Working on California’s incarcerated fire crews: “It is kind of like you’re a slave”

This story was originally published by the Guardian and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

As firefighters are battling multiple huge blazes tearing through Los Angeles, California’s prisons have deployed more than 1,000 incarcerated people to battle on the frontlines.

The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) said that, as of Wednesday morning, 1,116 incarcerated people were embedded with the state’s other firefighters to help slow the spread of the infernos that have killed at least 25 people and devastated neighborhoods across LA county.

More than 20 incarcerated crews have been deployed over the last week, dressed in orange uniforms and working in perilous conditions. They primarily use hand tools to cut fire lines and remove fuel by structures.

Some on the frontlines are incarcerated youth aged 18 to 25. A CDCR spokesperson said 55 youth participants had been deployed to LA as of Monday, but the numbers have fluctuated daily. The Anti-Recidivism Coalition, a nonprofit that supports participants with re-entry, has been fundraising for 30 imprisoned youth on the frontlines.

California is one of at least 14 states with incarcerated firefighter programs, according to the ACLU. Participants in California are serving state prison sentences and housed at minimum-security facilities called fire camps, where they train as first responders and provide services during fire emergencies and other natural disasters.

The jobs are voluntary and highly coveted, as participants get to leave the traditional prison environment, get meaningful training and get their sentences shortened in exchange for service.

But the program has also faced intense scrutiny. Incarcerated firefighters make between $5.80 and $10.24 daily, and an additional $1 hourly while responding to emergencies. This week, some are working 24-hour shifts, where they can earn $29.80 to $34.24 a day, and then have 24-hour rest periods.

Former participants said they appreciated the opportunities, which were far superior to the monotony and crowded conditions of their cells, but also acknowledged their struggles with the grueling work, lack of basic labor protections and meager wages. Some said the jobs were life-changing, but many have struggled to access similar work after prison.

Rasheed Stanley-Lockheart served at a firehouse at San Quentin prison in the Bay Area from 2018 to 2020, at the end of his sentence. In that job, he was housed outside of the prison. He lived in a single room, could walk by the San Francisco Bay on the edge of the prison complex, and had access to much better food.

He took the job after having been in prison for more than 15 years. At the time, “I had gratitude for being able to get out of prison,” he said. “I’ll never forget the first day my captain picked me up: I got to eat on an actual house plate. It felt so foreign.”

But his view has changed over time. “I look back at it as involuntary servitude,” he said.

Stanley-Lockheart did the work of a traditional municipal firefighter, responding to blazes in the community and medical emergencies in and out of the prison. There were no breaks—he was on call 24/7 and made roughly $50 a month, he said.

“Who wants to sit inside the prison walls as opposed to doing this?” he said. “But let’s say I wanted a day off—you can’t take it, because you’re gonna go back to prison. You’re still incarcerated, like they’re dangling shiny keys over a monkey.”

He said his captains and fire chief treated him well, but he blames the larger system, which gives people impossible choices and has incarcerated people doing vital work for such small wages. He said he remained scarred from doing CPR on an incarcerated mentor in a rehabilitation group who did not survive: “I made a commitment to him even in his death that I will do better in my life and continue this work.”

Stanley-Lockheart now works in grant development with The Place4Grace, a nonprofit that helps families affected by incarceration. He faced significant financial difficulties when he came home from prison and still struggles today, he said. If the prison had paid proper wages for firefighting, it could’ve been transformative for his re-entry, he argued: “If you’re willing to run into fire and save lives, they deserve the same amount of pay as others.”

California voters had an opportunity to address these inequities in November, with Proposition 6, a ballot measure to amend the state’s constitution to ban involuntary servitude for people in prison. Advocates said Prop 6 could have paved the way for better prison wages and prevented forced labor behind bars, but 53% of voters rejected it.

Stanley-Lockheart said he was disheartened by the vote: “Why won’t people just recognize us as human beings and see that we’re redeemable?”

California has for years depended on incarcerated people to fight fires, with imprisoned crews at times accounting for as much as 30 percent of the wildfire force in the state. Several people have died battling fires and in the line of duty.

Fire camp participants have also long struggled to continue those careers on the outside.

Laquisha Johnson, who served in a California fire camp roughly a decade ago, said that when she was released in 2016, she showed up to firehouses in the Los Angeles area with her résumé: “I had documentation of my training, certificates, references, and they told me no. I was so passionate and fired up about it, and it was disappointing to my self-esteem,” she said. Her record made her ineligible, she recalled: “I served my time. I want to be a citizen, and this is the way I feel I can contribute to society.”

Johnson, 34, had experience on the frontlines of wildland firefighting. “You can barely breathe and you have to move so fast. And it’s like you’re inside of an oven. People really don’t understand how dangerous it is,” she recalled. The wages, she said, weren’t enough to allow her to buy the hygiene supplies she needed or pay for phone calls: “To put it bluntly, it is kind of like you’re a slave…But the work was rewarding and I had to just say I’m doing it for the people.”

Wages were increased in 2019, and in September 2020, California’s Gov. Gavin Newsom signed a law to give incarcerated firefighters more opportunities upon release, allowing some participants to have their records expunged. But advocates say the scope was narrow and many still face barriers.

Johnson is now an advocate with the Sister Warriors Freedom Coalition, a group that supports formerly and currently incarcerated people. She recently learned of the new law and is hoping to get her record expunged so she can pursue firefighting again, she said: “I’ve gotten so many nos in life, but I don’t give up.”

Royal Ramey, a formerly incarcerated firefighter, said his exposure to violence early in life helped prepare him for the dangerous job. “I didn’t have fear. I liked the mental, physical, and emotional challenge,” he said.

He co-founded the Forestry and Fire Recruitment Program to help connect people like him to jobs, noting that the majority of US firefighters are white and that these initiatives can expand and diversify the in-demand workforces: “It’s gnarly work. All the 900-plus brave men and women out there deserve that opportunity to get a job when they come home.”

The Anti-Recidivism Coalition (ARC) is another group working to fill the gap. The Ventura Training Center—ARC’s 18-month program with the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (Cal Fire)—trains formerly incarcerated firefighters, providing a pathway to jobs.

Eddie Herrera Jr, who did ARC’s program, first worked as an incarcerated municipal firefighter at the Mule Creek prison outside Sacramento in 2019 and 2020, at one point responding to a fire at a correctional officer’s home in the city. He recalled how shocked he was to sleep on a proper mattress for the first time in years when he took his job: “Being in a place where you don’t really have to worry about your safety, and now you’re actually being the one providing that help for others, it was a big step.”

When he came home in December 2020, he was desperate to build a career: “I was so driven. I told myself, nothing’s going to stop me. I’m going to change people’s minds just with my work ethic.”

Herrera, 47, graduated from the training center and got a firefighting job in San Luis Obispo, one of more than 270 people who have received job placements through the program. He recently accepted a fire apparatus engineer position and will be completing an academy near Mule Creek prison, where he first did firefighting. From making roughly $50 a month, he will now have a pension when he retires. He also got his record expunged.

Herrera knows others aren’t as lucky as him, especially those who struggle to provide for their families upon return and can’t afford to do more training. But he hopes the spotlight during this week’s wildfires will open more doors.

“My journey started with believing in myself and believing in growth and redemption,” he said. “My message to those inside is to find that hope, and know that there is a community outside that believes in second chances.”