Still in the SHU (the "Hole")

 

Will we get out by Christmas?  The 34 of us bused here hundreds of miles from the prison near our families to this faraway prison where we know no one already did Thanksgiving in Covid Quarantine, and that was more than enough to make us feel like gum on the bottom of a shoe.  My cellmate rolled over the other day, looked at me as I paced the room (212 laps wall to wall is about a mile) and said, “Cellie, I’m gonna need you to do me a favor. Any time I wake up, you just go UFC on me and choke me out, okay?”

 

The days are mind-numbing, unless you are one of those guys who can somehow sleep 18 hours straight.  There are only so many push-ups, squats, and wall sits to be had. Though I know only the rudiments of the game, I spent four hours constructing a chess set out of white paper, envelopes, and a brown paper bag. No ruler, no scissors, no glue, except from the envelope flaps.  I folded, creased, tore pieces of paper, and then -- using old napkin-folding skills from my days as a waiter more than 30 years ago, mixed with pseudo-origami techniques -- fashioned unique 3-D forms to distinguish the different shapes of the pieces. Wetting the flap of an envelope allowed for a bit of adhesion when and where necessary. Coloring 32 squares for the board was the hardest part, using a 3.5 inch fake-lead rubber pencil. Since I’m no grand master, making the set was more fun than playing, but I’m getting better, even won a few times.

 

The guys next door made playing cards. Two doors down a guy dubbed himself “Young Covid” and started rapping. I don’t know if he’s actually getting better or if I’m losing my mind completely, but he’s starting to sound pretty good. I had plans to ride his coat-tails to fame, but my lyric-writing career ended abruptly when I suggested the word “Ovid” to rhyme with “covid”.  Silence on the block.  Can only imagine the looks.

 

After the failure of my rap career, I had to find other diversions.  That’s when I started the “War Against the Orange Fuzz.”  Our clothing, sheets, blankets, and towels are all bright construction cone orange.  They shed fuzz faster than a golden retriever in the summer.  Using a wash cloth under my shower shoes, I more or less skate around the room collecting fuzz. I then sweep it into a pile with a brown bag, pick it up with toilet paper, and flush it. If I did this hourly, there would still be fuzz.  I imagine the cells of some of the lazier guys; they must wade knee deep through the stuff.  The other day I sat and watched a section of the floor. Thinking, there must be some point of initial arrival of fuzz, and I wanted to see it happen. Nope! Empty one minute and in the blink of an eye – Fuzz!

 

My cellie sleeps through it all, blissfully unaware of the sacrifices I make for our nasal-sinus-olfactory health. In fact, my cellie sleeps through almost everything. Not a bad strategy, come to think of it, but I don’t see how he does it. In all honesty, he is rarely awake for more than two hours at a time. I have to wake him for count times, for meals, for meds…. It’s to the point now that the nurse comes to the door, taps, says my name, and just points to sleeping beauty!

 

Although we don’t always have clean clothes to change into, the shower is probably the best diversion. It gets hot and has no time limit. Forty-five minute showers are not uncommon, three times a day. Just think of it, killing 2 hours and 15 minutes in a hot shower every day. Hah – just when you were feeling sorry for me! Bit jealous now?

 

Other than my physical training that keeps me in shape for my duties as squad leader in the Anti-Fuzz Brigade, my patrol hours, showering, and baby-sitting my generally comatose cellie, the only other thing I do is hope that today may be the glorious day when the mythical representative from Education shows up with books! I’d read anything at this point – an Amish Romance Mystery? I’m in!

 

Well, off to do my rounds. Orange Fuzz has again infiltrated the perimeter. I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO FIGHT!!

32 Days in the SHU (Otherwise Known as "the Hole)

 

Did I break a rule? Get caught with contraband? Nope – I’m in the midst of the Covid Quarantine.  Due to the epic ineptitude of the prison where I’ve spent the last five years (officially 600 out of 1200 prisoners infected, 40 deaths and one staff death (real infection rate is much higher – trust me, I heard the labored breathing), the BOP took over and started mass transfers.  Problem being, if all the prisons have outbreaks, where do you send anybody?  But I guess they want to look like they’re doing something, anything, which is how I find myself in the SHU of a strange prison, far from home, with no communication to the outside world, a world I can only assume is still being ravaged by Coronavirus. No books, no radio, no recreation, one change of clothes, a notepad, and a crappy barely functioning flexi-pen. I’m not being punished, I’m being quarantined. This is just how prison transfers happen in the era of covid, so they say.

