As 2025 began, Los Angeles was ravaged by historic fires. Residents were forced to rely on firefighters to bravely confront walls of flames that threatened their homes and lives. Among the crews that responded, and continue to, were more than 1,000 incarcerated firefighters paid as little as $5.80 each day. With the fires now largely contained, we cannot forget their heroism.
Stay up-to-date with the politics team. Sign up for the Teen Vogue Take
For over two years, I served California as a firefighter. I responded to car accidents, medical emergencies, and wildfires. I was deployed to the scene of heart attacks, drownings, and overdoses. I performed CPR to resuscitate unconscious people, rescued others trapped in crushed vehicles, and evacuated people from homes threatened by wildfires. Along with other incarcerated women, I saved lives.
The work was rewarding, and at times I loved it. It gave me a sense of purpose in a place where it’s hard to find: prison. But make no mistake, neither I nor my work felt dignified or valued.
I signed up to be a firefighter to do what little I could to improve my lot in prison. It was one of the few jobs that allowed you to leave prison grounds, a dream when you’re locked up. It was also the highest paying job, though even on those wages, I couldn’t support my three children or even afford regular calls and visits with them. I couldn’t pay back my court fees — my debt just mounted as I tried to prepare for my release, which proved impossible.
But perhaps worst of all, I wasn’t afforded the support, protections, and opportunities that non-incarcerated firefighters were. Incarcerated firefighters are four times more likely to be sustain injuries than non-incarcerated firefighters, according to a 2018 report in TIME drawing on Freedom of Information Act requests. Yet, our medical care was insufficient for the injuries we sustained. There was no therapy after difficult calls. And when I came home, I couldn’t get a job as a firefighter because of my criminal record — a law that only recently changed.
If it wasn’t already obvious that California ruthlessly relied on prison labor without appreciating the humanity of incarcerated workers, one call made it clear.
It was Christmas Eve, and our engine got called to a house fire. The family made it out, but the house was ablaze. We couldn’t stop thinking about the children, and what we could do to save their Christmas. We ran back into the house and did what we could to save the gifts under the tree, some family keepsakes, and anything else we found.
As we were running in and out of the burning house, a correctional officer from our prison ran up. To our surprise, it was his house. This was a man who controlled every move we made, who told us when we could and couldn’t talk to our own children, and who locked us in our cages every night. Saving his house wouldn’t and didn’t change that. It weighed on us, but we continued in and out of the flames.
