| Used Toys
By Katherine Kennedy
I can't remember where I heard the phrase
but it stays in my head. Something about when the gods want to punish
you they give you what you want. That's how they drive you mad.
Anyway, it doesn't matter. I take
responsibility for my own insanity, however, nothing and no one could have
prepared me for my personal nightmare.
It seems as if one hour I was on my
knees in my bedroom begging to die. The next hour, fifteen months
later, I was in a prison cell still begging to die. How did I get
to the same point of believing that my life was over two very different
times?
The answer is that both times I was
in prison. The difference was that the second hour setting had bars
and razor wire surrounding it.
I did not know the time of day.
I do not now know if there was actual darkness or if I just felt that it
was dark. I just remember there being no daylight. I remember
being cold and being denied my sweater. I remember people watching
me and blowing cigarette smoke in my face.
I was asked if I was physically capable
of work. I thought that an odd question. I remember long corridors,
but I don't remember where they led or how I got there. Did I walk?
Was I driven by car? I don't know how my body moved from point- to-
point. Clearly I was in severe shock.
When I became slightly aware of my surroundings
I saw that I was in a cell perhaps four by six feet. Three walls
were cinder block and the fourth was ceiling- to- floor bars. The
steel bed on which I sat was attached to one long wall and there was a
high window on one short wall which was opposite the bars/door. On
the other long wall was a steel sink and toilet with no seat. Shoe
prints covered the toilet rim. High over the foot of the narrow bed
was a shelf. I could see my reading glasses case sitting near the
edge.
All of my clothing had been taken from
me at the "reception" desk, but I don't remember what I was wearing
when I entered the cell. Whatever it was, it was replaced with
a gray shift made of sweats fleece. My shoes and underwear were taken
away. Someone came and explained that I was a threat to myself and
asked me to sign a paper of agreement. A medical person appeared
and gave me some tiny pills. The bars clanged shut and I was alone
except for the person seated on the other side of the bars watching me,
eating chips, and blowing cigarette smoke into my cell.
Over the next three days he/she was
replaced by various other hes/shes around the clock. Food would arrive
which I rejected. Pills would arrive which I accepted. I learned
that I was on a suicide watch and therefore denied a toothbrush of my own.
My glass reading spectacles sat on the shelf still.
On the second day of my segregation,
a young woman assumed her place outside my cell for her watch. For
a long time she said nothing, and then very quietly asked if I would
like to shower. I said that I would. I did so, and then went
back to my hole to resume my death prayer. Much later, she
began to softly speak about a movie she had seen the night before,
and of the novel from which it was made. I began to respond, and
I briefly found an escape through conversation with this obviously bright
stranger. As soon as she left, I turned my face to the wall
till the pills came and brought sleep.
Next day she was back. I
later learned that it was through her own request. Again the shower
and more conversation. Eventually she coaxed me out of the cell,
and into the general population with the promise of a room of my own.
What I found out later was that the
single room allowed close observation by staff. It was thought that
I still might harm myself. That of course meant that I was a liability
waiting for a place to happen. The young woman undoubtedly saved
my life.
The overnight bag that my attorney had
told me to pack for my trip to prison contained toiletries, medications,
vitamins and underwear. It was all confiscated. My rings and
watch were taken along with my make-up and hair ribbon. I was allowed
to keep my pearl stud earrings and a pair of black leather skimmers.
It was December. I was denied my scarf, gloves and coat. When
I would ask why, the reply was always the same, "This is jail, that's why."
Invariably, the person making this statement would be sure to laugh at
the same time. Apparently I was expected to somehow already know
the answer.
My new clothing consisted of 2 baggy
used jumpsuits (blue), 3 tee shirts (blue),
1 sweatshirt (gray), 3 sets of underwear (white), 1 knit hat (blue), flannel
robe (plaid) and the sleep shift (gray). All of it , with the
exception of the underwear, was men's clothing.
I had no money "on my account" because
I hadn't been told that I needed to bring any with me. Since there
was one shower for sixteen women, I needed shower shoes for sanitary
purposes. My guardian angel guard magically provided me with the
necessary rubber thongs, and basic toiletries from the canteen.
She broke the rules to do it, but I had at least the ability to be soaped,
shampooed and deodorized.
