My First Prison
The first thing I saw was the 32-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with three rows of razor-barbed wire, and for some reason, this startled me. What did I expect? Even though Corrections Corporation of America was a minimum-security prison, it was still a prison. Prisons have razor wire, especially in the middle of the city of Nashville, Tennessee.
The entire perimeter of the grounds was surrounded by these lacerating cables punctuated by lookout towers where, at each of the four corners, armed guards stood ready. From my vantage point, they appeared small, like figurines from a Fisher Price Little People’s toy set. Signs were posted in the parking lot reminding me that the prison was not responsible for any damaged or stolen property. Although these signs were commonplace, in most cases, they were a liability compliance for the insurance company. In this parking lot, they seemed more like a stark warning because break-ins commonly occurred.
I gathered my writing books — all paperbacks — hardbacks were not allowed, and handouts. I slipped my car key off the ring and tucked it into the pocket of my dress pants. As required, I had no long jewelry on, and my pants were loose fitting as well as my blouse. Underwire bras were prohibited because they set off the alarms. Closed-toed shoes were a must, even in the summer. No shorts or sleeveless tops were permissible either. I could wear a skirt if I wanted, but it must come below the knee. I was allowed one key, a driver’s license, my reading glasses, and less than ten dollars cash. I never had cash so this was not a problem. I was also allowed a blue ink pen. The inmates used black. This was an important security against tampering with documents and forging signatures.
At the walkway separating the parking lot from the prison proper, there were depositories for cigarette butts and warnings that cell phones were not allowed. If I tried to smuggle any electronics inside, I would be charged with a felony. I hid mine between the CDs in the middle console. No wonder they had signs posted. Anyone who came to the prison knew these policies. Cell phones, cash, and purse with credit cards, all sat waiting to be stolen.
It was the razor wire, however, that unnerved me, as if to say “Warning, dangerous people within.” For the first time, I questioned what I had gotten myself into. Volunteering to teach a creative writing class seemed magnanimous enough, but, now I wondered exactly how criminal were these guys.
I once saw a squirrel caught in the bundle of wire, and each feeble effort to escape only caused him more lacerations and pain. I watched him for a few moments as he wiggled, and froze, panted hard, and slowly stretched a leg as if to try and reverse the damage he just caused, only to cry out in a high-pitch squeal. The scene was so excruciating to witness I turned away in revulsion. The next week, only his carcass remained. It took weeks for the flesh to fall away and the bones to drop. Even the vultures wouldn’t venture in for that free meal. I could imagine what the razors would do to human flesh, quite the deterrent for any inmate thinking of escape.
Originally, I had volunteered at the prison to improve my writing and to practice my teaching skills. All the big craft book authors like Natalie Goldberg and Anne Lamott suggested that this kind of setting for teaching would sharpen my skills. I wanted my donated time to benefit me too. I was tired of the room-mother duties, and chaperoning field trips with whiney children. Even on this first day, I sensed this experience would be more than philanthropic, that in fact, teaching here would be life-changing.
The entryway was landscaped with rose bushes of all colors: red, pink, yellow, and white. A huge flowerbed lay adjacent to the front entry, centered with a flagpole. The crisp fall air caused the summer vinca and petunias to die back. Dedication plaques listed the names of the people for whom bushes were planted as memorials, and an angel statue guarded the monkey grass. A tall wooden sign boasted that it had been twenty-one days since a person was injured in the facility and lost time from work. I wondered who was hurt, an inmate or a visitor, and what the longest recorded time frame was between these mishaps.
This first trip back on the unit would let me know that the landscape and appearance of the visitation room where we had our orientation must have all been for the families’ benefit.
The rest of the facility was quite different.
The lobby was typical of any public building, with white vinyl floors, and cinder block walls. The “welcome desk” was encased in bulletproof glass. I ducked into the restroom before being escorted back. I would not have a chance to go on the unit.
Getting through security was like walking into an episode of CSI. A male guard stood at the desk, interrogating me.
“Who are you here with?”
“Men of Valor.”
“ID?” He held out his hand to accept it.
I gave him my driver’s license and he searched for my paperwork, approved by the program director, that stated I passed the background check. I noticed another sign that said, “Random Pat Downs Conducted.”
The guard set a plastic tray on the ledge in front of the conveyor belt that would x-ray my belongings. This is similar to airport scanning procedures. I put my books, key, glasses, and pens into the box, then took off my shoes, placed them in the bin, and was scanned without incident. The guard waved me through the archway that had yet another metal detector. Guards in line behind me filled their boxes, taking off their weapons, belts, shoes, and keys without interrupting their conversation about upcoming football games. I got the feeling they were either coming on duty for second shift or returning after lunch.
