Visiting Prison: Part Three

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison. 

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life. 

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room
Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.
Part Three: On the other side of the wall.
Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

As I'm zooming across the state and processing my way into the visiting room at Washington State Penitentiary, my friend is going through his own preparation rituals for our visit. Based on my many questions and best recollections of his answers, this is what a visiting day is like for a man who lives inside the walls.

* * * * *

No need to wake up early; on a visiting day, my friend pops out of bed at his usual time, around 7 or 7:30 a,m. 

Though there are quiet hours, there are no mandatory sleep times at Washington State Penitentiary. The men are free to sleep and wake on their own schedules. 

A morning shower is a normal part of my friend's routine, though the time can vary depending on how the different groups within his unit are scheduled to share the showers. On visiting days, he gets to pull rank and grab an early shower, Around 9 a,m,, he uses the intercom to make his request. "Hey, I have a visit today. Can I get a shower now?" 

"Sure," comes the response. In the unit's control room, someone hits a button, and the mechanized door to his room slides open. He is free to gather up his stuff and walk downstairs to the shower area. 

^ Using the stubby pencils and scraps of paper provided in the visiting room, my friend and I draw maps, make lists, and keep score of our domino games. I bring them home and treasure the memories. 

The cells in my friend's unit are not cells at all. They are proper rooms, with solid walls and metal doors with windows. Inside his room is a set of bunk beds with built-in storage areas, a wall-mounted desk with two attached seats, a shelf, a sink and a toilet. My friend and his roommate have space for several changes of clothes, a television and their tablets, hot pots and commissary-purchased groceries such as rice, fruit, and freeze-dried fish, an electronic keyboard, and stacks of books and magazines. 

Forget every cliche you've ever heard about prison showers. This unit features individual shower stalls with doors that provide privacy from waist to knees. 

Likewise, the orange jumpsuit is a thing of the past. Each man's capsule wardrobe is built around 

grey crew neck sweatshirts

grey sweatpants

grey sweat shorts

khaki pants 

and the classic white t-shirt,

Rather than send the t-shirts off to the laundry, where they are washed and dried in a mesh duffel with all of their other clothes and quickly turned a dull shade of grey, some men opt to hand-wash their shirts in their rooms so the shirts will stay bright white. 

Around ten a.m., my friend is breakfasted, showered, shaved, and dressed in his sparkling t-shirt special-event khakis, ready for the call to the visiting room. 

He waits.

By eleven o'clock, I have checked in. His name pops up on a computerized visit list in the unit control room, and the COs make arrangements to send him over. If it's a visiting day for the unit, a CO calls all the men with visits to the exit area and they all walk to the visiting room together.

But when I come by van, my friend is likely to be the only one in his unit with a visitor that day. And the CO simply opens the door and my friend steps out into the sunshine alone and walks by himself the several hundred yards to the visiting room.

My friend enters the visiting room by a double door airlock, just as we visitors do. He yanks his ID badge over his head and hands it to a CO who will hold it for the day, just as I relinquish my driver's license. Then he looks around for me, shoots me a grin as our eyes meet, and joins me at our table. 

This must be an emotionally complex process for men who live behind the wall. Studies confirm the common sense notion that reconnecting with loved ones has a positive effect on a man's behavior and attitude. To know that you are loved and valued, to see familiar faces, to feel a hug or a handshake or a good ol' slap on the back - all of these things are humanizing and affirming and good. 

But at the same time, this reattachment comes at a cost. It is fleeting, and after a few short hours, the men will be ripped out of this loving embrace and isolated once again. The process of visiting is a crazy roller coaster of emotions, but at this moment, the beginning of the visit, everyone is smiling. 

We sit, we eat, we talk, we laugh.

The vending machine food is a far cry from the home cooking that every man craves but it goes a long way in adding to the celebratory mood of the visit. As I'm walking back and forth to get more treats for my friend, I notice the other men wolfing down heaping plates of convenience-store-quality food and I smile.

The hours flash by and before we know it, we are saying goodbye. As we outsiders exit the visiting room, the men quietly sit at the tables, sending us off with smiles and last waves. 

And while we are gathering up our car keys from tiny lockers, walking to our cars, and planning where to stop for dinner, our men are undergoing a full body cavity strip search. 

I understand that the COs are looking for drugs, and that trafficking drugs through visits is a real and persistent problem. 

But

I hate the indignity of this process. 

I hate that the joys of a visit are so quickly turned into a degradation. 

I hate that my friend is treated like an animal. 

I've asked him how he feels about this strip search. 

He shrugs it off. "Whatever. You just get used to it."

But I still hate it.

And I hate leaving my friend behind the wall. Sometimes I worry that visiting only makes life worse for him, as he is perhaps more acutely aware of what he has lost when he sees me.

But I know that's not true.

In my best moments, I see our visits as a stairway. Each time we meet, we are lifted up and when we part, we are both in a new place that is higher and better than the place we were before. Through our visits, we are going somewhere together. And though I can't exactly say where we are headed, I know it is good. 

* * * * *

I know that my friend will get dressed again and head back to his room, share some laughs with his roommate, and cook up something good to eat in his hot pot. He'll call his mom that evening, and stretch out to read before he sleeps. Maybe he will think a little bit about our conversations of the day.

And while I understand that my friend's life behind the wall is still full of challenges and hardships and trials, I also believe that he will be stronger - just a little bit stronger - because of our visit.