Abstract

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.… When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me. Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man Although Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952) was written to chronicle the plight of one who was both Black and American, the quotation above might also describe the feelings of incarcerated populations, particularly incarcerated women, in the United States. Incarcerated women are largely African American; thus, many of them bear the quadruple burden of their race/ethnicity, class, gender, and status as a criminal offender. That being Black, being female, being poor, and being a criminal offender confers serious health risks is clear. Because incarcerated women are “invisible,” there has been little in the way of research and policy development that would advance their health status. Thus it is no surprise that for the most part, the health of incarcerated women is worse than that of incarcerated men and than that of women in the general population.1

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