Commissary Day, Part 4-Final part

(Originally Posted on June 30, 2015)

Shortly after one o’clock, in a baking afternoon, the fourth shot of inmates hasn’t left the room, but there’s hope. It’s time for shift-change at the Commissary, and there’s a new employee we all want assigned to our window. She’s been here almost 13 weeks, and she has even the crass-speaking prisoners using the word “wonderful”. She hasn’t developed the chronic sneer of a Commissary lady (or prison nurse) yet, and there’s no sign of the inevitable apathy and laziness that familiarity with prison brings. In fact, she’s been polite, even to inmates, and works very hard. Nobody is sure how long her gung-ho attitude will last, but at present, she’s a heroine. Not only does she run the line smoothly and efficiently, but she’s even been known to get on the cellblock sergeant and remind him to fill her line. I call her the Asian Angel, and if she works, we all have a shot at making Commissary.

Commissary Day, Part 3

(Originally Posted on June 12, 2015) 

Commissary Day (continued)

A Bossman appears in front of the bars and magically has everyone’s attention. He smirks a hello and points a remote-control at the televisions mounted high on the brick wall, turning them to maximum volume. He asks what stations we want to watch, but jeers and shouted profanity are his only answer. Historically, thousands of prisoners have spilled blood over what snowy reception TV station to watch, yet nobody cares right now. Today is Commissary day.

Dear Ally...

(Originally Posted on May 22, 2015) 

Dear Ally,

In almost twenty-one years, you made greater differences in this world than many people far older than you ever will.

Thank you for helping with this blog and for extending your hand into the darkness to grasp mine. I will miss your sublimely kind spirit, so much.

 

Rest in peace, Allison

Commissary Day, Part 2

(Originally Posted on May 22, 2015) 

Commissary Day (continued)

At around five o’clock, the gate to my darkly comfortable kennel will be popped open. I will be released, and I will race to face my trial in the Hyena’s Den (that’s what I call the dayroom, which is both a recreation area and a holding tank). As I consider the tedious wait ahead, I debate with myself, as I have a hundred times in the past, whether to take a book. It’s a steady compulsion, and ridiculous: I don’t think I’ve managed to read an entire page of text in the Hyena’s Den. Ever. If the word “library” has an antonym, surely it would be “penitentiary dayroom”. No two environments could have such opposite intentions. The dayroom is a relatively small, overcrowded, cacophonous room laden with combustible levels of testosterone and fear. Seems like only a fool would even attempt to distract himself with a book in such a volatile atmosphere, and yet, distraction and escape are exactly what I long for whenever I’m trapped there.

Commissary Day, Part 1

(Originally Posted on May 12, 2015)

About “Commissary Day”

When I wrote the following essay, perhaps six years ago, describing in detail one of the more unfortunate rituals of prison, I received some rather strong reactions from readers. Most agreed that it was emotionally hard to read, and some of the more sensitive couldn’t manage to read it at all. I believe my writing was at fault…too much of my own misery leaked through the words. So, I’m rewriting the story, trying to make it more palatable. Because the essay is relatively long, I’ll post it in parts.

 

I ask readers to understand that prison by its very nature breeds unpleasant experiences, and though I’ll attempt to remove some of my own raw emotion from the narrative, that doesn’t mean I can make it any easier to read.

 

The issue of race was also a problem for some readers. Race isn’t something I feel qualified or comfortable addressing, but the penitentiary is socially primitive. And however ridiculous, race defines inmates far more than people in the outside world. Let me say that I find racism in any form highly distasteful and don’t condone it. Also note that racism and racial division are not necessarily the same thing. Bi-racial friendships here, while not encouraged, are not uncommon and usually without consequence. Racial division is more a result of circumstance than actual hate. When you create an all-male environment full of deprivation, volatility and uncertainty, it seems inevitable that a tribal culture will result.

 

Feel free to comment about what you read; otherwise, how can I know if the writing matters?

 

Commissary Day, Part 1 (Circa 1997)

 

“Principles have no real force except when one is well fed” — Mark Twain 

 

It’s 4:30 in the morning, and my head must weigh 50 pounds as I part it from the “fire-proof” pillow. It’s not just fatigue. Actual torture probably doesn’t break a person as fast as the apprehension of it. Blindfold a victim, strike him at random, and the blows won’t hurt nearly as much as the pauses. I dread this coming day, and my yearning for return to bed weighs me down; every movement willed.

Caged View

(Originally Posted on April 10, 2015)

The demented cement wall I open my eyes to every morning is more than a century old and bleeds tear gas when it gets really humid. Some of the white paint from its last paint-job remains and has been scorched with black soot from recent fire — no doubt set in protest from a dissatisfied resident. The wall is pockmarked with multicolored scabs from years of paint-jobs, has crude gang graffiti painstakingly carved with paperclips, and bares battle scars from the countless futile beatings inflicted by wretched ghosts past.

Dancing Daydreams

(Originally Posted on March 11, 2015) 

"All of us invent ourselves.  Some of us just have more imagination than others." - Cher

My balance teeters as I land, spinning on one foot atop of the abrasive concrete, preparing for another leap. I don’t bite it, but man, it’s close. I feel a shot of adrenal relief seize my body, and I bite back an impetuous smile as my body springs into a final landing of a five-piece pirouette… I mean, tornado-kick. I’m gasping for oxygen, my muscles tensed, and I feel the stares of unwelcome eyes. Of course, in prison, unwelcome eyes are almost always watching me. But presently, they’re intent. To be fair, I am making a bit of a spectacle of myself. Not that I have a choice in this overcrowded human warehouse. Given my introverted nature though, I’d much prefer practicing my dances unobserved.

Man Versus Beast

(Originally Posted on January 30, 2015) 

I stare at my freshly washed T-shirt hanging from a string clothesline against the wall. I’ve seen this sight a thousand times yet never seen it at all. What a pathetic shirt. Would anyone in the free world wear it? Probably not. Wearing it would be frowned upon, especially in a public place like a store or restaurant. Not that I think much about what’s acceptable in public, but every once in a while I allow myself a little role-playing game to fill an empty penitentiary moment. “Man Versus Beast”, I call it.

Lockdown Blues

(Originally Posted on January 14, 2015)

"We are children of our landscape, it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we're responsive to it." - Molier 

Twenty-four hours a day trapped in a 5′ x 9′ cage with a huge, sweating man whose stink is only exceeded by the toilet overflowing with excrement. And to be honest, I don’t smell very pleasant myself. The radio says it’s 101 degrees outside, which means it’s probably 115 degrees inside these unventilated prison bowels.

 

There’s no water, and that exacerbates the misery. If I had water, I could wash away the layers of grime accumulating on my skin. If I had water, I could wash my bed sheets, now foul from absorbing several days’ worth of sour sweat.  If I had water, I could flush that nasty toilet, which, even with several magazines covering its opening, and me cowering on the opposite end of my bunk, is still emitting fumes that make my eyes water. Most importantly, if I had water, I could quench my desperate and unreasonable thirst and recoup some of the fluids I’m steadily losing in this morbid sauna. (There’s a cruel prison phenomenon we often joke about: When they turn the water off, the body reacts by immediately becoming very thirsty, accompanied by a strong need to defecate. Much like when they handcuff your hands behind your back, your nose begins to itch.)