I have been sitting on some shorter entries for some time now. I'm not really sure why - June just passed by and I lazed the entire month away. I'm falling into a routine of exercise and reading - which is good. I think - but I'm also sleeping a lot, watching TV a lot; generally acting like I'm on vacation when in the back of my mind I feel I should be writing.
And, of course, I am -- just not so prolifically as before.
I've also been feeling somewhat guilty over the success of my blog: I've been getting a lot of positive feedback lately, and while flattering it is also somewhat dismaying. I still think about Lady X, and I imagine her reaction to my web presence would be less than receptive. I feel it would be better for my self-interest and preservation if I didn't care about her reactions, but I do - to my detriment probably. Perhaps now that I've mentioned it my guilt will abate somewhat.
---------
We've been locked down for almost a week now. These facility-wide lock-downs occur a few times per year. Usually they are initiated because of a large fight - these do occur occasionally - but sometimes they are random. Either way, they feel random because the staff seems prohibited from discussing reasons for lock-downs (or anything else) leaving the inmates to wildly speculate. Being more helpless, they are more amenable to demands.
I recognize this tactic from boot camp, from history books, even from movies. In District 9 for instance, the aliens are suppressed and kept in a state of complete helplessness - and then blamed for the shortcomings said helplessness fosters. Of course, District 9 was a metaphor for Apartheid and not a commentary on the US correctional system - but the psychological tactics used come from the same book. It's obvious. It seems to be becoming more pervasive in the US government, or parts of it at least. Is this a demonstration of some kind of systems-theory principle? Even the security chief here was in the marine corps. I find it highly ironic that experience managing soldiers translates so seamlessly to managing prisoners. And the irony compounds because I felt so much more imprisoned in the marines than I do now.
---------
Last night was sort of weird -- power went out in the whole valley for some reason, and all the lights, TVs, fans, and clocks suddenly died. Usually a power-outage prompts a lock-down. But of course, we were already locked down. The facility's generators kicked on, and a few emergency lights became available while the ventilation system reactivated.
For an instant, the prison was calm. Have you ever had the feeling, during a blackout, that the disappearance of all those electromagnetic fields we are surrounded by causes a sort of relief? Like a headache has suddenly gone away that you didn't even realize was there until it vanished?
I don't know how the water systems work here but when the power went out they stopped working as well. The pressure gradually subsided in our sinks and the toilets stopped working. I must admit it's pretty strange sitting in a cell with no power, no water, and no knowledge of when either will return. The staff was pretty helpless too.
"Do you know when we'll have water?" I asked one of the guards as he passed my door. "Well, you see," he said; Morgan is his name, "the whole valley is out of power. No one in Las Animas has electricity." This is a pretty typical response of a Las Animas guard. Never mind the fact that the backup generators had kicked on and I asked about water, not power; the staff is overworked, underpaid, and stretched thin. Half of them don't even know what they're doing, and the other half contradict the first. 9 out of 10 guards don't really understand the delicacy of their task anyway - entrusted to care for the lives of what are essentially children in adult bodies - and many openly complain about how we inmates have it too good; how we don't deserve exercise, television, books, or even three meals a day. And it's funny, because they don't even know what most of us inmates are in prison for, and seemingly forget that most of us will actually see daylight again - free daylight - that only very few in their charge are truly despicable souls. The guards forget that imprisonment is the punishment.
I don't know what I expected when I asked. I kept thinking about the rule of thumb concerning deprivation and death. 3 minutes without air, 3 days without water, 3 months without food, more or less. So I had some time.
Over the course of an hour or two, it became obvious as cell after cell discovered its water was off, the inhabitants would kick at the door, yelling at deaf ears about injustice (there were no guards in the pod to hear them - so did they really make a sound at all?), which prompted other inmates to join in the noise. It isn't uncommon to hear inmates imitating 200 animals - soon the pod was all chimpanzees, toucans, monkeys, asses, and other annoying sounds. I don't participate but I can't say I blame the others for making such a racket. We'd already been locked down for several days. Cabin fever affects some more than others.
Around 8 or so the sun was setting and our reading light was waning. I laid my head back and wondered about the days before electricity. I thought about the lake nearby. I wondered if CCA forgot to pay its power bill - which was unlikely if the entire valley was out, but that could have just as easily been an appeasing lie.
For a little while I thought I would enjoy the first truly dark night's sleep in almost 2 years. But the flood lights came on outside; apparently those were on the generator circuit. This prompted me to check the water again with no luck. Priorities. (Hmmm.)
Eventually the power came back on - and the water with it. We were trapped thus for 4 hours. I've since heard that it's illegal for a prison to do this. At least nothing serious happened.
But I am glad I can write about it in a public forum.
---------
This morning everyone in the pod was strip-searched, then taken to the large gym, where we waited for just under 4 hours while a black-uniformed set of guards held paintball-guns filled with pepper balls. Rumor had been spreading for days that a facility-wide shakedown would occur. These happen about once or twice a year as well, but this is the first time we've been taken out of our living area while it happened. Normally the security isn't like this either. It is an exercise in the utter ridiculous. They wore bullet-proof vests, like we can buy guns.
Hours passed and the 100 degree heat crept into the gym. We were allowed to stand up to walk to the water fountain or to pee, but that was it. Even so, it was all bearable. What was strange was when, upon returning, my cellmate and I noticed that all electronic appliances had been removed from our room. My cellmate's TV was gone, as was my typewriter, my lamp, and my headphones.
Danny Salazar, our unit manager, addressed our pod as follows, "I don't want to hear anything about property until Monday! We're going to lock you down now serve you lunch, then go on modified lock down! If any of you act up, we'll go on full lock down again!"
It's a bit stupid. My appliances have been confiscated because the guards think I stole them, despite the fact that I have the receipts for them in my cell. The typewriter cost me $139.12, the lamp cost me $13.36, oh an what do you know, I've misplaced the headphones receipt. Never mind that the facility insists on defacing our appliances by beveling our names and inmate numbers on them. New headphones will cost me 25 bucks, too. Good for canteen services I imagine. Even better for them next year when they take them away from me again. What a business model.
But the dumbest part is that this blog entry will be online almost before I can even talk to anyone about getting my stuff back. Amazing. Simply, utterly, amazing.
-fin-
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment