Nearly ten years ago I stepped off of a bus in leg chains and handcuffs behind the concertina wire and walls of a United States Penitentiary. One of thirteen men who arrived that day, I was terrified as we were being processed. Guards laughed and made comments like “get comfortable” when they saw the length of time I’d received. I was far from comfortable; I was miserable.
Several months passed and I still couldn’t come to grips with the idea of spending the rest of my life in prison. I was constantly depressed and often cried myself to sleep. Then one day my cellie, a gruff “lifer” himself, pulled me aside and gave me some of the most practical advice I’ve ever received from another inmate. “Live,” he said, “find something to do with your time and learn to live behind the walls.” As I pondered his words I resolved that no matter how hard life gets in here I’m not going to make it worse by giving up. I reminded myself that there are people who care about me, and I have to press on. Soon thereafter I enrolled in some treatment programs the prison offered. I also got a job, and took some hobby craft courses like crocheting and beading. Being a former workaholic, I quickly realized that I now had a lot more time to follow my favorite sports teams. I also began to invest heavily in my relationship with the Lord.
Though life in prison is far from “normal,” and not always easy, I try to keep from caving to its insanity. Enter my world for a moment and see what a couple of days behind the walls might bring.
Football season is here and I’ve joined one of the many fantasy football leagues. Sunday night rolls around and I park my chair in front of the TV in anticipation of Sunday night’s game of the week. Several inmates, having wagered bets on the possible winner, sit nearby watching anxiously as the first quarter winds away. Suddenly an officer’s radio buzzes with a body alarm warning, “All units respond. Fight in Echo Unit. Repeat . . ” Word spreads rapidly amongst inmates as eyes are now glued to running officers. They flood the compound like ants responding to their damaged hill. Everyone watches to see what’s just kicked off (pun intended). A line quickly grows behind the ice machine and hot water dispenser, while showers fill with inmates expecting the inevitable early lockdown for the night. Soon I hear the dreaded words, “Take it in! Lockdown!” Looks like I’ll be listening to the game on the radio tonight.
If it was only a fight, chances are we’d be out in the morning. Unfortunately, 6:00 am rolls around and no doors are opened. At 7:30 am, the food cart arrives, a hulking metal box on wheels containing food trays. Its rumbling journey can be heard from afar as it makes its way slowly down the concrete sidewalks. It’s so heavy and cumbersome that it takes two inmates to push. Its appearance is never a good sign. Questions are now swirling. “What do you suppose it was? Another stabbing maybe?” My cellie and I discuss the possibilities, hoping to gain some idea of how long we can expect to be locked down in our cells.
Our cell is freezing as I crawl out of bed and reach to secure the hand-crafted vent cover. It’s made from the cardboard backing of a legal pad, and secured with broken off handles from disposable razors. Why they keep it so cold is a mystery. My cellie is part polar bear I think. Thankfully, we are both easygoing and we’ve already compromised – a necessity when living in such close quarters with another grown man. He wants air flow at night, but doesn’t mind me partially blocking the vent during the day. With everyone else doing the same thing, our air has gone from a quiet breeze to a steady blizzard overnight. It rattles the pages of my wall calendar as I work to fasten the cover. Far from warm, I don my hat, what my cellie calls a tuque, and I run the sink to warm up the water for coffee. At 58 years old, five years my elder, my cellie still enjoys a full head of hair. The little that remains of mine gets shaved off every few days. So, while September in our state is still reaching triple digits outdoors, it feels like mid-January inside, and I’ve grown fond of my hat. Officers look strangely at me in my hat as they pass out breakfast trays. I smile knowing they don’t get it while they move from cell to cell opening and closing the tray slots in our doors.
