Sunday, March 22, 2015

Not orange or black, but dusty maroon

We got up at 8 so we would reach Grants by 9:30.  It had been a late night, with M driving down from Colorado, picking me up in Taos, and then stopping off in Cerrillos for a fantastic concert of Early Music.  We didn't reach the house in San Antonito until 10:30 pm and were both exhausted, but slept well.  We had breakfast with P and I fed Zeus the cat and told him we were going to visit his Mom that day.

It was a glorious day, warm with a bit of a cool breeze.  After the preceding week of snowstorms and closed roads, it felt like a gift of early spring Since it was a Saturday, there was not much traffic on the road, which was a good thing:  M was still getting used to the size of the Tundra. We drove through the badlands, which are a jumble of huge broken lava flows and bubbles and tubes protruding through sage and surrounded by red and ochre mesas, which are cut into canyons by the arroyos.  A long train passed through the landscape, green and blue and maroon rectangles bisecting the fields, pointing towards the mesas in the east.  Another train passed when we left at 3:30, and that time the golden late afternoon sun cast the train's shadows.  It is a lonely landscape, but a truly lovely one.

 We had to stop by a bank to pick up rolls of quarters for me (M had already purchased his in Colorado).  Turns out that's the only thing we are allowed to bring with us into the visitors' room. No knitting, no food, no jackets, no sunglasses.  Just two rolls of quarters and the clothes we stand in (and no sleeveless tops either.)  We arrived at 10:15.  The building is long and low, with narrow windows.  It is surrounded by the traditional barbed wire and empty fields.  It's a typical government installation.

 
 
M was a nervous wreck, trying to make sure he did everything right.  He had to go out to the Tundra to stash my sunglasses and his wallet, which they would not keep at the desk. They gave him the wrong set of keys, so he had to come back again.  They did allow him to bring in the vitamins that he needed to take at 11 am, since visitors are not allowed to return once they have left.
 
There were two young women waiting in the anteroom, and they were called to the visiting room while M was out at the truck. Then it was our turn to wait while SC was being "processed" for the visit.  The walls were covered with posters and regulations, which I read carefully while I awaited M's return from the parking lot, and the ceiling was low, with square, covered fluorescent lights. The waiting room was approximately 300 sq ft, with the desk and scanner and gate to the left as you enter, and institutional chairs lining the walls facing the entry and the desk.  The chairs were separated, so M and I had to push them together to hold hands comfortably while we waited.  I kept hoping that it was legal for us to do that. 
 
The dark stocky young man behind the desk was actually quite nice about M's jitters and my questions about knitting.  And he was even nicer when I set off the alarm going through the gate scanner.  Oh, yes, my rings are metal.  Alarm again.  Take off shoes, recheck pockets. Nothing.  Alarm again.  Man, that thing is sensitive. All we could figure is that the bra hooks were setting it off.  The guard scanned me with the handheld scanner and let me through.  We walked down a short  concrete-block hall.  Everything was  beige-white: floor tiles, walls, and ceiling tiles. The lights were bright and yet somehow dingy.  The walls to our left were covered with posters about caring and proper treatment.  The walls to the right contained doors to restrooms and a private room.  The women's restroom had the eyewash symbol, too.  We stopped at a gate that was top-to-bottom bars.  We could see double doors ahead and a windowed door to the left.  That was our destination. We pushed the button to the right of the gate, and it parted and slid open towards us.  Another button, and we were in the visitors' room.  SC was coming through a door to our right.  She was wearing a dusty maroon jumper, purple eye shadow, and clogs, and she gave me a long hard hug.  Then it was M's turn. 
 
The CO (Correction's Officer) was a young woman, with nicely bunned hair, delicate features, olive skin, and a slight build.  She pointed out the chairs that were ours:  two small plastic blue chairs facing another plastic beige chair.  There were approximately 10 of these arrangements, set in loose rows between the CO's desk and the vending machines.  The chairs to right and left of ours were filled, and there was another group or two towards the back of the room.  Everyone seemed comfortable and calm.  Conversations were quiet, smiles frequent. The atmosphere was clinical rather than penal:  it was like we were visiting hospital patients in a particularly uncomfortable waiting room. 
 
The CO brought a small square beige plastic table/stool to sit between us and made me move my chair so the camera could see me.  She also took my jacket and hung it up on the wall behind her desk. The guard had warned me that might happen, but fortunately the temp was okay. The CO's desk was large, with a high narrow counter surrounding it on three sides, and a window behind it.  It held a phone and the CO's lunch, but not much else.  The view from the desk commanded the entire room.  Visitors faced the eastern wall, which held the restroom door, the meshed-filled windows into the phone room,  and the door through which inmates entered.  The phone room contained 3 or 4 stations, unseparated.  It was long and narrow, and was currently empty. Through the phone room window, we could see a door into a hallway that led straight east.  Another hallway apparently led north-south, behind the phone room.  The door from the hall into the phone room remained open, and around noon we could see inmates in green and blue shirts and slacks filing past, watching us curiously.  The CO eventually got up and put plastic cling sheets on the windows so the light came through but the inmates could no longer see us. I'm still trying to figure out why they didn't just close the door and cover its window.
 
