In December 2023, eight months earlier than expected, I became eligible for community release.
I was ecstatic. I cried happy tears when I received the news on a sheet of paper from my unit counselor.
Soon, I would step into a Connecticut Department of Correction transportation van — without shackles and in real clothes! A few hours later, I would step out into freedom.
Or so I thought.
In Connecticut, living in a halfway house isn’t just living under supervision. It is, as my parole officer explained a month after my release, like living in a Level 1 security facility. That is, I am still an inmate under the charge of the DOC. My parole officer reminded me I could be sent back at any time for virtually any reason.
In early 2024, I participated in a program called “Preparing for Release.” One of the topics we covered was living under supervision. Speaking from experience, the men in the group warned repeatedly that the system was out to screw us. Parole and probation officers only wanted to send us back to jail, they argued, and the rules at halfway houses were meant to trip us up, catch us like wild animals stepping into hidden traps.
Back then, I was skeptical. Surely some are there to support us, I thought. But after several months in a halfway house, I have learned that there are so many ways for me to get in trouble — like coming home late or not doing a chore in time. And as in prison, disagreements with staff or other residents of the house can cause problems.
I am grateful for what little freedom I have, and I am using it to my advantage. I have very few bills and the opportunity to save money. I am working on myself and my writing, and building new relationships with people outside of prison who will support me and carry me into my next little life.
I don’t think anyone here is out to get me. But rules and restrictions still hang over me like a storm cloud. I’m reminded the skies aren’t clear yet. From my first day at the halfway house, I knew that this was freedom with an asterisk.
My new circumstances
The house is large but unassuming, situated on a residential street in a small city near the center of Connecticut. It houses 15 men.
After my intake with the halfway house’s program manager, I unpacked my property — prison T-shirts, shorts, lots of books — and thought about my new circumstances. It was time for me to become a person again and rejoin the local community.
When we arrived, each of us was assigned a chore, a responsibility which runs for two weeks. But there is no oversight when it comes to completion. I noticed right away that some things were clean; others remained dirty. Some people skated by for not completing their chores; others had their passes that allow freedom of movement revoked until their chores were completed.
So far, my responsibilities have included the bathroom, the hallway, the garbage and the kitchen.
A food supply company makes grocery deliveries every other week, and we have been free to eat whatever we like, so long as it doesn’t have someone else’s name on it. Takeout has generally been prohibited.
Moving around
For the first week I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. After that, I needed a pass to leave. Unless for work or a medical appointment, the passes permit only three hours of freedom. Staff, however, can alter the time allowances of the passes as they see fit, or deny the pass altogether.
The purpose of these alterations, I suppose, is to limit our time in the community and thus limit our ability to get into trouble. But, in my experience, passes are altered without informing the person of the reasons.
In my first week of movement, I scheduled a job interview. Because we are not allowed in any motor vehicles except public transportation, I had to walk. The case manager, however, changed the time I was allowed to leave the house, which meant arriving late to the interview. Somehow, I still got the job at Wendy’s — a callback to my days as an undergrad. I assume I got the job because I have a great personality.
Ridesharing apps like Uber, Lyft and taxis are prohibited. Public transportation, like buses, give me anxiety. Cold or hot weather can make long walks uncomfortable, so I needed something close to me that hired people with felony convictions. Sometimes my job has asked me to work when people call out, but unless the case manager is around to approve it, I’m not allowed to work shifts outside of when I am scheduled.
I am told this is for safety and security. But some of the restrictions and alterations have felt counterproductive to the alleged goal of reintegration to society.
Enjoying my solitude
In prison, my dorm was like a microcosm of the real world. So many different personalities living in one room. Not everyone got along all the time but, for the most part, we made it work.
Sometimes, though, being around people so different from me was draining.
“These people,” said a friend in prison, swirling a pointed finger in a circle around the room, “are not your people.”
Much like prison, the people in the halfway house are not really my people. I would not choose to hang around them if given the option, and generally I don’t. I’ve heard some people talk about drugs and alcohol in passing, and that stuff has no place in my life any longer.
In prison, my peers told me stories about the kind of people one finds at halfway houses. Crack users running wild! Those stories worried me. They told of whole houses being sent back to prison due to the indiscretions of one or a select few individuals.
Fortunately, my experience has not been that bad. My house is not in a major city and is much smaller than other houses. There is a basement with workout equipment. Though I barely leave my room, except for work, exercise or to make food, there is a sense of togetherness that I suspect is absent in larger 60-to-80-man houses.
Location, however, has no bearing on the people sent here. It is a toss-up all the same, and the dynamic can change quickly.
When I am seen outside my room, it is like a sighting of the elusive bigfoot.
“You live here?” jokes one person.
“The caveman comes out of the cave!” laughs another.
The smallest man in the house also happens to be the biggest loudmouth. He has become one of my favorite people. His in-your-face attitude is somewhat endearing.
One day, referring to my sexual identity, he asked me: “Do you stay in your room because you’re gay?”
“No,” I said. “I just lived in a room with 100 other men for 21 months, so I will take every bit of solitude I can get.”