 

My cellie and I get along, but after 32 days in such close quarters I think even Mother Teresa woulda choked the shit out of Gandhi! (Only if he hadn’t pimp-slapped her first.) We can’t talk about certain topics, however, without him going all Tennessee hillbilly on me. He’s a good guy, we just don’t see eye to eye on much. Picture that stereotypical rural white guy in his MAGA hat, calls Biden a Socialist, views Fox News as Gospel, and believes Black Lives Matter is a conspiracy against the White Man.  As long as we avoid politics we do okay, but sometimes our 90 square feet can feel like about 50. All this being said, you might ask how I can characterize him as a “good guy”?  Borderline racist, definitely prejudiced against Blacks, but yet has Black friends. A conundrum. He grew up in an all White county and is definitely a product of that environment.  You can see how Trump and his scare tactics work on him, the subtle (or not so subtle) messages convincing him that the people advocating for change in our society want to take something from him.  But I’ve never seen him being unkind to anyone. He is generally generous and friendly.  He’s a considerate cellie, and except for his snoring, easy to live with.   

 

We’ve just had enough after 32 straight days. I need time to myself, I need to go outside (walking cuffed and leg-shackled to the bus at 1:30 AM in the pouring rain doesn’t count), I need to just see the outside, which we can’t do because our one window is frosted – anything to break the monotony!  Some guys talk of having done 6-7 months or more like this, at times entirely alone.  What type of “civilized” country are we, when the brilliant minds in America can’t come up with something better than the soul-crushing, punitive, non-rehabilitative form of mass incarceration we are inflicting upon our own citizens?  It takes a lot to soldier through and many guys don’t have the support of family and friends that I have.  I see the pain, suffering, and sorrow all around.  I see my fellow man struggling mightily. I look around, thinking, “Really, America, is this the best we can do?”

 

 

Prison Lockdown Running Playlist

Three times a week during corona-lockdown we get 90-minutes outside, and with a little stretching first, I can knock off an eight mile run on the little track in the Yard.  Here's my playlist for the run these days:

Lana Del Ray - Doin' Time.

Summertime and the livin' is easy.... Easing into the run, imagining being anywhere but here on a lazy summer day.

Dave Matthews Band - All Along the Watchtower.

Dave is the soundtrack of my college years, and when he sings Dylan's line:  "There must be someway out of here," well, 'Nuff said.  Starts off nice and easy like a jog but then builds to a manic jam!

Led Zeppelin - Hey Hey What Can I Do.

Midtempo, getting into the run now, energetic, but nails my helpless feelings during lockdown:  "Hey Hey What Can I Do?"

Matthew Sweet - Girlfriend.

Picking up the pace now.  If you've never heard this 90's classic, you're missing out.  Song straight out rocks!  Whatever happened to Matthew Sweet?

Carrie Underwood - Smoke Break.

When you are running in little circles for an hour, you need more than just a beat, and this one tells a good story.  Though I don't smoke or drink, this song expresses so well that need to just escape from life for a minute: :...make the world stop and watch it fade away." 

One Republic - Counting Stars.

3 miles down, lap 7 on our track, this one's upbeat and energizing, wailing, "Everything that kills me makes me feel alive!"  I'm thinking, whatever happens, I'm coming out the other side alive!

Marshall Tucker Band - Can't You See.

Nice training pace, just cruising along now.  "Gonna take a southbound all the way to Georgia, Lord, 'til that train runs out of track." I feel like Forrest Gump, want to find an exit and just keep running...anywhere but here.

The Head and the Heart - All We Ever Knew.

Midtempo, chugging now, I sing along to help pace myself.  "It's time to wake up from this."  For me, of course, "this" being the holding pattern that is prison. The song reminds me to snap out of my funk and get on with living.

Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit.

This tune shouts alienation, disillusionment, anger - says pick up the pace, six miles approaching, hit it strong.

Old Crow Medicine Show - Alabama High Test.

