Jessica Travis believes the prison system was designed to fail, so you have to fight off defeat by playing the game: finding optimism in prison when there is none.  

Drowning in a sea of misery will not be allowed any more. Forget everything you think you knew about jail, because now you know the secret. It’s time to win your life back out of the prison cycle. It’s your life that they are attempting to dictate and control, starting with the first rule of the day. You are required to wake up and stand at the door attached to your badge at head count. If you fail to do this, you are awarded 23 straight hours locked in your cell.

On this particular day, my bunkie Heather and I overslept and missed head count. This was brought to our attention at lunch later than afternoon. The officer announced our 23 hours would begin at 1:00 p.m., immediately after lunch.

I have frequented the quarantine of jail cells since I quit heroin cold turkey 19 months ago. The irony of lock-up isn’t lost. One doesn’t quit heroin without suffering some serious psychological setbacks, in my case wandering into various houses and getting into random cars, leading me to multiple arrests.

I vowed that this arrest would be my last. Meanwhile, the self-criticism that shadows alongside being incarcerated doesn’t help in advancing the futures of the vast prison population. Especially when jail isn’t designed to foster a comfortable and uplifting environment. In my observation, most inmates seem miserable most of the time.

Successfully doing my time with a more positive outlook presented a challenge in and of itself. I wasn’t exactly sure why, so when Mizz let me in on the secret, I took it very personally. How dare they design such a meticulous strategy against us, so that I’ll employ myself into mental deterioration. The secret is no more.

Mizz went into great detail over lunch. She explained how prisons are constructed to emulate catastrophic events throughout history. For example, your prison might be modeled after a WWII concentration camp or a devastating site from 9/11 such as the Pentagon. The prison in Huntsville, Texas, where the death penalty is carried out, is designed to feel like the Green Mile.

This sent shivers down my spine. My incarceration is taking place at almost a carbon copy of the Titanic. Even the color scheme mirrors the second half of the movie to a tee. The carpet, furniture, and concrete floors are a mix of the dreariest grays. The handrails a faint sickly blue like the calm, cloudy ocean after a storm.

I was perched in the dayroom eating my lunch as the secret was exposed to me. I almost dropped my sandwich as I stared in front of me at the infamous staircase where Jack bows as he takes Rose’s hand. These surroundings trigger our psyche with traumatic recognition. Even the cream-colored doors and walls have been splashed with a coat of frigid mist, coating the rooms in a film of dirt. That same dirty film colors the threads of our blankets and towels, isolating our bodies from any true clean feeling. We live out our days here in a sinking ship that hides in plain sight.

I had been prodded and my head started to spin. At that moment, I decided, challenge accepted. Now I have a mission to accomplish while doing my time. I refused to administer myself hours of guilt and regret when I must play this game to win. My opponent schemes to trick me into a silent waking slumber.

I carefully turned my head to examine the far section of my pod that houses the SHU cases and the mental health inmates. The desperate screams of a woman echoes throughout the dayroom. The small hallway where she was housed was enclosed by waterproof glass. The structure is built much like the staff quarters aboard a large ship. Through the thick glass, I could see the woman violently throwing her meal tray into the small plexiglass window at the top of the door. She shattered the window but it refused to fall. I felt immediate gratitude that my cell wasn’t in that back corner.

I recalled the passengers of the Titanic trying to force their way through the impenetrable glass with all of their might. That moment reminded me that in all times we can find something to be grateful for. I now have the advantage. My knowledge of the designs set in place for my failure allow me to simply identify my obstacles. Now, for the freedom of my future, I can find ways to overcome them.

I turned my head back toward my meal tray and scanned the faces of the other three women at my table. We all stared down at our food in disbelief. If seeing is believing, then we four had no doubt that what Mizz was telling us was true.

The next thing we learned was that our meals are less than 25% natural. This keeps our bodies vitamin-deficient and unable to operate at their best. This was not a shock to us. Roseanne flashed her sincere smile and declared that from now on our food would be a positive blessing in mind, body, and spirit. We all agreed to speak this out loud at every meal. I allowed myself to soak up the positivity and unity of that moment.

As we stood up with our trays and pushed in our flimsy plastic chairs, Mizz informed us she would be doing some yoga to offset some of the damage the chairs might do to our posture.

Shawna didn’t say much over lunch. Usually the positive light of the group, she gently tapped my shoulder and asked me not to be upset about being stuck in my room for the next day. She cheerfully reminded me that I love to write, and advised me to dedicate this uninterrupted time to putting my thoughts onto paper. The cycle is already reversing within us. The dominos played to fall against us were lifting and reversing.

As I made my way to my cell, I took note of the pay phones. They were placed on the wall so that the inmates talking on them would be forced to hunch over during a call. Seeing the phones reminded me that my time on this Titanic was limited. I must use each minute wisely to avoid being a recidivist. I now limit phone calls to less than five minutes.

I stopped in front of bunk 7 and patiently waited for the officer to open my cell door. The loud click of the lock sounded, alerting me that I could now step inside. I pulled it shut and another loud click signaled to me that I was trapped in the small space. The loud click now reminds me of cost-free living arrangements while I “take a break” from life. I will use this cell to transform my thinking further.

I sat down on the cold metal stool at the rusty metal desk. My mind drifted off while gazing at the blank notebook paper in front of me. My black ink pen lay sleepily silent across the empty page. My trance was broken by the sound of keys jingling on a belt loop. The guard had begun to make her rounds. She was met on the outside of her door by a female attempting to communicate with my bunkie. She scolded the woman, fiercely commenting that the girls in bunk 7 didn’t know how to act right, and ain’t nothin’ changed. She repeated herself twice and made no acknowledgement to Heather or myself.

