One Monday morning last summer, I dropped a transfer request in the prison’s outgoing mailbox. I was ready to move to a prison closer to home, where my mom was on hospice. On the phone a few days later, I happily told my family I was ready to “blow this joint” and be near them. At the time, I didn’t think twice about my phrasing.

I returned to my dorm for the noon count, but before I could even make a cup of coffee an officer came to detain me. I dealt with shocked looks from everyone, inmate and officer alike, as I was led to the captain’s office. My immediate thought was that it must have been a mistake.

I am a model inmate most of the time. Having been incarcerated for 22 years, I know the drill. I follow the rules with socks on, shirt tucked in, tag in place, bed ready for inspection. I mind my own business. I don’t smoke or do drugs. If I’m not at work or exercising, I’m on my bed reading, writing or on my tablet. 

Once in his office, the captain told me I was “under investigation” and advised me to write to the sergeant in charge of investigations. The sergeant everyone told me to write did not answer my requests. Even my classification officer couldn’t tell me. I spent 22 days in a confinement cell wondering why I was there. 

After 22 days, I was able to make a five-minute call home. My parents told me that they had called the facility for information after not hearing from me. They were told that my use of the metaphor “blow this joint” during our phone call was a security risk and the cause of my stay in solitary. Even though I used the metaphor in clear reference to the transfer. Even though I was a model inmate with no disciplinary infractions in over five years. Even though I was enrolled in betterment, writing and education classes. 

I remained “under investigation” and held in confinement for a total of 44 days. Florida’s Department of Corrections can legally leave you there for 120 days with no explanation or recourse as long as you are under investigation. Most of the other people held there at the same time as me were also there for “security risks.”

The only reason I was released from confinement was because I was transferred — and not due to my request, but because the prison administration asked for it. I suppose I was deemed a “troublemaker.”

Later, I found out I wasn’t the only person who had been penalized for their use of a metaphor. I heard that a prisoner was on the phone with his mother when he was hit with a sudden biological urge. Not wanting to be crass, he told her, “Mom, I gotta go blow up the bathroom. I’ll talk to you later.” He was sent to solitary, too. I sure hope he got to poop first.

In my case, all was not lost. I used those 44 days in solitary to write a third of the sequel to my first novel and earn 25 certificates from classes on an educational app on my tablet. To use a metaphor (sorry), I made lemonade from lemons. Still, this policy blows my mind.

Oops! Let me erase that last sentence before they put me on suicide watch.