My room had yellow (from nicotine) cinder
block walls and a gray linoleum floor. There was a small writing
table with chair and a set of steel bunks. A single metal military
locker stood against the wall. There was a thin plastic mattress
and pillow with 2 sheets, 1 pillowcase and 1 wool blanket. The room
measured about 6x7 and had one window. Because this was the "unassigned"
wing, the wooden door sported a long metal bolt that slid home every night
at 10 p.m. I was "locked down" till 6 a.m. the next morning.
To use the bathroom at night I had to pound on the door for release, and
the guard waited for my return to lock me in again. There was a peep
window in the door, and although there were curtains on the window to the
outside, no privacy curtain was allowed on the door.
My feelings ricocheted between terror
and despair. I was either convulsed in tears or choking in fear.
The anger came later.
I kept waiting for the psychologist
and/or the psychiatrist to summon me, or pay a visit. After
all they had determined at intake that I was unstable. This after
the psychiatrist had asked me why my marriage had failed years ago,
and not much of anything else. The psychologist had asked why I was
upset at my having received an 8-year sentence with a 6-year probation.
This was the same man who, when I left isolation, told me that
I would be okay as long as I was nice, polite, and didn't tell people
to get out of my face. Neither called or appeared, but I did
talk to a supervisor who told me to think of my new home as a college campus.
I told them all, that my life
was over. That there was nothing left. I believed that totally
and with every part of my being. I smelled dirt and decay.
I heard loud, angry voices spewing profanity constantly. I saw indifference,
disrespect, shame and abuse from every quarter.
Doors and gates slammed day and night.
I was forced to strip in front of total strangers. Made to urinate
in a cup while someone watched. Over and over, I stood braced
against a wall, legs spread while a female guard did a tactile search known
as a pat-down. One of these degradations sent me in pain and humiliation
to the medical department for help. Even though the pat-downs are
done through clothing, it is possible to inflict unnecessary pain.
Also to touch inappropriately.
This had to be hell. No one could
tell me that it wasn't. The loneliness became crushing, the lack
of privacy grinding, the deprivation incessant.
For six weeks, until I would become
"classified," I could go nowhere other than to meals, any offered church
service, the medical department, or to a twice-weekly visit from
immediate families only. Friends and significant others had to wait
8 weeks for clearance to visit.
I became starved for a familiar voice,
a warm touch. Phone calls were collect with one phone for 30 women.
Calls were timed and limited to 15 minutes. Two calls per night were
allowed, daytime calls unlimited. All conversations were recorded
and/or monitored. All incoming mail and packages opened before delivery.
I was not allowed library privileges,
so I relied on others to bring paperbacks to me from their library visits.
All I could remember was "Gone With The Wind." I had watched it on
TV at least 7 times just before sentencing. It seemed to be on every
channel for weeks. A message from Hollywood? I needed Scarlet's
grit right then. Plus the novel is long and I needed escape.
For a month and a half, I hid
in my room reading, writing, crying and eventually raging. I stared
out my window at a dirt road edged with green grass. Littering my
vision were rusted out cars, stacks of rotting lumber, discarded furniture,
and the occasional crow. Always there were seagulls looking for garbage.
I viewed it all through razor-wire fence. It was the only color in
my life.
Eventually, when I asked people to send
me magazine subscriptions, I suggested ones with lots of pictures, NATIONAL
GEOGRAPHIC, TOWN & COUNTRY, HOUSE BEAUTIFUL and catalogs, catalogs,
catalogs. I asked for TIME, PSYCHOLOGY TODAY and PREVENTION.
I was afraid that my mind and my body would deteriorate from lack of nourishment.
Because it was winter, I was denied my daily hour of "outside recreation."
Nutrition also was not a priority.
We were fed on less than $3.00 per day. Food was overcooked, fried,
unidentifiable, and supplemented by donations from supermarkets.
Because produce was the usual largesse, there was a salad bar much of the
time. For almost three years, I existed on tomatoes, onions,
tuna and milk. Most servings of fruit consisted of canned fruit cocktail.
Slowly, my grieving process was beginning.
What a luxury in my life to have been able once to open a refrigerator
at any hour and pour a cold glass of milk, take a piece of fruit, have
a dish of ice cream. What a gift to use a phone at will, cuddle a
pet, do a laundry, take a vitamin pill, go to the bathroom alone and uninterrupted,
sleep in a dark, quiet room on my own sheets. And add to that list
medical exams and dental checks. Did I miss them? I craved
them.
