Each solitary confinement pod here is made up of 84 cells – six sections of fourteen, single man cells. Think of a pizza cut into six slices, a pepper shaker placed dead center to represent the security picket. Each section of fourteen cells is divided, seven cells along two-row and seven on one-row. Fourteen men, for the most part, divided evenly amongst three races. Two ‘Bloods’, one ‘Crip’ who is also a Muslim, two non affiliated, three ‘Mexican Mafia’, an ‘Aryan Brotherhood’, three ‘Aryan Circle’ and two ‘Tango Blast’. There are guys that sleep at night and guys that stay up all night and sleep all day. There are guys that have support and resources and guys that have nothing.
There’s also a lot of tension, a lot of conflict, and the almost constant presence of cell to cell yelling, arguing that we call ‘cell warrioring’. So, I was not surprised to be awakened in the very early morning hours… again. I rolled over, pointing my ears away from my cell door and the noise. As I tried to get back to sleep, I heard one guy on one-row yell to another, “It’s true! I just heard it!”
I tuned in without moving. More yell-talking… and then an angry voice demanding respect for the late hour. Someone else yell-talking over the run, two or three guys, having been awakened by the noise, yelling expletives at the few that had awakened them with the loud, middle of the night, discussion.
I don’t recall all the exact words used, but I do remember that the yell talkers spoke more, and the angry voices began to ask questions. I rolled toward my cell door and removed an earplug, several voices were now all trying to communicate. Though I may not remember the exact words, I will never forget the tone – a mixture of excitement and doubt, men yell-talking over the run and several talking through the ventilation system.
I got up and turned on my light.
Some kind of news was spreading from cell to cell, yet doubtfully. In the vent I heard one guy tell another, “I’m telling you! That’s AM radio ‘koo-koo’ news.”
Protestations by another voice, “I heard it myself!”
“AM conspiracy news!” loud talking was evolving into argument.
Then a guy downstairs, “HOLD UP!” It was not yell-talking but a demand for silence. Knowing the silence would not last long, he followed it up quickly. “I’m getting it! I’m putting my speaker to the door!”
Silence. Then AM radio over the run, monotone and loud. Again, exact words escape me, but I do remember the following words being broadcast.
“State department”
“Special forces”
“Confirmed”
“Osama Bin Laden has been captured or killed”
One voice, “Holy Shit!”
An eruption of noise. Chaos. Men roaring, kicking their cell doors, pounding on walls. The vibration of the cement floor under my bare feet. The volume was such that an officer rushed from the security picket to investigate.
Joy. Happiness. UNITY.
I clapped and clapped and clapped, standing at my cell door, tears leaking from my eyes.
At the time I attributed the depth of my feeling to the news that we had caught the terrorist that had bloodied my country, OUR country… Later, I understood that while that was true, I had also been deeply affected by the unexpected sense of brotherhood that had smashed onto the section like a comet, that my own happiness and hand clapping and tears were also for these men around me that were revealed as patriots, as brothers. Nothing in their circumstance had changed. They were still ‘criminals’, ‘gang members’, ‘prisoners’. The change came from within. Something that had been buried deep inside had burst to the surface… almost as if by accident. In that moment we stumbled into an unexpected kinship. It was not artifice. It was not motivated by jealousy or selfishness. It was beautiful, and it’s spontaneity demanded recognition of its purity. It was authentic decency in human beings that had only ever been known and judged by their failures.
I think about this event from time to time. I’ve come to believe that each of those men surprised themselves that night. They discovered something within themselves they did not know they had, something of value, or maybe… a secret. Had they all been in a group rather than confined to a solitary cell, they would have danced around and high fived and hugged. This realization made me smile, still does to this day. I’m smiling right now…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson lives in a Texas prison. He has written for this blog once before, and is currently working on a revised version of his book, The Monster Factory. Jeremy was an entrant in our spring writing contest and received an Honorable Mention for the above essay. Jeremy can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
