Slavery in America refers to a system in which people were treated as property and forced to work without pay, freedom, or basic human rights.
Historical slavery (the main meaning)
In U.S. history, slavery primarily refers to the system that existed from the 1600s until 1865, where millions of Africans and their descendants were enslaved.
- People were bought and sold as property
- They were forced to work (mainly on plantations)
- They had no legal rights
- Families were often separated
- Violence and punishment were common
This system officially ended after the American Civil War with the passage of the 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution, which abolished slavery except as punishment for a crime.
A Controversial Lawsuit from Behind Prison Walls
You might wonder why this particular inmate is being discussed. His background is serious, troubling, and raises difficult questions about justice, accountability, and the prison system.
This is an individual who once lived among the public but ultimately committed a grave crime—he took another person’s life. He was convicted of second-degree murder after fatally shooting a man outside a nightclub in Denver. According to reports, the incident followed an altercation in which he had been removed from the establishment. Despite a prior conviction that prohibited him from possessing a firearm, he was armed at the time of the shooting.
In August 2017, he pleaded guilty, and in January 2018, he was sentenced to 40 years in prison. The victim’s family continues to live with the consequences of that loss, and for many, the sentence raises ongoing questions about whether justice can ever truly balance such harm.
Now incarcerated at Fremont Correctional Facility in Cañon City, Colorado, the inmate has become involved in a different kind of legal battle. He is a plaintiff in a class-action lawsuit against the Colorado Department of Corrections and the governor. The claim centers on prison labor, alleging that incarcerated individuals are being forced to work under conditions the lawsuit describes as exploitative or unconstitutional.
This development introduces a new layer of complexity. On one hand, there is the undeniable severity of the crime and its impact on the victim’s family. On the other, there is a broader legal question about the rights of incarcerated individuals and the conditions under which they are required to work.
Debates around prison labor are not new. Supporters of reform argue that some prison work programs resemble coercive systems with minimal compensation. Others maintain that structured work is part of rehabilitation, responsibility, and maintaining order within correctional facilities.
The case may also draw attention to issues of race, as the plaintiff is African American. However, whether race plays a central role in this specific lawsuit will ultimately depend on the legal arguments and evidence presented in court—not assumptions or public perception.
At its core, this situation forces a difficult but necessary conversation:
Can a person who committed a serious crime still raise legitimate concerns about their treatment while incarcerated? And how should society weigh accountability for past actions against the obligation to uphold lawful and humane conditions within prisons?
These are not simple questions, and the answers will likely continue to be debated both in courtrooms and in public discourse.
Prison Labor, COVID-19, and Accountability: A Controversial Claim
In recent years, a growing number of lawsuits have attempted to label prison work requirements as “slavery.” One such case involves two Colorado inmates who refused to work during the COVID-19 pandemic and are now challenging the consequences they faced. But calling prison labor “slavery” is not only inaccurate—it diminishes the reality of both true historical slavery and the responsibilities that come with incarceration.
Harold Mortis, 32, and another inmate, Lilgerose, 45, declined to report to their assigned kitchen jobs during the pandemic. Mortis, who suffers from asthma, claimed he had previously contracted COVID-19 while working and feared reinfection. Lilgerose argued that working during that time worsened his post-traumatic stress disorder.
As a result of refusing to work, both men received disciplinary actions. They were issued Class 2 violations and lost earned time—two days for Mortis and four days for Lilgerose—along with other consequences affecting their housing status.
Now, they argue in a lawsuit that these penalties are excessively punitive, claiming that inmates should not be punished for refusing work if they fear for their health.
That argument does not hold up under scrutiny.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, millions of Americans continued to work under dangerous and uncertain conditions. Healthcare workers—nurses, doctors, emergency responders—faced constant exposure to the virus. Many had underlying health conditions themselves. Yet they showed up every day because their work was essential.
Correctional staff, community workers, and others in critical roles did the same. Society did not stop functioning because conditions were difficult. People adapted, took precautions where possible, and continued working despite real risks.
COVID-19 affected everyone—not just prisons. It spread through communities, workplaces, hospitals, and correctional facilities alike. The uncertainty was universal. To suggest that incarcerated individuals alone should be exempt from work requirements because of that risk ignores the broader reality of what the entire country endured.
Work has always been a standard part of prison life. It contributes to the daily operation of facilities and, in many cases, serves as a form of structure and responsibility. For decades, inmates have been required to work in areas such as kitchens, often as part of a transition into the prison system. This is not new, nor is it unusual.
Legally, prison labor is permitted under the 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution, which explicitly allows involuntary labor as part of a criminal sentence. Equating this system with slavery overlooks a fundamental distinction: incarcerated individuals are not being held as property—they are serving sentences imposed by a court of law after due process.
