At the DC Jail Debate Team, women learn to argue policy, tell their stories and claim the power of being heard.
This story is part of “Breaking the Cycle,” a three-part Ms. series on how women impacted by incarceration are building knowledge, community and pathways forward—from prison classrooms to debate teams and jail book clubs. Earlier this week: education programs reshaping reentry. Next: a book club at Rikers Island where women read, write and imagine life beyond incarceration.
“I know of a woman who spent the majority of her first prison bid in isolation. She didn’t have access to any programs to help her heal from her childhood trauma, abuse, neglect and depression,” Chelsee Wright wrote in remarks she prepared for a February debate. “The lack of mental health treatment led her to self-mutilate and multiple suicide attempts.”
Wright is part of the DC Jail Debate Team. Started in 2024, it’s the first coed team of the National Prison Debate League. Each semester, up to 20 participants—many of whom have no previous debate experience—meet twice a week at the Washington, D.C., jail where they are incarcerated.
Each semester starts with a mini-debate on questions like “Is a hot dog a sandwich?” or “Is ice cream the best dessert?” From there, the participants vote on 10 potential topics related to incarceration and prepare for a debate against a university team.
Like people in prisons, those in jails do not have access to research materials. Law students at Georgetown University put together evidence packets—typically 200 pages for the affirmative and 80 pages for the negative. Each member of the jail debate team is responsible for reading the entire packet and coming to class prepared to discuss what’s missing and whether more research is needed.
“They’re really mastering the material,” says Sarah Istel, a cofounder of the debate program and volunteer coach. Once they’ve done so, they fill out their preferences for debate roles: affirmative speakers, rebuttal speakers or closers.
“There are different kinds of roles,” Istel notes. “Some require thinking on your feet more. Some require more lengthy [arguments] written in advance.”
Participants write the first drafts of their arguments and refine them through practice debates in class.
But conditions in jail are often unconducive to preparation. They cannot do their own research or type their drafts. They cannot have binders or paper clips to organize their notes. Cell searches scatter their papers. Still, students not only persevere, but support one another, encouraging and helping each other with their arguments.
Inside or out, coed classes carry the potential for male students to dominate at the expense of their female classmates. The coaches strive to ensure that women aren’t overlooked. At least two of each semester’s six speaking roles go to women.
London Teeter, now 22, joined the team after giving birth behind bars. She had spent her third trimester on the medical unit, where she was locked in her cell for 22 hours a day. Only one other woman was on the unit (their babies were born 15 days apart) and other than those two hours outside her cell, Teeter had nothing to do and no one to talk to.
At first, she didn’t want a speaking role in the debate. “I have really bad speaking anxiety,” she says.
But with her coaches’ encouragement, Teeter agreed to speak in the debate about mandatory minimums, laws that require judges to impose specific minimum prison sentences for certain crimes, regardless of the defendant’s circumstances. She asked for the closing, which, at 90 seconds, was the shortest role. Istel and the other coaches persuaded her to take on a larger role—and she did.
Teeter went through the packet and pulled out the most meaningful arguments. She also worked her own story into the materials.
“It was tricky because I’m not great at talking about myself,” she says. “I also wanted to make sure it included my team.”
When she presented her first draft, her classmates were brought to tears. Last May, Teeter stepped up to the podium in the debate against Towson University.
… Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. Each of us deserves a chance to be considered as an individualized person, not a statistic, and it starts by abolishing mandatory minimums.
London Teeter
“I currently face a mandatory minimum, as does every speaker on my team. And in total, our team faces a minimum of 198 years behind bars,” she began.
She went on to enumerate her arguments against mandatory minimums: their failure to prevent crime, their diversion from more effective resources, the devastation of families, the colossal price tag of long sentences, and prosecutors’ weaponization of mandatory minimums to coerce guilty pleas.
“Imagine being a 20-year-old woman, a first-time offender, no criminal background and 24 weeks pregnant when arrested. To exercise her fundamental right to trial, she faces a mandatory minimum of 49 years and even eventually was forced to give birth while incarcerated.
“This woman is me,” she said as she drew her argument to a close. “Before my team and I leave today, we ask that you remember, each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. Each of us deserves a chance to be considered as an individualized person, not a statistic, and it starts by abolishing mandatory minimums.”
The jail team won the debate.
*
The only time Chelsee Wright had ever attempted a public speaking role, she was so nervous that she stuttered.
Joining the debate team gave her an opportunity to overcome her fears. “I wanted to be able to stand up in front of a lot of people without stuttering,” the 31-year-old told Ms.
After she delivered her first speech to the group, her teammates gave her feedback: Read slower, make more eye contact, emphasize certain words. She followed those suggestions, and by the time she read her final speech, she could look at her teammates and coaches and deliver a powerful argument. They gave her a standing ovation.
Wright’s sentencing was originally scheduled for this past December, but she requested that it be postponed so she could finish the debate program.
Wherever she’s transferred to serve her sentence, she plans to attend college.
“I didn’t attend [in jail] because I thought it was too hard for me,” she says.
The debate team taught her otherwise. Being part of the team, she says, “gave me confidence. It made me realize who I am and how far I can go, and that my voice can always be heard.”
At a February debate about solitary confinement, Wright used her voice in her closing remarks. “When her release date was near, she intentionally assaulted numerous officers. She needed more time.
“Three years later, she thought she was ready … but the outside world was intimidating. Now this individual is back in jail on a charge that could have been avoided if she had learned healthier outlets. Being home felt uncomfortable. You wouldn’t believe this, but solitary felt like home. Being controlled, degraded and caged in was what she was used to. They don’t feel deserving of freedom. No human should feel like this, to the point where human contact is frightening.”
She paused for a few seconds, then added, “And by the way … the woman I just described is me.”
This is Part 2 of a three-part series called “Breaking the Cycle”; Part 1 published Tuesday, and Part 3 publishes Thursday. This article originally appears in the Winter 2026 print issue of Ms. Join the Ms. community today and you’ll get issues delivered straight to your mailbox.
