Bells and Whistles
The quiet reverie in my prison cell is too soon broken. Raucous laughter, slamming lockers, and a cacophony of conversations echo across the huge barracks. The workday is over. My prison sisters are returning to their cells. I look down the corridor at the clock mounted above the officers’ desk. It’s a few minutes before 4 p.m. There has been a shift change. A different guard sits at the front desk now. He bellows, "mail call,” and the women hurry out to assemble in the open space in front of the desk. I follow, finding a place to stand along the wall. This is my first chance to look around at the women I will share this barracks with for the next six months. I’m startled at the faces I see. Some among the nearly 100 who have gathered appear to be as old as 70 or more; others look like teenagers. Most are dark-skinned. Few seem menacing.
“Keep it down, ladies,” the officer cautions as the noise of multiple conversations rises to a din. “Say 'here,’ when I call your name. And I don’t want to hear another word out of you. No mail for anybody if you don’t keep your big mouths shut. I'm taken aback by the abusive tone, but I hold my tongue.
As the women quiet down the officer begins to read the names on the envelopes he pulls out of the pile of letters and magazines his prisoner/helper has dumped in a heap on the desk.
There is an air of expectancy as this ritual plays out. Women obediently answer “here” if their name is called and step forward to claim their mail. I find it hard to look at all the dejected expressions after the mail has been distributed. So few of these women have received a letter. But I have one. It’s from Charlie. Inside is a yellow slip of paper. $10 has been posted to my Commissary account. He must have mailed this one before he dropped me off at the prison gate.
Counting the Captives
The officer rings a hand-bell at 4:15 p.m. for what the Inmate Handbook describes as a “live” standing count. This is the official count that the Bureau of Prisons publishes daily. The count is serious
business to the guards. A hush settles over the barracks as we each
stand in silence inside our stall-like cubicles. Two guards (officially
known as "Correctional Officers”) walk by at a clipped pace, one
after the other, counting. When they finish, one bellows, “Count
clear” and the barracks comes alive again with motion and noise.
From the F.P.C Alderson Inmate Handbook: “There is NO talking or radio playing during a count. Movement of lockers, chairs, and the opening or closing of windows must be kept to a minimum. Your bed should be visible to the Correctional Officers at all times. Do not arrange clothing, plants, or furniture in a manner which obstructs the view of the Correctional Officers.
Its dinner time. Women rush out of their cubicles to crowd together at the front doors where they wait for the Powerhouse whistle. After it blows, they push open the double doors and pour out onto the prison grounds. Most walk quickly across the lawn and down the hill to the lower compound to take a front place in the cafeteria line. Others crowd into the so-called smoke shacks for a cigarette. Some skip dinner altogether and go instead to the Library, the Chapel, or to the Recreation Center for an early aerobics class.
I sign out at the guard station and walk alone down the path to find a place in the long dinner line. I’m free now to move about the prison compound, within designated bounds, until the 10 p.m. bed check. This relative freedom of movement may be my saving grace here.
Hundreds of women have lined up ahead of me in the dinner line. My khaki jumpsuit and purple shoes set me apart as a “new commit.” Several women approach and offer to show me around the prison. I’m wary. One welcomes me with a hug. Even this simple show of human affection is taboo here. But I suspect that the rules and rituals of this prison are not all contained in my official Alderson handbook.
My first prison dinner, served cafeteria-style, is dished out by the women assigned to work the steam tables in the Central Dining Room (CDR). They are wearing white cotton shirts and pants and have nets wrapped around their hair.
I’m quite hungry as I scan the steam table for a vegetarian option. I choose a pasta dish with a scant tomato sauce, some into beans, a square of too-sweet corn bread, and canned yams. I pass up the iceberg lettuce. I sit alone at a small table by the window where I can observe the women as they file out the door. A guard, the only Black male I have seen, is standing just inside the exit door. Now and again he stops a woman for a pat-down search.
Using the back of his hands, he pats her body, front and back, from head to foot, before he allows her to leave.
“They’re looking for food,” a woman at the next table tells me. “Don’t you try to hide anything in your clothes on your way out,” she cautions. “If they find it you’ll get a shot.”
“What’s a shot?” I ask.
“They’ll write you up,” she says. “It will go on your record.”
By the time I finish my meal I’m relieved to see that the guard at the door is nowhere in sight.
I report back to Range One and sign out again at the guard station — this time for a walk around what is called the “upper compound.” A soft rain is falling and the mountain air is sweet. Twenty minutes later I am back in my cubicle where I sit now on the metal stool writing at the desk. I’m weary but relieved of much anxiety. My first day is almost behind me.
A woman from the next cube stops by with a pair of plastic flip-flop shower shoes in hand.
“You’ll need these,” she says. You don’t want your bare feet on that nasty shower room floor.” I accept her gift with gratitude and a little consternation. I remember the officer’s warning about gifts.
From the Inmate Handbook: Do NOT leave your property with another inmate. Any property found in her possession or room will be considered hers — not yours. It is an infraction of Institution rules to borrow, lend, sell, or give away personal property.
The hot shower feels good, but I don’t linger. I feel nervous, vulnerable, and eager for sleep. After my shower I pass by an empty TV room and look up to see two of my co-defendants, the Franciscan nuns Dorothy and Gwen Hennessy. The camera is on them as they and seven others report to prison in Pekin, Illinois. I cannot hear the news story. I will need to purchase a radio and headset to tune in the sound, but it lifts my spirits just to see these brave women (Gwen is 68 and Dorothy is 88) as they enter prison. I know that I’m not alone on this journey, even though I’m the only one of my 25 co-defendants doing time here at Alderson.
Back in my cubicle I dress hurriedly in my prison gown — a gigantic white cotton tee shirt. I climb up onto the top bunk to make my bed with two thin white sheets and a green wool Army blanket. I’m in full view of all the other top-bunk prisoners. We are densely packed. By this time I’m more tired than concerned about this lack of privacy. I pull the top sheet over my face and try to shut out the noises, the curious looks, and the glare of overhead lights.
“Hey, new commit, do you need a pillow?” It’s the woman in the top bunk of an adjacent cubicle. She is almost close enough to touch if we both were to extend our arms.
“Yeah, I do. Thanks,” I say as she tosses it onto my bunk. I pull the sheet over my face, shut my eyes. My thoughts are with my friends and family as I drift off to sleep.
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Clare Hanrahan is an Asheville, NC writer and antiwar activist. She spent six months at Alderson prison as a consequence of peaceful protest against the US Army School of Americas. Her first book, Jailed for Justice: A Woman's Guide to Federal Prison Camp, is available from the author.
Clare's newest book is Conscience & Consequence: A Prison Memoir, a highly personal account of her six-month incarceration inside Alderson prison, the oldest and largest US Federal prison for women. The book exposes some of the devastating abuses of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
Clare can be reached at: www.celticwordcraft.com
