This excerpt is from my new book, Prison Time:
“Standby for chow, Yard 1. You’re
getting breakfast first.”
On a cold crisp Christmas morning, below a pink and blue sky,
I join the prisoners drifting towards the chow hall, mostly depressed as if suffering
a winter virus. A few swap gang handshakes.
“Merry Christmas, homey!”
“Happy Hanukkah, you sarcastic motherfucker.”
“Happy Kwanzaa, dawg!”
“Felice Navidad, ese.”
Breakfast is pancakes, scrambled eggs, cinnamon rolls,
cereal and an apple. A guard with a clipboard checks off names and boasts how hung-over
he is, antagonising the prisoners. The din is lower than usual, our expressions
rueful. The rising sun floods the room with light, illuminating dust motes
dancing over our food. After fifteen minutes, the guards order everyone out.
The prisoners rise from tables strewn with spilt milk, cornflakes and apples
stabbed to prevent hooch brewing.
We retire to our cells. While I reflect on being absent from
my loved ones, a sad silence spreads across the yard. No basketball. No
pull-ups or dips at the workout stations. No squabbling. No “motherfucker” this
and “dawg” that. No announcements.
At least it’s my last Christmas here. I read to take
my mind off the mistakes I made that cost almost six years of my life.
At Building B, a guard starts a security walk. “Put away
your hypodermic needles! Don’t let me catch anyone drinking hooch!”
By the time the swing shift arrives, the sun is shining
through a sky mottled with clouds like the hide of a cow.
In a slow sarcastic voice an announcement comes: “We would
like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very merry Christmas and to
thank you for providing us with such a wonderful 2006!”
The yard animates:
“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!”
“Shank you very much, motherfucker!”
“Come and say that to our faces, bastards!”
The guard continues: “And you’ll all be pleased to know that
we fully intend to keep up the time-honoured Christmas tradition of shaking
your houses down.”
Two guards – a female and a Mexican we call the “Fruit Nazi”
for overzealously confiscating apples and oranges from inmates exiting the chow
hall – raid cells, scattering property, confiscating food, thwarting hooch operations
and doling out disciplinary tickets.
Late afternoon, we emerge for a surprise. The Gatekeepers –
a young and high-spirited choir – sing carols from the other side of the fence.
Briefly, I’m not a prisoner anymore. I’m someone’s son, brother. I’m human
again.
At dinnertime, skimpy portions of roast beef, broccoli and watery
mashed potato that reeks of bleach provoke outbursts that unsettle the guards.
Tension remains high.
After eating, I join a queue for phones that barely work.
Written on the faces of the prisoners are the usual concerns. Will our loved
ones be home? Will they accept the expensive call charges? Unable to get
through, some prisoners hang up, cursing life.
Nearby, a demolition team of pigeons is pecking the clingfilm
off chow trays abandoned by the guards. From a gust that deposits sand in my
mouth, Chihuahuan ravens descend – a vortex of big black birds with a purple
and blue iridescence – scattering the pigeons and ravaging the spoils.
A final announcement at 7:55pm: “Yard 1, rec is over. Take
it in and lock down.”
The atmosphere is so heavy, I’m thankful that Christmas Day
is nearly over.
by Shaun Attwood, the author of Party Time and Hard Time
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