By Lisa Allen
Never say never. Because you never know. One has to wonder at the
intended lesson when a situation you never imagined possible suddenly
lands in your lap. A policeman in uniform intimidates me. I’ve
never been stopped for speeding. Follow the letters of the law and
you won’t have any trouble, has always been my policy. I am
your basic goody-two-shoes. And a well-educated one, too. But here
I am, waiting in line to visit the love of my life in a prison.
This is my first visit. I haven’t seen P since three sheriffs
escorted him out of the courtroom in handcuffs. That was ten days
ago. We never got to say good-bye. Or touch hands, or kiss. Or even
wave. Once he agreed to the plea and walked to the other side of
the [barricade in courtroom], he belonged to the state. All rights
were removed. He was theirs. And I drove home alone in shock. Stunned
in that “my life changed in a moment” state of mind.
In spite of the chilly weather, we stand in line outside. Shifting
from foot to foot, trying to avert the cold, we are careful to keep
ourselves in the exact order of our arrival. There are only 23 visitor
seats available at one time. I’ve missed the first bus because
I got here just 10 minutes before the scheduled visiting hour. There
were already 26 people ahead of me. Now I’m near the front
of the line. The guard says the next bus will come by for us in
about 45 minutes. Forty-five minutes? Some people arrive two hours
early, he says. No one mentioned this when I asked for a schedule
I don’t know anything. The girl, two spots ahead of me, is
eager to talk. She’s been coming here since she was a kid to
visit her father. Had to take her bra off once to get through the
metal detector, she says. Now she comes to see her boyfriend; he’s
on his third stay here. He’s got another year-and-a-half to
go. She states all of this matter-of-factly and doesn’t seem
to consider it out of the ordinary. I’m curious to know why
he’s here but intuitively I know that this sort of question
is out of bounds.
Some women carry a folded green paper in their hands. I wonder what
that is. Should I have asked for something but didn’t know
what to ask for? Will someone tell me? Will I find out too late
and have to turn back?
Cat calls volley across the parking lot from a building with barred
windows. A backlit shadow flits across a window now and then, but
there’s never a break in the stream of hooting and hollering
in Spanish. Some of the younger girls giggle in response and now
he’s singing. This is a dialogue, of sorts, I think. My “friend”
two spots ahead tells me that he does this every night.
Finally the bus returns for us. I am surprised that we travel only
a quarter of a mile through the prison grounds to reach our destination.
I have my first up-close look at the towering chain link fences
garnished with rolls of barbed wire that surround every open area
and building. So this is how it looks.
I follow everyone from the bus directly into the guard shack. There’s
a scramble for one of the 3” pencils and a green visitors’
application from the stack at the entrance. The small counter provided
is not big enough for everyone, so most of us find a wall to use
as a desk. Two guards process us. One takes my driver’s license,
keys, canteen money, and the form. Name, social security number,
address, birth date, relationship to inmate, reason for visit. Does
your address on the form match that on your license? (If it doesn’t,
entrance for a visit is denied.) No chitchat. No pleasantries. My
“hello” to the guard garners nothing more than a hand
reaching for my paperwork.
Walk through the metal detector slowly, he orders. I hold my breath
and step carefully, praying that the buzzer won’t go off. The
guards’ stern demeanor causes me to feel guilty, although I
have nothing to hide, nor have I done anything wrong. Nothing, that
is, except to come to see someone who is incarcerated. The second
guard carefully checks each pocket of my jacket, gives a nod of
approval. I’m free to reclaim my belongings.
One by one we leave through the back door, which leads to another
waiting line. Eventually the guard who was the coat checker comes
outside and opens first one and then the other of the two gates
that separate this part of the prison from the outside world. No
gate is ever opened before the preceding one has been closed and
locked. For a few moments we are captured in a never-never land,
embraced by 20’ walls of chain link. I am powerless, stripped
of my freedom to move at will and aware of a discomforting appreciation
for life on the inside.
Two more guards wait for us in the visiting area. The air is still
chilly in here and thick with the odor of fried food and bleach.
The floor is gritty, rough with sand. We enter the building in single
file, a hollow crunch-crunch sound at our feet.
Take the next available seat, the guard says. Don’t leave any
empty. A row of metal and plastic stools runs the length of one
wall, each stool just 18” from the next.
The inmates enter from a door on the other side of the room. They’re
coming from outdoors somewhere, but in spite of the weather they
wear short-sleeved cotton jump suits. Finally, I see P. He hasn’t
shaved in a while. He looks ragged and I want to give him a big
hug. But the extent of our contact is palm-to-palm against the wall
of plexiglass between us. And an airborne kiss through the screen.
It is painful to not be able to touch, but I am grateful just to
see him. To be together again.
The dense screening that runs beneath the plexiglass window puts
my face into darkness if I get too close to it. Pand I jockey to
find the angles at which to hold our heads so that we can see the
other’s face clearly. Some people are arguing. A baby’s
crying. But in this new place, amid the roar and barriers, we are
able to create our own private bubble. For the precious 40 minutes
allotted for a visit, this is all we have.
Never say never, for you just never know what’s going to land
on your lap.
About the writer: Four years ago Lisa Allen
was blindsided at her entrance into the world of incarceration.
Nothing in her life to date had suggested that one day she would
be visiting a loved one in prison four days a week.
The
prison experience is behind her now. However, the anxiety and tension
of those months took a toll on her health. Lisa explored the mind-body
connection, and as a result has written and self-published a health
cookbook and is currently embarking on an internationally based
business that will serve the Brazilian population in Nashua, NH.
Lisa
welcomes response from readers and can be reached by email at: lallennh@comcast.net
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