Suddenly a buzzer went off, sounding like the ending of a basketball game. Something had set off the machine as I went through, and I flinched as I covered my mouth to stifle a scream. The guards behind me tapped their socked feet in annoyance. It took two more passes through before I decided to take off my hair barrette. That seemed to be the culprit.
Once beyond the gate, Curt Campbell, the Men of Valor Program Director, greeted me and thanked me for coming. I sat on the bench and put my shoes back on. He laughed as I tried to comb my hair with my fingers, and told me how brave I was to be willing to take out my barrette. His wife, he said, would never do that in public. I wondered if his wife ever went through security here. Somehow, I doubted Curt would allow her inside.
As he pushed buttons, metal gates opened and closed behind us with a clang. “Have you ever been on a unit before?” he said. It seemed to be more of a breezeway. We were locked between two gates looking toward a third.
“No, no I haven’t,” I said. That gate opened and then, as one closed behind us with a bang, another began to open. It reminded me of dominoes — when one falls, the others follow in quick succession. I followed Curt. As he moved, I moved. He turned right down the hallway, and I trailed behind. Looking to the left he said, “That’s the long hall. Our more challenging inmates are held there — in cells. Where we are going is a unit. Like a dormitory.” He offered to take me on a full tour someday.
“I would like that,” I said. “Another time.”
We traveled through the hallway consisting of solid windowless blocks, passing by doors stenciled with warnings that forbid inmates access, walking around metal archways set up in the hallway where lines of men dressed in drab green scrubs passed through on their way back from some class. Curt said, “No one is here with more than a six-year sentence.” He said there was some kind of deal for time, like a two-for-one special, but I didn’t catch all the details as we walked through the hall. The length of incarceration and where the amount of time served identify inmates to one another as much as the crime they committed. It even defines them. His company and chatter began to put me at ease.
We approached another desk. This one was elevated and as we got closer, I saw that it was a platform with armed men and offices. Television monitors lined the sidewall. Looking around, I noticed Captain’s Desk painted on the front of the box. Curt threw some keys into a metal drawer and dumped them down a shoot similar to a book drop at a library. A few seconds later they reappeared. Another security check I did not understand.
We continued down the hallway on the polished concrete floors until we reached the last door.
Unlike the other doorways, this one was painted with care. A shield of arms announced Men of Valor. JERICHO was painted vertically in purple letters above the last lock. It was outlined in a gold rectangle. The program was named after the Old Testament Bible story about the battle of Jericho. It was because of Joshua’s “absolute obedience to God” that the Israelites prospered. The same lesson was taught to the inmates. Only God had the power to save them now.
We stood in what looked like a breezeway, similar to a branding pen or cattle chute where animals have no choice but to move forward. While we waited for the guard to unlock the door, I read the signs posted on the wall.
“No Means No and Yes is not Allowed.”
On the opposite side, “Sexual Violence is Always a Violation.”
We were on Echo Unit.
Inside, yet, another desk sat immediately to the right of the entrance. A female guard looked out at the box of a room. Prison guards prefer to be addressed as “officer,” even though they are in no way commissioned in that title. I referred to them as I saw them, guarding the doors, not officiating the law. I followed Curt around to the left and saw the open shower. A tall naked Black man rubbed his underarm, saw me, and turned his back. A short wall concealed the more private parts, at least from where I stood. My face must have flushed as my head reeled.
“I’m sorry, I forgot to warn you about that,” Curt said, “There is no privacy here.”
“I notice,” I said.
As I walked around the room, all eyes were on me. What were they thinking as they regarded this middle-aged white woman, with her long blonde hair and 5 foot 8 inches tall, puffy, but fit, pre-menopausal body, walking into their space? I could feel their stares and I felt suddenly flushed and anxious as if I just walked into the Sock Hop, dateless, my freshmen year of high school.
About 100 men were on this unit. The back of the cellblock was the sleeping area. Two rooms housed rows and rows of bunk beds. The center of the cellblock was open space, anchored with showers and urinals on the left and the right. Plastic folding tables and chairs were set up and rearranged in whatever configuration was needed for meetings, games, and meals. The front wall was divided up into small offices and one larger meeting room. This tiny room on the edge of the cellblock was where my writing class would be held.
Everything was grey.
