On the night of Independence Day, every incarcerated American can tell you exactly how many years it’s been since they’ve seen fireworks in person. This year, 168 residents of Farmington Correctional Center, in Missouri, set this clock back to zero.
FCC is divided into two sections, A-Side and B-Side. Outside of programs, classes and medical appointments, residents housed on one side generally do not interact with those from the other side because there are rivalries, and it is not uncommon to overhear arguments concerning the pros and cons of each section.
This year, a light-hearted antagonism was fueled by a three-day, multi-sport athletic competition between the two sides, organized by a group called Creating Opportunities for Reentry that I belong to.
The tournament would end on the Fourth of July. In the nearby city of Farmington, a fireworks show was scheduled. It was viewable from the highest point in the facility — the A-Side basketball court.
The morning of July 1, a growing crowd gathered in the B-Side gymnasium to watch the basketball championship. Among those on the sidelines was Matt Petty, the reentry services manager. “It makes me want to play again,” he said, shifting his weight in anticipation as he stood in his Jordans.
After the game, Petty hooped with two residents. No one kept score, just took shots. But Petty, who looks more like a youth pastor or summer camp counselor than a Department of Corrections employee, did pushups every time he missed.
In the afternoon, the spectators became commentators, as residents and staff filled the sun-warmed bleachers for the final round of the softball tournament. The winners would go on to compete in the championship game the following day.
The spectators-turned-commentators then turned into cheerleaders, waving signs, shouting, dancing and gesturing. When a player for the A-Side team suffered what referees deemed a “male injury,” one such attendee hollered, “That’s what happens on B-Side!”
There was a gentle breeze and a guitar strumming softly from behind a tree. I felt as if I were at a barbecue back home.
The morning of Day 2, we turned to the B-Side gym for the dodgeball championship. The familiar cheering and heckling began before the game even started. Bright rubber balls studded the half-court line. A whistle blew.
Dodgeball games I’d seen in the past tended to be quick and brutal. Here, agility matched aim, making for a close start to the game. A ball bounced off the floor, inches from one player’s foot. Team A swarmed its targets like an angry hive. A player for Team B dropped one ball to catch another.
A scurrying sidestep and the slow shake of a head: “Not this time.”
A knowing point, nod and smirk: “You and me.”
And a razor-sharp stare that melted into a molten grin: “We did that.”
At some point, the warden arrived. As she leaned against a black railing, I could see her being drawn into the game and the antics, until she couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer.
The afternoon brought with it the championship softball game and the first rounds of bocce ball. As I sat, the prison yard seemed so much bigger. I felt less constrained than I had in months.
On Day 3, the unforeseeable happened, threatening to derail the rest of the tournament. The water main had busted in the central security office. Several buildings were without running water and roughly half the housing units only had access to hot water. Bottles of drinking water were distributed during dinner and large trash cans full of water were carted to each unit so residents could flush their toilets.
Incarcerated maintenance workers were called to action. I went to bed that night with a flicker of hope that the remainder of our events would take place.
The next morning, we were back in business. Later that day, I would learn that 26 maintenance workers and a team of contracted professionals worked until 3 a.m. to repair the water main. In recognition, the prison administration distributed “Golden Tickets” to each member of the maintenance crew and bought pizzas for them to share.
The bocce ball game resumed that morning. And the cornhole championship took place in the afternoon.
That night, the tournament organizers were released from their housing units to set up chairs for the fireworks show.
I walked around asking fellow organizers how they were feeling. Boston Archer was “excited, and looking forward to seeing fireworks for the first time in two years.”
Roy Cochenour said his head was “still spinning in circles.”
“With all the hang-ups, it’s just such a blessing that we’re here. And look at the unity. That’s what thrills me,” he said.
For Ricardo Medina, the day held a special significance because it was the first Fourth of July he had celebrated in 15 years, and the first since his brother passed away.
Sam Render said he was “relieved that finally something positive for the entire camp has happened. It makes me feel like the warden is saying, ‘I can hear you.’”
Guests began arriving at around 9. I reflected for a moment on this event, which had meant so much to so many people. It occurred to me that the Fourth of July is the one major holiday I never had the chance to spend with my wife.
The show started at 9:15 p.m. and the moment the first ember sailed up into the sky, I felt a new sensation. As they swelled and crackled among the stars, I felt like I was a part of them. I was seeing fireworks for the first time in four years, and it felt like I was seeing them for the first time in my life.