Early evening makes its approach. My cellie catches up on some reading while I flip through the AM radio stations to hear the latest take on the games from the weekend. My Michigan Wolverines beat USC despite most of the predictions. That brings a smile to my face. Unfortunately, I’m unable to find anything on the Detroit Tigers who are surprisingly vying for a wild card spot. They haven’t made the post-season since 2014. I frown wishing I had internet access, and decide to try again later. Pregame shows remind me of the upcoming Monday Night Football games. I’m soaking it all in when I hear a sudden commotion in the day room (the open area in the unit surrounded by cells). I rise from my prison-issue plastic chair and watch from my cell door as 15-20 new staff members march through the front door. This is often an indication of a shakedown (cell searches, etc.), but hear one of them talking and realize they’re trainees getting the grand tour of the prison. I see these tours a couple of times per year, but rarely with so many people. I don’t know the exact turnover rate, but I size these guys up, thinking several of them won’t last. They’ve no idea of the crazy world they’ve just entered. Staff have shared with me in the past that prison politics (rules and codes dictating how things operate) are worse amongst them than they are with inmates. Still I’d gladly trade places with any one of them, but I digress.
As the group makes their way out I’m notified by my unit C.O. (corrections officer) that I’m needed at work. While they finish passing out the dinner trays that just arrived I hurry to get dressed. I pull on my hunter green pants with their elastic waist band and don a matching button-up collared shirt. Off comes the hat. My uniform is similar to a coarse version of hospital scrubs, far from the latest in fashion.
There’s a new C.O. who lets me out of my cell. Two nurses delivering medication look at me as I step onto the tier. One is smiling at me as the new C.O. begins to grill me on the items I’m carrying with me to work. I don’t act surprised when he asks me what I’m allowed to take with me. Officers tend to differ in opinion on things like that. He is in charge of what happens in the unit, not the suicide watch officer I work for. I have to clear him before I leave the unit and since we’re locked down, he’s trying to be vigilant. I tell him I have some trash I’m throwing away, a tablet I’m going to put on the charger — one of the perks of having an “essential” job during a lockdown since there are no chargers in our cells — and I have a book and a water bottle that I’m taking as well. He’s acting a bit nervous, and I’m aware that it’s due to the fight that took place last night. Bits and pieces of the story are making their way around the compound, mostly by kitchen workers and the few staff who are willing to share information. It’s said that a C.O. was assaulted, and my current inquisitioner, who’s acting much like a TSA screener, is on edge. I stay calm and soon I’m on my way.
I’m met with a rush of warm air as I clear the metal detector. I relish the momentary thaw and the sunshine baking my bald head. Not far from my unit I notice the tour of trainees blocking the path ahead of me. They’ve stopped to discuss something and I have to make a choice; either I walk through the middle of them, or I veer around them through the dirt. I opt for the latter. Much safer, I think to myself. I cut through the nearby water retention pond, which is always dry since I live in a desert region. 1 make my way to the head of the group and step back onto the sidewalk. My sudden appearance takes two of them by surprise and they turn to face, puffing up their chests and crossing their hands in front of them as though I pose a threat. I ignore them and chuckle a bit inside as they bow up like cornered possums. I make sure not to make any eye contact with them as I pass on by like I own the place. Hurrying my pace, a conversation ensues in my thoughts: Can’t you see I’m trying to be polite by walking around you? It’s not like I tried to walk through the middle of the group. They’ll figure it out. I’m the least of their worries. Snapping out of my reverie I approach the Main Corridor. Walking in, I clear another metal detector, pass the Lieutenant’s office, and stand outside the door of medical where I wait for the Hospital Officer to let me in. A familiar face greets me with a smile and he opens the door. Finally, someone who treats me like a fellow human being. I smile back and make small talk on the way in.
The lingering smell of days-old food hits me as I walk past a trash can overflowing with old styrofoam food trays and into the suicide watch area. I pass by the soiled blankets of previous residents, and realize that the inmate hospital orderly probably hasn’t worked since Friday. It’s a mess. I’m informed that the inmate I’m to watch hasn’t arrived yet. I greet the companion who’s been there for three hours already. The floor is littered with dead crickets, casualties of the cooling September nights in the desert, and a testament to the near fate of several former inmate residents of the five cold concrete cells around me. I’m quietly informed that the current resident defecated on his cell floor, and not in an old food tray like most resort to. Their cells have no toilets in them and the officer who waited too long to make the restroom available enters the room. He apologizes to the inmate on watch, but lacks sincerity. I’m well aware of his type and I say nothing. The inmate being watched is silent as well. He said all he wanted to say by his actions. Eventually the orderly will be called in to clean up the mess. Until then I’ve no choice but to suffer the offensive odor with my fellow companion.
