Growing up, there was never much doubt that Marjani Abdur-Rahman would go to college. In fact, in high school, she dreamed, probably in more detail than most students, about what that experience would look like. Her mom, a social worker who graduated from Michigan State University, was her academic and professional role model, which is why Abdur-Rahman planned to major in clinical psychology. And she was excited to soak up many of the other quintessential parts of college life: living in the dorms, joining a sorority and partying on the weekends with her friends.
Abdur-Rahman enrolled at UM-Flint in 2008 and got off to a fast start. She took advantage of the fact that the university had just built on-campus housing and moved into the dorms. She declared a major in clinical psychology and a minor in Spanish. She also threw her energy into numerous student organizations 鈥 including lobbying successfully to charter a new chapter of Sigma Gamma Rho, a historically Black sorority, on the Flint campus. She was also intent on not taking on more debt than necessary, so she balanced a full-time course load with several part-time jobs: one at the university restaurant, another as an assistant manager at rue21 in the local mall, and a third working the night shift at a Speedway convenience store.
The night of Dec. 9, 2012, though, abruptly brought an end to that busy, but hopeful rhythm of life. Abdur-Rahman was out with her friend when they ran into the friend's ex-boyfriend. While they were at the club, Abdur-Rahman got into a heated argument with him over the man鈥檚 past treatment of her friend. Emotions were running high. Everyone had been drinking. At one point, Abdur-Rahman says she tried to get her friend to leave with her, but her friend wanted to see if she could smooth things over. The argument then escalated further, with the man threatening to pull a gun on Abdur-Rahman, at which point she went back to her car and retrieved a small knife from her glove compartment. She says she had no intention of using it; she thought it might get him to back down. But the argument intensified, the two yelling at each other until it reached an unimaginable moment: 鈥淟ike a reflex,鈥 Abdur-Rahman stabbed him once in the chest. After it happened, she didn鈥檛 think he was seriously injured, and she and her friend left in their car. But Abdur-Rahman learned later that he had died in the hospital. She was eventually arrested and charged with open murder, a crime carrying a potential life sentence. She ultimately agreed to a plea that reduced the charge to manslaughter, with a sentence of seven and a half to 15 years. In December 2013, after being held for 10 months at the Genesee County Jail, she began serving her sentence at Women鈥檚 Huron Valley Correctional Facility in Ypsilanti, Michigan鈥檚 only women鈥檚 prison.
She says the first two years of being incarcerated were the most difficult. She describes herself as a 鈥渂ubbly, fun-loving person,鈥 but prison wasn鈥檛 a place where you could show that kind of emotion. Personal contact between people, for example, was prohibited. One day, upon seeing a friend who she knew was going through a difficult time, Abdur-Rahman reflexively reached out and embraced her 鈥 only to get sanctioned for sexual misconduct. And, of course, there was a hurricane of emotions to deal with: The guilt that came from being responsible for taking another person鈥檚 life. The nagging thoughts that if she hadn鈥檛 been drinking or hadn鈥檛 had a knife in her car that night, none of this would be happening. The fear of not knowing what the rest of her life would bring once she got out.
Even within that setting, Abdur-Rahman eventually found a rhythm. As she did when she was a college student, she participated in lots of clubs and activities in the prison. She practiced yoga and did strength and conditioning classes. She facilitated AA meetings and sang in the church choir. Through these activities, she says she developed a lot more compassion for people. 鈥淚 used to be a very judgemental person, particularly with people who had substance abuse issues. I just thought, 鈥榃hy don鈥檛 you stop? Why are you doing that to yourself?鈥欌 she says. 鈥淏ut after housing with a lot of women who had those issues, and speaking with them through AA and NA, I realized we had a lot in common, a lot of the same trauma. Sexual child abuse, divorced parents, abusive relationships. The only difference between me and these women is the way we coped.鈥 She also met women who didn鈥檛 fit any of the common stereotypes of incarcerated people. People who didn鈥檛 have previous criminal records, histories of violence or challenges with addiction. People who she thought of as 鈥済ood people,鈥 who, like her, had made 鈥渙ne big mistake.鈥
At a certain point, Abdur-Rahman also started to regain some of the hope she once had for her future. She understood that it was going to be 鈥渄amn near impossible to be a felon and be a psychologist,鈥 but she started to think about adjacent careers, particularly in social work. While in prison, she met many inspiring, compassionate social workers. One woman even shared with her that she was also a felon and later got her degree. Later, when she saw that UM-Dearborn was offering free college classes in the prison and one of them was an introductory social work course, she didn鈥檛 hesitate to sign up. There, she learned just how broad the social work field was. She could be a therapist. A case worker. Someone who worked with people with addiction issues. There were even social workers who specialized in working with formerly incarcerated people. Some time after that, she saw a flyer for UM-Dearborn鈥檚 SOAR program, which provides an array of support services and scholarships for adult learners and returning students who are pursuing their first bachelor's degree. It all started giving her a feeling that her deferred college dreams maybe weren't out of reach.
When she was released on parole in June 2021, her initial hope was to return to UM-Flint, which was much closer to her home in Saginaw. But when that didn鈥檛 work out, she immediately thought of UM-Dearborn. She felt 鈥渆cstatic鈥 the day she got the acceptance letter from the university, calculating that she could finish up in just a couple of years. But heading back to college after a 10-year break posed certain challenges. 鈥淲hen I got arrested, we were on iPhone 4. When I got out, it was iPhone 14,鈥 she says, adding that the tech learning curve was a bit steep. In prison, even in college classes, she could only use pen and paper. Now, students lived attached to their laptops and tracked assignments, grades and discussion groups via online learning management systems. You could even take most of your classes virtually if you wanted to. Being in a college classroom was also a bit of a culture shock. 鈥淚 went from taking college classes where everyone鈥檚 in their prison garb and all you have is your pencil and paper. And, now, here I am in a classroom wearing normal clothes with a bunch of normal people. You know no one鈥檚 psychic. But you still sort of have that paranoia, like, do these people know? Can they tell? Would anyone take the time to Google me?鈥
At first, Abdur-Rahman says she didn鈥檛 tell anybody anything about her past. But gradually, over time, she got more comfortable talking about her experience. She credits a lot of that to her involvement in the , a long-running U-M program that brings creative arts workshops into prisons. When she got out, she stayed involved with PCAP鈥檚 for returning citizens. She jokes that both programs have kind of made her a poster child. 鈥淚鈥檓 all over the website,鈥 she says, noting that it鈥檚 difficult to put yourself out there like that and not end up talking about your story, at least certain parts of it. Last semester, she really stepped out of her comfort zone. The instructor of her Vulnerable Populations course, Assistant Professor of Health and Human Services Vitalis Im, who鈥檚 been working with the PCAP program for years, asked whether she鈥檇 be interested in doing a class presentation on her prison experience and some of the challenges of her post-prison life. 鈥淚 was really scared to do that. I didn鈥檛 want any of my peers to look at me differently, to change their whole mindset of me. I don鈥檛 want to toot my own horn, but I think people see me as a likeable, friendly person, and I didn鈥檛 want those qualities to be overlooked after sharing my story,鈥 she says. But Abdur-Rahman says sort of the opposite happened. Afterward, she got several comments from her fellow students, basically sharing their admiration for her ability to stay so positive. And she says it鈥檚 still hard to talk about what Im鈥檚 respect and validation has meant to her without tearing up. 鈥淗e鈥檚 somebody who鈥檚 only recently become part of my journey, who鈥檚 rooting for me, and wants me to succeed and has my best interests at heart,鈥 she says. 鈥淗e knows I鈥檓 a good person that just made a bad decision.鈥
As Abdur-Rahman approaches her graduation, she says she鈥檚 filled with a mix of emotions. On the one hand, she鈥檚 obviously feeling a huge sense of accomplishment and is excited to share the moment with all the people who鈥檝e stuck by her. On the other hand, she鈥檚 worried about the very real possibility that her past could still get in the way of her dreams for her future. She frequently gets some reminder of that. Right now, she鈥檚 living with her mom in Saginaw, which she鈥檚 doing, in part, because her mom has some health problems. But now that she鈥檚 finishing her degree, she鈥檇 love to get her own apartment, maybe move to a new city. She knows, however, that she鈥檒l probably have to find a place that doesn鈥檛 require a background check. And just recently, while working at one of her jobs, a sales floor position at a national chain store, her manager asked if she could chat with her in the office. The manager explained that her background check had been flagged and that a woman on the phone from the company鈥檚 HR department wanted to ask her some questions about the events of Dec. 9, 2012. Put on the spot at work, Abdur-Rahman took the phone and calmly explained what had happened, as well as all the things she has been doing with her life since. She also noted that if the job application had asked about criminal history, which she says it did not, she would have volunteered that information. After the phone call, she then turned to her manager, who had heard the conversation, and expressed that she hoped that she didn鈥檛 think differently of her now. The manager responded that she did not, and reiterated what an excellent worker she was and that if it was up to her, she'd be happy to send Abdur-Rahman right back to work. Nonetheless, she was going to be suspended pending a decision from HR, though she ultimately got to keep her job. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 just sort of my reality now,鈥 she says. 鈥淚 feel like no matter how hard I try, it鈥檚 two steps forward, and then five steps back. It鈥檚 hard not to get discouraged, but I鈥檓 trying to stay positive.鈥
Going forward, Abdur-Rahman still very much desires to have what she calls a 鈥渂ig girl job,鈥 which she defines as 鈥渁 job of substance with good pay and a 9 to 5.鈥 Ideally, she wants to find a position where she can help people with substance abuse issues. But she also anticipates it will be hard for many employers 鈥 even those in the social work field 鈥 to look beyond her past, especially if they have other talented candidates they could hire. She also knows she鈥檒l likely need to continue her education. A bachelor鈥檚 degree in the field doesn鈥檛 take you as far as it used to, which is why she鈥檚 applied to UM-Ann Arbor鈥檚 master of social work program. She recently received news that she鈥檚 been put on an alternates list. 鈥淪o it鈥檚 not a 鈥榥o鈥 and not a 鈥榶es,鈥欌 she says. She should know in a couple months whether she got in. Some parts of her life are still a waiting game.
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Story by Lou Blouin
