Prison, part 1

I spend half of my week in prison and to me it has just become another aspect of my job. However, I forget that to anyone else, working at a prison may be an uncomfortable and unfamiliar concept. I have become very accustomed to casually throwing out “ alright, I am off to prison now” in an often too enthusiastic tone, which throws many people off. To most, when they hear the words “going to prison” they associate it with a person who has committed a crime and is going to a place of terror and bestiality, locked behind cemented pentagon-type structures. Because I am not allowed to take a camera, I thought I would provide a brief description of what the Mitchellville prison for women is like. I go to prison for two reasons. The first is to teach an art class, the second is to visit a lovely young lady (who I will call S. for confidentiality purposes) to cover her history of domestic violence.

The visitors room.
When I visit my client S, we generally meet in the visiting room, which is open from Friday to Monday. Before you enter any of the prison facilities you need to go through a security check and identify yourself and the person you are there to visit. The guard checks my ID, my pockets, my shoes and my belongings. There are very strict rules about what you can and can’t bring to prison, so I generally just arrive with a sweater, a regular pen, a plain notebook and a bag of quarters. The quarters are for the dispenser machines for S. Once all of my personal items are disclosed, I proceed to walk through a metal detector and after being cleared, my right hand is stamped with a clear fluorescent symbol, which I will have to show on the way out. The whole process oddly resembles an airport security check combined with I.D. verification before a concert.

When I leave the security/check-in building, I walk into a small gated courtyard and wait for the metal gate to click open. After closing the gate, I walk into the visitor building, where I am greeted by two security guards. I tell them I am hear to see S. and one of them picks up the microphone and metallically pronounces “S… to the V.R, S… to the V.R” (V.R. stands for Visiting Room). The V.R. contrary to popular belief is a lively place with paintings on the walls and a lively atmosphere. Generally, you can see children walking around, playing rambunctiously meanwhile inmates sit with friends and family engaged in laughter, a game of cards or simply adoring stairs. The smell of pop corn wafts through the air, as a display of soda pops and candy wrappers decorate the stale grey tables.

When S. finally shows up, I am greeted with a hearty smile. Once she checks in with security, we head to the meeting room. The discussion begins and will generally last about an hour. When I can tell S. has had enough, we stop talking and the meeting is ended with a hug before going our separate ways. She, back to “a place of terror and bestiality, locked behind cemented pentagon-type structures” and me back through the metal gate, past the security guards and back out to freedom.

More to come soon…