As I dress for breakfast, I can hear the distant sound of cell doors popping open for the drowsy masses of Pleasant Valley State Prison in central California.
I live in a 6-by-8-foot prison cell under the stairs, a floor plan only slightly bigger than a king-size bed. Each box has the same layout: two bunk beds, shelves, a toilet-sink combo and a metal desk with a stool bolted to the floor. Though considered contraband, I keep a few plants as a reminder that life persists in spite of the concrete. Four tomato plants, one aloe and two vining cantaloupes with delicate yellow flowers chase what little sunshine comes through the cell’s only window.
There is one chance to leave this box at the top of each hour. We have to signal to the tower guard controlling the door lock to open our door by wiggling a torn piece of cardboard in the space between the door and the wall. My door sits in a blind spot, so the officers often forget me entirely. What might seem advantageous — being out of view — is really a major inconvenience.
Eventually, my door pops open for breakfast. I stand in line just outside my cell awaiting the signal from the distant Oz-like voice to “move forward towards the exit with IDs in hand and shirts tucked in.” As I make my way across the yard to the chow hall, the cold air bites my exposed arms. Time to start wearing my long sleeves and watch cap — a tight, knit, wool sailor style beanie.
Five buildings sit in a semi-circle around the central yard and track. Each building is an exact copy of the others, differentiated only by murals painted by incarcerated artists over the years. “Star Wars” movie scenes play out in one mural. Michael Jordan dunks across from Bugs Bunny on another. Aztec warriors stare out in surprise from a third, where a handball has broken a portal into their world.
The yard itself is my refuge in the storm. On my first day here, I was surprised to see a lush manicured field, a complete baseball diamond, two handball courts, a basketball court, a sand pit for volleyball and horseshoes, and an area we call Muscle Beach, outfitted with pull-up bars, weights and a punching bag.
But I was most drawn to the meditation pond — its succulents, rock garden, fountains, live turtles and koi fish.
“Where am I?” I wondered.
To this day, I spend much of my time reflecting near these tranquil waters.
A long line of sleepy-eyed men shuffle toward the tiny service window in the chow hall, grab a tray of food and sit down for the 15-minute meal. The facility has to move about 1,000 bodies in just an hour for meals. Eventually the guards start yelling to finish and get back to our units. “Take it home!” they shout. If only.
Later in the morning, the writers’ group I helped organize meets in the library. This week’s prompt was to describe a positive character trait that could be used as a negative. I wrote about honor, and how the search for it keeps us from it.
Mostly we read what we are working on to each other and give encouraging comments. We keep negative critiques to a minimum. It feels good to be open with my peers in an environment that normally rewards anti-social behavior.
For the most part, life inside is everything you would expect — routine, regimented, controlled. But every so often I am surprised. Something as simple as a dragonfly landing on me can fill the rest of my day with a poignant awareness of the nature around me.
With or without me, the day will always continue. But if I participate, the energy I put forth is rewarded. So I choose to fill my day with all the tiny beautiful things I can. If I really look, I see the beauty of brotherhood, connection, faith and healing.
