A mated pair of swallows recently built a nest outside the door of the housing unit in my Tennessee prison. The artfully constructed nest of mud and small sticks sat on a light fixture under an overhang. While the female nestled inside, her head poking over the top, her devoted mate kept watch atop a nearby security camera.
The guys would stand below to watch them, scattering pieces of bread nearby. At one point there was a heated debate over whether they were barn swallows or northern rough-winged swallows. An amateur ornithologist brought out his copy of the “Peterson Field Guide to Birds of Eastern and Central North America,” which ended the argument. Only barn swallows have such a deeply forked tail.
Birds are ubiquitous behind bars. They’re free to fly over the razor wire-topped fences that confine those held within. They perch on barbed wire strands and roost atop the perimeter flood lights. They fill the yard early in the morning after a heavy rain when worms converge on the concrete walkways.
Mostly though, flocks of sparrows — joined by an occasional blackbird — congregate on the grass outside the chow hall at meal times. The intelligent animals have learned that people will toss them bread, cookies, cornbread and pieces of sheet cake when they walk back to their housing units. No bird in prison goes hungry.
Most incarcerated men have gazed at birds soaring overhead and wished that they, too, could flap their arms and fly back to their family. It’s also common for groups of guys to collectively stop what they’re doing and stare at a raptor gliding high overhead, or to listen to a V-formation of geese honking their way south or north, depending on the season.
This is what the incarcerated get out of the relationship with their feathered visitors: We provide the birds food, while they offer us dreams of freedom.
Interactions between birds and corrections staff tend to be less benign. In California, for example, electric fences installed at certain prisons to prevent escapes had an unintended consequence: thousands of birds were killed, including protected species. Fences are natural places to roost, electrified or not.
After a week or so, I noticed the lens of the security camera where the barn swallows were nesting was streaked with bird droppings. I had an uneasy feeling.
A few days later, on our way back from the recreation yard, my unease was confirmed. The nest was gone. Other guys told me maintenance staff had used a water hose to knock it down. The entryway to the unit was covered with water and bits of mud and twigs. I was most sad to see the shattered pieces of eggshell. The camera had been cleaned.
But birds, like many convicts I know, are not only smart but stubborn. A short time after the destruction of their home the swallows returned, this time building a nest on the other side of the unit entrance where there’s no security camera. We were happy to have them back as honorary members of our imprisoned flock.
