Free On The Inside
Even the air in the parking lot feels high voltage. My husband, Max, and I approach the sprawl of bunker-like buildings surrounded by layers of electrified fence tall as a semi truck. A dirty haze lies over this huge, desolate valley. It’s spring. We can see the High Sierras in the distance, snow still on the peaks.
Looking for an antidote to my claustrophobia, I keep my eyes on the mountains as we walk towards the door of the Visitors Processing Center. This is my first visit to Annie. She’s a lifer—killed her stepfather when she was twenty, after a decade of sexual abuse. That was fourteen years ago.
I had answered Annie’s ad soliciting a pen pal in a writer’s organization newsletter. During our three years of correspondence, I’ve discovered a woman who’s big-hearted, honorable, wise. I’m in awe that anyone’s soul can survive, let alone flourish, in such a brutal environment. She’s the flower that defies the rock, keeps blossoming up through the crack. Her refusal to succumb to negativity has to be key to how she can stay so astonishingly on center. What most people use as an excuse for cynicism and despair, Annie is turning into redemption.
She doesn’t contest her guilt, but hopes to get paroled. In this state a life sentence means 25 years to life, depending.... She had a public defender who didn’t allow her to testify, so was never given an opportunity to explain the circumstances of her crime. A group of lawyers working pro bono for battered women inmates has Annie’s name on their long waiting list.
We have interests in common—animals, spirituality, writing, the criminal justice system, a passion for the sea. She keeps me informed on prison-related legislation, sends magazine articles, cool postcards that have been donated to her, inspirational quotes from her eclectic reading that somehow arrive in my mailbox at just the right time. Sometimes she signs her letters, “Free on the inside.”
I send pictures from magazines of Caribbean beaches with pink sand, of hot air balloons, geese in flight, photographs of our dogs and ourselves that she requested, a subscription to Mother Jones, postage stamps, a book of Rumi which she devours. Our correspondence is like having an ongoing conversation with someone who’s articulate and incredibly attentive. I share myself with her, impressed by her interest in who I am, and she gives me one hell of an education on what life in a cage is like.
A trust has evolved between us. A prisoner’s openness is rare. There are some gnarly people behind bars and vulnerability can be dangerous. But Annie has an inner spaciousness. She is, indeed, free on the inside in ways I could only dream of being.
Inside the Processing Center Max and I are ID’ed and searched by guards with guns and attitudes. What we can wear, what we can carry, what we can bring the prisoner (nothing), have been absolutely pre-determined. We pass through two sets of electronically-controlled doors that lead to a large, open-air (thank God) walkway. We’ve been directed to cross it to the cafeteria where we’ll meet Annie. It’s a considerable distance and something about the ambiance here makes it feel more ominous than a stroll down a walkway.
Suddenly, I’m startled by a jamboree of huge roses growing on a small lawn amidst the relentless concrete and steel. The incongruity takes my breath away. For a moment I feel terribly moved. The roses intensify the reality of where I am and, briefly, ease it.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the prison system before my relationship with Annie. Thirty years ago I worked weekends at the L.A. Catholic Worker soup kitchen in Skid Row and answered an ad similar to hers in the Catholic Worker newsletter. And many years later, a friend committed murder and was sentenced to life in California’s notorious Pelican Bay prison. I kept in touch with him and his daughters until his death.
I’m not sure what it is that compels me about prisoners. I’m concerned about the politics of the system—the corruption, bias against the poor, the counterproductive mentality of warehousing people. But viscerally, it’s perhaps my own sort of primal horror at the thought of being locked up. I don’t deal well with authority or regimentation. More even than the deprivation, I think a life micromanaged by others would be unbearable.
At the door to the cafeteria, we’re ID’ed by more guards. There are about thirty tables inside and a few more in a small, high-fenced patio connected to the cafeteria by an open (thank God) door. Most of the tables, each with a cardboard number on it, are filled with people of all ages, including children. All prisoners wear blue denim, clothing visitors are prohibited from wearing. Along one wall is a series of closed windows into rooms for visits with prisoners not allowed access to the cafeteria.
Guards behind a counter ID us once again. We sign in, are directed to table #11. Max and I sit down. Even as a visitor I’m feeling the oppressive paternalism. I look around. This is a state prison. That’s hard to forget. One of the least progressive in the country, right up there with the worst, like Texas. There have been a number of documented deaths in this prison due to medical neglect. Thousands of women, from minimum security to Death Row, reside here. Many of the women have been victims of sexual violence. The majority of guards are men. The staff gynecologist is a man. I flash on the double whammy of betrayal by the father, then a life dominated by a web of “fathers.”
It’s noon, a hot day. I feel edgy from the crowd, from the aura of hostility. There’s an Us versus You mindset—You being the prisoners and their visitors. Whether you’re family, friend, or attorney, you’re perceived by the staff as Other, as suspect. Max and I chat for a few minutes, not knowing quite what to do next or how long we’ll have to wait to see Annie. We wander over to the food counter where they sell potato chips, cokes, candy bars. We’re told that if we want to order lunch there’ll be a wait of more than an hour. We’re ticked, split a lemonade, order three lunches.
Forty minutes later, Annie walks over to the table. She’s tall, weathered, charismatic. The three of us indulge in a long, intense hug. Annie tells us she has to sit in the chair facing the guards’ counter to stay in the line of sight of a surveillance camera. We’re told it’s against the rules for us to speak to anyone except the prisoner and the guards.
She’s like her letters—graceful, a natural storyteller. In minutes, we’re so deep in conversation I forget where I am, then remember, then forget. Even the grumpy old guards disappear, reappear, fade. I ask her about the roses. They, like the almond orchards outside the walls, are tended by minimum security prisoners for the requisite 17 cents an hour. Annie is, of course, maximum security.
Sensitive to the claustrophobia I’d written her about, she suggests we walk out to the patio while waiting for lunch. The sun and fresh air feel good. Max and I were on the road for almost four hours driving here and we’re glad to stretch our legs. The three of us cruise the periphery of the patio over and over.
Lunch arrives. We talk about life inside and outside the walls, about families, and our dogs who apparently have become well-known at the prison from their pictures on Annie’s cell wall. In answer to Max’s question, she describes a cell. About the size of a living room, it’s bedroom, living room, bathroom, and sometimes kitchen to eight women. There are four bunk beds and a locker for each person. She tells us how our tax dollars are paying for a proliferation of anti-anxiety drugs some of the women are given, but don’t swallow. The prescriptions go on their record which then helps them get SSI checks when they’re released. We’re updated on the workshops on domestic violence Annie conducts for other prisoners. It’s hard not to think about what a dynamo she would be on the outside, connecting with troubled girls before they do something irreparable.
Visiting hours are over. People say their goodbyes, shuffle towards the door. It’s a bittersweet moment. We hug, then watch Annie move off into a line of prisoners forming along the wall. I feel a shudder of constriction around my own body. I’m left with the kind of buzz you get from spending time with someone you really care about, and a fantasy that makes me ache—the one where Max and I walk out, take Annie with us, don’t stop till we’re miles away from the prison, pick up a six-pack of ice-cold beers, and drive to the coast for a long, long walk on the beach.
©Lucy Aron, 2003
