I stood in a cage, watching guards hurry down the hall. Two identical empty cages flanked mine.
“Strip!” one of the guards yelled. They were serious, their voices laced with disgust. Fear stripped my clothes off quickly. Most SHU inmates are being punished. The guards wouldn’t know I was there on a technicality, and I doubt they’d care. Being naked in a busy hallway wasn’t embarrassing; it felt clinical. Every inmate and guard passing by averted their eyes, as if it were routine. I suppose it was. After thoroughly searching me for contraband, they tossed some clothes through the bars.
The pile included boxers, an undershirt, socks, and orange Crocs. I dressed and was told to face the wall, hands behind my back through a hole in the cage. The handcuffs clicked shut. I turned around. “Turn and face the wall; you always back out of the cell here,” a guard snapped, angry at my ignorance of protocol.
He led me to a small cell with a bunk bed, a desk, a toilet/sink combo, a shower, and another inmate. The man, a short Black man, was someone I’d seen escorted down the hall earlier. Stan and I introduced ourselves and began our night together.
Within ten minutes of putting on the orange jumpsuit, memories of the county jail—where I’d been before making bond in March 2020—flooded back. It was the detergent, the smell of the clothes. I almost had a panic attack, but Stan calmed me with small talk.
He’d been in SHU for a few days. He explained that a new charge had been filed against him, and he was being moved to a “low” to deal with it. He didn’t know the charge. He asked me to contact his wife, tell her what was happening, and ask her to visit this weekend for details. No phone calls are allowed from SHU. I promised to do what I could. In return, he gave me the lay of the land.
We shared our crimes and sentences. He thought I’d be out in thirteen months. I wasn’t nearly as optimistic, but it was nice to hear. He explained that he was moved to be with me because inmates aren’t left alone their first night. I could tell he was unhappy about the move, though he tried to hide it. His former cellmate played cards with him, which helped pass the time. I told him I’d learn if we had cards. Stan then spent the next hour making a deck from blank printer paper and a pencil. I was skeptical, but they worked perfectly. He taught me rummy, and we played for four hours. The time flew by.
Before lights out, Stan said he needed to pray. He opened the Bible—the only book allowed in SHU—raised his hands above his head, and began chanting under his breath. It reminded me of Southern churches where people speak in tongues. I was taken aback at first, but after fifteen minutes, I decided to do something. I started the nightly push-up routine I’d promised myself I’d do in prison. Completing it on my first night in SHU made me proud.
The guards never gave me my nightly medication, so it was a long, sleepless night.
Early the next morning, there was a banging on the cell door. “Harmon, pick up!” I packed my few belongings into the laundry bag they’d come in. Then everything happened in reverse: behind-the-back handcuffing, being escorted to the first building, processing, further questioning, medication tagging, and a photo for my ID. I received my prison ID number. Then the reverse process continued. I was strip-searched, given an ugly green outfit, and told to wait in the lobby for my ride to the camp. I sat in the same chair, looking at the same clock (showing 11:22) as I had 24 hours earlier, when I’d thought this would be a fast, easy process.
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