I like this song for two reasons: (1) I could use a boost about now, and (2) I'm sure as hell running from something - maybe just my past - but I definitely don't want to get caught.

The Toadies - Possum Kingdom.

Onto mile 7, pick 'em up and put 'em down.  Just smile and keep on rollin'.

Mumford and Sons - Little Lion Man.

No idea what they meant when they wrote it, but this song means a lot to me.  About owning up to what you did, knowing that you hurt people, not hiding from it, but with a little defiance in there, too.  Here's a line to my wife, kids, Mom, Dad, sibling, everyone I hurt:

"It was not your fault but mine/and it was your heart on the line.  I really fucked it up this time/didn't I my dear?"

The Cure - Just Like Heaven.

Surprisingly upbeat coming from these emo-rockers; loved this tune in high school and just recently rediscovered it.

Miley Cyrus - Party in the USA.

Impossible to get out of your head ear worm that makes me smile every time.  Passing the one hour mark now.  Some studies claim you can run harder if you smile, and I believe it.

Kelly Clarkson - Stranger.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"Think you got the best of me? Think you got the last laugh?"

I dedicate this song to the current run, to the coronavirus, to lockdown, to prison, and to the shambles I made of my life.  I'm down, but I'm not out.

Kid Rock - Only God Knows Why.

I know Kid Rock is no Bob Dylan, but he nailed it on this song.  "Somehow I know there's more to life than this, I've said it many times and I still stand firm, you get what you put in and people get what they deserve. Still I ain't seen mine, no I ain't seen mine, I've been giving just ain't been getting, I've been walking that there line, so I think I'll keep walking with my head held high, I keep moving on and only God knows why."

Ozzy Osborne - Mama, I'm Coming Home.

At 75 minutes in, recreation is over and I'm done.  And I'm thinking, it may be next month or next year, but don't doubt it - I'll be coming home!

So there you have it. Add some razor wire and a motley collection of sun-starved, shell-shocked inmates; stir in circles for 75 minutes, and you've had a wonderful prison run.  Sure beats the alternative of my bedridden fellow prisoners, and those who Covid has taken.  Keep a rollin'!

Covid-19 Related Quotes

 

“I’m not worried.  Asymptomatic runs in my family.”

 

“What?  You’re locking us in all together so we can social distance? What kind of f**ked up sh*it is that?”

 

As the list of inmate deaths reaches 24:

 

“If an inmate dies in prison and the warden doesn’t acknowledge it, does anyone hear?”

 

Neighbor overheard praying:

 

“Dear God, I swear I will never take my good fortune for granted again, knowing you have graced me with all I have, just PLEASE, no more peanut butter!”

 

Guy 1:  How much you want for the turkey?

Guy 2:  4 stamps and the peanut butter thrown in.

Guy 1:  I don’t have any peanut butter.

Guy 2:  No, I’ll sell you the turkey but you gotta take the peanut butter, too!

 

Random explosion on Day 58 of Covid-19 Lockdown, no one leaving the dorm

 

As God is my witness, if one more person asks me if I saw the weather report – we can’t go outside anyway, IT DOESN’T MATTER!

 

One inmate to another, after being informed by the Asst. Warden that our possibly becoming infected by guards is a “faulty premise.”

 

Mark my words, they’re going to end up blaming this flu on us!

 

One day later, staff member to inmate drinking coffee with mask around his chin.

 

You see, that’s why people are sick – because YOU PEOPLE aren’t careful!”

 

Inmate to others after yet another announcement that left us all feeling abandoned:

 

It’s time we put all the BS aside. This isn’t about your charges, your gang, your color, religion or car*.  This is about being human, being a man. We are all brothers, we need to help each other, we need to all make it. So I don’t know about the rest of you – you make the choice – but I know I gotcha. I am my brother’s keeper!

 

*Car = slang for where you came from (the VA Car the DC car, etc.)

 

Adventures in Grammar

(Real statements/bulletins from the prison staff)

 

Posted Example of a Disciplinary Shot:

All inmates at the LSCI are required to dawn a mask at all times in the housing unit. (Thank goodness they clarified!  I’d been dusking my mask all this time.)

 

Announced Response to Some Guys Decorating their Masks:

Return to your Cubes! You will be issued new masks. Any altercations involving masks will result in a disciplinary shot. (Phew, glad they’re on top of this one! I nearly got my butt kicked last night by a couple of surly masks.)

