For years, phone calls were one of the most stressful parts of prison, when they should have been a respite. 

It was hard to be vulnerable and open when I was rushing to cram everything that needed to be said into 15 minutes. This was even more challenging when I was standing so cloistered on the phone bank that I was bumping elbows with others.

Sometimes, we would spend hours in line waiting to briefly wish our moms a happy Mother’s Day. Other times we never got to call, like if a scuffle over someone cutting the phone line turned physical.

Then in April 2023, electronic tablets came to our prison. They doubled as phones. All of a sudden, we went from sharing phones with 1,600 people to each having our own. The stress evaporated, and the joy of a prison phone call finally reached us undiluted by confrontation. 

Phone calls are now a reprieve, given that I can call from the comfort and privacy of my cell. I don’t go into a call carrying the accumulated stress of a day’s waiting and all the drama from standing in line. It ratchets down the tension so I can be more authentic and open.

With the tablet, I can kick back on my bed when my cellie’s gone and talk for an hour if I want. This freedom takes communication to another level, something approaching “real.” Unburdened, I have realized that phone calls can take me outside these high prison walls for a temporary break.

Calling a loved one every day lets us have the sort of communication one might expect from a relationship. Instead of just offering proof of life once a week for a few minutes, we can now just spend time together through conversation. 

On the phone, I reattach to the larger body of humanity. I remember what it feels like to just talk. I remember what it feels like to have someone want me around. 

It doesn’t matter to me where they take the call. 

Are we at the grocery store? I don’t mind. I haven’t been to one in 17 years. Are we by the lake? I can’t see a body of water bigger than a stainless steel sink here. Is there a tree? Can we touch it? What kind is it? I’m 40 years old, and I haven’t been near a tree for almost half my life now.

If you are just at home, that’s fine, too. Are we cooking? What’s for dinner? Are we on the couch? Are we on your bed? Are we whispering to each other so everyone else feels far away? 

Having virtually unlimited access to a phone changed the entire way I communicate. I don’t have to plan my whole day or week around when I am going to brave the line and attempt to call, and a lockdown or other inevitabilities of prison don’t derail all my efforts. 

My girlfriend, who does not have a cellphone, similarly does not have to anchor her whole day around waiting by the phone in case I call. For me that takes the pressure and guilt away. Now if she misses me, I can call back later. That is freedom.

When I entered prison 17 years ago, my heart entered stasis. But now, as I talk to people on the phone with regularity, my heart is awakening.