Instead of telling you about how brutal the Florida heat is, I will show you.
The walk from most prison dormitories in my state to the dining hall is in full sunlight. Shade, in the form of trees or awnings, is uncommon in Florida prisons for security reasons. When I make this three-minute walk in the summer, I get pummeled by the sun’s oppressive rays. Dressed in cornflower blue poly-blend pants and shirts, I soak up the heat. My clothes become sopped with sweat.
Heat hits the incarcerated even harder because we spend so much time indoors without air conditioning, which is common in Southern prisons. That’s particularly cruel when you consider this past summer was the hottest on record. Parts of South Florida saw more than 50 days where temperatures reached 100 degrees or higher. The indoor temperatures in our open-bay dormitories (a big room with dozens of bunk beds) are either not much cooler or even hotter than outside.
To fight the heat, the Florida Department of Corrections loosened uniform rules to let us wear shorts and shirts all day and allowed us to dim our lights. They’ve also expanded our access to ice, permitting round-the-clock access to ice water. All of these measures improved summer living conditions, if only slightly.
But in the summer, the walk to the dining hall is brutal.
By the time I’ve received my tray, filled and downed a cup of ice water from the cooler, refilled my cup again, then sat down at the stainless steel table in the dining hall, a veritable waterfall has formed on my back.
The cold water helps my insides some, but the sweat on my outsides forms rivers on my brow and neck. The creeping sensation of sweat dripping — down my chest, my back, my legs — accosts me. I swat at myself. My white undershirt is drenched.
I look down at my tray: a chicken leg and thigh, mashed potatoes, baked beans (with the occasional pebble), and mixed (boiled, unrecognizable) vegetables. In cinematic slow motion, a bead of sweat drips off my forehead. I like to imagine that in that drop I can see a fully distorted, prismatic view of the whole dining hall. The drop slows to a near stop in its crystalline splendor, until its beauty is rapidly dashed as — splat! — it accelerates and falls right on my chicken.
This was not the first time I’ve seasoned my chicken with sweat, nor will it be my last.