 

Misunderstanding re Covid in Prison:

Inmate:  “Hey guard, where’s your mask?”

Guard: “You guys are negative, right? Don’t worry about me. I won’t contact the virus.”

Inmate: “Um, but you could give it to us.”

Guard: “It came from y’all in the first place!”

 

(Okay, where to go with this? I think he really does believe Covid mysteriously came from us, as if it floated in on a cloud and infected us inmates first.  And how is it that the guards get away without wearing masks around us?  Finally, does he actually think the guy asked him about it because we’re worried about him?  Contact?  Hope he meant contract.

 

Guard Addressing a Group of Guys Gathered at a Cube:  “Hey, remember your sociable distancing!”

(We discussed this one.  Was the guard being clever? Intentionally funny? If so, pretty good. Or was it just a lucky swing? The 300-yard drive after a million mulligans? I’m leaning towards the blind squirrel finding a nut – but you never know.

Rep - Cred - Status

Regardless (or according to Merriam-Webster, as of this week, I can officially say “irregardless,” though you’ll never convince me) what you call it, status is very important to many in prison.  Guys seek it out in lots of ways, for instance, a wrist watch not available on the compound, a new pair of sneakers, the loudest juiced up headphones, tv-channel changing rights, the number of women you claim are sending you money (don’t get mad at me, I just tell it like it is, I don’t condone it).  The list goes on and on, ranging from ridiculous and inane to downright sad.

 

I’m trying to cause a sea-change by being the nicest guy in prison, but after several years here still have not noticed anybody really granting “cred” to nice guys. 

 

During lockdown with corona, things have gotten pretty weird. The two biggest status symbols have become working out and fruit salad, I kid you not. Both have resulted in some truly ludicrous behaviors.  Guys who previously left their bunks only because bed pans weren’t available have evolved into clones of Billy Banks, Jack Lalaine, or in one mildly disturbing case, an even creepier Richard Simmons. I applaud getting in shape, but this crowded unit is not 24-Hour Fitness Club.  Or is it?  Day and night, guys proclaim loudly and publicly that they are “gettin’ money!”  Grunting, sweating, running up and down the hallways, doing pull-ups in the shower while people are trying to shower, hauling weight bags made out of peanut butter packs wrapped up in a towel (see last week’s post re our current peanut butter obsession). Burpees! Burpees! Burpees!  You’d think burpees could cure cancer and bring on world peace.  Guys shout, “I got in 5,000 burpees today!”  Which is only believable if they used their ample guts for the rebound effect.  As for form, forget it. 

 

That said, I believe a few guys have transformed and will hopefully stay on the path to a leaner, healthier self, but somehow the others appear to be growing fatter!  Claims of 4,000 pushups a day.  You have to wonder, wouldn’t 3,000 do the job? 2,000?  One guy called me out for just doing 18 sets of 12 pushups. Said my 216 slow pushups, attempting perfect form, was lame.  Ought to be doing his 2,000 head dips (technique is to bend the elbows a couple inches and bob the head) instead.  Whatever. 

 

And, of course, after your rigorous workout, what do you eat?  Fruit salad!  But you can’t just eat it, you have to flaunt it, brandish it, proclaim you got you some fruit salad for all to hear.  Don’t get me wrong, I like fruit.  Fruit is healthy. During lockdown, we get a lot of fruit. But this fruit salad obsession?  Watching the guys all hepped up like they’re on meth or something, at first I didn’t get it.  And then one day I watched the giant vat of fruit salad being made.  They throw in some sliced apples, oranges, bananas, and pears, but the secret ingredient, a ha!  Hawaiian Punch flavor packs and – wait for it! – Mountain Dew!  Of course!  The fruit salad freaks are flying high on insane amounts of caffeine and sugar!  No wonder no matter how much they work out, they just gain weight!  But then when I think about it, this Frankenfruit Salad is the perfect diet to match our insane workouts.  Perfectly in line with the general insanity of lockdown.

