Weekend 1 Today is November 22nd, 2013. Fifty years ago today, JFK was assassinated. I pass through the front door of the Columbia County Jail. A giant metallic bolt unlocks the door. I pass through a metal detector and enter a dismal world of institutional green. I''m asked to enter the holding area. A TV is on. Loud.
The guard, an overweight Black man, is sitting behind bars on a wooden bench, watching the TV. The guard asks me a bunch of questions about my name, date of birth, and social security number. He asks what clothes I have and fills out a form listing the details: one belt, one pair of shoes, a pair of pants, T-shirt, shirt, jacket, socks and underwear. I''m asked to go behind a screen and take my clothes off. One at a time, each article of clothing is searched (for drugs presumably) until I''m standing there naked. The guard tells me, "Lift your sac!" I''m confused for a minute, until I realize he''s talking about my testicles. I comply. He tells me, "Turn and spread your butt cheeks!" I blush, first in embarrassment, and then in anger at the violation.
He hands me a pile of clothes and tells me to put them on. They include rubber-soled shoes that are two sizes too small. They pinch my toes and I immediately start worrying about my big toe, which has been a problem for years because of an ingrown toenail. Next, a pair of pants and a shirt with black and white stripes. I''m laughing as I put these clothes on because I cannot believe what a cliché this scene is. The clothes, sheets, and blankets have a disgusting smell of rancid oil. * I''m led to a conference room to wait for the booking officer. About a half-hour later, I''m met by Officer Wyatt, who comes to collect me and reads me the riot act: "I''m gonna tell you what I told the last guy.
I don''t care what you did out there, but in here, you''re all treated thesame. You follow the rules and you''ll have no trouble." He seems honest and fair. I follow him to the booking room. Once there I''m interviewed again, this time on video. I''m given a pamphlet on sexual harassment and asked about my property again. Lots of questions about mental health: have I had any suicidal thoughts? have I ever been arrested before? do I see a mental health professional? do I take illicit drugs or use alcohol to excess? I tell him I''m a Quaker and I''m here because of my deeply held beliefs about non-violence. He says he didn''t think there were any Quakers left and asks me where I attend church.
I tell him about the Old Chatham Quaker Meeting and he knows the exact stretch of County 13 I''m talking about. After this exchange, I don''t feel so freaked out. Officer Wyatt enters all my responses into the computer. I''m now a bunch of zeros and ones in a database somewhere. I start imagining that days hence, some statistician may see these numbers and think, This guy''s an outlier. My picture is taken. I get a bracelet, with a number and a bar code. I''ve been tagged like a cow and processed, but not rendered.
I''m told to go back to the conference room while they process other prisoners from Greene County. Another half an hour passes. I''m collected and told to pick up a thin "mattress" rolled up on the floor. We start down the hall. The guard talks to me from behind: "Keep to the right when you walk down the hall--some of the guys that work here are by-the-book." I pay attention. He unlocks a heavy metal door with a giant oversized key. It makes a big metallic sound.
Cell #4 in Cell Block G is open. I pause a moment before I go in. He waits. The cell is painted puke green. There is a stainless steel toilet, a sink, a metal shelf (a bed--if you can call it that), and a table. I walk through the door. My back is to the guard. I hear the door slam.
On the metal shelf bolted to the wall, I roll out the inch-thin foam pad I''ve been given, stare at the walls, contemplate the place. I hear voices of other inmates. "Fuck this!" "Oh, shit!" I block the sound out.