Hands cuffed behind my back, I’m lost in thought. A lot has happened in the past few hours. It’s my first day of prison.
“This is not where I’m supposed to be,” my afraid self keeps repeating. I was told I was going to a yard. A unit with the ability to move freely, mingle. No handcuffs or restraints. Instead, I’m escorted by two officers wearing protective vests and safety goggles. Their faces stern, indifferent, as they issue a warning: “Follow our instructions and face forward at all times. If you are noncompliant or turn around, we will take you down. This is your only warning.”
It’s October 1996. I’m 20 years old.
I’m in my head as I walk. In my feelings. The confidence, machismo, that I’ve accumulated over the past three and a half years of my stay in the county jail feels less stable. It feels liquified. I imagine it sloshing to and fro within me with each of my footsteps.
The net bag in my cuffed hands bounces off of my left calf, bringing my focus back to my now. They’ve given me a netted bag that I’ll use to turn in my dirty clothes each week for wash. For now, it has my bed roll (a sheet, blanket, towel, roll of toilet paper, bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant). My clothing in the bag is a couple pairs of pants, t-shirts, socks, and boxer shorts. It feels heavy because of the awkward angle that my wrists are cuffed.
I must carry my own bag. The officers need their hands free. Just in case, is what my instincts tell me. They walk behind me. I take in my surroundings. We’re walking a long hallway. The walls are concrete. Organic in color. The gray adds a tint to the picture. I heard this was a new facility, but I question why the walls haven’t been painted. Especially considering that the floor has been waxed and buffed. The shine tells me that this floor is maintained often.
I make a mental note to put in for a job on the floor crew. I know how to maintain floors–strip, wax, etc. At the end of this long-ass hallway are two double doors. They lead outside, is what the window on each door indicates to me. I smile at the sunlight. It’s a familiar sight in a strange, dark place.
I notice four possible turns in this hallway, two on each side. I open my mouth to ask which turn, but no sound comes out. My instincts keep me quiet. I’ll know when to turn when it’s time. We are the only three in the hallway.
I ponder how I ended up here. This morning, the Reception Center informed me that I was headed to Central Unit, a maximum custody unit. I know this name. Many of us inmates are familiar with this name because of its history. It’s the oldest prison in Arizona. The most infamous, dangerous. When the prison bus arrived at Central Unit this morning, I asked the guy I was shackled with to stand up. “This is my stop.”
Looking out of the windows as I waited for my name to be called, I noticed how there’s fresh paint on an old structure. “This is prison, for realz!”
Bars, barbed gates, mean faces with sunglasses, and occupied gun towers. As they began calling names, I continued to take it all in. I looked through multiple windows on the bus. I looked forward to certain amenities, freedoms, of prison. County jail is deemed “short-term.” Less comfort. Lesser freedoms.
I’m too young to be cooped up. My body’s chemistry speaks to me that I’m meant to be in motion at this age. Discovering my path. Constructing the building blocks of my life. Not kept in a single-man cell for 23 hours a day.
It’s been two straight years of that at this point.
The bus door closed, jarring me from my look back. In my panic, I looked to my left. The guy I was shackled with shook his head. “They never called your name.” I sat back down. As the bus began backing up, my gut told me that something had changed.
“Take the next right” brings me back to the present moment. Turning right, my eyes take in as much as my brain can handle. Noise. Yelling. Chow (food) carts, the smell of OC spray, black helmets, more vests, goggles, cell extraction gear, a large, clear, rolling, plastic shield, and some smaller ones. I recognize the large one as something that gets placed at cell fronts to stop blow darts and to contain squirted liquids and other assaults. I shake my head. “This is not where they said I was going.” The voice in my head is bellowing now. I sigh. My stomach flops.
Standing in front of the large door that guards the entrance to my new pod, I smell what seems to be feces. Forgetting the warning, I almost turn my head to ask the officers what that smell is. I catch myself and jerk my head forward. “Yes, that’s what you think it is,” the guard on my right remarks. Then I hear them both laugh. That makes me angry.
Looking through the honeycomb holes on this huge door, I see a staircase. The pod has a lower and upper tier of cells. About eight to ten of them. There is a rec enclosure at the far end of the pod. Trash litters the floor. The pod is lighted by a clear, plastic, see-through roof. The blue sky smiles at me. I smile back.
As the door begins to open, the smell of feces gets stronger. It’s unmistakable now. My eyes look at the wall inside the pod. I recognize splatter patterns. Several of them. Several somethings have been thrown at this wall. Or someone walking by it. Some of the residue is liquid. Some is not. I stop trying to identify and understand what these remnants are trying to tell me happened at this entrance and just know that danger lies ahead. I make a mental note to watch where I step, as I prepare to hold my breath.
“Uh oh. We have another one coming in. Get ready,” someone yells from one of the cells.
“Make sure you look up” comes a statement from the officer on my left. They both laugh. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. I turn around to face them. I’m pissed. And scared. And desperate. Maybe a takedown will prevent or delay what’s about to happen. It’s as if they read my mind, because they laugh even harder.
The taller one shrugs his shoulders, smiling. “Welcome to prison. Now turn around and walk forward.”
Joel Henderson #123334
Arizona State Prison
ASPC Lewis
Stiner Unit
P.O. Box 70
Buckeye, AZ 85326
