Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is another profile from my prison memoir, A Muddled Brotherhood, a collection of portraits of the men with whom I served my sentence in a federal prison camp. Dee was one of the quietest men I met there. His kindness was never announced, only revealed in the small, everyday acts that often said the most about a person's character.
THE JAMAICAN
Everyone called him Dee. I never knew his real name. He was a Black Jamaican in his mid-60’s, who worked with me in the kitchen. He was “number two” in the kitchen (prison speak for assistant chef) on the AM shift. As the number two man, most of his work was in prep, slicing and dicing. A deliberate, meticulous worker, he moved so carefully in the kitchen that he never seemed to be in the way, despite the tight quarters we worked in. He had a kind face and never once lost his temper. He never appeared to be in a hurry, walking to or away from the dorm with the same deliberate stride. Although not estranged from the Black community, he was independent from them. He was more educated than most of the Black inmates who were there for drugs and/or gang membership. He had a deep, sonorous voice and a distinct island accent that was rich and hypnotizing.
Although he had a kind, even-keeled temperament, he was passionate about politics. He loved Donald Trump, guarding the television during our work hours in the kitchen to make sure it was always tuned to Fox news. We didn’t connect at first. He told me later on that when I first arrived to work in the kitchen, he thought I would be a prima donna. He said that he changed his mind about me after I didn’t shy away from the “dirty work.” After that he was always friendly, never missing to say good morning or acknowledging me in the halls with a nod and a smile. He approached me once about politics but I told him that I didn’t discuss politics with anyone. And if I did, he wouldn’t want to be my friend. He smiled broadly and put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s ok John John,” which is what he called me. “Not everyone is born with brains,” he said with an even bigger smile.
He had great patience, never complained and he was always the last to finish his meal. When he’d place his tray for me to clean, he’d always bow slightly and say “Thank you.”
I never did find out what he was in for. We never communicated outside of the kitchen except for one time when someone told him that my mattress needed fine tuning. There was a way to tie your sheets to make the mattresses more comfortable. I don’t even know how he knew about it. But he arrived unannounced, proceeded to push me out of the way and remade my bed, tying the sheets in the prison fashion—a complicated process using shoelaces and bits of toilet paper—to make the mattress more balanced and supportive. Almost everyone in the kitchen pilfers some food, especially apples and bananas. But I never saw Dee take anything.
The night before I was released, he came by my bunk, put his hand on my shoulder and shook my hand. “Good luck John John. I’m happy for you. You’re a good man.” I don’t feel like a good man any more. It meant a lot to hear that from Dee. But for some reason, every time I think about him, I’m overcome by remorse and guilt.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
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