Prison Camp: Six Months In
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
This journal entry was written six months into my sentence—long after arrival, long before release. By then, prison was no longer something I was adjusting to. It had begun to feel permanent.
Journal: 5/1/2019
You realize early on that, to the other inmates, you’re all equal. No judgments. No scoring of offenses. All in the same boat—one for all and all for one. But to the staff, we’re all prisoners. They don’t grade your crimes. If you’re here, you belong here. And they treat you as such. Some are professional, some are harsh, some are aloof. None are friends.
In the beginning, walking the track was just being in a new place and taking it all in. What was positive about it: the exercise, the pleasant landscape around it, the nice fall weather, and the acceptance that’s normal at the beginning of something—even this—because it’s only the beginning. And the beginning is easy.
It’s after that, when the “just getting used to” becomes a routine, and the routine morphs into boredom, and the boredom morphs into permanence—and the reality that this is where you live now, and you’re not getting out anytime soon.
Over time, day by day, the guards and staff start to know you. Know your name. At first, you’re a new guy among a hundred-plus. But then you’re in front of them regularly. You’re assigned a job. They interact with you. They see you every day—in the halls, in the cafeteria, on the track. They recognize you standing at count time four times a day. They deliver your mail. They see you standing in line for meals.
Many guys have left. Many have arrived. And you’re not the new guy anymore.
It’s been six months already. You are now well known: Inmate DiMenna. Established. Branded. And the reality of six and a half more years here is no longer a number—it’s a painful, constant state of mind.
There is no adjustment anymore.
One day, after a long, wearing day at work in some menial, repetitive activity, another unappetizing meal, another long pause between the four o’clock count and the ten o’clock lights out, you lie in bed staring at the steel bunk above you and finally realize—with total certainty—your new reality: This is home.
And when you come to terms with that—whether you’re on the track, eating a meal, checking your mail, taking a shower, or standing still with a cup of coffee—you’re confronted by the frightening prospect that you’re not, after all, a good person.
And at the end of the day, we’re left alone in our solitary bunks with only our own dark thoughts
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.
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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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At the camps, only sexual offenders--housed in a separate facility--and those who were tagged as "Rats," were accorded pariah status. After that, the dynamic was like any other brotherhood, trust being the overriding consideration.
Don't know if inmate communities/cultures differ widely based on what prison and level. But at the max I volunteered at there was a distinct hierarchy based on 1) crime committed 2) length of sentence. No "equality" among those inside.