'Calls From Home': How one Kentucky radio station connects inmates and families
| Whitesburg, Ky.
As the last notes of Childish Gambino鈥檚 鈥淢e And Your Mama鈥� fade to silence, Tom Sexton leans forward into a microphone.
鈥淐oming up by request,鈥� he says in a softened-for-radio Appalachian drawl, 鈥済oing out to Sporty Black from his wife, this is Kendrick Lamar with 鈥楲OVE.鈥� 鈥�
The melodic R&B track then begins to emanate from the heart of this small eastern Kentucky town, across the ice-clad mountains of central Appalachia. Close to 100,000 people could be tuning in, but tonight鈥檚 shows are targeted for a very specific audience. People like 鈥淪porty Black.鈥�
More than 5,000 men are incarcerated in the six federal and state prisons in the broadcasting range of WMMT. Every week, for almost 20 years, the station has produced a show called 鈥淐alls From Home鈥� that broadcasts recorded messages from the inmates鈥� friends and family members.
WMMT 聽as 鈥渁 24 hour voice of mountain people,鈥� and as far as the station is concerned, if the inmates can tune in, then they are mountain people too.
鈥淭hey鈥檙e not willingly part of our communities here, but they鈥檙e here and part of our communities,鈥� says Elizabeth Sanders, WMMT鈥檚 co-general manager and a 鈥淐alls From Home鈥� producer.
鈥淎nything we can do to help make the barriers between them and their families a little bit less, then we鈥檙e fulfilling part of our mission as the radio station here,鈥� she adds.
The has become something of phenomenon. Every Monday night calls flood in to the station, housed in a wooden, warehouse-looking building on Whitesburg鈥檚 main street.
In the Summit City bar in Whitesburg, Eli Jefferson, a young man with a white trucker hat and a bushy beard, is among the patrons familiar with the show.
鈥淚t鈥檚 pretty depressing,鈥� he says. But 鈥淚 feel like it鈥檚 a good way to connect with prisoners.鈥�
And, he adds, 鈥淚 feel like it鈥檚 good for the people that are hearing it.鈥�
On this frosty night, Ms. Sanders is taking calls while Mr. Sexton DJs in the studio downstairs. When song requests come in she texts them to him. Some of the calls come with children discussing a report card, a 鈥渉appy birthday鈥� rendition, or more somber family news. Many, she says, simply recount the routine events of the day. One of the first calls of the night fits that profile.
鈥淗ey baby, this is your wife, this is your Monday blues chaser,鈥� begins a tired-sounding woman. 鈥淭he girls are behaving, and I鈥檓 good. I鈥檝e been hard at it, I got some decent sleep the weekend. Yeah, some normal hours.鈥�
Pitched as a new source of economic development amid coal power鈥檚 decline, prisons began sprouting up . Sanders grew up near Whitesburg during the prison-building boom, but in the seven years she鈥檚 spent working on 鈥淐alls From Home鈥� she says she鈥檚 gained a far more intimate knowledge of the routines, processes, and challenges of incarceration.
Take the difficulties families can have visiting loved ones in prison, even on weekends. There is no bus to Wise County, Va. 鈥� where Red Onion and Wallens Ridge state prisons are located 鈥� for example, and it鈥檚 a six-hour drive from Richmond, Va., where many inmates鈥� families live. Living in a city with public transportation, many families don鈥檛 have cars and have to find alternate ways to make the trip, weighing the cost of staying in a hotel overnight against a 12-hour round-trip.
There are also inmates whose families don鈥檛 live in the continental United States. For a few years Virginia had a contract to house inmates from the US Virgin Islands, while a private prison in Kentucky held inmates from Hawaii. Getting calls from the Virgin Islands 鈥渏ust baffled me,鈥� Sanders says.
Then there are the costs of calling prisons directly. Those have been rising for years, reaching in excess of $10 a minute in some cases until 2015, when Federal Communications Commission announced a rule capping how much telecom companies could charge. (The FCC lost a lawsuit against , a decision the Trump administration is not appealing.)
鈥淗aving a toll-free number can help families keep in touch a little bit more,鈥� says Sanders. Sometimes, when a caller reveals something sensitive like a death in the family, she thinks: 鈥淚t鈥檚 one of their only ways.鈥�
The show began with a call, out of the blue, from a woman who said her brother, an inmate at Wallens Ridge, listened to the station鈥檚 popular hip-hop show. Could she give him a shout-out?
Most people in the community don鈥檛 have a problem with new prisons being built in the area, Sanders says, though they have grown skeptical of the promises of thousands of jobs. Some locals find 鈥淐alls From Home鈥� so emotional they say they can鈥檛 listen, she adds, while others listen so often they can recognize regular callers.
鈥淎t the core, it鈥檚 like human decency,鈥� says Sanders. 鈥淚 do feel like it鈥檚 the least we can do to provide some small means of connection.鈥�
What the staff of six hopes is that the show gives their listeners 鈥� particularly those not behind bars 鈥� insights similar to theirs. After all, they say, there is only one federal prison currently being considered for construction. It would be built in, a few miles from Whitesburg.
鈥淚f you listen to [the show], it just kind of puts, I don鈥檛 know how you say it, maybe a face to it,鈥� says Sexton. 鈥淚鈥檓 not a shrink, but it鈥檚 good for people to have some proximity to that.... Hopefully they come away with having humanized these people that are oftentimes demonized and marginalized and cast aside.鈥�
