Prison Camp: The Interview
A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption
Interview with Myself: Part I
This is Part I of a three-part series in which I stage an “interview with myself.” Over the years, friends, family, and strangers have asked me questions—some direct, others unspoken—about my crimes, prison, and what came after. I gathered those questions and put them into this dialogue. The answers reflect a period when I was writing from a dark place, one that every inmate moves through in some form: first desperation, then nihilism, and, with luck, the beginnings of growth and renewal. This piece was originally part of a hybrid manuscript, and though it’s stark, I share it here because it marks one stage in that larger journey.
Interviewer: an amalgamation of inquiries, questions from friends, family, and others—direct, nuanced, non-verbal, the ones I could tell they wanted to ask but didn’t, the ones they should have asked, and those I was glad they didn’t.
John: self, author, former inmate, poseur.
Interviewer: So, John, you went to jail. What was that like?
John: Miserable.
Interviewer: A little more than that.
John: Everything after that is just subtext.
Interviewer: People want details. Was it violent?
John: Not where I was. There was always a sense that it could erupt, but day to day, not much happened. After a while, you don’t even think about it.
Interviewer: What about sex? Do inmates get raped?
John: Those are the first two questions everyone asks. I worried about them too. But in the camp, there wasn’t much violence and no sex. The real punishment is something else. The arrival is everything. The door closes. You step inside. Your life is over. You’re no longer a person—you’re 25508-014. Failure jumps on your back, and you carry it like a bowling ball. From that moment on, all you think about is getting out.
Interviewer: What’s daily life like?
John: Everyone has a job. I was a dishwasher. The job doesn’t matter—just something to push the hours along. That’s why it’s called “doing time.” You’re not doing anything else. Some guys say they’ve accomplished a lot in prison—degrees, books, special friendships—but that’s in very rare cases. The truth is, the time uses you.
Interviewer: And religion? Doesn’t prison change people spiritually?
John: There’s plenty of religion. Services, studies, conversions. But if I were God, I wouldn’t want to build my church on inmates. Faith in prison is often an act of desperation, and there’s nothing more desperate than prison. The only universal belief is Freedom.
Interviewer: What about the guards?
John: Mostly frustrated men and women—failed cops, ex-military, people who wanted something else but settled for this. Low pay, decent benefits. They see every inmate the same: a criminal. Their primary concern is keeping order and keeping their jobs. The inmates say the guards have it worse because they “never leave.” I never bought that. They go home every night. They have lives.
Interviewer: What about programs for rehabilitation? Education? Reentry prep?
John: The bulletin boards are full of flyers: resume workshops, personal therapy, career classes. It’s mostly bull shit and performance art. At the end of the day, you leave with a pair of slacks, a t-shirt, sneakers, maybe a $100 cash card, a felony conviction, and an excruciating self-loathing.
Interviewer: But weren’t you in a federal camp? People call those country clubs.
John: I heard that too. But it wasn’t where I was. It was a wearing, demanding existence of gruelling regimens and protocols. Federal camps are working camps. I was assigned to the kitchen as a dishwasher. I had the AM shift. I worked from 5:45 to 11:00 AM. It was always dark when I got up. You’d lumber to the bathroom, get dressed in the dark, and put on your kitchen uniform. It wasn’t easy to keep up with all the trays, pots, pans, and other items to clean; I’d have breakfast while standing up, between cleaning trays and pans. At the end of the shift, I was exhausted. The dorm was freezing in winter and suffocating in summer. The bathrooms were broken down, always a foul smell, and the food was barely passable. My life was trays, pans, cold showers, and walking the track to burn off the hours. Bananas and oranges were currency. It was no country club.
Looking back now, I see this dialogue not as a final word, but as part of a process. Prison strips you down, and the return home forces you to confront who you are without illusions. At the time, I could only see the shadows. Today, I can also see the arc: the possibility of growth and renewal that follows. This piece captures the voice of that earlier stage, but I’ve come further since then. I hope you’ll read it in that spirit: not as a destination, but as one stop along the way.
Next week, in Part II, I’ll turn from daily survival to the harder questions of remorse and the truths I couldn’t escape.
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): Part II of Interview with Myself