July 9, 2010 - “I Vas Only Following Orders”

When I was 13 and in my Ann Frank phase, my naïve mind marveled at how the young Nazi soldiers, many just boys, became capable of committing such unthinkable atrocities to their fellow human beings. How did they justify their actions? How could they hate people who had done nothing to them? How could any commander or mission force a normal person to torture and murder women, children, the elderly and, for that matter, anyone? (Colonel Klink excused his actions in a heavy comic German accent, "I vas only following orders." But I never found that funny.) As an adult those nagging questions never left me and were never answered until I became an innocent prisoner myself.

After nearly a quarter of a century of imprisonment, I've come to the conclusion that a uniform and a handbook of rules are all it takes to transform a regular Joe or Jane into a mean-spirited soldier. I observe the transformation daily. New officer trainees show up here wearing their own jeans and tee-shirts. They are shy but mannerly-the gentlemen even occasionally open doors for inmates—until they get their polyester uniform, belt with loops for mace and a radio, proper training, and a book of rules. I'm not saying that this is 100%, but a good portion of the officers then turn cold with power. Who in their right mind would begrudge anyone toilet paper?

Yesterday my brother Frank gathered up and drove our Momma and Daddy from their country home across the state to see me. They have been visiting me for over two decades, so the visiting ordeal is certainly not new to them. They do their best to make sure they wear the proper clothing—for example, no sleeveless shirts, no shorts above the knee, no skirts with side slits or kick pleats (no matter if they are long enough to drag the ground), no hats or caps, (which really burns Daddy to leave his Stetson in the car), no bracelets, no sunglasses, etc. They must also bring the vending machine money in a clear baggie with no bills greater than fives, have their driver's licenses or state ID's ready, and so on. Everything went smoothly for them until I showed up fresh from my strip search and uniform change. I hugged my wonderful "little" brother successfully briefly, but Daddy's no so easy to please. Daddy's old school. He desires (and deserves) a healthy bone-crushing bear hug—and not just from me. From everyone.

A split second after our embrace began, I heard the trio of officers screaming (literally screaming, "BRIEF! BRIEF HUG! BRIEF! BRIEF HUG!!!!!!! BRIEEEEEEEFFF!!!!!!" Fear gripped my heart but not Daddy's. He's not only nearly blind, he's about half deaf, and he was not paying them any mind at all. Daddy's a champion hugger, and he was doing what he does best: hugging. While fruitlessly struggling to release his vise grip, O ordered in his ear, "Daddy! You have to let go!" Daddy kept hugging, "I miss you too, Honey." Oy Vay!!! By this time the hug was over and I ran to Momma, gave her an extra fast hug, then threw my butt in the fourth plastic chair nervously hoping nothing more would be said which might hurt my Daddy's feelings or put my own tentative degree of freedom in jeopardy. To relieve the tension, Frank, always a joker, said something funny which caused us all to laugh. The officers momentarily forgot about the last sin and hollered at us to "HOLD IT DOWN OVER THERE OR YOUR VISIT WILL BE TERMINATED." We now were guilty of loud joy.

Later in the visit my nearly blind Daddy mistook the bucket room/broom closet for the men's room for a minute, but he got himself straightened out quick enough that they didn't yell. While at the vending machine, a little girl asked Frank a question about the sandwich machine, and of course he responded. For that polite exchange, eh was admonished, "Hey, you can't talk to other visitors."

Thank Heaven that as the day wore on more visitors showed up, so they had others at whom to yell. A sweet family of happy little kids showed up and got the brunt of the yelling, "QUIET! BE QUIET! YOU'RE DISTURBING EVERYONE!" Which was not true. We welcome the music made by children giggling. Frank got to tell me all about his beloved Cowboy Church and how he's now a pastor. I can't tell you how happy I am that he found his niche. This career is a perfect fit. We shared our favorite childhood stories, old and new jokes, and even got ourselves worked up about the tragedy and mishandling of the horrible Gulf oil catastrophe. (I refuse to call this a mere spill.) It was a great and loving day even by prison visiting room standards.

After our goodbyes (although it hurt my broken heart to do it, I hurriedly hugged Daddy so he couldn't get a good grip), Momma started in as usual about how mad she is that I can't eve come home and how something has to give, while I waved them out through the heavy steel door to the free world that I can't ever see. I was then herded through the steel door that does not lead to freedom.

After the exit strip search, the officer started in on me, "Mrs. Prewitt, hold up. I have to talk to you. You have to explain to your father that he can't hug you like that. The rules specifically state that the two hugs you can have, one at the beginning of the visit and one at the end, must be brief. If he hugs you like that again, you will get a violation." And I know it will be a violation for sexual misconduct which will result in at least 10 days in the hole. Sex with my daddy. Get real!

I started to plead and explain about my sweet, loving 86-year-old cowboy daddy and his glass eye and macular degeneration in the remaining eye and his bad hearing and that every visit could be the last time we see each other on this earth, but her stone face stopped me in my tracks. I was attempting to extract sympathy from a soldier. I nearly forgot that I am the enemy, therefore so are my loved ones. The lines were drawn on April 29, 1986. I'm on the wrong side. Ann Frank and her family received no mercy, and no mercy is exactly what I and my family also deserve. This is how people can be so cruel to their fellow human beings. Soldiers declare them enemies. Nothing is fair in war.

July 1, 2010 - Eggshells

Years ago when Food Service stopped feeding us real eggs (our eggs now come in big boil-in-bags and therefore are always served scrambled); the eggshell irony hit my funny bone. Although there will never again be any chicken-created eggshells in prison, every prison step I take is tread on the eggshells of trepidation and fear strewn by the administration, guards and rules. I am liable to get in trouble any minute of any day no matter where I go or what I do.

