PRISONER EXPRESS

In my journal I mentioned briefly the dark side of man you never wish to see. My first experience was arriving inside the unit on a cold November day ten years ago. Fifty men were herded out of the bus and stripped of humanity. We stood naked as animals in the autumn air before being paraded into cages where we stood cramped waiting for hours to have our heads shaved and shower the lice off we supposedly had.

Inside the walls it didn’t take long to see the violence that isolation nurtures grown to fruition. One of the caged beings, isolated from humanity, proceeded to kick one of his brothers repeatedly in the head with steel toed boots while 40 others watched indifferently. The next week, isolated from rational laws a race riot erupted in the dorm over a tattoo. In the midst of an otherwise peaceful day, tackling, hitting, kicking, body slamming and wrestling happened continually. I had no idea what was going on or why. The next day, the same men who lived together with a seething hatred went to work clearing a forest of trees were given axes and picks. The tenseness shrouded my vision like a fog as any minute I imagined decapitations and amputations from this medieval world I had stumbled into. By some act of divine intervention death was not welcomed. These men who would spend 30-40 years in prison, many dying here cut off from everything they once knew, somehow held a glimmer of hope that prevented blood shed, by allowing their hatred to fade in the morning sun.

It was maybe another week or two when I realized I was completely inside another world. The keepers of the prison who parade themselves in grey uniforms to appear professional to the outside world are really just wolves in sheep’s clothing. They ordered an inmate to strip, then proceeded to hit and kick him to the ground in front of two or three hundred inmates and officers. After the experiences of the first three weeks of confinement I turned to the medical department feeling a nervous breakdown was immanent. The shrink asked what the problem was, I told him and he shrunk it to nothing. Then and there I knew I was utterly on my own, no one would ever help or even attempt to intercede on an inmate’s behalf. They all turned a blind eye.

Within two months I was transferred to another prison. It was 90 miles from home so the isolation was eased. Every month I received a visit from home. Sometimes twice a month. So far I only spoke of my isolation, but there were others who felt it more than I ever could. A year inside and I received my monthly visit. Happily, I walked to the visit area where I was put into the little room with a glass wall. Soon I saw three people being admitted; my mom, my aunt and my oldest son, who was nine. I hadn’t seen any of my children in over a year. The entire time I’d been caught in a whirlwind of chaos worrying over my situation. Upon seeing my son I picked up the phone to talk but in that moment I knew the isolation wasn’t my own. It was 10 to 15 minutes before I regained my composure after the damn of emotions burst into uncontrollable tears. My children were cut off from their father and would be grown before I was released. They would never know a dad. We all had lost something that can never be recaptured. I also realized that the isolation from some of my older loved ones would be permanent. We would never see each other again without a wall of glass between us. Fourteen years was more time than they had.

There are loves that you are born and raised into and others of a more intense nature you discover on the path of life. A spouse or lover is the closest person to you. In my case I had a lover. She and I were tuned into each other. In other words, we clicked. The isolation of prison drove her into another’s arms. The letter I knew would one day come arrived after a couple years, but even knowing, I felt as if part of me died. I’ve known men with two years and others with 70 years who were in complete denial of reality that the isolation of their lady love forced her to move on with her life. The guy with two years slit his wrists. Another with 25 years stared out the windows all weekend waiting for his wife to visit. He created another universe to answer why she didn’t write or visit. The man with 70 years will die in prison and his bed wasn’t cold before his wife had another man sleeping in it. He wrote her a 10 page letter every day of every week yet she wrote him once a month, one page. Isolation drives some to madness.

Over the years the isolation sharpens the mind, dulls the emotions and executes the soul. Hope is the only thing that can give a stay of execution. Writing about an emotional subject stimulated the emotions and unlocks the death chamber to let the spirit out for a breath of fresh air. There is another aspect of years of isolation. There is an unspoken love I’ve felt for the men who haven’t let their separation dehumanize them. In contrast there is a contempt and hatred that lives in my heart for those who become animals, possibly through no fault of their own. I see what they do and hear what they say. It fans my anger. I don’t like it but it’s who I am. Years ago my anger brewed over into violence. You put isolated men together and if they come in contact at the precise moment when anger is at its peak they will try to tear each other to pieces. I’ve been in four fights and they were all similar; one or both of us had uncontrollable rage. During and after these fights the isolation I felt from the human race threatened to sweep me into the sea of inhumanity.

The one fear greater than any I’ve mentioned so far is my release. After 14 years of separation from the free world will I be able to reconnect in a meaningful and productive manner, with the world that discarded me?

In a room with 55 other men I’m constantly in others presence yet I am utterly alone. The man who said,” man is not an island unto himself,” obviously has never been in prison. There are times when the distance between me and anyone else has overwhelmed me. The past haunts me some nights as I lay in my bunk. All I can do at these times is cover my face and let the tears fall. I once read Dante’s Inferno, AKA “The Divine Comedy.” I considered it trash. When I look at my own life I laugh. The past can never be changed. The present is an isolation chamber and the world to come has moved on without me. Where do I fit in? That goes for anyone who’s ever been to prison.

When I’m surrounded on all sides all day long by never ending noise and commotion I pray to myself they still had the “Box.” I’d gladly go in the box for a week or two if only to be physically isolated. Late at night is the only quiet time where I can hear myself think. Imagine 2 TVs, the volume up full blast, 10 or 20 radios on full blast, five or six toilets being flushed all day, four showers going off and on, an electronic steel door opening then being slammed shut 100 times a day, a voice on an amplified intercom shouting different orders all day through the day and a dozen conversations all going on at once, all in one room. That’s the reality. There is no escape, no release.

This prison is built beside another prison. On one side you see more prison. On antoher side you see a flat field of dead grass that goes on forever. In the distance are two factories that smoke comes out the top and lights blink off and on. On the other side there are two new factories that were just built and in the distance an orange building with three Xs on the roof. On the fourth side of the prison is the highway. You can watch for hours the cards going back and forth. People living their lives. I sometimes wonder where they are going. The airport is on the other side of the second prison. When I see planes flying over I dream of being on one going to a far off land. Maybe the Philippines or Trinidad. I’d settle for Ft. Worth though. That is the view when we go outside. From inside the building there is only one small window. Its on the side of the highway so you can still see the cars scrawling along in the distance. Such is the life we live.