Not on MY watch!

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Even more ludicrous by civilization’s standards might be to imagine covert maneuvers by prison staff resulting in reckless disregard for the sanctity of life itself. For the heck of it, we’ll consider an attempted-suicide “story.” It is time for cell raids. A notorious buzzing sound marshals the release of the thick metal mass enclosing each cell. The omnipotent C/Os enter and conduct their scrupulous search. Sheets, towels, blankets, clothing, and rolls of toilet paper go flying through the air. They are deemed superfluous to acceptable quantities. Haphazardly, they become graceful decorations on all block surfaces.

In the process a radio is discovered. It bears an engraved name different from that of the cell’s occupant. The apparatus was loaned with the consent of its rightful owner, who happens to be black. Borrower and borrowee get twelve days of lockdown. After six days into the restriction period, the borrower attends a scheduled court appearance. He gets a twelve-month sentence.

Driven by despair, during the quiet hours of the night, he slices numerous gashes through his wrists. In the sanctuary of his temporary tenancy, he lays to drain. Diligent first shift officer C/O Roberto, (the manikin-nurse’s brother), discovers him draining and gasping within a tick’s breath of animation. Roberto jerks and yanks the misguided martyr. The jostling and kicking is accompanied by shrills of demoralizing commands.

“Wake up you son of a bitch. Let’s go you bastard, you fuckin’ motha’ fucker. You’re not gonna die on my watch.” Heaven forbid! Imagine the disgracing reprimands, not to mention the dreaded publicity of another suicidal prison death. Moreover, the horrendous volume of paperwork would be overwhelming. By a narrow margin, thankfully, it is all avoided. The medical staff revives him.

Anteaters paradise

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Whatever happens to the bins of belongings that are locked up, awaiting their owner’s release from seg? Somehow, the contents disappear. It is possible—unlikely, of course, but possible—that a porter falls into the good graces of a C/O. They might stumble across some “unclaimed” booty. They share the wealth. Edible items are more likely to go right down their greedy, thieving hatches. Any item that looks relatively uncontaminated will do.

Heading out from the chow hall, we pass the blue bins. They contain prisoners’ personal belongings. There are a slew of them lined up along the stairway. Their owners, who have just returned from a day at court, are eating. An inmate stops alongside of one of the bins. He proceeds to stuff his shirt with various boxes of snacks and bags of chips.

“Hey, is that your bin?” a lieutenant calls out. That stops the pilferer cold. With an uneasy glance toward the officer, he is prompted to keep on toward his destination. Nothing is mentioned about the bulging sack full of prizes jiggling around his torso. A different culprit—for example, someone like me or someone black—would not have gone two inches before being pummeled and dragged off to seg.

Volumes sufficient to fill the Library of Congress to overflowing could be filled with equally bizarre scenarios. I present them as fantasy because the bottom line, for many who are victims of foul play on this fetid field, there is no recourse. A solitary ant to an army of anteaters is, to be certain, a snout-licking spectacle. Advocacy is as available and accessible as Atlantis. Your goose is carved before it is even so much as plucked. Fairness is a foreign concept.

Shock Therapy

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Paramount to the adjusting process is the foreboding feeling of displacement. None can avert its pernicious shadow. It pervades the murky, aggrieved climate of prison habitation. Adjustment is a vast undertaking. Yanked into this alien world, accosted by culture shock at its most extreme intensity, I have no alternative but to relinquish to its grip.

I can identify with circumstances in Outlander, a fascinating novel by Diana Gabaldon. The main character is a post World War II combat nurse. She unwittingly stumbles into a time warp, through a stone circle in the British Isles. Hurled back in time, she is shocked to find herself in the same location, but two centuries removed. Her life takes on a different dimension.

Demolition of life as I know it derives from being hurled not through time zones, but into foreign territory, a wretched chasm. Those consumed by it fall prey to whims, inconsistencies, and abuses which pathetically serve as barometers of normalcy. No boundaries are sacred.

Nut Cracker

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

A mother can describe the agonizing pain of giving birth. Someone who has never undergone the ordeal will by no means appreciate the agony. A man can express the torment of being smashed in the groin. Only those who have had their nuts crushed will ever know the excruciating sensation. And an inmate is the only variety of mortal who can identify with the uncertainty, despair, and inhumane treatment in holes of horror, the institutions of terrorism known as prisons.

Some distressing circumstances of lesser impact can also be disturbing nonetheless. For me, being referred to as “Pops” or “Old Timer” is one of them. My dad was called “Pops” for decades. He fit the image and the temperament. Behind bars, age is as identifying a factor as skin tone. Being white puts me in the marginal minority. Being over fifty nearly puts me in Intake Service Center extinction. When someone hollers “Hey, Pops,” I generally respond. I myself do not feel ready to be thought of grandfatherly, but my cohorts do.

Restriction is another difficult-to-swallow condition. The first self-study course I took on prison was Reminiscence 101. There, I was rapidly reminded that absence, as well as abstention, does cause the spirit to nurture fondness. Vicissitudes demand that ordinary endeavors such as driving a car or walking the beach are activities of a bygone era. The saliva stimulating sensation of eating a steak becomes a vicarious adventure. Dental floss and Q-tips are considered nonessential or dangerous, therefore deemed not available.

Flying Buffalos

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

In an endeavor to alleviate prison overcrowding and mitigate budget deficits, legislation is introduced in Rhode Island to increase “good time” allocations. That’s a rewards program which reduces the length of a sentence based on points earned for the lack of infringements while incarcerated. Each month of “gold star” behavior results in one day being reduced from the overall term of imprisonment. The proposed policy decreases the amount of time served by some convicts by greater amounts.

The Brotherhood of Correctional Officers is in dire opposition to the earlier releases. They are not the least concerned how any of this might impinge on their excessive overtime hours, and their main concern is the safety of the public once the thugs are released—and buffalos can fly.

Since when is it the C/Os responsibility to decide when and for how long prisoners should, would, could be incarcerated? How long will their ridiculous reign of terror and abuse run rampant? When will it happen that punishment and pain are no longer theirs to determine and administer? Their function is to maintain care, custody, and control, within prescribed rational guidelines. That is what they are paid for. Nothing more. Nothing less.