A Typical Day in Prison

A typical day in prison is anything but. I’m watching an old man’s personal property being packed up by a corrections officer (CO). This was happening due to the old man being apprehended with contraband, the kind that shot your level up from a 3 to a 5—a supermax facility. I shook my head, then continued reading my book.

This was life in prison. You saw stupid happening daily, and you became numb to it until that hand knocked on your cell’s door. Since I heard nobody rapping on my door, I enjoyed the music of El Camino.

As the day continued, I saw more and more of the insanity of mass incarceration. A man from the top tier shouted that he wanted to know who called him a snitch. His outburst stopped the entire day room. We watched him launch a file folder loaded with his court documents at a table, but instead, it hit a young kid on his shoulder. That ignited the kid, who questioned, “Are you saying I called you a snitch?” He rose to his feet, ready for a fight. The man said, “Nah, not you, I’m talking about the other guys.” Everybody tuned out the man once they saw he was snatching ass.

I crawled onto my bunk and began thinking about the endless waves of nonsense that came. But it didn’t last long, because I was called out for work. Once outside, I was told to clear the school area of snow. So my mind was on a shovel and a squeegee. That kept me occupied for a bit, but then my coworkers began griping about how we’re the only men working. The rest of our crew was in their cells, warm, while we’re freezing out butts off. I knew that if I responded, an argument would ensue. Why? Well, the sour note was a guy on our crew who never showed up for work, and since he didn’t, my coworkers would begin to speak on using their fists to get the guy back to working with us. I didn’t care, because at the end of the day, I’m not lazy, and the job was simplistic: dump trash, mow the grass, and shovel snow. None of this took more than a few hours, on a bad day, to complete. So, I hummed a song in my head and got my task done.

After a shower, I watched this new kid begin strolling out of the day room. He’s what we called a Deuce Head (partakes in smoking K-2). His outward appearance was one of a homeless person. Hair unkempt, clothes dingy, and a gait of someone drunk on gallons of wine. He’s spaced out, and everybody avoided him. Word reached our unit, informing us that he was choked out when he stepped to someone, high and out of his mind. So, eyes were on him, and that’s when he began doing odd things: working out and talking to himself. He even started flexing as he made a lap around the day room. I had to get on the phone near his cell, and that’s when I noticed he had a barricade that needed to be climbed over to get into his cell—which he did as I made my phone call.

The environment that I’m in, all I see are mental health issues. We had a barber, but he chose to quit the job over other men using the equipment. Everybody expressed to him that they would claim responsibility for anything that went missing, but that didn’t work. So, he quit the job, then ceased speaking with anybody in our housing unit—two weeks and counting.

You also had the men playing Uno. The game has become a popular escape for the past few weeks. They talk crap to one another, all in good fun. Everybody left their feelings at the door. The men just wanted to play a fun game that took them away from the melodrama of mass incarceration, but the table next to them, occupied by Pathfinder fanatics, didn’t appreciate them being so loud. So one of the Pathfinders, the so-called leader, placed a hand on one of the Uno-playing men’s shoulders and shared that he and his friends couldn’t hear each other. The way he presented that to the Uno men stopped the game. Mind you, it was the afternoon hour, not late night, or in front of a sleeping man’s cell. They were in the day room, where multiple conversations, games, and workouts commenced. So that caused the Uno man to get up and launch into a verbal assault that made the Pathfinder turn tail, apologizing.

15 Muslims made prayer. They stood in the day room, side by side, praying. Nobody grew quiet as they did. They just continued with their day, and when they were done, nobody complained. They just returned to their daily lives.

At the middle table was a group of men putting a 3,000-piece puzzle together. They used a cardboard box that they placed over the stainless-steel table to make room for the puzzle. Nobody ever used that table anymore, only them, because when they completed the puzzle, they would have another to take its place.

Nobody cared. Everybody was in their own world. That’s why when a prison lawyer sat at a table with 100 envelopes, nobody interfered or disturbed him as he worked on his freedom.

This was a glimpse into the daily lives of those inside prison. Some good, bad, and ugly. No matter what, it’s still life inside. I’m one of those men watching from my perch, seeing my world as I fight for my freedom.

The one thing I’ll share is this: Mental health was prevalent throughout this story, and that’s one thing that needed to be addressed, because it made its mark.

Remember, this is prison, not a mental health institution.

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