Because I was at the gym for aerobics, I missed all the excitement Tuesday during the 4:30 count. We are supposed to remain quietly in our cells during count, but good ole room 206 was hopping like usual—whopping and hollering during a raucous card game. A fed-up sixty-five-year-old Bonnie across the hall snapped and hollered, "SHUT UP!" (The gals told me that she blurted out exactly what everyone else was thinking.)
(You girls know Bonnie from 4h. She's from St. Charles and has three adoring grown children and a host of grandkids. Her granddaughter Savannah is friends with Abbey, Callie, and Megan. Bonnie is serving something like 30 years for the '94 death of her husband during a domestic altercation.)
For one beat, all was still. That's how long it took for Mac to decide that "them's fighting words"! She stomped to her doorway threatening, "I'll kick your old wrinkled white ass!" I'm sure she said more, but that's the only sentence that was quoted to me consistently upon the telling. Mac then barged out of her cell and across the hall to Bonnie's doorway. (That was a daring move in lieu of the fact that the security cameras point down the hall and we are not supposed to be out of our cells during count, unless we must use the restroom.)
Bonnie stood her ground in the doorway of her cell, "Well, I would hope a girl of your weight and age could kick my broke-down crippled ass, BUT it's not going to be as easy as you think!" Mac is a strong-looking young black woman of considerable girth who sports wild dreads and attitude, but as they say in here, "Bonnie ain't no punk-ass bitch."
Mac may have considered Bonnie's warning, because she merely cursed and threatened and puffed up like a blow fish as she retreated to the safety of her cell. Then she and the girls of her room hooted and laughed and made more noise than before as a show of solidarity and bravery—from the safety of their cell.
When I talked to Bonnie about it later, she admitted, "I could have come to them a bit softer and asked politely for them to zip their lips, but they woke me out of a sleep and I was not as polite as I should have been." Bonnie labors long days at the clothing factory and rises about 4:30 every morning to get ready for work. Her sewing job plays hell on her arthritis, too. Mac, on the other hand, works as a dorm tender (cleaner on the wing) for about 10 minutes a day—and has plenty of opportunity to rest.
Before I could walk the length of the downstairs dayroom and climb the stairs on my way back from aerobics, I got the scoop. Of course, I took Bonnie's side. Is respect for our elders a lost art? And on top of that, we OGs (Old Gals) and even most of the kids are sick of Mac's big loud mouth and mooching manner.
Yesterday morning when I came home from work at eleven for the 11:30 count, Mac's name was called over the loudspeaker. By golly, she returned with a move sheet in her hand and was packed up and relocated before count—to another wing. Didn't take long for our caseworker to take care of that problem.
I also heard that her cell was tossed that morning and the officer found items that she did not purchase, so she received a big fat ticket for contraband AND she was under investigation for wandering out-of-bounds into other cells. Life is a series of choices. If she has a modicum of sense, she might think about her choices—especially since she's a recidivist (has been in prison several different times) and doesn't seem to learn her lesson. Oh, well, too bad for her. Last evening was quiet and mellow for us.
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