After six weeks of feeling in limbo,
I traded my jumpsuits for 3 pairs of men's pants (blue) and 3 men's shirts
(blue). I could now go to the library for 45 minutes, 4 days a week,
use the gym daily for an hour, go to canteen, sign up for activities (there
were none), and programs (none), therapy (none) and education (none).
I was also now allowed to walk daily outside on a circular track buried
under ice and snow which I did regardless. No longer would I be locked
in at night. My gratitude was deep and genuine.
While all this was going on, my rage
was growing. I lived in my room. I ventured to the common area
only when forced. Then I would hug a wall, watching, saying nothing.
I spoke to staff only when they spoke first. I left the "dorm" only
for work, meals, visits and recreation.
I had been assigned to graphic arts
which meant the prison print shop. The crew boss/instructor was not
a corrections officer which meant to me that he was compassionate, fair,
kind and intelligent. He was all of that and gifted as well.
His knowledge, understanding and his computers were my daily life rafts
every morning, Monday to Friday, for almost 3 years.
He listened to it all. My outrage
against the fates that brought me there, the indifference, the ineptitude,
the corruption, the suffering, ignorance, mean-spiritedness, neglect and
stupidity. I was lucky.
I was terrified of the inmates, the
staff, and of my own questionable ability to survive. I railed
at whatever force in the universe punished me this way for this amount
of time. The weight of my crime was mine to carry forever.
Would this added punishment then change anything? Why were
others convicted of the same felony receiving shorter and lighter sentences?
Hadn't my attorney indicated a 2-year sentence while he brushed off probation
as "not much of anything."
My therapy was abruptly terminated at
sentencing. My aging, ill mother left perplexed and sorrowful.
My supportive relationships doomed to starvation. The death of my
victim dishonored.
My new education began by my realizing
the inconsistency and power of the judiciary, the brutal gamesmanship of
legal counsel involved with criminal justice, the lack of education, training
and professionalism throughout corrections, probation and parole, the poverty
of state budgets for prisons, the ignorance and manipulations of the legislature,
the lies told to and fostered by the media and fed to the public, the do-gooders
who came for executive guided tours and who never, ever looked an inmate
in the eye or spoke to one, the flourishing existence of the good ole boy
network. Mostly I learned about the oppression of the oppressed.
Men and women were degraded, humiliated,
deprived, neglected, untreated, untrained and untutored yet expected to
leave prison and return to society changed for the better. Emotions
were expected to mature wholesomely while one was not allowed to express
sadness, fear or anger without the threat of punishment or ridicule.
Substance abuse of any sort or severity was expected to be resolved with
a single, weekly A.A. meeting. Addiction in one form or another afflicts
about 80% of the prison population and this may be a conservative figure.
( It is also true, should anyone choose to believe that it is easy to be
addiction-free in prison, that alcohol and just about any drug of choice
is available if one wants to indulge.) Histories of sexual, physical,
and emotional abuse predominate, and illiteracy and low education
levels abound in the inmate population.
Throughout my learning all of this,
my despair grew. Relationships withered, hopes went away, plans faded,
loved ones became ill and died, babies were born, students graduated and
various other rituals of life found me absent and grieving alone.
I grieved for my losses, for what might
have been, for my regrets. I grieved for my years of illness and
pain that culminated in a dark road on a beautiful terrible summer night.
I grieved for the young soul who left her life that night that I might
live.
I mourned the sacrificed gifts of others,
the accomplishments, experience, passion, productivity. All taken
and crumpled by a system that tears down for the sake of revenge thinly
disguised as justice.
Who out there knows the worth of a life
or the value of time? Who really knows? The larger question
is who truly cares?
What I do know is that until humanity
views every single soul as unique and deserving of forgiveness, the judgements,
isolation, punishment and waste will continue. The choices stand.
We can choose fear or we can choose love. We can have one or we can
have the other. We cannot truly live with both.
Katherine Kennedy is in grateful recovery
and served a sentence for vehicular manslaughter/OUI.
The guardian angel guard who helped
her so profoundly in the beginning also saved herself by leaving corrections
to pursue a career in social work.
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