Prison Camp: First Day
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Back to Daily Life Inside
After a brief detour sharing an Author’s Note from my book, I’m returning to the depiction of daily life. What follows is not edited, polished, or reconstructed. It’s a journal entry I wrote in real time, the first full day in federal prison camp.
Journal Entry: 11/2/2018
Day two at the Camp. First night at my new home. Better get used to it, 84 months and 30 more days to go. A lifetime at my age. If I live that long. If it’s anything like my first night, not likely.
Lights and sounds all night and more sounds crashing at 5:00AM when the Camp rises, at least the maintenance crew—long hoses almost on my bed, buckets landing hard on the concrete floors, some guys arguing:
“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.”
And then silence, and just a lot of racket coming from the bathrooms right next to my bunk, where they put me—which is where all the new guys go, bunk number one, right next to the game room and the bathroom and the night light which stays on all night. In fact, shines right in your face.
So you wake up at the first sound and you get up because the noise is so loud but you don’t want to because it was freezing last night and bundled up in a ball of sheets and torn blankets—but at least it’s warmer under there—but there’s no point and you just get up and start but not knowing what to do because all the maintenance guys are in the bathrooms with mops and buckets and throwing liquids everywhere so you don’t have a clue where to begin.
The PA speaker is on the wall right next to my bed and a CO has been calling guys for the past hour to report to the guard station and I can see outside because my bunk is near the front of the dorm and now it seems like half the dorm is rising and storming past my bed and a parade of sorts going to the bathroom.
And I can see it snowed during the night and the snow piled pretty high and I figured out they’re calling guys to shovel the snow that looks fresh still piled high in a beautiful symmetry on the big pines so you can tell it’s been snowing probably since midnight.
And I think how funny that everywhere—even here—there is beauty in the worst of times and the worst of places, and it made me feel good, at least good enough, at least better than when I woke up. And it did give me some comfort despite that I saw guys outside struggling with shovels, snow blowers, and bags of salt—even poor Bill, 78 years old, struggling to hold the heavy bag and distribute salt on the entrance path.
Even then, it was still beautiful.
Nothing like fresh snow to keep you believing, though you’re not sure what—believing, nonetheless.
I get up and see my bunkie still sleeping, must be used to the noise, and doesn’t even wake up while I figure out how to make a cup of coffee.
I have a long way to go to figure out prison.
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.
To leave a comment, Substack may ask you to verify your email address (a one-time step to prevent spam). You don’t need to subscribe or create an account. Just check your inbox for a one-time link.