Camp Reunite Connects Kids With Their Incarcerated Parents

The thunk of a plastic bat followed each pitch and question Tasha H. lobbed toward her 14-year-old son. She cheered after each hit as she tracked down the whiffle ball and prepared her next throw.

“Maybe baseball next year?”

No, he responded before hitting the ball over his mom’s head. He plans to try out for varsity football instead.

“You’re getting a lot better than you give yourself credit for,” Tasha told him.

Standing in a patch of green grass in late June, working to extract more than one-word answers from her son, Tasha looked like a typical mom of a soon-to-be high schooler. But as the ball landed on the wrong side of a chain rope fence, it was clear they were not standing in a backyard or baseball field.

“I can’t go get that,” she said.

The fence stood only about 2 feet high. But Tasha could not cross it or the much taller, barbed fence bordering Taycheedah Correctional Institution in Fond du Lac — not for at least another year.

The brief batting practice was part of Camp Reunite, a program for children with incarcerated parents. Before camp, Tasha had not seen her son in the year since she was arrested for crimes she committed related to a drug relapse.

WPR and Wisconsin Watch are withholding the last names of parents or kids included in the story at the request of Camp Reunite to protect the campers’ privacy.

One of the first things Tasha noticed about her son was that he’s taller than her now.

“Then he spoke and it was like a man, and I was appalled,” Tasha said. “I know that sounds crazy, but I just want to be there as much as I can, even though I’m in here.”

They both needed the visit, she said.

Maintaining relationships between children and incarcerated parents helps mitigate the negative impacts of the separation, experts say. Family visits have been shown to reduce recidivism.

Camp Reunite allows children to spend a week at a traditional summer camp where they can hike, canoe and participate in trauma-informed programming like art therapy. Two days out of the week, campers get to spend an entire day with their incarcerated parents in a more relaxed setting than typical visits.

Despite the camp’s success for parents and their kids, it remains unique to Wisconsin and has operated in just two prisons this summer: the women’s prison at Taycheedah and Kettle Moraine, a nearby men’s facility.

Public opinion is the camp’s biggest obstacle, said Chloe Blish, the camp’s mental wellness director. Prison and camp staff described hearing and reading concerns over the perception that the program is a safety risk — and that it rewards incarcerated parents.

Past media coverage of the camp has prompted online backlash against named parents — personal attacks that older campers can read and absorb, Blish said.

She wishes skeptics could experience a day at Camp Reunite, she said. “It’s electric.”

Tasha and her son started their reunion playing the board game Sorry!

“I miss you,” she said before moving her pawn 10 spaces and asking if he signed up to attend the winter camp.

He nodded before knocking her piece back to the start, softly telling his mom “sorry.”

Between turns and debates about the rules, she asked about school, football, friends, food at camp and where he got his shoes. He reminded her that she bought them for him. She told him he needed to clean them with an old toothbrush, which led to a short lecture about how often he should replace his toothbrush.

He asked her why she didn’t spend extra money to get Nikes with her prison uniform, a gray T-shirt and teal scrub pants. They joked about her all-white Reebok sneakers.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “It’s been a long time, huh?”

Not like other camps

When Taycheedah social worker Rachel Fryda-Gehde heard officials were trying to host a camp at the prison, her first reaction was: “Nobody’s ever going to entertain such a crazy idea.”

This summer, she helped run the prison’s eighth season.

She and other camp leaders plan to present on the program’s success at national conferences this fall, she said. They want to see the camp grow, but there are barriers, including public perception.

The nonprofit Hometown Heroes runs the camp in coordination with the Wisconsin Department of Corrections.

Camp Hometown Heroes started as a summer camp for children whose parents died after serving in the military. The camp paid to fly Blish and her sister from California to Wisconsin during summers when they were teenagers.

She still loves Hometown Heroes, but Camp Reunite has more impact, she said.

“There’s a lot of camps for gold star kids, that’s easy support,” Blish said. Things are different at Camp Reunite.

She and other camp leaders often work in the kitchen, filling in to wash dishes during Camp Reunite. During Hometown Heroes, that’s never necessary, because so many community members volunteer to help, she said.