Last weekend I promised to work with my theatre class girls to run lines, so we all headed to Recreation with scripts in hand. Some of us were stopped, "What's there? A script? A play? Class? Well, ya can't take it to the yard. Take it back or I'm gonna write ya up." Thankfully enough of us made it through with our scripts to be able to rehearse. The others had inadvertently broken some eggshells on their walk to our meeting. There's no rhyme or reason.

Tuesday was my canteen day, so at my appointed time, I took my mesh combination laundry/canteen bag to the store and waited. After everyone was served but me, the lady asked me what I was doing. I knew this was a trick, so I carefully and politely answered, "I'm waiting to spend." She informed me curtly that my list was not there and accused, "Did you turn in a list?" It hardly seemed reasonable that I'd wait in the store line in the sun for an hour if I hadn't turned in a canteen list, but I didn't bother her with logic and simply answered, "Yes, I did."

(We are allowed to make our canteen trip only once a week on our designated day. The day before our canteen spend day, we each must fill out a form listing exactly what we want to purchase and drop this sheet of paper into a brown wooden box outside the door of our respective wing. The lists are picked up at eleven at night and transported to somewhere up in the administration area or mailroom for the canteen personnel to pick up the next day on their way to the canteen. There inmate canteen workers/pickers grab lists from the pile and fill tubs with the items on our lists. If we forget to write an item on our list, we cannot add it at the window. No mercy is the motto at canteen these days.)

The canteen supervisor eyed me dubiously, so I added, "If you look at my spend record, I haven't missed a canteen day in decades." With no hesitation, she pronounced, "Well, you can't spend this week." The COI sitting nearby added, "Now, don't have a fit. It is what it is." If she'd looked at my dropped jaw, she would have seen that I was far from the fit stage. I was in shock. I was nearly out of stamps and envelopes, had only a liver of soap in my soap dish, and dearly wanted a couple of bags of tuna to tide me over when the chow hall meals were inedible, but I simply turned and left. I knew that one word could be one too many and might crush a fragile canteen eggshell which would land me in big trouble.

When I arrived empty-bagged back on my wing, my nosy friends questioned me, and from that conversation I learned that Ruby-Doo had seen a couple of canteen sheets still in the brown box that morning and had told the officer. He simply replied that it wasn't his job. I also found out that another gal was affected too, but she was crying and nearly hysterical because has serious addictions: coffee and cigarettes.

This gal made her way back to classification to complain, but the FUM wouldn't budge. Somehow it is our fault that our particular canteen sheets were not pulled, although we did exactly what we are supposed to do—and both of us have witnesses who saw us deposit our lists. Kelly asked the FUM to roll back the tapes because everything is on camera, but he stated that occasions like that are not what the cameras are for. The tapes are to only be used against us—not to help prove our cases.

After aerobics class that night, I heard that this happened recently to several girls on another house and the officer found the sheets in the box, but the canteen still wouldn't let them spend. According to the canteen chief, the sheets must travel the prescribed course. Any deviation from that course and they are void. Anything that happens to the sheets when they are out of our sight (after we deposit them) is our fault, and any fuss we make will result in a conduct violation. Eggshells. This place is lousy with eggshells. But we have no real eggs. Don't forget that.

Monday evening after we'd performed our Prison Performing Arts play in the visiting room and had been strip searched yet again, I looked up to see the most spectacular orange and hot pink sunset shining down on me. I yelled to Megan, who was ahead of me on the walk, for her to look. She turned her head to exclaim to me about the beauty before us when three officers on break and smoking (while leaning on the building, which is against the rules) hollered nastily, "Keep moving. Face forward! Kick dust or I'll…" More eggshells.

Tuesday evening after church, I had made my way into my wing and upstairs when I passed Robin standing in the dayroom sobbing. She'd run out of toilet paper and kindly asked the officer for a roll. He'd yelled at her and refused to give her any. He told her she could only get toilet paper from the FUM, who works days. After further investigation, I found out that there had been a staff meeting that very day, and a directive came down from administration that the FUMS and officers have been too lenient with the toilet paper. By God, the three rolls issued each Thursday are to last the whole week no matter what. Robin is a mild-mannered, middle-aged lady with a bunch of health issues. That night she was also distraught at the thought of waiting at least 12 hours to pee. More eggshells. Simply because we all possess body functions that are creating a burden on the state budget.

Why not let some people go? We have a whole housing unit full of gals who are scheduled to leave within the next six months. Why wait six months? Let them go now. Trust me. Six months makes no difference in rehabilitation. We also have a population of elderly prisoners, me included. We have OG's (old gals) who are in their 60's and 70's and a few in their 80's. Good Lord! Cut us loose. None of us are going to leave prison to work at a strip joint or walk the streets. Every old lady I know has a loving family who will welcome her. But instead, Missouri locks up more women every day. When I first came to prison, there were around 150 female prisoners. Now we have over 4000. This has gotten out of hand.

And the hapless ignorant taxpayers keep paying, thinking that these thousands of thousands of prisoners are necessary evil. If prisoners were sentenced to community service, think of all the free workers the state would have. There would be no litter on the highways, public parks would be clean, e coli could be eradicated from our lakes and streams, and rest stops would be spotless. After a few years, we'd be as gorgeous as New Zealand! And community work would be a worse punishment for most lazy prisoners than a few years of laying on a bunk sleeping or zoned out on the TV. Talk would change to conversations like this: "No, John, I won't cook meth (or rob that bank or hold up that store or beat up that noisy neighbor or write that bad check or kill your wife or sell that heroin) with you because there's the possibility that I may end up cutting brush at the state park in the blazing heat with bugs biting me and poison ivy all over. My second cousin Al nearly got snake bit when he was out there on community service. That's hard work! So thanks but no thanks!"

Always eggshells.