The Peanut Butter Cookbook

Ah, peanut butter!  How many days and how many ways can I enjoy thee?  Locked down as we are, having bagged meals brought onto the unit for the past four months (we cannot use cafeteria during Covid), peanut butter has become our most common staple food.  So I’ve gotten creative in my effort to seek culinary variety of some sort.  There’s PB&J, of course, but also PB&M (mayo) and PB&Mu (mustard), any of these improved by slices of banana.  Don't make the mistake of PB&H (hummus) – I mean, I like PB.  I like hummus.  But together?

 

The most creative bunk chefs on the unit have branched out beyond sandwiches.  We’ve made thai peanut sauce, Mexican mole sauce, even a peanut butter and chicken pizza!  For us Southerners, PB&G (grits)!  Or for a snack, PB dipped in fruit:  Apple dipped in PB tastes sort of like a caramel apple?  So why not a caramel pear?  Which led me to carrots (8/10), celery (yechh – 0/10), oranges (-2/10)....

 

Just when I thought I’d tried them all – peanut butter with almost anything edible:  beans, hamburgers, hot dogs, roast beef – just when I was convinced that I just could not stomach anything with peanut butter ever again, along came PB Nirvana!  Allow me to share with you the secret of the best PB-wrap you can make (at least behind bars).

 

1.     Lay out a tortilla, preferably flour;

2.     Spread a thin layer of mayo on it;

3.     Top with a thick swipe of peanut butter;

4.     Top that with a pre-prepared glop of oatmeal;

5.     Top that with brown sugar and cinnamon; and

 

Are you ready?  The crowning touch:  add a couple spoonfuls of white albacore tuna.

 

Okay, I know what you’re thinking.  No way, right?  I guarantee you’ll find it scrumptious – just thinking of this heavenly wrap has my mouth watering.  But then, here on day 120 of lockdown, maybe I’ve finally gone ‘round the bend?  Well, gotta go – guys are blending up a PB, chocolate milk and apple milkshake – yum!

Three Hours a Week in the Sun

Three hours.  What’s an activity you do, cumulatively, for three hours a week?  Shower?  Eat?  Play Words with Friends?  Here in prison, during corona lockdown, the answer is Go Outside!  Three times a week we are allowed outdoors for an hour so the unit can be sprayed with bleach.  Because we can’t come in contact with guys from other units, the whole event ends up lasting just 50 minutes, so we don’t cross paths.

 

Don’t get things twisted, I’m much happier with three hours a week outside than the seemingly endless weeks since the pandemic hit when we were not allowed off the unit at all.  In order to maximize our minutes in the sun, everybody gets prepped.  Prior to the recreation call, the hallways fill up with guys limbering up and stretching.  It looks like the world’s most rag-tag men’s only yoga class.  When the call comes, you better be ready.  The doors open and it’s like the running of the bulls at Pamplona crossed with Black Friday at Walmart.  You get carried forward on a wave and pray you stay on your feet.

 

Once outside the 150 guys immediately self-divide based on their goals for this precious 50 minutes.  The runners, me among them, hit the track, having already stretched and jogged in place to warm up while indoors.  Here I go:  towel hung on the fence, mask in pocket, water bottle in the corner, hit the stopwatch and run!  Each lap of the Yard is about .42 miles and let me tell you, the first day out after so many weeks of lockdown was both the most glorious and the most excruciating .42 of a mile.  My mind was still busting out the 10-11 miles I used to do before corona, but my body was yelling, “Hey, 60 days of peanut butter in here!  You listening?  SLOW THE F__K DOWN!”  But the pain was worth it, just to move through space again, it was so sweet!

 

On the track you have to navigate the speed walkers, the high-intensity interval trainers, the slow joggers, and the plodders like me.  Fortunately, some guys could care less about running.  One group I call the “Thank God I Can Feel the Sun on my Face” guys.  You have to be careful not to look their way lest you be blinded.  It’s like staring into a solar array.  If we ever make it out of the virus-era, the medical center is going to be running a lot of biopsies judging from the truly frightening sun burns I’ve seen over the past couple weeks.

