Prison Program Writing Project: Issue Two

 

My eyes open early, before being awakened by the CO’s bunk-shake. My surroundings a box 76 ft x 156 feet; ceiling acoustic ficf; floor, concrete, hard. Monks sleeping hall in a remote and austere discipline.

 

Rising with a cup of tea, brushing hair into controlling tie, and checking the daily computer sheet, smelling wet juniper and sage through the pumped-in air. The windows do not open. Put on shoes and I.D. tag, wait for the announcement, “Kitchen workers.” Crossing the quadrange of what looks a tasteless and impoverished community college, the conversation of 50 sleep-deprived men murmurs from dull sarcasm to caffeine frisky.

 

Breakfast is not an exciting event, and only half of the population shows. Three hundred grumps—you’ve been here. Remember your junior high lunch room? The only difference is men in the blue shirts and jeans stand in line at D.R.C.I. Later, outside with my glasses off, shades on, sitting in the yard, the fence is fused from existence, while the hills are still sprawled with juniper. Golden eagles cruise the sky, very aware of the black-tailed rabbit population. Harmonica blues tell of another day passing. I write letters to the honor company and await reply.

 

Lunch and dinner spread out the latest rumors for discussion; disbelief by some and dogma for others. Picking up bits and pieces as our crew of 10 wipes the tables cleaner— 40 composite slabs surrounded by four plastic chairs—we create much more interesting variations. While sweeping up, territorial disputes pay one act mini-dramas. “This is the yahoo table.” “We demand respect.” Bushing past with no comment, we observe.

 

In the evening I wonder about starting a long-distance, delusional romance with my ex-cellmate’s sister’s roomer’s divorced friend or one of those pay-for foreign pen pal deals. Postage is too high a price for no response.

 

Night time televisions flicker color patches. Giddy, goofy laughter floats up as headphones create an imitation of personal space. Disconnected asylums on each bunk drift through the night.

 

Out of temporal reality, stuck in limbo the slow dance of detention brings another dawn.

 

No mail today. A holiday.

 

On this day three more years is the measure, the yardstick against which this is judged. Perhaps I will write a letter.

5:20 AM

I woke up my side bunkie because I am the only one near with an alarm.

 

Last night was exhausting. The snoring was especially bad, as were my hips, which continually ache complements of the two-inch plastic mattress.

 

My ear plugs were confiscated as contraband two days ago in a bunk search, and ever since I haven’t slept much.

 

I’ve signed up for laundry at 5:30 a.m. in an attempt to alleviate the congestion amongst the limited facilities.

 

After my clothes are in the wash I lie awake on my bed lost in my morning ritual of listening to OPB.

 

Concluding the 28-minute wash, my clothes dry as I brush my teeth, wash my face, apply my make-up, and style my hair.

 

Since completing my 12-month education program as of yesterday I am jobless.

 

My plan today is kyte to multiple people regarding employment. Tutoring, visiting, perhaps a yard orderly.

 

As I am on my way to drop my kytes in the mail, I introduce myself to the yard officer and I have a job.

Trash. Part time. Three times a day. Two days a week. Seven dollars a month. That will be a big drop from the $65 I was making in my program.

 

Off to turn in my program books. I end up spending a short while conversing with the facilitator. She has been and continues to be a steadfast supporter, a rarity as DOC employees go and I am greatful.

 

A 45-minute walk in the yard with a friend is spent killing time discussing diets and losing weight. A HUGE topic around here.

 

Back at the dorm I check out the new summer shoe catalog. The pair I want are $69. Shoes wear out fast when they are the only pair you have.

 

I change into my workout clothes and mount my bunk for the 11:00 count.

 

Noon    

Count clears.

 

I trade lunch for the stationary bike.

 

Ten minutes later I am called to the office of my behavioral health counselor. We talk for an hour. I cry. Apparently she was e-mailed with concerns for me. This has been a hard week for a lot of reasons. 

 

Eight laps equal a mile and I run 54 with my eyes lost in the clouds in an attempt to lift them above the fence and razor wire.

 

At the weight pile I lift for 30 minutes.

 

Another peer chat about crime and recovery at the picnic table.

 

3:30 p.m.

Finally I can call my boyfriend. I’ve waited all day for him to be done with work to talk about something other than prison.

 

4:30 p.m.

Count again and on my bunk. Hoping for mail. One of the few daily highlights around here.

 

I got a card from my boyfriend!

 

5:00 p.m.

I signed up for veggie tray last night. I’m hoping I won’t see anyone I know. Mostly I’d rather eat with strangers so I don’t have to talk. Conversation topics are limited, negative, sad, and too often draining.

 

6:00 p.m.

The yard opens for evening time. I head out to finish my leg work out. Squats and lunges. I’m super tired. I wish I could sleep better.

 

7:00 p.m.

In for a shower. Hopefully I get the handicap one. It’s easier to shave my legs.

               

Up the ladder again to lie in bed and start a new book. I’m averaging about one a week.

 

8:00 p.m.

I’m bored so I wander out into the day room, take a seat on the concrete-like plastic couch, dial in my radio, and watch a half hour of Will and Grace until I can call my boyfriend again.

 

8:30 p.m.

My goodnight phone call.

 

I start my new job tomorrow.

 

I’m hoping I’m tired enough to sleep.