Inmates come to suicide watch for a number of reasons. Many come from the SHU (Special Housing Unit or what society refers to as Solitary Confinement) to look at the nurses, or to pass messages back and forth from general population. This is prison and not everyone that shows up is suicidal, but it’s not my job to make that determination. I have two main responsibilities: Observe and Record. I simply enter brief and descriptive comments into the inmate’s log book at least every fifteen minutes. There’s a phone nearby that rings staff directly in case of an emergency. Because I was called in at the tail end of my shift, I won’t be on the clock for more than an hour. The medical officer jokes with me about getting paid for a full shift anyway, as though I’m making out like a bandit. I laugh along with him even though I only make forty cents an hour, top pay for this prison.
There’s a food tray waiting for me when I arrive, and I wolf down some cold tuna casserole, pushing aside the piece of bread and mixed vegetables in my way. I’ll feed the bread to the birds on my way back. As I eat, the other companion shares details he’s heard about the lockdown. Inmates that work during a lockdown are a valuable source of information for the guys stuck in their cells all day. I do my part and pick his brain for several minutes. He tells me that a C.O. was hit by a chair while separating four inmates in last night’s fight. Our conversation is suddenly cut short by a shout down the hall, “Fire in the hole!” That’s my cue to get out of the way; an inmate in handcuffs is being escorted in. It’s the inmate I was called in to watch. Staff take him to one of the empty cells that will be his cold and secluded dwelling till Psychology staff determine he’s no longer a danger to himself. He’s quickly searched and issued a smock and bedding that reminds me of the stiff padded blankets I once purchased to protect my furniture while moving. When staff leave I approach the cell to find a transgender inmate standing in a bra and panties and smiling at me. I’m careful to maintain eye contact as I position myself where it’s not so awkward. “Did they give you a smock?” I ask. The reply is short, “They did, but I don’t need it. I’m not cold.” I’m slightly amused at the comment as I stop myself from saying “Even if they did, it won’t keep you warm.” I fill out the necessary information in the log book as I recall some of the problems this particular inmate has been involved in. I quietly thank God that my shift will be over soon.
In the background I hear a cacophony of voices. I peek around the corner and find that I’m once again on a collision course with the “grand tour.” The fifteen-plus officers in training are being escorted through suicide watch. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut; I can’t seem to avoid them no matter how hard I try. Interactions with staff can be dehumanizing at times, especially when large numbers of them get together. I prefer to avoid them if possible; it appears that’s not going to be the case today. Maybe they won’t see me here in the back, I think to myself as they stop to talk with my fellow suicide companion who is nearer to the entrance. I sit quietly out of sight, but soon my hopes are dashed. Their friendly tour guide informs them there’s another watch taking place near the back. With my cover blown, I brace for impact. The first to arrive is a female with braces who appears to be in her early twenties. She smiles politely to me then turns to the inmate on watch standing in a bra and panties. This brings a bigger smile to her face that quickly turns to laughter. She grabs the man next to her and points in the cell, “Go over there for a second, he needs you.” The man doesn’t fall for the ruse and begins to make small talk with me. “How long have you worked here? Do you like your job?” My answers are short and I try to be professional. He’s grinning and laughing with another guy the entire time and I’m keenly aware of the sarcasm in his voice. He has no real interest in what I have to say. I’m their entertainment for the moment, like a circus sideshow. The female officer is still giggling, and this causes the inmate I’m watching to laugh as well. I seem to be the only one not enjoying myself and just wish it would all end. Before long the conga line of trainees begins their march toward the exit. I spot one of the guys that bowed up on me outside. He passes by without a word. I remember hearing once that staff are trained to view all inmates as manipulators to be wary of. Is that what he’s thinking, I wonder. I shake my head in disappointment and pray that this group won’t be tainted by the hatred for inmates that infects so many new staff over time. Soon the last of them are out the door, and the show is over in less than five minutes.
