When my gate finally opened, I took a tentative step outside my cell and assessed my surroundings. It was the first day back for New York corrections officers following their illegal work stoppage. They had gone on a wildcat strike for roughly three weeks, demanding the repeal of a state law limiting the use of solitary confinement. My peers also moved cautiously. I made eye contact with my friend Rello four cells away. He too was hesitant.

A young, scrawny officer banged his black nightstick against the bars surrounding the bubble. “Are you going to chow or not?” he yelled.

Rello and I each smirked knowingly, shook our heads, and took the final step outside our cells. We walked together silently, using our peripheral vision to keep tabs on the officers lined up on both sides of the hallway. During the strike, we heard many officers were fired; so we were surprised to see what seemed like hundreds of officers, each gripping their nightsticks in a threatening manner. 

It seemed to me that they wanted us to know they were in control. 

Fortunately, we made it to the mess hall without incident. We collected our trays of watery oatmeal, milk and white bread, grabbed our spoons, and headed to our seats. Starting to believe things wouldn’t be as bad as I expected, I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I looked around, taking stock of people I hadn’t seen since the lockdown started, and noticed my friend Nicholas a couple rows away. He turned slightly to get a better look at me. We shared a smile.

Almost at once, an out of shape, red-faced officer with white hair banged his nightstick on the table and yelled at Nicholas, “Turn around and face forward you f—— idiot!”

“Why do I have to face forward?” Nicholas asked the officer, calmly. “I’ve been here for a year, and I’ve never been told I can’t turn my head and observe my surroundings.”

“I don’t give a f— what you’ve been told before. I’m telling you now. Look forward!”

Nicholas was clearly frustrated, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by going back and forth. He kept his eyes forward for the remainder of our time in the mess hall. Nervous and unsure what the officers would do next, we all sat silently, looking at the uneaten blobs of cold oatmeal on our trays, until it was time to go.

An hour later, I heard a commotion upstairs. Later, someone told me my friend Nicholas had been taken to the box, or solitary confinement. Some said he was beaten up; others said he was written a ticket with trumped-up charges claiming he was trying to incite a riot. 

Whatever the truth, things like this happen all the time. And I fear officers will resort to these power plays even more in the coming months.

Coming straight off the picket lines, these officers are returning to the same blocks they worked in before the strike. They are looking into the eyes of the prisoners they fought to see kept in their cages.