The Harsh Reality of Seeking Quiet in Prison

The Weather Channel indicated it was 6:30 p.m. After verifying the time, I shut off the TV’s power and turned off the light switch. It was time for my daily ritual.

For two consecutive years, I faithfully followed the same routine at 6:30 every evening. I turned up the radio to drown out the chaos of the prison and commenced my 30-minute decompression session. In this volatile environment, it is imperative that I find time to still my mind and travel to a place of serenity.

I completed my manual Maytag duties two minutes before my session was set to begin. I should’ve hand-washed my clothes earlier, but I was physically exhausted and needed time to recuperate. The four games of full-court basketball I played in the gym that morning took a toll on my 43-year-old body.

My sweaty clothes had begun to develop a rancid odor, tainting my confined living space. The stench was all the motivation I needed to begin the painstaking task of hand-washing my gym clothes.

Vigorously scrubbing and then ringing out the soapy film from my sweat shorts is like an exercise. The cotton material of the shorts absorbs so much water they feel like they weigh 20-25 lbs. My wrist, fingers, and forearm muscles were all cramped up.

Laundry duty was now complete. Wet clothes dangled from makeshift clotheslines crisscrossing my scanty cell.

I actually measured the cell with a ruler one day. When I was home, I had a walk-in closet in my apartment that symmetrically resembled this cell. I could distinctly recall the closet being 8-by-9 because I purchased an area rug of that size to cover the oakwood floor.

During the first few days in this cell, I frequently compared its size to that of the closet. I eventually measured the cell to satisfy my curiosity. To my surprise, the 8-by-9 closet was larger than this 6-by-8 cell. Being locked in this cramped space for 23 hours every day gave new meaning to R. Kelly’s song, Trapped in the Closet.

I was sitting on the floor in the lotus position with my back against the wall. Kendrick Lamar’s album, Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City blared in the background.

I wave a few bottles, then I watch ’em all flock/All the girls wanna play Baywatch/I got a swimming pool full of liquor and they dive in it.

I was just beginning to enter a state of nirvana when I was abruptly interrupted by an officer’s frantic voice yelling, “Code 53, Code 53! Everybody lock in!” Code 53 is an alert for medical attention.

Adrenaline pumping. I hopped to my feet. Thoughts racing. Did one of those arguments on the basketball court lead to a stabbing by the shower? Was it a suicide, an overdose? Did one of my comrades need medical attention? All of these scenarios were all too familiar at New Jersey State Prison.

Looking out of my cell onto the catwalk, BJ, the tier porter, was jogging by. I quizzically asked him, “What happened, bruh?” He responded without even breaking his stride, “Code 53 on 2EE,” his voice fading in the distance.

The officer was yelling frantically as if the code was on this unit. The location of the code was not even on the same compound. All of that commotion disturbed my state of peace. I just wanted to relax, listen to my music, and inhale the damp air from the wet clothes hanging up in my closet-sized cell.

But I thought to myself, “No Justice, No Peace.”

Shakeil Price #000200947C

#666160 NJSP

P.O. Box 861

Trenton, NJ 08625

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