Covid on the inside
Although I would rather burn these memories to the ether, I also see the importance of expressing what happened in prison to me, to everyone. Living within a society driven by capitalism, the prison system is no exception. I’d even say that capitalism is in its purest form within the gates. So when the pandemic hit, the heartless beast was able to snort with vehemence into the cold air and show yet another form of itself.
It seemed to all happen at once. The news. The chaos of everyone’s mind. The terror that began with the eyes of every spirit locked inside. Was it possible that this was the end? There isn’t much to do to distract one’s mind on the inside of a prison dorm and definitely not a way to create six feet from your neighbors who rest above you and to either side, an arm’s length away. I have spent nights awake waiting for my neighbor to stop snoring so I can get some rest. Opening a loud bag of chips just in the hope of waking him so I can catch that brief window into escaping. Not to mention the orchestra of farts thickening the air or the loud fans that blow those around.
So when the news started on their “propaganda of fear” the prison system became a heightened victim. We only heard stories from corrections officers about how the world was in chaos. A CO told me a story about going out to get cough medicine for his son who was sick only to find one bottle left on the shelf. He went to grab it and another lady got in front of him and took it. He threatened her with her life. On the way out of the store a man almost crashed into him speeding away and he got out of his car and ripped the guy out of his seat belt and threatened him as well. The world was painted in chaos What was all the hype about? Why was everyone so scared? Should we be scared? Are they going to let us all die in here?
We were all caught in a frightening lucid dream where there was no means to an end. The only heart capitalism had for us was the dollar signs behind occupying the beds we slept in. We needed compassion. We needed someone to ensure our safety. At this time the news was claiming that 10% of the people who fell ill, perished. Those were not good odds of survival. Or more like . . . a gamble that we should be forced to interact with. Italy was in the midst of figuring out where to stack their bodies as they ran out of room in their morgues. We were glued to the tv as the virus kept on with persistence and spread across Europe.
As per order of the CDC we were to obtain six feet of distance from other human beings. But we weren’t human beings in there though, we were numbers. 16394442. WINBORN. Also, we were supposed to be wearing masks, N95. It took months for them to sew together a bunch of headband-looking things out of a roll of fabric from Joanne’s to wrap around our nose and mouths that everyone used at night to put over their eyes to block out the fluorescent light that is always on. And yet they took another two months to make surgical masks out of the same fabric our button-down shirts are made with. Capitalism at its finest. We all knew it was bullshit, but we also all rallied for it. Begged them for masks. It seems that as a sick joke they forced us to wear poorly made, uncomfortable “surgical” masks which were the equivalent to grasping sand.
If they were to allow us six feet of distance, they would have to release one third of its inmates. Most of those people are in there on theft or drug charges. With close supervision and zoom calls daily, one third of the population could have been safely released into the community allowing the space to be safe on the inside as well. That would also mean that taxpayer dollars would end on those beds that were once filled. Nobody was released. Capitalism at its finest. Instead, we kept on rallying for six-foot boundaries and received yet another low blow from the system. They cut our yard time down to an hour a day and only let two dorms outside at a time.
The yard is a place when we can finally escape the stuffy windowless air that’s been circulating for years and years. It’s where we can exercise the steel beds off our aching bodies. Where we can talk to other people outside of our dorm. Where we can see grass and a few trees. The sky. Our next few months were spent inside for 23 hours a day. Glued to the news. Other prisons were rioting. Do we need to riot to have a voice? This marks the moment of the murmurs. Dorms collaborating with each other to do a potential peaceful sit. Refuse to go to sleep at night. The cattle have had enough. This also marks the moment when they formed an inmate/staff group to discuss what could be done, of which I was a part of.
“We need to have six feet of distance to minimize infection.”
“How do we do that?” they would say.
- Logan Winborn, released in September 2020