Behind the Wire

 

The first time I went to prison, I was more curious than afraid. Once corrections officers had ensured I wasn’t carrying anything on my person, I stayed in a holding area with others packed in like sardines, waiting for the all clear. No two doors were open at the same time. It was a slow and methodical process that reminded me of going through river locks as a child with my grandpa. Most prisoners are held in cells individually or in large pods, depending on the prison, but usually gen pop don’t just roam the halls freely. It is kind of like high school in that way.  There are a few trustees with special permissions or hall passes to go from one location to another to complete work duties. Oftentimes, any position other than corrections officer, or CO, is filled with prisoners, primarily to keep costs down. These positions are earned through good behavior and sought after to break up the monotony and boredom of a regular inmate’s prison day. When first entering the halls of the prison, you will see an occasional guard or trustee going from point A to point B. Other than that, the halls are eerily bare, old, brick, daunting. 

I was released straight into the yard, full of inmates, many of their eyes on me instantly recognizing that this was, in fact, my first rodeo. It probably didn’t help that all of the inmates were male. I was told to limit makeup and not wear any perfume to draw attention to myself. Somehow in that moment, it didn’t feel like it mattered. I could have been donning a dinosaur costume and would have received about the same amount of attention. 

Before I could begin to get comfortable, motorcycles could be heard in the parking lot, revving, the riders trying to build excitement, and that they did. It was a rare occasion, and thanks to the generosity of the warden, the motorcycles were allowed behind the wire. The inmates gathered around once the engines were turned off to inspect the bikes, several Harley Davidsons in the bunch. The bikes were meant to be a conversation starter, as was the music, to open minds and hearts to possibly accept the gospel.

I did not take any of the normal routes to prison, and was blessed enough to walk out and go home at the end of that day, changed forever.

My ex-husband had recently begun working for Ed Killibrew as a sales representative and having known Ed for a few years, we also began spending more time with him and his family in their leisure time. This also meant going to the same church and sometimes having a meal together. As part of his work with the church, Ed was part of David’s Mighty Men Motorcycle Ministry which often collaborated with a regional group called, Born Again to Ride. My ex did not bring his motorcycle though as he was invited to perform music for the prisoners as a guitar player. The first time I was invited was simply as a tag-a-long, a guest. I was told another wife was coming, and rather than staying home all day alone, I decided to go see what this prison ministry business was all about.

I spent most of that first day observing the inmates and evangelists just taking it all in. I literally stood behind groups, one biker surrounded by several inmates. I was learning the process and I guess the writer in me was taking mental notes all day. I was fascinated at so many worlds I had not been privy to.

Before the leader, Mike, said a closing prayer, he requested that I sing for the inmates. Having prepared nothing, I panicked for a moment and then just began singing “Amazing Grace” a capella. There wasn’t a peep to be heard the entire time I sang, my voice shaking slightly from nerves. Some inmates linked arms or hands, some sang with me, some put their heads down and hands up in worship. It was my first time with a literal captive audience. I can tell you that prisoners are more enjoyable to perform for than any other audience I have had the honor of singing for. Pardon the preposition. 

The evangelical part of the day was slightly uncomfortable for me, part of why I could never be in sales. Pushy is the last thing I am, and because of the time crunch, some of my fellow riders seemed a little that way. For many inmates, talking to the riders was a chance to speak to people from the outside world, and they were grateful for the opportunity even if they were being preached to. I noticed a few different types of reception to the visitors. A few inmates stood back observing, never interacting. A few seemingly bought in to the gospel and proclaimed their faith on the spot. Others listened and conversed, but really seemed to be placating us or just trying to appease our effort to reach out to them. Ultimately, there were always a few that had strayed from their faith and just needed an opportunity to reconnect with other believers.

