Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Following are more depictions of daily prison life which I’ve been publishing for the past few weeks. The following is another excerpts from my essay, Becoming an Inmate, reflecting more of the world that emerges inside a federal prison camp.
Daily Life
Ralph, the self-appointed boss, said, “The days go slow, but the weeks go fast.” It took a while, but he was right. You find your lane, your routine, and coast. Mine was the kitchen, the track, my log, my books. After the adjustment, I settled in and turned inward.
I didn’t help the new guys. I don’t know why that was. So many helped me when I arrived. I just didn’t, unless they were in obvious pain, and then I’d help, and there were those.
Vince was one: a Spanish guy, but not from the clan. He sat at his bunk the first day, head down, dazed, lost, and afraid.
It’ll get better, I told him.
Because it does. It doesn’t get good. It just gets better. You overcome the trauma. Like everyone else, you push it down deep and just keep moving.
It got better for him. Better than I thought, actually. Certainly, better than me.
Last I saw him, he bunked on Northern Boulevard, the camp’s only mixed community. He was smiling, joking even.
I had friends, things I looked forward to. But the dread never leaves you. No matter how much weight I lost, I was always carrying more.
On the track, I’d stumble around, my legs like jelly.
And in a community, living with so many people, you’re even more alone.
I didn’t care who liked me, who didn’t. Plenty of both, none who made a difference except Steve. But he was gone early on, and I went back to being the ghost.
My writing, the one thing. If there was to be something, I prayed it would be that.
And then there were the Jews who came later.
I sought them out because I’ve always sought them out for the wisdom they provided me all my life. And because you crave wisdom in prison life, I sought them out.
Still, they weren’t there when I arrived. And when they did, Levine, Gary, and the Russian Jews were disappointing.
Then there was Russ, the crooked lobbyist, who bunked with me for a while. He was not my friend nor anyone’s friend. Lumi always called him “The Jew,” right to his face. Always a kind of joke, but I didn’t like the joke, and that’s why I bunked with him. But in the end, I didn’t like him either.
Finally, Paul arrived just before I was released. He brought me his oranges, introduced me to classical music, and grounded me as all the Jews in my life always did.
Despite entering prison at 72 years old, disgraced, divorced, and bankrupt, he was always moving forward.
“There are no other choices to living,” he said.
Paul reminded me of my friend Al, my closest business colleague, thirty years or more, more friend than my friends.
But his was the cruelest betrayal.
Not his. Mine.
Even Al, a traditional Jew, couldn’t forgive me. He had loved me too much, he said.
He’ll haunt me forever.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
Thank you for reading White-Collar Journal. Subscribing is free, and I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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Andrew, thank you for the kind words.
I really appreciated this piece. What stood out to me most was how restrained and observational the writing felt. You did not overdramatize the experience or try to force emotional conclusions onto the reader, which actually made the emotional impact stronger.
There were several lines that stayed with me afterward, especially:
“The days go slow, but the weeks go fast.”
“It doesn’t get good. It just gets better.”
And:
“In a community, living with so many people, you’re even more alone.”
Those lines captured something psychologically real about institutional life, adaptation, and isolation without overexplaining it.
I also thought the piece handled shame, routine, emotional survival, and attachment in a very honest way. The writing feels lived rather than constructed, which gives it credibility and weight.
What I found especially effective was the tension between functioning and healing throughout the essay. The piece never slips into easy redemption narratives, and I think that restraint makes it more powerful and believable.
The final section about betrayal and guilt was particularly strong because of how understated it was. The short lines at the end landed hard precisely because they were not overworked.
Really compelling work overall. It feels reflective, psychologically grounded, and deeply human.