Silence.
The absence of all sound.
Few people experience it and few remember it if they have.
But I remember.
I think of a room darkened not to my eyes, but to my ears. I think of space, where there is no air for sound waves to travel. I think of being deep underwater in a still lake. All of the military veterans out there will remember the annual hearing tests, falling asleep while sealed inside the soundproof auditory exam booth.
When I think of silence, I think of calmness, peace, tranquility.
In prison, those things are few and far between. I can barely hear myself think.
Metal stairs clank under the tread of institutional boots. Someone banging on a window or metal bar three stories up reverberates down the concrete walls. Men talk loudly, argue over debts or card games, they fight and yell. Men sing off-pitch at the top of their lungs, or amplify their headphones so that everyone in a 10-foot radius can hear what they’re listening to.
The dead of night is also consumed by noise. Men snore, fart, groan. Overzealous guards tap on metal doors with metal keys at 3 a.m. to “ensure we are alive.” Cold air in the winter, and hot, sticky air in the summer, is constantly whooshing through a ventilation system and into each cell; in an otherwise quiet room it sounds like a blow-dryer. And then, the gritty hiss of metal against concrete announces impending violence as homemade knives are sharpened in the dark.
To focus, I have to cover sound with sound: I mask the ambient noise of my housing unit with music played through headphones clamped tightly over my ears.
For some reason, it seems as if most people in prison dislike silence, even detest it. Perhaps they actually fear it.
Mental illness is rampant in the U.S. prison system, so it stands to reason that silence could drudge up scary thoughts and emotions for many residents here, chief among them depression and feelings of inadequacy. To combat the painful silence, there is constant noise. Prison is never a quiet place.
Well, almost never.
I used to live in a housing unit, at a different prison, that had been disconnected from the prison’s electrical service. A storm caused the destruction of some obscure critical component no longer in production, so the entire building — four housing units, holding about 480 people — used a rented industrial generator for power for over a year. Once a week, the generator was turned off while being refilled with diesel fuel and tested for proper functionality. Many men detested the maintenance because we were locked in our cells with no water, no lights, no air circulation — and no noise.
When the power went out, a calm descended over the unit. It’s like we were once again hominids in the forest, listening intently for predators. For this brief period of time, silence reigned.
It became so quiet that I could hear blood pulsing in my ears. Quiet enough, even, to hear the bedbugs praying over their meals. The silence was palpable, heavy.
While most men lay in bed, sleeping or listening to music, I lay still, placed a folded T-shirt over my eyes, and enjoyed the absence of sound. If I remained in that position long enough, I could almost convince myself I was in a sensory deprivation chamber.
When the silence combined with darkness, I could not only hear my thoughts but see them. Colors much more vivid than prison gray and industrial blue danced through my brain.
In nearly an instant, I felt clarity and focus otherwise unreachable in prison. Thoughts, ideas, and solutions to problems that had been unsolvable finally seemed in reach. Once my mind overflowed, I threw off my blindfold and grabbed a pen and paper. While I feverishly scribbled, I could hear my words spreading across the page.
In that mute environment, I cleared my mind of negativity and sadness. The absence of sound was rejuvenating, refreshing; it was a breath of fresh air, a soft pillow, the most beautiful song played only for me. It was the laughter of my children. I drank it in and savored it for as long as I could.
Because soon enough it was gone.
The lights came back on, stale air blew from mold-lined vents and men grew anxious for their doors to be unlocked. The noise resumed. A collective sigh could be heard. I took part, although I did not sigh from happiness that it was over, but from elation that it happened at all.