 

The third group of guys, I don’t even know how to categorize them.  Maybe the Moaners?  Picture a guy who, if given a million dollars in twenties would complain that the bills weren’t hundreds.  If we go out at 8 am, he complains that the guards called it early just to mess up our sleep.  If we go out at 12:30, then it’s just because the guards want us to bake in the sun.  If it’s raining, the guards caused that, too.  They scowl at us runners for coming too close, at the sun worshippers for stealing the best light.  Extra hot dogs on July 4?  Why no hamburgers?  Free phone minutes?  It’s a conspiracy.  There’s 150 guys to share three phones.  Clearly the free minutes are intended to get us to fight each other over access.  These guys live a never ending tidal wave of negativity.  Apparently, being in prison is not miserable enough for these guys, they find it necessary to create a joy sucking black hole of pessimism, too.

 

Well, there you have it, the gang’s all here.  If you had the misfortune of being a prisoner, you’d join this motley crew trudging off to Rec three times a week for their precious 50 minutes of sunshine.

Death of a Friend from Covid

Well the lockdown, already 3 months long, continues on into July.   At last they’ve begun to let us outside to the Yard 2-3x/week, which is something.  Their new plan is to only re-test people who have tested positive already, which will allow them to post smaller and smaller numbers of infected prisoners.  I saw where CDC has recommended 2-3 tests/week after exposure.  Won’t be happening here.  We’ve had three positives on our unit and have not been tested since.  An administrator feigned offense when told that it appears reducing the number of positives is more important than stopping the spread.  Just following our President, after all.  The fewer people you test, the fewer sick people you have, right?  Trying to stay focused, not to become jaded or cynical, but boy.

 

So my cellie and I used to teach English as a Second Language (ESL) to a group of Hispanic guys.  We had a great time, and they accepted me (as a non-Latino), given honorary status as a Boricua (Puerto Rican), because of my difficulty in trilling or rolling my Spanish “rr” (something people from PR don’t do either).  No matter how down someone was, they always left class with a smile and a lighter heart.  You need something?  You knew the guys in class had your back.  Never afraid to lend an ear or pass out a hug.  That closeness, the support given and received, the genuine comradeship – all things that help us make it through the prison experience with some sanity – well, they make it harder to tell the story I’m about to share.

 

Early on during the Pandemic my cellie spiked a fever and was isolated in the Special Housing Unit (SHU) after testing positive.  He didn’t feel sick, just a little fatigued, and he got over it.  But while on the isolation unit, he saw others brought in who were not doing so well.  One of our students, one of our dear friends, un hermano, came in.  A funny, kind Colombiano about 60 years of age.  He was shaking, coughing, having trouble getting a breath.  They locked him in a cell meant for disciplinary segregation, not an equipped medical room, and provided minimal attention.  You could hear him at night, his cough getting progressively worse, yet they never took him to the hospital, not even to the prison medical center on the compound.

 

The other residents in the SHU lay listening to our hermano coughing and moaning at night.  My cellie says he will forever be haunted by the sounds of his suffering and his own feeling of helplessness.  Soon our friend's moans were joined by others.  The Administration was still telling us that all was under control, that everyone was doing fine.  Then some of the voices went quiet.  It was 1, then 2, then 3….  We are now at 12 or 13.  The deaths mounting.  23 total for the compound so far.

 

My cellie says he tries not to think about it, what it meant when the coughing stopped.  It’s not just a number reported on a website, not just an empty bunk to be filled or a digit added to CNN’S Covid counter onscreen.  It’s hard for me to write this.

 

As for our dear friend?  Nuestro hermano se murió.  He died alone. They said he had a heart attack in his cell and passed two days later. Alone. Probably cuffed to his bed.

 

The administration keeps telling us what a great job the Bureau of Prisons is doing.  I no longer have time or energy to dignify their spin.  All I know is that we will have an empty chair in class and an open seat at the domino table.  They’ll never convince me that they did their best. ¡Vaya con dios mi hermano!

Political Cartoon

Amidst all this constant anxiety over the 700+ positive Covid-19 cases here in our 1200 inmate unit, a few of us have decided to vent our frustrations with a little political cartooning.  I story-boarded this one and sketched a rough draft, the drawing completed and reviewed by our informal Board of Standards and Ethics, consisting of a black guy, a Japanese-Dane (looks like a strangely tall Sumo), a Latino, a WASP, and myself (of mysterious Italian/gypsy descent).  To a man, we felt we might have downplayed the Donald's behavior, but here you have it:

Since last week another friend died of coronavirus here, and at least one more I know is in the hospital.  Depressing and no end in sight.  I keep on ticking, feel fine, never even a sniffle, but another guy just turned up positive in our supposedly negative unit an hour ago, so I'm keeping a low profile.  Stay well, everybody.