Hometown Heroes, an exponentially larger operation, also receives more individual donations because of people who have a passion for helping veterans and military families, wrote Liz Braatz, the camp’s director of development.

She has heard the stigma around supporting people in prison, she wrote in an email. But discussing the camp as a way to help children affected by trauma “has made all the difference” in reshaping perceptions, she said.

Outside of camp, the organization provides campers with new clothing, school supplies and hygiene products.

“It does not matter who your God is or who you vote for, if your passion is helping these kids,” Braatz wrote.

The camp is in conversation with Racine Correctional Institution and now has plans to expand its program next summer.

The Wisconsin Department of Corrections would welcome Camp Reunite in additional facilities, spokesperson Beth Hardtke said.

Barriers stifle attendance

The camp faces additional obstacles in expanding its service.

This summer’s camp at Taycheedah was far from capacity. There were enough camp staff for more than 100 kids, Blish said. But just over a dozen families showed up.

“We started out with a lot more,” Fryda-Gehde said.

There are two major requirements for moms to join the camp: no sex crime convictions and no major conduct issues in the six months leading up to camp. This year’s attendance shrank after women were placed into segregation cells after breaking prison rules.

Prison social workers spend months with the moms to prepare for camp. Moms create posters to decorate their campers’ bunk beds, while prison staff set up activity stations like a beauty parlor and photo booth in the visiting room.

But the biggest reason for lower attendance: getting some caregivers on board.

Some kids might not be ready to visit with their incarcerated parents, Blish said. Other times, caretakers are hesitant to allow them in a prison or struggle to get them there.

Women are more likely than men to be the primary caretakers for their children at the time of arrest. That often leads to major life disruptions for campers visiting the women’s prison who are more likely to live with foster placements or more distant relatives.

Even caretakers comfortable with the camp might struggle to get there. Many families lack cars, Blish said. The camp tries to arrange rides for as many kids as possible, but it can’t always pick up kids who live farther away.

‘You’re here to have fun’

Nyzaiah and his three younger siblings live with their grandparents in Milwaukee. Camp was the first time they’ve made the more than hourlong drive to visit their mom since she was incarcerated.

“I was trying not to cry because I don’t like really showing my emotions to people, but I did drop a tear,” he said. “Me and my mom are really close.”

They talk on the phone around four times a week, but seeing her in person felt different, he said.

Most of his classmates get picked up by their parents. Only his close friends know why his grandparents pick him up each day.

“At home, I’m big brother. I gotta do everything and make sure it’s good. I don’t like to bring a lot of stress on my grandma,” the 13-year-old said.

But at camp, his brothers and sister are in separate cabins.

“The counselors told me, ‘You’re here to have fun. Don’t worry about your siblings. We’ve got them,’” he said.

Glitter, braids and tearful goodbyes

Moms aren’t the only ones asking questions at camp.

“You’ve got a TV?” asked Deloise L.’s 11-year-old son.

“Of course,” she answered. The morning before camp she woke up early from excitement and watched the morning news while she waited.

Deloise’s children are staying with her sister who brings them for somewhat regular visits throughout the year. But camp is different.

“I love this,” she said.

During a normal visit, her family is under the supervision of correctional officers, and her movement is more limited. At camp, most of the prison staff present are social workers. Moms walk from activity to activity without asking permission, including to the camp’s crowded “salon.”

Deloise clipped hot pink braids into her teenage daughter’s hair and applied glittery makeup over her eyes. Her son picked out a fake mustache.

As counselors warned that there were 10 minutes left until they would bus back to camp, kids scrambled to get close to their moms. Even the knowledge that they would be back later that week failed to stop the tears.

“When you got to separate from them, that’s when it gets bad,” Deloise said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “It just gets bad when you want to be around your kids.”

This is her family’s second camp. They plan to attend one more summer camp before her release in 2026.

“I’m learning from my mistakes,” she said. “They won’t have to worry about this again.”

This article first appeared on Wisconsin Watch and is republished on Urban Milwaukee under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.