Part 2: Behind Bars, Day to Day
Because she lacks all power, the author focuses on simple things: meals, showers, access to shampoo. This is the second of a three-part story in Truthdig’s “Violence Against Women” series.
The entryway to the correctional facility where the author served her sentence. (montcopa.org)
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It is late. Only five of us are awake. Myself, the sugar fairy who passes out candy, the avid reader in front of me (seriously, her bed is so close, one good stretch and I could kick her in the head) and the top and bottom bunkies next to me. No one is talking. Well, no one in this room. I can tune out the distant chatter in the other rooms.
I’m reading the autobiography of Kathie Lee Gifford. It was published in 1992. She’s actually pretty relatable. I’m always most awake at night. The bed is too small and too hard to get comfortable and drift off to sleep. I have to wait until I’m exhausted and pass out, which is around 3 a.m. Count is at 4 a.m. Breakfast is at 6:30. I usually get up to pee then, because I know the door will be opened. I go back to sleep until the lady chatter becomes unbearable.
We all have a plastic box I call the treasure chest. Mine is empty. I look forward to getting coffee and shampoo. My hair is fucked up under this scarf. I can’t wait to buy playing cards from commissary. You can’t play with someone else’s cards unless they themselves are playing too.
I’m keeping track of genuinely nice people. Most of these women will be here longer than I will. One girl is here six more months. She got here six months ago. She’s lost custody of her kids.
This is a calmer pod. Everyone here is completely detoxed and on their way home. You get to know the real woman, the one beyond the drugs or the need to steal. Some of them are bizarre but physically harmless.
It’s nighttime again. The sugar fairy is floating around. She gives me half a soft-baked peanut butter cookie. Yummmm. For dinner we had hoagies, which is just meat and cheese on a roll instead of two slices of bread. I’ll never ingest that mystery meat so long as it’s just called “meat.” I myself am made of meat. See where I’m going?
They have run out of trays for dinner, so women have been doubling up on trays of food. Today’s “whoops” got us all put on lockdown for an hour and a half while the Scooby squad tried to crack the case. While I waited for them to go and get new trays, I noticed women picking food out of the trays that had been thrown away. It’s something you’d expect to see hobos and alley cats doing. Yesterday, a fellow prisoner was asked, “Why don’t you work in the kitchen?” She responded, “I can’t, I have hep C.” For the first time, I’m aware that I live with 80 women, some of whom have serious diseases. Seeing women pick food out of used trays was a mind bomb for me.
Today is 9/11. This morning there were women hustling to watch the news. Fifteen years ago today. We remember where we were when it happened.
In other news, there is a silent killer in this tomb with us. Every night, some woman defies femininity and lays several farts that permeate the room. They are pretty intolerable. It gets me to thinking about how at home, I share a bed with a large man who farts sometimes. He also snores. I guess love turns a blind eye to those things. Here, not knowing which woman it is or when it’s going to happen ruins my reading or card-playing or the conversation that is always happening. When I’m in my bed, I’m usually in a sports bra. I have no shirt to use to quickly cover my nose.
Today isn’t a good day. I awoke for lunch, which is boiled eggs. They give us relish and mayo. I make deviled eggs. They are an instant phenom. I am not in the mood for the hoopla. I work out. I take a shower with the fruit flies. Then I have a panic attack. I can’t breathe. My heart races. Commissary comes. I had ordered all the personal items I needed—soap, shampoo, pads, deodorant, Advil and soup—but my order isn’t in. Not gonna lie. My inner child wants to throw a fucking tantrum.
People are watching. Tears are not welcome. Not for commissary, anyway. I don’t even let my eyes water. Deep breaths.
Today is hard, especially when women in the room start to offer me things.
“Serena, do you want some coffee?”
“No.”
“Do you want some sweets?”
I overcome my pride.
“Sure.”
She hands me a peanut butter wafer. I feel better.
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