That does not mean conditions should be unsafe or that health concerns should be ignored. Prisons, like any institution, have a responsibility to provide reasonable protections. But refusing to work altogether—and then claiming punishment for that refusal is unjust—raises serious questions about personal accountability.
There is also a cultural shift worth noting. Many long-term inmates and correctional professionals will tell you that work assignments were once viewed as a normal, expected part of incarceration. New arrivals often spent months working in essential areas like kitchens without controversy. Today, there appears to be a growing tendency to challenge those expectations rather than accept them.
At its core, this issue is about responsibility. Actions have consequences. The individuals in this case made choices that led to their incarceration. Within that system, there are rules and expectations—including work requirements. Refusing to meet those expectations comes with consequences as well.
Calling this “slavery” is not only misleading—it risks undermining serious discussions about real injustices by applying the term where it does not belong.
Prison is not meant to mirror life on the outside. It is a system of accountability. And while it must remain humane and lawful, it cannot function if participation becomes optional whenever conditions are difficult.
Is Everyday Life a Form of “Slavery”? A Hard Look at Work, Responsibility, and Reality
The word “slavery” carries enormous historical weight in the United States. It represents one of the darkest chapters in our history—one defined by ownership of human beings, brutality, and the complete loss of freedom. That system was abolished after the American Civil War and formally ended with the 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution.
Yet today, the term is increasingly used in very different contexts—including lawsuits coming from inside prisons. Some incarcerated individuals now argue that required work assignments amount to “slavery.” But before accepting that claim, it’s worth asking a broader question: if that is slavery, then what do we call everyday life outside prison walls?
For millions of Americans, daily life is defined by financial pressure and constant obligation. People work long hours, often for low wages, just to survive. Many cannot make it through a single month without worrying about rent, food, or basic necessities. The cost of living continues to rise, while wages often fail to keep up.
Consider the reality many people have faced. Working multiple jobs, sacrificing time, and accepting difficult conditions simply to move forward. In the early 2000s, for example, tipped workers in states like Florida could legally earn as little as $2.35 an hour plus tips. It wasn’t ideal—but for students and working families, it was often the only option. People showed up, worked hard, and pushed through because they had responsibilities.
Was that slavery? Or was it life?
Because here’s the truth: in the real world, if you don’t work, there are consequences. You don’t pay rent—you risk eviction. You don’t earn income—you face poverty or even homelessness. These are not theoretical outcomes; they are everyday realities for many Americans.
Families of incarcerated individuals understand this pressure all too well. Supporting a loved one in prison is expensive—sending money, paying for visits, covering phone calls, and preparing for reentry. Once that person is released, the financial burden often continues with probation fees, treatment costs, and basic living expenses. These are costs carried not by the state, but by families already struggling to stay afloat.
And what about seniors living on fixed incomes? Many survive on less than $1,000 a month, forced to budget every dollar for housing, food, and healthcare. Some rely on programs like Medicaid simply to access basic medical care. These are individuals who have never committed a crime, yet they live under constant financial strain. If they fail to manage, the consequences can be severe.
So where does that leave the comparison?
In prison, individuals are required to follow rules—including work assignments. If they refuse, they may face disciplinary actions such as loss of privileges or earned time. But that structure is not unique. Outside prison, rules also exist—and consequences follow when those rules are not met.
The difference is that incarceration is the result of a legal process. Individuals in prison have been convicted and sentenced under the law. Work requirements are part of that system, long recognized as contributing to order, responsibility, and daily operations within correctional facilities.
Calling that “slavery” blurs an important line. It equates lawful consequences and structured responsibility with a historical system of forced human ownership—something fundamentally different in both definition and reality.
That does not mean the system is perfect. There should always be room to discuss fair wages, safe conditions, and reasonable accommodations for health concerns. But those conversations require accuracy, not exaggeration.
Because if the standard for “slavery” becomes simply “having to work under difficult conditions,” then much of modern life would fall under that label—and that weakens the meaning of the word itself.
At its core, this debate is about perspective. Life—inside or outside prison—is not without hardship. But hardship alone does not equal slavery. Responsibility, whether chosen or imposed, is part of how systems function.
The real question is not whether work is required. It’s whether we are willing to recognize the difference between true oppression and the difficult, often unfair realities of everyday life.
When One Lawsuit Hurts Many: The Ripple Effect Inside Prison
Lawsuits are often presented as a path to fairness and reform. But inside prison, the consequences of one inmate’s legal action can reach far beyond the courtroom—and sometimes harm the very people who are doing everything right.
That is the situation many now point to following the lawsuit filed by inmate Harold Mortis.
Mortis challenged prison work requirements, arguing that being punished for refusing to work amounted to unfair treatment, even going so far as to frame it as a form of “slavery.” As courts begin to examine these claims, the impact is already being felt inside facilities operated by the Colorado Department of Corrections under Governor Jared Polis.
