We were on high alert once the rain started coming down thick and heavy. It was a Thursday morning in late September, and the people here inside the Western Correctional Center for Women in North Carolina wandered restlessly.
Hurricane Helene was headed our way.
“I hope it blows the fences down and they have to let us go,” one woman said. I figured we’d be trapped here, and guards seemed to think they’d be stuck, too.
That night, the trees, illuminated by security lights, struggled against the wind, making shadows dance on my cell wall. The charged air kept waking me up. My heart pounded.
Friday
By Friday morning, the power was out, the Wi-Fi and phones were down, and generators kicked on. Outside, I could see the ground littered with tree branches and pools of rain. Inside this institution of more than 300 women, we lost water.
Within a few hours, arguments broke out over what to do with smelly waste collecting in the bathroom. Several of us, wearing our shower slides, carried trash cans outside to collect water from puddles to use for flushing. Even then, there wasn’t enough water to flush the four toilets. So we agreed on a plan: Solid waste and soiled tissues were double-bagged and trashed outside.
Just as awful was the sense of uncertainty: How were our friends and family?
“I have to get in touch with my mom,” Heather W. said. “She’s on oxygen and sick.”
Sonya S. wanted to let her two young kids know she was doing OK.
Eight staff members, a mix of officers and administrators, had to cover multiple areas in this low-security prison. Some had been stuck here since the day before, and a few others braved it past mudslides, floods and downed power lines.
At lunch and again at dinner, they delivered four slices of bread, one piece of pressed meat, a pack of peanut butter, one fruit, one cookie, a juice and a bottle of water.
The staff remained calm, despite the losses some of them had experienced. One sergeant lost his entire home, but he seemed to stay positive.
Rumors spread.
“I heard water will be dropped by helicopter,” Dusty G. said.
“No way,” said Ashley C. “They have to evacuate us. We’re going to run out of food.”
Most agreed that a warm shower would be nice. A few of us used bottles to grab whatever remained in utility hoses and faucets. Then we put that water in bowls, warmed it in a generator-fueled microwave, lathered up and rinsed sparingly.
At night, our dorm grew quiet. I could hear sirens in the distance.
Saturday
On Saturday, I awoke to calm, cloudy skies. The news showed homes and cars washed away. Hundreds were missing and many were dead. Asheville, just west of us, was a national disaster area. We passed the time sleeping, reading, watching television (thanks to the generator), playing cards and craving fresh air.
“Why aren’t the yards open?” some of us asked an officer.
“It’s really bad out there,” he answered. He didn’t mean the yards.
Out of habit, or perhaps a need for some kind of order, we cleaned our rooms and living areas. Cam took it upon herself to clean our bathroom. “It’s got to be done,” she said, almost gagging.
We were allowed to wander from hall to hall, so we did. To help with circulation and odor, we were even allowed to keep windows open. When the warden made rounds, wearing blue jeans and a ball cap, we knew things were far from normal. His typical ease was replaced by a wary, stressed smile.
That morning, water from creeks and floodwaters was siphoned into a 300-gallon tank on a dump truck and put into 32-gallon trash cans that we lugged to the bathrooms for flushing. A maintenance worker told us not to drink, cook with or bathe in this stuff. (After so long without showers, that warning was ignored by some.)
Pretty soon, tempers started running hot, and petty arguments began to break out. Our fears ratcheted up when dinner came with hamburger buns instead of regular bread, and no cookie or juice. I realized that we might be in trouble if the two bottles of water a day we were receiving were coming from the limited cache that I had helped stock.
That evening, we were allowed outside. Some of us exercised, while others grouped up at tables to talk or do hair. We all needed to put away our worries temporarily.
Later on, the radio announced that workers from the Federal Emergency Management Agency hadn’t yet made it; highways were blocked. But a cool breeze blew in my window and bright stars peeked through a canopy of trees. The mountains and forest still stood strong.
Sunday
I awoke Sunday to screams and sobs. I heard something about a mom and a flattened trailer park.
The phones had come back on. Bad news is especially hard to take when there’s nothing we can do. C.N., who had less than 100 days left on her sentence, lost her parents and aunt when their trailer washed away. Consolation from friends couldn’t quiet her wails.
We heard that a woman, who was released days before the storm hit, was trying to get into a halfway house because her grandmother’s home was destroyed.
At noon, the warden brought more news: An evacuation was probable. Some were overjoyed, even though it meant going to a higher-security prison. To them, Western was “boring.”
“I’m excited,” said Misty O., known as Moe, with a twinkle in her eyes. “I love change.”
I wasn’t. I’d spent too many years revising routines and obligations to want to change mine again.
That night, dinner was down to two packets of peanut butter and bread, plus some oranges.
Some of us began packing. When night fell, people lingered by their open windows, calling across to one another like neighbors in city apartments. The disorder offered a kind of freedom, but I felt forlorn. I wanted to stay in a community I’d grown to love.
Monday
On Monday morning, after an early breakfast, staff handed out bags for our most important belongings. A chaos of nonstop questions erupted: Where were we going? How would we get there?
People packed hygiene products, pictures, papers, books and some food. Some of us were hoarders so we also gathered our scraps and crafts. Others were minimalists; it made shakedowns and transfers easier. Many of the women had one nagging concern: the Correctional Institution for Women in Raleigh, which was one of the potential destinations, doesn’t allow jewelry.
I passed a girl near tears, surrounded by her possessions on the floor: “I don’t know where I am going to put all this stuff,” she said.
We waited for buses, soothing ourselves with nervous chatter. “I’ll just be glad to take a shower,” someone said. An assistant warden broke us up between six buses headed to the Anson Correctional Institution in Polkton, and six others to Raleigh, the largest women’s prison in the state. I was on one of the latter buses.
Our caravan rolled out past downed trees and caved-in roads. A car was nose-down in a ditch. The roof of a trailer was almost detached and a 10-foot fence around an open field was flattened. My bus stayed mostly quiet.
When we pulled up to Raleigh, more than a dozen officers began barking orders. Many of us had already served time here before earning the privileges that had allowed us to transfer to Western’s low-security facility. This felt like starting over.
As if to remind us, we were greeted by an unsmiling guard: “Welcome back, girls.”