After that first event at Putnam Correctional, I made the commitment to join the ministry, and perform for prisoners. Our next stop was Lake City Correctional. LCCI is made up of mostly young adult males. This prison is made up of large open pods, two-story, with cafeteria tables on the bottom floor along with open showers against the opposite wall along with a desk for a CO. When we entered the pod, each pair of inmates was standing by their closed cell doors waiting to be released to talk to us. As I took a seat at a cafeteria table while the CO gave instructions, my eyes wandered all over the room, first at the environment, and then at the faces of the inmates. It was then that recognition came over me as my eyes landed on a young black male on the second floor. He was joking with his cellmate. It was my former student, we’ll call “Z”. I called out his name, and put my hand up in a tiny wave. He looked down at me bewildered, and I’m almost positive I saw him mouth to his cellmate, “Is that white lady talking to me?” I must have freaked him out because he stopped making eye contact with me. 

After what seemed like a lifetime, Z came down with the other inmates and sat at a table with them away from us. We were told that this was the faith-based pod, so we were expecting a pretty good reception. Once we were released by the CO to roam about, I quickly made my way over to Z. I tapped him on the shoulder. Again, I said his name, and asked if he knew who I was. He literally looked at his friend and said, “Who is this lady?”  with a little nervous chuckle. “Z”, I said, “it’s Mrs. Arnold, your fifth grade teacher.” The look of recognition and joy that came over his face was worth the torture I put myself through making that reconnection. He introduced me to all of his friends, and then he told me to hold on, that he had something to show me. He came back with a photo album. He wanted to show me pictures of his children. He was a proud father. My heart was heavy to see one of my babies in prison. I wanted to carry him out of there with me. 

A year later we returned. He had left the faith pod for another, put on a lot of weight, his complexion significantly darker. He had bulked up to protect himself, no longer the skinny boy I knew, the light of his spirit had dimmed. 

Z got out shortly after that. Like most convicts, after a few years out, he found his way back in. He was released last August. 

Lowell Women’s Prison was the toughest. In Ocala, hundreds of women call this home prison. Most of them are mothers, and many of them are there for drug charges. I noticed that the women were more intimidating than the men. Men keep to themselves and mind their business, but the women are bored and interested in who you are and what you are doing there. It can be like the high school cafeteria, cliques and chaos. Before we made it to the yard that day, we dined with inmates. It wasn’t my first time eating prison food. The food reminds me of school lunch, but not as good. The food has almost no flavor, which causes the inmates to value ramen flavor packs like currency.  I had a noodle dish with what was joked as “face meat”. A salad which consisted of two pieces of lettuce and a grape tomato, a piece of white bread and canned fruit. A few ladies were kind enough to chat with me and make me feel welcome, even though they only had about 20 minutes to eat. Those of us in the ministry, spread out amongst the inmates. We were often “alone” with a group of them, a chance to really bond and learn about the women. 

After all the equipment was set up in the yard, it was time to perform for them. 

That day, I sang, “I Get Out” by Lauryn Hill, my ex on the guitar. The first lyrics:

“I get out, I'll get out of all your boxes

I get out, you can't hold me in these chains

I'll get out

Father free me from this bondage

Knowin' my condition

Is the reason I must change”

I felt for so many of these women, their sorrow palpable, missing their babies. 

The bell rang for the inmates to come back inside. As the herd headed in, one lone black girl, early twenties, slowly made her way to me, so that she and I were alone on the basketball court together. She looked up at me, “Will you pray for me?” I was shocked, nervous, and grateful. “Of course I will.” I grabbed her, held her, and prayed for two straight minutes until the guards starting calling her in. We cried together and she went on her way.

When I got home that day, I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I went online looking through Department of Corrections pictures until I found her, and I wrote her a letter. We continued to write back and forth until she was released about a year later. She told me that her mom passed away when she was 19 and she took care of her younger siblings. She had written bad checks to care for her family and they caught up with her. I am aware of my own naivete. I know the story might not be true. I don’t care. She needed compassion, and I provided it. I hope it made a difference. 

After two years in the ministry, my health started declining. My transplanted kidney was giving me trouble, and my arthritis was starting to rear its ugly head. I couldn’t take the heat in the yard all day, because once you are locked in, that’s it for the day. Sadly, I had to let it go.

What a beautiful chapter in this book of life.