My mind drifts back over numerous Wardens I’ve had, five in all. I begin to rate them from tyrants to the laid-back ones. I think of the five food service administrators I’ve had, and reminisce about how great some of the meals used to be. The one who gave us pizza and wings on Super Bowl Sunday was by far my favorite. I try to recall the names of the numerous Lieutenants and Associate Wardens who’ve come and gone. So many negative memories flood my thoughts. Who was the one that made us leave our cell doors open all day? And which one was it that yelled at me for not tucking in my shirt before heading to the outdoor recreation yard? They all come in with new rules, and quickly attempt to assert their authority. One banned hard-cover books, another said no hats inside the housing units. These days it’s laundry staff who’ve decided we shouldn’t have pillows. The rules are fluid, enough to make my head spin. Why they feel the need to micromanage every detail of our lives is beyond me. “Take your hands out of your pockets!” or “Wear your boots during business hours.” It never seems to end.
I chuckle softly as I recall the new hospital officer who asked me on his first day where he should leave his backpack. “My, he is trusting; that won’t last long,” I told myself as I pointed him to the office down the hall. Secretly I was honored that he trusted me enough to even ask such a question. For a short moment I felt like his equal.
My daydreaming fades as I tune in to the sounds of the tour group growing quieter in the distance. I wonder about the girl in braces and count her out, “She probably won’t last.” I think about the rest and question their motives, “Do any of them want to help us? Did they take this job to make a difference in our lives, or do they all hate us and want to make our lives miserable? It sure seems that way.” I try to assure myself that a group that large must have some good ones. Surely one or two believe in rehabilitation. After all, it’s said that nearly 85% of us will get out at some point, or so the Chaplain tells me.
I glance over at the cell on the far side of the room and visualize the Lieutenant that dismissed me from that post on a previous watch. I stepped around the corner out of sight and listened with horror as he cuffed the inmate being watched and entered his cell. Rage built up inside of me when I heard the inmate getting pushed around. I could see the vindictive pleasure on the face of another officer who stood nearby watching in silence. I looked away from him in fear. What can I do? It’ll be me next. I’m reminded of the former companion who lost his job and had his cell tossed shortly after writing about staff behavior in an inmate’s logbook. I tell myself that I won’t make the same mistake. I can’t actually see what’s happening anyway. Guilt and anger well up inside of me. I cringe as I listen to the inmate yelling, “Oh, you want to hit a man in cuffs huh?! Take ’em off and see what happens!” Why do I have to be here for this, I groan inside. Something has to be done to keep these people accountable.
Hearing my relief coming down the hall I push my thoughts aside. It doesn’t take me long to log out, and soon I make my way out of medical, thankful that I avoid anymore run-ins with the new guys. The birds flying overhead remind me that I’ve forgotten the slice of bread I’d set aside for them. “Next time,” I tell them as though they understand. Though pets are forbidden, mice, frogs, spiders, and scorpions are just a few of the many exotic creatures tucked away in empty peanut butter jars in inmate lockers. Strange as it sounds, these pets are somewhat therapeutic for inmates, and most staff ignore them. I prefer the birds outside, and try to spoil them every chance I get.
Entering my unit I make my way to the charger and retrieve my tablet. Fully charged! I hurry over to fill my cup with ice before staff start barking at me to hurry up. During extended lockdowns we only get showers three days a week. If you’re lucky enough to be a worker that gets out during one of them you can often get a shower after your shift is over. It really depends on the C.O. that is working. Normally, I try to take advantage of the opportunity, but it’s getting late and the C.O’s here are fairly new. I decide to rinse off in the sink and wait until tomorrow when showers are offered. I enter my cell and greet my cellie as I interrupt his short-lived solitude. He catches me up on the football scores as I reach for my 1980’s style Sony Walkman Radio and headphones. Frantically I search for any news on my Tigers. Nope. Still talking football. Maybe later. I say a short prayer for the new staff I met and the two inmates on watch. Soon I’m in bed drifting off to sleep with ESPN radio humming in my ears.
I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I’m comfortable in prison these days. It’s not the ideal life but it’s what I have and I try to make the best of it. For those outside of prison my advice to you is obey the law. And if you should find yourself behind bars someday, my advice is simple. Live, and don’t give up! You’re capable of handling more than you think.
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