Woop! Woop!

The loud noises stir me from my sleep. It’s coming from men yelling out a warning from the cells around me. Woop! Woop! A chain reaction ensues. Woop! Woop! Woop! Woop! Multiple inmates get louder and louder trying to warn the unit that the search team is on the prowl. Cell searches have begun. Its 3 o’clock in the morning and most inmates, like myself, are asleep.

Upon hearing my fellow inmates activate our makeshift alarm system, I jump to my feet in a panic, chiming in with the others. Woop! Woop! Toilets start flushing simultaneously. Weapons, drug paraphernalia and cell phones are all being discarded. Multiple sets of boots can be heard marching hurriedly across the metal catwalk. Half asleep, I scan my memory to do a quick inventory of my cell. Do I have anything that can send me to the hole? Nope. I am not in possession of any contraband, but I’m still on edge. These search teams are known to be overly aggressive and have a reputation for assaulting incarcerated people, unprovoked.

Nerves racing, I grab my handheld mirror and stick it in between the cell bars to see if they are coming down my tier. Using the reflection from the mirror, I look out to the left. A group of 5 or 6 officers are gathered in front of a cell at the front of the tier. I reposition the mirror, then look out to the right. Only thing I see is flashlight beams reflecting off of the walls.

This is a targeted search, where only specific cells are being inspected. I am temporarily relieved that they’re not here to ransack the entire unit. I just hope I’m not on their list.

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Voices can be heard above me barking orders, “Turn around! Let me see your fucking hands!”

“I ain’t do shit!” an inmate screams in protest. I recognize that voice, its ol’ man Justice.

“He flushed something down the toilet sergeant,” an officer said in an overzealous tone.

Once they breach Justice’s cell, scuffling and rumbling sounds begin. Hearing an elderly man scream and groan in agony is disheartening. I don’t know how many officers are up there in Justice’s cell beating on him, nor do I know what they are beating him with. All I do know is that I can hear the blows land. Thump after thump; followed by loud grunts.

The sounds of an assault taking place is all too familiar. As a child I was awakened from my sleep by the sounds of my mother being physically abused by one of her boyfriends. As an adult, I’ve witnessed officers pummel handcuffed inmates on multiple occasions.

Every time I wake up to one of these late night, early morning raids, I re-live my childhood trauma all over again. As a child, I laid there motionless, frightened, and helpless. Tonight, I have a voice. “Why the fuck y’all jumping that ol’ ass man!” Then, “You punk ma’ fuckers should be ashamed of yourselves!” I continue to yell out from the confines of my cell, wishfully hoping that my antagonistic protest will pierce the conscience of these abusive officers and get them to ease up their unrelenting attack on ol’ man Justice.

As expected, one of the officers who was searching the cell in the front of my tier walked down asking, “Who’s the loud mouth? Keep it up and you’ll be getting your ass whooped next.” Even though this officer was masked, I could tell he was a Black man.

Still exhibiting my solidarity with ol’ man Justice, I look the officer in the eyes glaring through his mask and respond with a statement that most Black men hate to hear, “You niggahs are more oppressive than these crackers.” The air in his chest deflated. His shoulders slumped. He turned and walked away.

By this time, the scuffling upstairs ceased. All I could hear was heavy breathing and the clanging of handcuffs. Other inmates were quiet, eavesdropping on the conversations the officers were having amongst themselves.

After they extracted the other inmates that they were looking for, the officers then began rummaging through their cells.

Adrenaline subsiding, I sat on the edge of my bunk thinking these officers are like terrorists. They raid in the wee hours of the morning, waking people out of their sleep, and start brutalizing them. These experiences stick with you for life. I sleep with my boots on, tied up tight. Newcomers to the prison think that I am institutionalized or burnt out, but clinically, I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Shakeil Price

Instagram:  @FreeShakeilPrice

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