Walla Walla Mean Face

There’s something wrong with my stomach. There has been for a few days now, ever since last Thursday when I was told to pack out because I’m being transferred to a new facility.

This entire prison is shutting down due to budget cuts, so it’s not just me that’s moving. We’re all being shipped out of here.

Change is usually uncomfortable in the best of circumstances, traumatic in the worst. Our situation borders on the latter.

To make matters worse, our counselors are no longer allowed to tell us where we are being transferred to. Just a few days ago, a fellow inmate found out he was being transferred to a prison he wasn’t supposed to be going back to, and he tried to kill himself because of it. Now they won’t tell us our destination until the morning we leave.

No matter what happens during my stay here, I always call home with a cheery disposition and do my best to paint a very different picture of what prison is like to my family. I don’t want them to worry about me while I’m here, but I think I’ve gone too far. My mom pictures me in a kind of long-term day spa that is full of top-notch addiction specialists and people that want the best for us when we get out. Like I said, I may have gone too far.

Today, I pick up the payphone and call my family to let them know I’m being transferred. It’s a better facility, I tell them. I’m very excited about the move. In fact, I can’t wait to get going.

I can feel my stomach turning as I speak, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m state property.

I say goodbye and hang up the phone and run into a friend. He hasn’t packed out yet, one of the lucky ones allowed to stay another month. He wants to know what day I “packed out.” This is what we call the process in which you box up your property and give it to the state to ship ahead of you. I tell him I did last Thursday.

“You’re lucky,” he tells me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“All the property that was packed on Monday was put onto a pallet and left out in the rain. Now it looks like a pile of wet trash.”

People’s TVs, radios, food, letters from home, books — everything ruined. It’s common to have property lost and damaged during transfer, but this is a new level. The inmates are unlikely to be compensated. Even to press the issue invites retaliation, something most of us are personally familiar with.

The day before your transfer, the experienced inmate eats very little, if anything at all. If your nerves haven’t taken your appetite, the prospect of having to use the bathroom during transfer should. The one-piece jumpsuit coupled with wrist and leg shackles creates a logistical nightmare when trying to relieve yourself.

Your wrist shackles wrap around your waist, and the jumpsuit has a front zipper at the chest. I will not go into too much detail, but I will say it is almost physically impossible to pass any solid waste during the trip.

Most people that have transferred prisons will have a story about having to ride in cramped conditions with the smell of human excrement the last half of the trip because someone couldn’t hold it long enough. One more thing to look forward to.

A friend of mine is on Suboxone and will be leaving with me. The day comes and he goes to medical to get his medication before the trip, but he is told that his medical records have already been packed. Without them, they can give no medication out. This is a problem because new facilities don’t give out “non-necessary” meds until you’ve been there for 24 hours. Necessary means life-threatening so he won’t qualify for a dose of his medication until he has gone close to 50 hours without. He knows that by hour 24 he will begin to feel withdrawal symptoms. They will get progressively worse until he gets his dose. He is pale when he tells me this. I don’t envy him.

The time comes and we are all called over the PA system. Time to go. We are herded into a large cage downstairs, pulled out one at a time, stripped, searched, given a jumpsuit then shackled.

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Even if the shackles don’t hurt right away, the pain will come. Usually no more than 30 minutes, and it’s all you can think about. The metal burrows itself deep enough to leave thick, purple rings around your wrists and ankles. At least I’m not thinking about the move at the moment.

Getting on the bus, I’m struck by how little room there is. Both sides are lined with single-man cages leaving a narrow walkway down the center that leads to a twelve-man box in the back. It doesn’t dawn on me until I settle into the corral in the back that there is no bathroom on board. Thankfully, it’s only a two-hour ride.

We pack in tight and shove off. A low hum of idle talk helps us take our minds off our situation, but it is broken a few minutes later.

“C.O.!” An inmate in one of the single cages calls out. We all stop and look toward the voice, wondering what has happened. It doesn’t take long to see green vomit seeping out from under the center cage door. Oh, that’s gonna smell great.

The person in the center cage doesn’t call out again. He no doubt realized it was pointless. The bus will not stop.

The idle chatter resumes, and I stare out the tiny window. I realize how sheltered we are in prison. Seeing cars, roads, buildings — it’s fascinating to me. I’m hypnotized.

“Wall Walla mean face, guys! Almost there,” someone calls out.

I can’t help but chuckle. It’s a saying in Washington state, reminding us to look tough when we get there.

We take the last turn and see the large security gate. We’ve arrived.

“Walla Walla mean face.” I laugh as I say it under my breath. The gate opens, and we drive in.