It thrilled me that the lockdown kicked off with the enemy tactic coming straight to my door. The guard felt as if she should inform me that not waking up equated to not acting right. As far as nothing changing, her comment intended to insult and discourage.

I asked Heather to take turns standing with me at the window. I wanted us to spot as many jail tactics as possible. I told her I’d compile a list and use it to fill my blank sheet of paper. Heather agreed with a smile on her face, calling this our “enemy analysis.” We took turns standing, baffled as we counted all of the hurdles and roadblocks right before our eyes. We rattled them off, one after another, shaking our heads over how the pod was set up to affect each inmate.

It’s difficult to articulate the feeling that arises when beginning to comprehend that you are locked in a building that has been prepared for you to systematically unravel from the inside out. It’s almost like building a puzzle in reverse. The details stung viciously and built a road that almost always leads straight back to imprisonment. Seeing the situation like this means you must make new pieces to avoid building the same road. I was building a new puzzle with a road that led me to a different feature. 55 specifics in less than 15 minutes. This included nearly every single thing that we laid eyes on, from clothing to shower heads to our cell layout. Nothing looked the same any more.

After this change in perspective, the cold, stale, empty energy of the dayroom shifted. The air became ominous yet vacant, like women were sleepwalking with tired bodies and hopeless eyes. The dark navy uniforms complemented the sadness of the gray room. They erased every ounce of femininity from the female form.

I noticed that women appeared to be checking the scent of their clothing with frowns. Two to three navy uniforms are issued to each woman, and laundry comes once a week. This makes it impossible to wash your uniforms every week. Some uniforms may go 10 days or more without being laundered, and handwashing in the cell is considered an infraction.

The only splashes of color are on the bright orange shoes made of thin rubber and the two-inch orange plastic sporks assigned for meals. Heather commented that this is what life would be like in black and white.

We watched as some women swayed back and forth in their seats and others held onto themselves tightly to keep warm in the cold room. One can always count on the air being brisk. There are four showers. Each opens up to the chilly dayroom, and stalls are guarded with a chest-high door and walls. The small spout automatically shuts off every 30 seconds. Little time to be aware of your public audience when you are striving to stay warm and keep water on.

In bunk 12, someone has scratched into the door, “Off to Ireland.” The girls and I aren’t the only ones who know the secret. In our bunk, we scratched, “Keep your head in the game!” In addition to the 55 tactics we viewed through our six-inch window, we identified another 20-something inside our room. The cold, metal toilet is placed two feet from the heads of our beds. Directly above it lie the air vents that keep a steady stream of cold air flowing. These are more examples of the architecture that tests our will and endurance.

Heather sat down on the icy toilet and let our a shriek of despair, complaining of how uncomfortable it was to use the restroom. Then she proclaimed, “Keep your head in the game!” Now every time we approach the seat, the metal stuns us into repeating those words.

We wash our hands and dishes in the small sink attached to the top of the toilet. Only one side of the water works and shuts off after 15 seconds. We aren’t given any soap or cleaning products. The one bottle of what they call indigent shampoo has become our go-to cleaner. While standing in front of the sink, we are greeted with a distorted vision of our faces in a tiny mirror. There will be no accurate reflection of ourselves until we are living on the other side of the prison walls. We have accepted this and push each other to do small workouts every day in the small space we occupy.

The thin mattress and tattered blankets barely shelter us from the freezing nights. We prayed over our beds that give us rest and peace when we need it. Now that my friends and I know the secret, we can construct a plan of action. It isn’t difficult to recall devastating scenes from the movie. The old couple holding onto one another, knowing their cabin would hold their last moments. The desperate hand slapping the inside of the window, pleading for help while knowing he was about to breathe his last breath. We chose to redesign our outlook each morning, infiltrating our bodies and minds with sunlight to offset the darkness of the room.

Instead of housing our demise, our cells now house self-propelled rehabilitation. My bunkie and I look forward to enjoying our faces in a clear mirror after our release. We refuse to shame ourselves into drowning.

Our 23-hour lockdown inspired us to begin taking classes on the dayroom tablets. We earned certificates and kept our attorneys updated on our progress. We reached out to mental health services requesting updated resource lists for our area. If we were ignored, we asked again. We wrote as many community resources as we could, and we let them know who we were. We told them our personal stories and requested what we needed to be successful when we leave.

We chose to focus on how we could combat the more than 75 tactics for our physical and emotional collapse. As we saw fellow inmates struggle with the vicious mind, body, spirit cycle, we made a point to share our knowledge and encourage women to play the game with us. “Keep your head in the game” has become a common phrase among us.

I’m not sure if anyone ever anticipates getting arrested and being incarcerated. Handcuffs aren’t something we aspire as humans to have placed on us. The panic that immediately sets in must be similar to the panic of knowing your ship is headed for the bottom of the ocean. The panic of feeling trapped and desperate. The adrenaline that’s felt in trying to save one’s life in such a traumatic situation probably pump at full blast until the very end of hope. I believe the difference of being put in jail is that the adrenaline fades quickly at the beginning of the process. The fear of a natural disaster poses a different threat than the fear imposed by man. There is a psychological element that can be manipulated throughout a prison sentence. This has been the challenge, and as I write my life back into color, I am proud that the pod has become “jaded.” I will leave a piece of myself through other women who are determined to keep their lives afloat, above board, and moving forward.

Jessica (Jade) Travis
jessicatravis788@gmail.com

The post Jessica Travis: I’m Writing My Life Back Into Color first appeared on Prison Writers.