Everyday Injustice sat down with Kwaneta Harris, an incarcerated writer housed at the Lane Murray Unit, the largest women’s prison in Texas. Harris, a former nurse, domestic violence survivor, and now a journalist, shares her harrowing story of self-defense, surviving eight years in solitary confinement, and finding her voice through writing.
Vanguard: Kwaneta, thank you for joining us. Can you tell us where you’re currently housed?
Kwaneta Harris: I’m at the Lane Murray Unit in Gatesville, Texas. It’s the largest women’s state prison here. Texas is home to one of the largest prison populations in the U.S., second only to the federal Bureau of Prisons.
Vanguard: Can you share a bit about your story and how you ended up incarcerated?
Harris: I’m originally from Detroit, Michigan. I was a nurse, married, lived overseas, and eventually returned home. I ended up in Texas to end a relationship with an abusive boyfriend. Things escalated—he wasn’t accepting that the relationship was over, and I killed him in an act of self-defense. Despite having no prior criminal record, I was sentenced to 50 years.
After moving through several women’s units, I ended up spending eight and a half years in solitary confinement. I was placed there after an escape attempt, though it wasn’t really what people think. I just needed space. I was grieving losses back home and wrote to Huntsville asking to be housed alone. Instead, they put me in solitary.
Vanguard: Can you describe what solitary confinement was like?
Harris: It was worse than anything I’ve endured—and I’ve survived childhood sexual trauma, domestic violence, kidnapping. But isolation broke me in a different way. Women experience solitary differently than men. We’re overlooked in the research, but it does enormous mental and emotional damage.
You’re locked in a cage, often 24 hours a day, no air conditioning—this is Texas. No phones, no personal TVs. For years, I barely spoke to anyone. What broke me most was seeing children—16, 17, 18-year-old girls—in those cells. Watching them trade sexual favors for basic things like toilet paper or pads. Women have different needs—menstruation, basic hygiene—that go unmet. Texas doesn’t care. We’re given the same supplies as the men, but it’s not enough.
Vanguard: You’ve said solitary was where you found your voice. How did that happen?
Harris: I started writing. At first, it was just journaling to cope. But then I realized these stories needed to be told. The average education level in solitary was maybe seventh grade. Many women couldn’t read well, so I started reading to them—articles, books, anything. It became story time. It gave us a sense of community.
The more I learned their stories, the more I saw my own privilege—having an education, being able to write. That pushed me to tell their stories too. I realized these women weren’t monsters; they were victims—of poverty, of abuse, of a broken system.
Vanguard: What was it like seeing your writing published for the first time?
Harris: Life-changing. Vikki Law, a journalist I admire, pushed me to submit my work. I wrote about Texas prisoners still picking cotton—how we’re forced to grow produce we never get to eat, sold to companies like Aldi.
When Truthout published it—and I won their contest—I was stunned. It made me realize people do care. Since then, I’ve written for Rolling Stone, Dallas Morning News, NPR’s This American Life. But it’s not always easy. I’ve also received hate mail—racist, violent threats telling me to kill myself. I wasn’t prepared for that. I thought, “I’m fighting to survive here, and people out there waste time writing me hate?”
Vanguard: Why is carceral journalism—stories written from inside—so important?
Harris: Because no one else is telling the truth about what’s happening inside. People think prison means rehabilitation. That’s a lie. There’s no help here. People assume if you’re locked up, you’re a monster. But most of us are trauma survivors, not villains.
Prison writing pushes back on the official narratives. They use euphemisms—“restricted housing” instead of solitary—but it’s all the same. If people saw what happens in their name, they’d be horrified. I always say, put cameras in here and run it live. See what really happens.
Vanguard: From your perspective, what’s the human cost of solitary confinement, especially for women?
Harris: It’s devastating. I watched girls come in at 16 and stay locked up through their 30s because they kept “acting out”—because they’re mentally ill or just broken. And every “incident” leads to new charges, more time. It’s a pipeline to nowhere.
And for women, there’s always sexual violence. Male guards rub against us during escorts, leer at us in the shower. They’re emboldened because we’re invisible. No cameras. No one cares.
Vanguard: What keeps you going, Kwaneta?
Harris: The women around me. Telling our stories. Reminding people we’re human. I’ve seen so much—suicides, abuse—but I haven’t met the monsters society claims we are. I meet women who need help, not cages.
We’re not irredeemable. And that’s why I write—to show the world we deserve to be seen.
Vanguard: Thank you, Kwaneta, for your bravery and your voice.
Harris: Thank you. We have to keep pushing back on these false narratives. I’m grateful for outlets like Everyday Injustice that let us speak.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length. Follow Kwaneta Harris’s work as she continues to expose the human cost of mass incarceration and solitary confinement in Texas.
