer.

He aims to start his own nonprofit one day, which will focus on leadership and workforce development. Until then, he’s enjoying the new life he’s building.

“Each day I go to work, I’m out there helping somebody,” he said.