Two hours and fifteen minutes. I’ve had shackles on for longer periods of time, but for some reason, this feels like the worst experience I’ve had. As the bus pulls up to a nondescript single story building, I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic.

My heart rate quickens, and all I can think about is getting out of these cuffs. We stand, and file out; taking care to avoid the puddle of vomit in the center of the aisle. I see the person that got sick; he’s easy to pick out because his shins are wet with bile. He laughs and tries to make light of his ordeal, but he still looks somewhat pale; a little green.

The shackles come off, we’re given a peanut butter sandwich and told to wait in line for the nurse. She’s there to assess whether or not we need immediate medical attention. Otherwise, she says, send a message to the doctor once you’re housed.

I’m finished and am sitting in a different cage now. I realize that most of my life consists of this. Going from one cage to another. It feels normal to me, but still, I notice it. My friend sits next to me.

“They won’t give me my suboxone until tomorrow,” he tells me.

“Yeah,” I respond. “I know.”

Opiate addiction is something I know a lot about from personal experience, so I know what he’s about to go through. It’s not just the physical pain, but psychological as well.

I tell him he’ll make it through just fine; he doesn’t even look at me. He merely nods his head as he stares off at some spot down by his shoes. His eyes are far away. A man that no longer has control of his life can be a sad thing. There’s nothing we can do; we are state property.

Before the bus-ride, we, the inmates, all received a message regarding our transfer. It said that due to a state-wide clothing shortage, we were all to pack our own green duffel bags
with any and all state issued clothing we wanted to take. We did as we were told.

Our housing assignments are handed out, and we all stand and leave together. One line of 18 prisoners, and one guard. He’s not there for our security, even if we wanted to run, we wouldn’t get far. High concrete walls topped with razor wire make sure of that. He’s there to make sure we don’t get lost.

The complex seems massive and I’m glad I’m not in front. I’d have to ask for directions, and the less you have to speak to a C.O. the better.

Our housing unit is shaped like a giant “plus” sign; with four arms connected by a central booth type area where the guards are stationed. This way, they don’t have to station a guard inside each wing. Budget cuts, again come to mind. Inside, we are told to find our duffel bags which are lined up against the far wall. I see mine and pick it up, but immediately notice something’s wrong. It seems lighter than it should much lighter.

I set the bag down and open it. Inside, I find not what I packed, but all brand new clothing. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, but this time, it is. We were told we would get our own bags back; encouraged to pack them. Taking DOC at their word, we packed personal shoes, hats, sun glasses and other items we had bought from the store.

When we ask where our bags are, no one knows what we are talking about. They hadn’t even heard of a “state-wide clothing shortage.” You’ve got to be kidding me. The C.O.’s were indifferent to this and again, it is unlikely anyone will be compensated.

I’m housed in “F” unit, so I grab my bag and head in. When you’re the new guy, walking into a new prison, there is always an underlying uneasiness in the air. It can be nerve-racking if you’re not used to a room getting quiet when you walk into it; the eyes sizing you up don’t help either. I walk through the silent day-room and down the hall to find my cell. I open the door and find a short, older guy sitting on the bottom bunk. He’s bald and looks like he spends most of his time outside. He looks like a retired construction worker.

“Nice to meet you,” he says as he extends his hand “my name’s Carpenter.”

Ha! No shit. I get settled in; unpack my clothes, make my bed. Then, I head out. I need to know the routine here, what the program is and the sooner the better. Getting settled takes people different amounts of time. My motto of fake it until you make it works just fine. Just act like you fit in, and all of a sudden you do.

The next morning, I see my friend and he looks awful. It has been 50 hours since his last dose of suboxone and he hardly wants to move. I feel for him. When the dose finally comes, he’s clocked 52.5 hours between doses. Something that he compares to a form of torture. I don’t blame him. All-in-all, by the following week, I’m settled, almost comfortable. My stomach is back to normal, I’ve memorized the new schedule and let my family know how truly amazing the new “health spa” is.

Though I hope I never have to do this again.

The next Thursday, I’m in the day-room playing cards when we see a line of 18 inmates, clad in bright orange jumpsuits being led in by one single officer. When our unit door opens, we all quiet down and watch the new inmates walk in; green duffels over
their shoulders, and I wonder how many people see what I see.

Furrowed brows, jaws set and eyes slightly squinted. I chuckle when I see their faces. Yeah, they get it.

Jonathan Loppnow has been released from prison and is gainfully employed as a shipping/receiving supervisor at a sheet metal company. Wish him the best!