I make my way down the hill. I walk in, with my closed toe
shoes (I made the mistake of wearing sandals the first time, thank god for the
mules in need of repair in the trunk of my car) my plastic sandwich bag with
her inmate number, singles and some quarters for the vending machine, and my
driver’s license for identification.
The woman CO (correctional officer) is pretty nice. I’ve
seen her before and she takes me right away because my paperwork is done
already and the wait isn’t too long today. I’m feeling pretty good about
today’s visit. I understand the dress code I have some money to buy her the
diet coke she so enjoys and a candy bar, all in all I feel some satisfaction
for getting it right. Many of the inmates make a feast from vending machine
food, Claire is happy with her simple treats. We didn’t have that option in any
of the prisons where I had been; visits were only to see relatives and friends.
I often wonder if this is the main difference between federal and state
prisons. They call her name right away (it is always just the last name, can’t
get too personal) and then I am escorted through security, very similar to the
airport. Shoes off, plastic baggie in
the plastic bin, and if you have any fake jewelry on it has to go in too
because for some reason it sets off the alarm. I wait behind a heavy steel
sliding door and they give us an invisible stamp on the inside of my right
forearm and back of the hand. We then wait for the other visitors that are
getting through security. Once ready, the heavy steel door opens and we step into
a small waiting area with a CO behind tinted glass and the black light that shines
on our arms to clear us through. The heavy steel door closes behind us, we are
all checked through and they open the next door into the visiting center of
maximum security.
It is loud and I remember this is what Claire experiences
every day. It looks like a bus terminal with bolted seats, a row facing out
towards vending machines, and then two rows facing each other. I have to make
my way all the way down the rows facing in and disturb visits as they are
sitting across from each other to get to the only free seats left.
She doesn’t know I am coming, we haven’t been able to talk
and the email isn’t always reliable. The
group I came in with are already visiting their loved ones and still no Claire.
I wait at least 25 minutes and I am hoping every time the door open it is her. I
realize I am afraid of the COs. It has been many years since I was in prison,
but I never lost the fear of the power they wield. I am nervous to go and ask
where she is, in case they think I am a troublemaker and cause some retribution
for her. It might seem an overreaction, but it is not. I’ve seen this happen
and the last person you want to cross is a CO. I excuse myself through the people
visiting and make my way up to the desk.
It turns out the CO is pretty nice and he says
“let me call again”. I am kind and
grateful, probably overly so. I sit down again and the noise and
nonsense going on is indescribable. Had I not had my own experience, I would
think this is an exaggeration. There is a teenage daughter holding her
mother’s hand. This is only allowed if children are small and the female CO
bringing inmates in and out doesn’t yell, but with a roll of her eyes and a
stern voice makes it clear that they should stop and should know better.
The nonsense going on to the left of me was beginning to make me uncomfortable.
The inmate’s family or friends were grabbing each other’s boobs and generally
touching inappropriately; you could see they delighted in the fact that they
might be making me and anyone else that might notice uncomfortable. If I want
to see Claire this isn’t too much to endure. One of the best lessons I gained
from my incarceration is to keep your nose down, but don’t be afraid. I kept
this presence about me and they seemed to get bored. It’s never as much fun if
you don’t have a captive audience, I chuckle to myself as I realize prison
really does give you quite an education.
Another 15 minutes went by and I’m trying not to seem nosy
to anyone, but we are all sitting on top of each other. There is nowhere I can
casually glance and not be deep into someone’s personal business. I remember
this was the thing that was hardest when I was locked up. The fact that I had
no privacy whatsoever—nothing was sacred or personal. Finally a young woman and her toddler son and
her older boyfriend came and sat across from me. The little ones always make
the visiting fun, they don’t understand where you are and they just think it is
an adventure. He was squirmy and flirty and everyone adored him. He smiled at
me and I noticed he had a pierced ear. I wasn’t surprised by this, it just
became another detail of the whole experience. I’m not sure why you pierce a
one year old’s ear, but that is never a question you ask in a place like this.
A kind Indian woman sat next to me with her family. She
asked me if I knew where my daughter was. This was funny to me because I am old
enough to have a daughter in prison. I smiled and said I am here to visit a
friend. I was becoming very anxious and she said to go up again. I mentioned my
reluctance and she gave me that knowing smile and told me he was one of the
nice ones. He was nice and said he’d call her unit. I went back to my seat and
couldn’t help but notice all that was going on—the elaborate snacks taken from
the vending machine—one young woman had skittles, starburst, and two chocolate
bars in ½ hour. I had nothing else to do with my time, watching vending machine
madness was a good way to pass the time.
Finally I went up again, it had been close to an hour. I was
kind and he was kind too, it was a very human moment amongst all the chaos and
I remembered those were the moments that got me through. I said I know she
works in the kitchen and he said he would try there. I went back to my seat
between the nice Indian family and the rambunctious women not following the
rules and waited.
A few minutes later, she finally walked through the door,
our eyes were filled with tears. This is my third visit and each time we both
cry. We have our “not-too-long-greeting-hug” that is permitted and we get to
sit down. The pierced toddler is moving between her and the Indian family—playing,
smiling and bringing a lot of warmth to everyone’s visit.
We talk about our mutual friends, how she is dealing with
the loss of her father, and the fact that her sister is on a binge and still
hasn’t come to visit. She is blaming Claire’s incarceration as the cause for
his death. I am grateful she understands addiction and it is easy to assure she
isn’t the reason. I know she is doing her best to cope with the huge losses in
her life the past three months—her freedom, her marriage, and now her father.
We go to get her diet coke and today she wants Reese’s
Peanut Butter Cups. I’m happy to get her these small items that bring her a
little joy. I get myself sun chips so we can have a little snack while we
visit. This is as “normal” as it gets.
We talk about her decision to tell her son she is not in
long term treatment, but in prison. He is in Florida and his father didn’t want
him to know about jail. He is 15. We are both sure he has looked it up on the
internet and already knows, but is playing the game for the sake of the adults.
She has respected her ex and not said anything up to this point. I am proud that she has learned to be
considerate of other people and she and I talk about how it has gotten her through
this whole process.
I realize I am holding my heart in my
throat and am holding back tears. We continue to talk about her decisions—the
good ones she is now making. She tells me that she plans to stay in the maximum-security
part of the prison because she has a job and her bunkmate is cool. There is
more freedom in the camp portion but here she can do her time rather than
allowing her time to do her. She also has more opportunity for attending grief
groups and recovery from trauma. Sitting there with a river of tears in my
throat, I realize how proud I am of her. Most would have thought her a hopeless
case. I even thought of walking away at times, but am so grateful I did not.
She tells me “you need to leave before the rush”. I am
willing to stay and she looks at me with tears in her eyes and says, “It is
just too painful, I like the visits, but if they go too long it hurts.” I
understand this like no one else can. I am grateful I have this experience. I
knew she would settle in, to this new way of life. It is strange and unkind a
lot of the times, but there is a way to get through it. I knew it would take
time. And right now, that is all she really has.
We walk to the desk together and hug and lock eyes for a
moment, it is in that moment we both know the grace of god has been kind to us
and that grace can only be seen through a grateful heart. She is alive and will
not have to be in this place for more than another 15 months. My deep gratitude
is characterized by a sense of real purpose for my time spent in prison. We
recognize the divine in our relationship as we both turn to leave. There is sadness
but more than anything there is peace. I leave knowing I have made a difference in someone else’s life and that is truly a
great reason to live.
