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!
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