Next time we want to complain about rising prices at the grocery store, consider those who don’t even have that option—people whose monthly earnings might not even cover the cost of a dozen eggs.

I’m a ’90s baby, and for as long as I can remember, minimum wage has been a hot topic—one that affects people from all walks of life. But while we (rightfully) debate whether $15 an hour is a livable wage, there’s an entire segment of the country making as little as three cents an hour. Yes, three cents.

I’m talking about incarcerated workers performing essential labor inside prisons for next to nothing—and sometimes nothing at all. From manufacturing everyday goods to fighting California wildfires, they contribute billions to the economy while barely making enough to buy a ramen packet from the commissary. And yet their exploitation is rarely part of our national conversation about wages and workers’ rights.

Prison jobs pay a quarter or less per hour in 14 states across America, according to a report by Statista, with states like Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, South Carolina, Mississippi, and Texas still refusing to pay incarcerated workers at all. This exploitation is not new; it is deeply rooted in America’s history.

When slavery was abolished in 1865 through the 13th Amendment, it came with a loophole—it allowed involuntary servitude as punishment for those convicted of crimes. Almost immediately, Southern states exploited this by enacting Black Codes that criminalized everyday activities like loitering or vagrancy among formerly enslaved people. Petty offenses became punishable by forced labor. At the same time, convict leasing systems turned prisons into profit-generating enterprises.

By the early 20th century, Jim Crow laws ensured Black people remained second-class citizens through segregation policies that reinforced systemic inequality alongside brutal chain gangs disproportionately filled with Black men—whose bodies were still seen as sources of cheap labor.

As the Civil Rights Movement gained momentum in the 1950s and ’60s, so did efforts to criminalize Black resistance. Richard Nixon’s 1968 campaign capitalized on white fears with "law and order" rhetoric, solidifying mass incarceration as a political tool. By 1971, Nixon officially declared a “War on Drugs”—a policy explicitly aimed at targeting Black communities and anti-war movements under his administration's guise of “law and order.” 

John Ehrlichman, who was President Richard Nixon's domestic policy chief, said it best in 1994:

The 1980s ushered in the crack epidemic and a legislative onslaught that disproportionately punished Black Americans. The 1986 Anti-Drug Abuse Act established mandatory minimums and a 100:1 sentencing disparity between crack and powder cocaine—two forms of the same drug disproportionately tied to Black communities and white elites. The result was an explosion in the Black prison population.

As the 1990s arrived, fearmongering reached new heights. Media outlets and politicians perpetuated racially charged myths like that of “superpredators,” fueling panic that paved paths toward over-policing policies like Clinton’s Crime Bill (1994), which poured money into policing, expanded prisons, and imposed harsh three-strikes laws that devastated Black and Brown communities. This was a bipartisan effort, proving that the machinery of mass incarceration was not bound to one party or ideology, but rather embedded in the nation’s DNA.

Even as calls for reform grew in the 2000s and beyond, the prison-industrial complex adapted. Private prisons turned incarceration into a business, generating billions annually by exploiting incarcerated labor while cutting costs through substandard wages and conditions. Cash bail criminalized poverty, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities by trapping low-income individuals in jail for minor offenses simply because they cannot afford bail. Modern tools like ankle monitors, predictive policing algorithms, and facial recognition software extend systemic control beyond prison walls and continue the same work that Black Codes and Jim Crow once did: Guaranteeing access to cheap labor while maintaining white supremacy.

The question remains: Can this deeply entrenched system ever be dismantled? Can a system built on racial control and profit be dismantled? The answer lies in the hands of many who even refuse to accept the systemic reality of mass incarceration. By acknowledging mass incarceration as a modern iteration of enslavement, advocating for systemic decarceration initiatives, and investing in communities rather than cages, there is a path forward. But it likely requires more than voting for the “right” candidate during election time. 

Keep this in mind: The system isn’t broken; it’s working exactly as it was designed to work.