In prison the goal is to survive. Many officers enforce the rules differently and arbitrarily, making everyone in a constant state of uneasiness. Being disrespected, mistreated, or demeaned becomes part of daily life here that’s much easier to pass by if you’re numb to it all. Until a day comes along when the realization of this environment flies at your face like a two by four to the cheek.
Mine was a run-in with a program’s bully officer, “Peaches,” who uses his authority erratically, only enforcing certain rules on a whim (a clear abuse of power). This run-in happened on my way to the law library; I’d put all my legal paperwork and NLA supplies in a clear bag. A bag I received as a student in the CIP program with Eastern Michigan University. This bag makes the long treks around the prison grounds with stacks of books or folders full of papers much easier. I walked into the programs building for my callout organized and prepared.
I checked in at the officer’s desk like we’re supposed to and Peaches told me I wasn’t allowed to enter the building with the bag. Politely I asked, “Which rule states bags aren’t permitted?”
His response (a heavy sigh with an eye roll) was pointing to a sheet taped to the desk and an annoyed, “Number Five.” I looked at the rule he’d pointed to; it stated no personal property permitted such as tablets, clothing, etc. It didn’t say anything about a bag, one legally issued and approved for me to have, a bag I had previously brought multiple other times, a bag dozens of other women had also carried into the building. Peaches stood his ground, ordering me to leave. Without breaking any policies I had no option but to comply, so I left. I walked to the chow hall and spoke with a sergeant. After I explained the bag situation, he proceeded to look at it all and then gave me written permission to have the bag in the building. Problem solved, right?
I re-entered the building where Peaches immediately began to evil eye me, or maybe the bag. Then he harshly stated (yet again) that I had to leave with the bag. I knew I had the sergeant’s approval so I respectfully explained that I had written permission. This didn’t go over well with Peaches. I may have said a trigger word. He began to scream at me to leave the building, that I could leave and come back with my paperwork but not the bag. He was literally arguing about semantics, which I pointed out. Peaches responded by radioing the yard officers to have me removed from the building.
I stood there sick to my stomach, terrified that I would be hauled off to segregation, over a clear bag! When the officers arrived, they took in the situation and told me to just leave, understanding how unreasonable Peaches is. I left the building crying, thoughts of all the other times I’ve been dehumanized or “less than” running through my mind on a loop. Everything blended together into one giant hurt, leaving me feeling broken and demeaned. My half-mile walk back to the unit I spent trying not to lose it.
The closer I got to my unit the harder it was to keep my composure; the safety of my cell was a siren call to the impending panic attack bubbling beneath the surface. In the home stretch, racing down the hallway, I started unzipping my coat and trying to catch my breath. I felt sweat running down my back. I crossed the threshold to my cell, finally safe, and I lost it. In an instant, I’m hyperventilating, my face is covered in tears, snot is coming out of my nose like a faucet, then nausea creeps up my throat. I can’t breathe, I’m so dizzy. I have to sit so I don’t fall over. I’ve chucked my bag and glasses and have no idea where they’ve landed. My bunky looks at me and her eyes bug out in surprise, not knowing what to think.
I’m feeling so desperate. I’d somehow forgotten how much it hurts when I’m made to feel so worthless, like I’m less than the dirt on someone’s shoes. I’d blocked out the shock of having someone speak to me so brutally, so loud, so aggressively, even while I’m nothing but respectful. It makes me feel preyed upon. All this was amplified when he called more officers to haul me away like garbage. It’s just unthinkable.
To be fair, not all officers are bad. The good ones have been getting fewer and farther between. Occasionally, there are ones that see us as humans. This wasn’t that kind of officer. It serves as an example of the violent, hostile, unsafe environment some officers help cultivate.
There are few locations in prison women can go to participate in positive activities, and the hostile actions of Peaches make women not want to go to the building much of this programming takes place in. This can lead to them being less productive, participating in less rehabilitation, and having less positive interaction. All of which can be directly linked to more violence, drug use, and negative consequences. This isn’t healthy for people, especially in an already emotionally charged environment. Discouraging women from being productive or involved in their community seems counterproductive to rehabilitation.
My only remedy as an inmate in situations like this clear demonstration of inhumane treatment is to submit a grievance. Most likely nothing will come of it; they’re processed five feet from this officer’s desk, but it’s my only option so I chose to file it. This is the only way I can try to defend myself and gain a peace of mind.
I never knew I could experience such a life lesson over a clear bag.
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