There were several visitors, but plenty of room for more, so I wasn't worried about being asked to leave before the 3:30 curfew.  To our left, closer to the CO station, a woman in her fifties with a protruding chin faced the two young women I'd seen in the lobby.  They left after a few hours and she told us it was her daughter (and a friend) whom she hadn't seen in 8 years.  She was proud that her daughter could see her clean and sober:  she had been so for over a year.  I'm still trying to do the math:  is it really possible to be not clean and sober in prison?  I guess I'm too naïve.  SC told me that the letter I had written with calligraphy pen and ink was considered "suspicious" and was withheld for that reason.  Apparently drugs can be put in the ink, and the inmate then eats the letter.  For the same reason, the authorities have withheld the crayon missives from her grandkids.  They take photocopies and let her read those, but won't give the photocopies either.  Seems odd, but I guess I should be glad she was allowed to read the letter.
 
There was a small area for kids, with carpet, toys, books.  It was surrounded by a short wooden fence with a gate.  Later in the visit we went in there to get a group photo taken by the CO:  the only time outside of the greeting and farewell hugs that we were allowed to touch SC.  Otherwise, the only contact was visual and verbal.  She wasn't allowed to go to the vending machines, either.  We had to take our rolls of quarters, examine the wares, and ask her what she wanted.  She wanted a lot, because it was a treat.  Soda, candy, burgers with chili, burritos:  the usual vending machine fare for the usual vending machine prices:  $1.25 for candy bars, $1.75 for drinks, $3.50 for burgers.  We probably spent close to $30 on SC and on ourselves.  I felt sick afterwards.  Why couldn't we bring in our own food?  But it did give us something to do, someplace to go at intervals in the conversation. 
 
The plastic bottle drink machine was fascinating:  a robot arm moved laterally and vertically from the bottom left corner, positioned itself in front of the selection, caught the bottle as it moved forward, moved again in precise jerky motions to the deposit chute, and dropped the bottle in.  Sadly, it didn't always work.  If it wasn't positioned perfectly in front of the bottle, nothing happened and it returned to the starting position.  The machine did give back the money, at least.
 
The microwave was to the left on the machines, and, again, could only be used by the visitors. We had to bring everything for SC to the CO desk.  After I returned to my seat, SC was allowed to go to the desk and get the food.  Thus, no sharing of chips, no handing over anything.  I did notice that the girl on our right was allowed to play Scrabble and card games with her visitors, so there was some possible exchange.  SC didn't want to do anything but talk, though.  So we talked.  M talked about his travel trailer and plans, SC talked about her job sewing and other bits of daily life and the audit that the Corporation was undergoing.  (Rumor had it that they were caught shredding documents.  I don't understand the rumor mills:  where does the info come from, and how is it disseminated?  SC says the guards are the source, and I guess that's it, but it still doesn't make sense to me.)  I talked about my job and Taos. Towards the end we talked about her legal situation and her relationships.  As I suspected, D's speech in court devastated her:  she sees her father's influence in every word.
 
It was so difficult to just sit for 5 hours in those hard plastic chairs.  It was so difficult to not be able to hold her when she was upset.  M spent much of the visit holding my hand, rubbing my arm:  was it because he couldn't do the same for her?  In that sterile environment, touch was what we wanted, and what she needed, and what we couldn't give.
 
There was a restroom for inmates only:  twice I had to go back through the door and the gate to the one in the hall.  Again, my naïveté:  people pass things in the restrooms, apparently.  It's not all about metal, you see, and the detector cannot catch everything.  For example, another inmate asked if her daughter could buy some quarters from us:  she had a $5 bill.  Since this was the inmate who had the bed next to SC and was apparently threatening her, I wanted to be accommodating.  I asked the CO about it, the CO said it would not look good in front of the camera because no one is supposed to bring in ANYTHING except a roll of quarters (and M's sanctioned vitamins.)  I'm still trying to figure out how an exchange of money between visitors could constitute a risk of contraband.  I'm still trying to figure out why SC could not take off her clogs.
 
I asked about the maroon jumpsuit.  It's the special visiting outfit.  Usually she wears a green T and pants.  The God Pod wears blue, and the high risk pod wears read.  No orange to be seen.  As per usual, the TV show gets it wrong.  I'm not sure what color the fleece (which has still not arrived) is.
 
So the hours passed and it was time to leave.  Another long hard hug, and we all filed out the door, while the inmates waited in the room.  The anticlimax was discovering I'd left my jacket in the room (one of the colorful Marketplace India ones):  I got back through the gate and knocked on the window.  I pointed to the jacket and SC went to the wall where it was hanging and brought it to me.  I hope she didn't get in trouble for it.
 
We drove home through the golden late afternoon light, met SC's friend F at the 66 Diner for an early dinner, and talked some more.  My mind was a jumble:  M's traveling plans, F's moving plans, SC's legal plans.... everyone talking and doing and trying to make things better.  But SC is in prison for 8 years, in which anything can happen and all plans can go awry.
 
I just wanted to go to sleep.
 


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