Prison Camp: Early Days
A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption
The first nights inside are always the hardest. You’re still half-awake from the outside world, trying to make sense of the new one, where the rules, sounds, and silences all belong to someone else. Following is an excerpt from my journal.
Prison Camp Journal: Day Two
First night in my new home. Better get used to it—eighty-four months and thirty days to go. A lifetime at my age, if I live that long. If it’s anything like my first night, it’s not likely.
Lights and noise all night. Then, at 5:00 a.m., the camp came alive—maintenance crew shouting, hoses slapping the concrete floor, buckets crashing.
“I told you that fucking thing didn’t work.”
“The fuck you did!”
“Fucking asshole.”
“All right, forget about it. Swing that shit in here.”
Then silence, followed by more noise—mostly from the bathrooms next to my bunk, where all the new guys get placed: bunk number one, right by the game room, the bathrooms, and under the night light that never goes off. It shines straight into your face, so you wake at the first sound. You want to stay under the covers—it was freezing last night, and I was bundled in torn sheets and thin blankets—but the noise is relentless. So you get up, not knowing what to do, because the maintenance guys are in the bathrooms mopping and sloshing water everywhere. You just stand there, trying to look busy.
The PA speaker is right above my head. A CO’s been calling names for the past hour—guys reporting to the guard station. My bunk is near the front of the dorm, so I can see outside. Snow fell during the night, heavy and clean, piling high in a beautiful symmetry on the great pines that surround the camp. Half the dorm’s already up, a parade of men rushing past my bed toward the bathrooms, gearing up for the day’s assignment.
I realize the CO’s calling out the snow crew. The men grab shovels, snow blowers, and bags of salt. Even old Bill—seventy-eight years old—is out there, struggling to spread salt on the icy paths.
And yet, despite it all, it’s beautiful. The snow covers everything in a kind of mercy, softening the fences and the noise, making even this place seem still, almost holy. There’s beauty everywhere, even here—in the worst of times, in the worst of places. And for a moment, that thought makes me feel something close to peace. Nothing like fresh snow to keep you believing, although you’re not sure what in—but believing nonetheless.
Author’s Note:
The early days were a lesson in endurance. You learn to see beauty where it shouldn’t exist and to take comfort in moments that ask for none. Survival isn’t only about getting through the day, it’s about finding a reason, however small, to keep believing in something beyond the walls.
If this story resonates with you, or if you’ve wrestled with your own origin myths, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform Efforts
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More stories from prison
“You learn to see beauty where it shouldn’t exist and to take comfort in moments that ask for none.” Makes me think also… comfort in the knowledge that one is still capable of finding a place for the mind to rest when needed most.