[Editorial comment:  This drawing arrived at my house today.  It's on 11 x 14 drawing paper, in crayon and ink.  I'm going to pass along the original to the artist's family - it's a keeper!]

The Covid Shuffle

Shelter in Place?  Stay at Home orders?  Social distancing?  It’s getting you down, right?  Well, try 90 days locked-in, locked-down, herded, contained, and disdained.  COVID-19 in Prison!  While we empathize, sympathize, and try to understand how people on the outside feel, we also roll our eyes.  “Forced” to stay home with some Netflix, YouTube, treadmills, delivery, backyards…shit, to us that would be paradise.  In here it’s a good day if you’re lucky enough to use the bathroom without two people in the neighboring stalls. On a rare occasion maybe you’re lucky enough to have a window on the back of the building where you can watch a sunrise and maybe see some wildlife, and if you lean over just right your line of sight may not include the razor wire.

 

If your window is on the compound side you have probably spent the past 3 months watching your friends on the way to medical.  With easily more than 700 of 1100 inmates already infected, there’s been a lot of traffic down there.  Among them, you have the seemingly healthy smiling ruefully as they are carted off to the Special Housing Unit (probably just running a fever but otherwise feeling okay). Then you have those doing what I’m calling the Covid Shuffle:  they say it feels like a bad hangover/head cold/exhaustion, and they amble down to the luxurious new accommodations. Unfortunately, there is also the all-hands-on-deck “Oh f__k we let another one die” situation. Through it all most staff just carry on with their typical indifferent attitude.

 

We continue to file paperwork seeking some kind of early release, in line with the federal government’s order, but the staff just acts annoyed, at times even angry, that we are trying.  Twenty men have died so far, plus one guard. We all feel like sitting ducks.

 

You may have heard that they tested all inmates, separated, isolated, etc.  Yes, they did test us – once – but then didn’t move anyone for another ten days!  For those ten days my cellie was a guy who had tested positive.  The unit I’m on, where guys are supposed to be negative, had two more guys infected during that ten days.  As one nurse told me, “It would appear the administration is doing the best they can to make sure every last one of you gets it.”

 

More testing?  Why bother?  “No need” we are told. As far as I know, somehow I’m still well after 90 days of this, and was told, “Well, you’ve probably had it, been asymptomatic (one administrator mispronounced this as “asystematic”), so what’s the big deal?  How about not wanting to risk illness or death, dude?

 

I don’t understand why officials can’t just tell the truth. Admit that just like the rest of the world, they can’t control the virus. That in spite of Emergency Orders, public outcry, and CDC advice, they just will not let anyone go home.  The federal prison system - driven by money, fear tactics, and politics – can’t seem to shift gears and show a little concern for human life.  Is it an 18-wheeler trying to turn around in an alley, a head in the sand hoping the problem will go away (the President’s apparent choice), or a deliberate middle finger?  Two quotes from staff:  “We can do what we want” and “We answer to no one.”

 

Frankly, I don’t care which of these it is, I just know that nearly my entire unit is sick and people are dying.  Was it Alexis de Toqueville in his Democracy in America who first said that you can judge a society by how it treats those at the bottom of the pecking order?  If that is true, and I hope it is, then I ask all of you on the outside, please don’t forget about us in here!  PLEASE!

The Cough: Corona in Lock-up - a poem

You wake up each morning and look all around.

The board is updated and the numbers tick down.

The grim faces, the quiet, the tension all about,

the coughing has started, but nobody's gettin' out.

Where's Slugger?  Saw him playin' chess last night.

The AW assures us that everything's all right.

The indifference, the neglect, the anger...we shout.

Cough's comin' for us, nobody's gettin' out.

160, 150, 140...the count continues to drop.

We're told, "Give it two weeks, it's all gonna stop.

We want to let you go, we just haven't the clout."

The cough's all around, someone please let us out?

Late at night in your bunk, you tamp down your fears,

face in the pillow, wanting to swallow your tears.

You've accepted the truth.  There can't be any doubt.

Some friends won't be back.  The cough took them out.