A biweekly newsletter about education during and after incarceration. Written by Open Campus reporter Charlotte West.

As part of College Inside’s ongoing coverage of pathways to education and employment after prison, we spoke with Tanaine Jenkins about her path from incarceration to entrepreneurship and public advocacy.

Jenkins was a junior in college and working full-time when she was sentenced to two years in prison. She wasn’t able to simply pick her degree back up after release, as she’d assumed she would.

While incarcerated, she became the GED teacher at her minimum-security camp, later working in the kitchen as a baker and leading a poetry ministry and choir. Since coming home, she has founded three businesses, including Second Sentence Awareness, through which she consults with and trains nonprofit organizations in grassroots advocacy and organizing. She currently serves as a state campaign organizer and director of the Florida Safety Coalition for REFORM Alliance, a national nonprofit working to transform probation and parole policies. She is currently enrolled in college pursuing her public policy degree and a mentor to justice impacted men and women seeking a higher education. 

This interview has been edited lightly for length and clarity.

Can you tell us about your experience with education and training while you were inside, and your trajectory since you’ve been out?

I was at a work camp, and I just so happened to be the GED teacher there. We didn’t have tablets — everything was paper, and we administered the GED test through paper, with old textbooks. Before I went to prison, I was in college, in my junior year, fall semester. Unfortunately, I was not able to go back to college when I came home, because I failed that semester, and so my loans defaulted, as well as my Pell Grant, and I couldn’t get any more funding until I paid that off. Since I’ve been home, I’ve been getting certificates, but I still want to go and major in public policy, to improve laws and bills.

Tell me about what you’ve done career-wise since you’ve come home.

I started two businesses. The first was called Everything I Am. I started that because it took me almost nine years to feel like I was enough when I came home — society tells you that you’re never going to amount to anything, it’s a huge stigma when you have a felony conviction. So Everything I Am was created because I knew if I felt like that, other people felt like that too. Then I started a clothing line for people with locs, and later Second Sentence Awareness, where I travel the country speaking about the second sentence returning citizens face when they come home. Because I started sharing my story, I was recruited by Reform Alliance to be their state organizer and the director of the Florida Safety Coalition. I don’t feel like I’m working in this role — I just feel like I’m doing what I’ve always done, which is speak about the second sentence and advocate for those who are home.

Most recently, I partnered with the Televerde Foundation to bring a six-week public speaking and professional communication pilot program to incarcerated women in Indiana. Through the program, I’ll help women find their voices, own their stories, and recognize the power they already carry.

Can you talk more about what you mean by the second sentence?

It’s also called collateral consequences — it goes by so many names, but I call it the second sentence, because after we’re sentenced once by the judge, we’re sentenced again by society. Once I finished my sentence, it should have been done, it should have been over. 

It includes the laws, policies, restrictions, and stigma that make it difficult for people with a conviction to fully rebuild their lives, such as barriers to employment, housing, education, professional licenses, voting, and public benefits. These consequences may not appear in the original sentence, but they can follow someone for years or even a lifetime.

What pushed you toward entrepreneurship as a path forward?

Before prison, I was a business analyst, making about $60,000 a year. When I came home, I was making $6.25 an hour, and I had to learn the ABCs — any job, better job, career. When you have a felony conviction, anything you did prior to prison, career-wise, society says you can no longer do. So how can I support myself and make a pathway forward? Entrepreneurship was that pathway. I learned how to fill gaps that I saw — if you see a problem, figure out a way to fix that problem. Entrepreneurship allowed me to be financially stable, because a lot of jobs that would hire me would not pay me a living wage. I know my worth, and I think everyone should know their worth — if you feel like you deserve more and deserve better, just like I did, you create it.

What do you wish someone had told you while you were still inside about education or training once you came home?

That it wasn’t going to be easy, that it wasn’t going to go back to what it was before. We all want to come home and do better, and sometimes there are barriers and roadblocks that won’t allow us to do that. I wish I knew about the barriers with entrepreneurship and even education. I thought I could come home and just go back to college, and I didn’t know that because I failed my final semester, I’d have to pay that money back and my loans would be in default. I just wish someone would have asked me, “What do you want to do? What is your plan?” I had no one to ask me what my plan was, or even help me try to create one. So I was spinning my wheels and just existing, not really living, when I came home.

People often struggle to translate what they did inside into terms an employer understands. How did you make that transition?

I was in a leadership role — as a GED teacher, I was leading and training other people on the inside. I created a choir and a poetry ministry, so I learned to organize. I was also a baker in the kitchen at the end. I was at a job readiness event, and Publix was there talking about working in a bakery, and I said, “I worked in the bakery too — my biscuits were fluffy.” Whether you were in prison or not, you still did it, and it’s still a skill that was picked up. Everything I did in prison, I do on the outside now — I organize, I advocate, I train, I lead.

What do you want employers to know about hiring people who are coming home after prison?

When you give someone a chance, they can be the most loyal individuals ever, because all they want is a chance. That’s all I wanted. When I got that job making $6.25 after nobody else would hire me, I worked my butt off, and I knew that because they took a chance on me, I didn’t want to let them down, nor did I want to let myself down. When you give someone a chance to be better and be great, they’ll show you exactly what they can do, and they will be loyal because you gave them a chance.

What’s the difference, to you, between a job and a career?

A job is something that you clock into every day — it’s a means to an end. A career is something that you’re passionate about and that you feel fulfilled in. I can see a future in it, and I can grow in it. With the career that I have, it’s so purpose-driven and fulfilling that I would actually do this for free.

Where do you think people should get accurate information about what’s possible, both inside and after coming home?

Don’t take directions from someone who has never been where you are and where you’re trying to go. Talk to someone who has been in your shoes and has succeeded — that’s the best form of information on how to get into a certain career. That’s like asking a chef how to be an astronaut. He won’t know — ask the astronaut. When I came home, there was a list of companies that would supposedly hire someone with a felony conviction, but that’s not necessarily accurate. 

Any final advice, or myths you want to bust?

It’s not easy, but it’s possible. There will be barriers, there will be hiccups — you might fall, you might get walked out of jobs like I did. But it’s possible, and you’re going to find somebody that gives you that chance. And I don’t want you to shy away from your story. It could be something that you did, but it’s not who you are. Shying away from your story is leaving out the part that actually built you up. Your story will open doors for you. It opened doors for me — trust me, it’ll open doors for you too. Own it.

Read more about Tanaine Jenkins on her website.

Let’s connect

Please connect if you have story ideas or just want to share your experience with prison education programs as a student or educator. You can always reach me at charlotte@opencampusmedia.org or on Bluesky, LinkedIn, or Instagram. To reach me via snail mail, you can write to: Open Campus, 2460 17th Avenue #1015, Santa Cruz, CA 95062.

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