Home sweet home is no longer my home.

I thought I fit in well at Huntsville Unit, the prison just outside of Houston where I had lived for 18 months. Sure, I wasn’t happy, but I was more or less content. If there’s a decent prison in Texas, Huntsville is it. Having served time in 11 other state facilities, I felt lucky to be there. 

So when I heard news that I was going to be transferred, I was devastated. Life as I knew it, where I had expected to be for the remainder of my sentence, was gone. It was another painful reminder that the Texas prison system determines my fate. If they want to send me into what felt like exile without explanation, then so be it. 

Life at Huntsville

On Sundays, I worked my laundry job from 2 a.m. to 1 p.m., cleaning and folding shirts and pants, boxers and socks. Almost everybody looked down on the work even though they expected clean clothes. But I liked my job. 

I was one of three laundry workers trusted to work without a guard present. I never considered myself entitled and never looked down on others, but I knew both guards and my peers considered me an asset. They would have gladly kept me. 

Still, I took some things for granted. Through my job, I had access to any article of clothing I wanted. In general, when someone showed up to laundry to retrieve clothes, they received random items, whatever was on the top of the pile. But, because I worked there, I could sift through and pick out what I wanted. My boxers and socks were always new and sparkling white. So were my bedsheets. 

There were other things too. In my tour of Texas prisons, Huntsville served the best food. At Ellis Unit down the street, every day we got a corn dog or beef roll. At Polunsky, where death row is located, we were on a regular rotation of pancakes, stew and bean burritos. I always laughed when new people showed up and remarked, “I thought that death row would feed the best in the state! This is the worst I’ve been fed!”

But at Huntsville, I couldn’t believe how well I was eating. The chicken tacos were hot, seasoned and overflowing. The rice stir-fry almost tasted like Panda Express; the vegetable-to-meat ratio was solid, and the dish always had plenty of egg in it. Meanwhile, the cheeseburgers: mmm. They were crispy and served with a side of greasy french fries. In general, the food was fully cooked, and the portions big enough to fill you up.

Huntsville ran recreation time three times a day, every day. There were three sets of workout machines. And the prison offered educational opportunities, including life skills and religious classes taught in the chapel. Since the prison was located next to the Texas prison system headquarters, you’d sometimes see people who worked there come in to teach. 

In other words, there was some freedom at Huntsville — freedom to work, exercise, study and worship. I spent my days listening to podcasts, reading, working and attending church on Thursdays and Sundays. I liked those rhythms. I looked forward to serving the last 15 years of my sentence at Huntsville. 

During my time there, many people commented that they did not have to sleep with one eye open. If you wanted, you could also sleep with your head close to the bars. At other prisons, you slept the other way to protect your head from attacks.

Then one day in September, a guard woke me early in the morning and instructed me to pack up. My life at Huntsville was over. 

Life in exile

Arriving at the Mark W. Stiles Unit in Beaumont, Texas, I had extremely low expectations, but even those were not met. 

When you arrive at a new prison in Texas, you typically meet with the classification committee, a group consisting of the warden and other officials who determine your security level and assign you a job. That did not happen right away at Stiles Unit, which shocked me.

Since we were late arriving, we got fed last. Seeing the chow hall for the first time, I was dismayed at how run-down the place was. There were no cups or spoons, and for 10 minutes there weren’t even trays. With my hand, I slowly ate my sad lunch — a piece of chicken, 2 ounces of mashed potatoes, and one slice of bread. 

I eventually made it to my cell. It was still afternoon and the sun was out, but it was pitch black. My new cellie had put up bedsheets covering the windows. He didn’t greet me. I had nothing, and there were no items waiting for me: no clothes, no towel, no bedsheets or pillow, no toilet paper.

That night I slept fitfully atop my mattress. Fortunately, I had my fan, which at least kept me cool.

The next day, my cellmate burst out laughing when I told him I wanted a job. “Good luck,” he said. “Nobody works here.”

Over the next few days, I took in the facts of my exile.

Morning count began at 3 a.m. We were released to the dayroom around 4 a.m., and some days we didn’t make it to breakfast until 6:30 a.m. because our pod was almost always the last to be fed. By then, the kitchen had usually run out of coffee and certain side items. Sometimes we arrived and the kitchen had already closed, forcing the workers to dig stuff out of the fridge.

At 10:30 a.m., we were back in the dayroom, waiting for lunch. Some days there were no trays. We inched forward in line as the trays were washed.

In the hours between meals, we mostly languished. Rec time was rare, only once or twice per week. There were no exercise weights on the yard, and most people here didn’t do anything at all except smoke, which burned my eyes and made me cough. People weren’t living. They were merely existing. 

Later in the evening, we were back again in the dayroom, waiting for dinner. 

Now, in the very early mornings, I walk down the hall to laundry. But I can never get decent clothes. The shirts and pants are all different shades of white. The shirts fit too tight or too loose, and I always have to use a string to tie up my pants so they don’t fall. 

I’m disappointed my dad never visited me at Huntsville. He would’ve seen I was safe and part of a decent community. He would’ve seen my crisp white clothes. He visited me here once. I was tired because I sleep terribly here. We have to be vigilant because violence can erupt instantly. Worse, I was ashamed to be wearing such dingy clothes. 

I wanted to tell my dad that it wasn’t always like this.