When you’re defined by numbers, you’re no longer human
By: More Than Our Crimes
Tags: Equality, BlackLivesMatter, Justice, Prison, Human Rights

As I write this post, I am looking out the tiny window in my cell into the compound. And I notice all of these different numbers posted on the housing units: 65, 87, 140, etc. What do they stand for? Then, my eyes wander to the gun tower that sits in the middle of the yard and it dawns on me: The numbers denote the distance from the tower to our living areas (they would be better called cages, but we seek to give ourselves whatever humanity we can). They help the guards aim more precisely so they don’t miss when they shoot at us. Is this a prison or a shooting range? Sadly, it is both and we are the targets.

But there is no one who sees, except those who work here, and they don’t care. I hope that in this post, I can break through this wall of secrecy, of complicity, of impunity and reach you — and that you’ll care. I know you can’t do much; the BOP (federal Bureau of Prisons) acts like it’s a country unto itself. But change starts with seeing.

The ordeal begins

My journey from the jail in Warsaw, Virginia, began at 12:15 a.m. when I was awoken from my slumber and ordered to pack up! You’re moving. Shortly thereafter, I was marched to the freezing gym, where I found about a dozen other guys from D.C. Despite the early hour at which we were forced to end our sleep, we were left shivering there for the next 10 hours — with no place to sit or lie down except for the cold, hard floor, and not even water to drink.

As the hours ticked on, we begged the officers to come on already and put us in our chains so we could board the bus. But…we’d soon learn to be careful what we ask for, since not too long after we were begging to be released from our chains.

The C.O.s (commanding officers) finally arrived, ordering us to line up to be strip-searched one by one. They forced us to throw away our long johns and any extra underclothes as we stripped, and watched leisurely as — upon demand — we opened our mouths; stuck out our tongues; showed our gums; pulled at our ears; lifted our privates; exposed the bottoms of our feet; and bent over, spread our butt cheeks and coughed. (This same process is repeated at every destination, despite the fact that we are chained every minute and aren’t given a change of clothes, so how could we hide anything along the way? But that is not the point: It’s done for no other reason than to humiliate us.)

After this process, we were belly chained, our wrists were black-boxed to our waist, our feet were shackled to each other and we were herded onto our slave ship (bus) to be transferred to our next plantation. Although we were relieved to finally leave, unbeknownst to us, it was only the beginning of our physical and mental anguish.

Black-boxed!

We rode on the bus seven hours before we “mercifully” reached the U.S. penitentiary in Hazelton, West Virginia. Finally! But release was long in coming; we first had to be tested for COVID-19 again and our results delivered before we could be allowed off the bus — another three-and-a-half hours. Some cold sandwiches had been delivered to the bus — our first food during the long, arduous trip — but the chains made it almost impossible to eat.

C.O., how much longer do we got? No answer; just indifference. A few guys shuffled to the wire cage in front separating us from the driver’s area. C.O., how are we supposed to eat in these cuffs? Can you loosen the box? One inmate was almost crying. No! We’d rather wait to eat. C.O., can we at least wait until we get inside so we can eat comfortably without these chains? The response was a shrug. I don’t care how you eat, but eat it now or don’t eat at all. The begging went on for awhile:

C.O., I got to defecate.

It’s in the back.

I can’t go with these chains on!

You better figure it out.

C.O., why are you treating us like this?

You shouldn’t have gotten locked up.

Finally, an older inmate among us said, Come on y’all, here we are black men crying to the KKK to help us. You think they give a damn?!

This stopped most of the begging and pleading; it was a wake-up call regarding what was really going on. Race is definitely at the forefront of the officers’ disregard for us as humans. But the officer’s response — You shouldn’t have gotten locked up! — sums up the attitude of so many: Once you commit a crime, you must be punished for the rest of your life. Rehabilitation is a lie. How do we expect prisoners to successfully re-enter society after being treated like animals for what is often decades? How does it help society to send prisoners home as a mere shell of themselves?

My temporary home

In my cell, sewage backs up into my sink. (It doesn’t drain, so I have to use a cup to scoop it up and pour it into the toilet.) It’s been 72 hours and I still haven’t received a change of clothes or been allowed a shower. (We are permitted a 10-minute shower on Mondays and Thursdays and it’s the only time I’m allowed out. I can’t even talk to my attorney.) I haven’t been able to call my family to let them know where I’m at. There is no TV and they won’t pass out any books. I haven’t received a hot meal; they feed us cereal for breakfast and peanut butter or bologna for lunch and dinner. There are no human comforts because we aren’t considered human.

All the officers are dismissive of any of our most basic requests. If we complain too loudly, we could be beaten and possibly killed.

A guy next to me was desperate for paper, an envelope and a stamp so he could write his family. So, to get attention, he covered up the narrow window in his door (which allows the guards to see in). An officer came to his door, all right, but merely barked at him to take this shit down before we fuck you up.

This is what the people charged with overseeing us are like. They actually try to antagonize us into doing something so they can beat us up. This is sick, but this is prison — all because we “shouldn’t have gotten locked up.” American prisons are not designed to rehabilitate. They are built to extract society’s pound of flesh — and keep extracting it for years on end. And in its quest to exact retribution, it seems no form of mental or physical torture is left off the table.

We can’t wait for prison abolition

This is why D.C. prisoners need to be brought home, instead of farmed out to the federal system. The District is so proud of its jail programming and its restorative approach to juvenile justice. Yet it farms out its residents sentenced to long-term incarceration to what can only be called an inhumane, diabolical system.

During the years when Angela Davis first became an activist, there was a powerful mass movement to shine the light on prison conditions, as well as push for early release. But I don’t hear those voices today. Even the Black Lives Matter movement is focused only on decarceration, not on helping those already caught in the system. We need a brigade that fights for prisoners’ rights. Are we not worthy?

I ask this question because as of right now, the answer is a definitive “no.” This must change. There is no oversight over our captors, no one to whom we can appeal. Nobody hears our pleas. Nobody fully understands our struggle, because it’s all taking place behind the secrecy of concrete walls, barbed wire fences, grated gates and layers of bureaucracy.

Black lives matter! All lives matter! Don’t prisoners’ lives matter too?