But the real story is not just about legal arguments—it’s about consequences.
Inside prisons like Fremont Correctional Facility, there are structured systems meant to reward discipline and responsibility. One of those systems is incentive housing, often called “incentive pods.” These are not handouts. They are earned.
Inmates in these units:
- Maintain low disciplinary records
- Stay out of conflict and “politics”
- Work consistently—often five days a week, eight hours a day
- Participate in programs like Correctional Industries
In return, they receive modest privileges: more stability, slightly better living conditions, and a chance to serve their time productively.
But now, because of the fallout from this lawsuit, that balance is shifting.
Prisons still require essential jobs to be done—especially in areas like the kitchen. When fewer inmates are willing to work those assignments, the responsibility doesn’t disappear. Instead, it falls on others.
As a result, inmates in incentive pods—who are already working full-time schedules—are now being required to take on additional kitchen shifts. That can mean waking up early or working extra hours after already completing a full day’s labor. In some cases, at least two additional hours are added simply because those positions must be filled.
The outcome is difficult to ignore: individuals who followed the rules, worked hard, and earned their place are now carrying a heavier burden.
This raises a serious question—who is really benefiting from this lawsuit?
For many inmates, the answer is clear: not them.
There is also growing frustration about what some see as a cultural shift inside prisons. Instead of focusing on personal accountability and rehabilitation, more time and energy is being directed toward legal challenges and internal advocacy. Some believe outside influences, including groups like the Innocence Project, have contributed to this shift—encouraging inmates to engage in legal battles rather than focusing on self-improvement.
Critics argue that this approach creates division. It places pressure on the system, forces policy changes, and ultimately affects those who had no role in the original complaint.
At the center of this controversy is a simple but uncomfortable reality: actions have consequences—not just for the individual, but for the entire population.
Those now required to cover extra kitchen shifts did not file the lawsuit. They did not refuse to work. Yet they are the ones feeling the impact.
This leads to another question—one that many inside the system are asking:
Is the individual who started this process still working? Or are others now doing more while he benefits from the outcome?
These are questions that deserve answers.
Because in a system built on structure and shared responsibility, fairness matters—not just in theory, but in practice.
When one person challenges that system, the result should not be to make conditions harder for everyone else. Yet that is exactly what many believe is happening now.
In the end, this is not just about one lawsuit. It is about the balance between rights and responsibility—and what happens when that balance is disrupted.
When Court Decisions Disrupt Order: The Consequences of the Mortis Lawsuit
Judge Sarah B. Wallace ruled that the Colorado Department of Corrections system amounted to a “machinery of coercion,” finding it unconstitutional to penalize inmates who refuse to work by taking away earned time—which can extend their sentences—or by reducing their privileges.
It’s important to remember that this lawsuit was brought by two inmates from Fremont Correctional Facility, supported by private attorneys and nonprofit civil rights organizations, including groups like the American Civil Liberties Union. Critics often argue that these organizations focus more on attention and funding than on practical outcomes, believing they are defending rights while overlooking the broader impact of their actions.
In reality, the system they are challenging is not complicated. In everyday life, if you don’t show up to work, you don’t get paid or earn benefits like paid time off. The same basic principle applies in prison. Inmates who follow the rules, avoid disciplinary write-ups, and participate in work assignments earn “earned time,” which helps reduce their sentence. It is a straightforward system: follow the rules and contribute, and you are rewarded.
If someone refuses to work, there are consequences—just as there are outside prison. Failing to show up to a job in the real world can lead to losing that job and the benefits that come with it. Inside prison, refusing to work results in the loss of earned time or privileges. That is not coercion—it is accountability.
Many inmates understand this and choose to focus on self-improvement. They work, attend school, and stay out of trouble. They earn placement in incentive housing and make the most of their time. Others, however, take a different approach—challenging the system instead of working within it.
In this case, critics argue that Mortis focused only on his own situation without considering the broader consequences. Rather than participating in programs or work assignments that could benefit him, he chose to pursue legal action that may ultimately affect the entire prison population.
The concern now is that decisions like this could weaken a system built on structure and responsibility. When rules lose their meaning, those who follow them may end up carrying a heavier burden.
For many, this situation serves as a lesson. Policies inside correctional facilities must balance fairness with accountability. Without that balance, the system risks becoming less effective for everyone involved.
There is also hope that this ruling will be reviewed by a higher court, such as the Colorado Court of Appeals, to fully examine its long-term impact.
At the end of the day, the issue is simple: responsibility matters. Whether inside prison or out in society, effort and accountability are what create progress—and removing that structure can create more problems than it solves.
Justice Unlocked. 
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