Prison Camp: Work
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Work in prison isn’t about rehabilitation. It’s about structure. Camps are working camps, and everyone is assigned a job. You don’t choose from good options. But the job you land in will shape your days, your sanity, and often your survival.
PRISON JOBS
Prison camps are working camps. Everyone is assigned a job. There are no great options: orderly, maintenance, the kitchen, landscaping, the commissary, the military base. Otherwise, there’s dog training and education.
Dog training is popular because the trainers live in a larger bunk with only their pet as a bunkmate. But it comes with its own cost: walks at five in the morning and just before count at 10:00 p.m., in all weather.
There’s only one education slot. It’s like teaching high school in a second—maybe third—language.
Choosing the Kitchen (Sort Of)
I chose the kitchen. Or more accurately, I was intimidated into it.
At orientation, the Camp Counselor said they were short kitchen workers. Already wary of the Chief of Discipline and hoping to make a favorable first impression, I volunteered.
There were three of us: me, Dr. Death, and Harry the alchie. Three jobs were open—two table washers (the preferred ones) and one dishwasher.
The kitchen CO, a Black former Marine—no nonsense, but oddly reassuring—told us to decide among ourselves.
Dr. Death said he had a bad back.
Harry said he had seniority.
That made me the dishwasher.
The Machine
My first day was the PM shift. Tony was the other dishwasher and broke me in. The rest of the crew were Spanish guys; only Tony spoke English.
One of them came over, smiling at Tony. Then Tony turned to me and asked, “What should they call you?”
“Gringo,” I said.
Apparently, that was the right answer. The guy laughed and pumped my fist.
Tony washed. I put things away.
The machine took up an entire wall—stainless steel, always steaming, always loud. Everything was rinsed first, then fed into it. I was afraid of it.
Putting things away was its own ordeal. Endless shelves of trays, pots, pans, utensils—nothing labeled, everything moving. It was tight, chaotic. I dropped things constantly, slammed into people, jockeyed for space, pressured to keep up.
It was exhausting.
Tony
Tony was a complicated guy—friendly, helpful, and threatening all at once.
He told me he started as a dishwasher after coming from Puerto Rico. Then landscaping. Then drugs. The money was too good.
When he was arrested, they took two million in cash and ten guns from his house.
“They didn’t get the other million,” he said.
He’d already been down ten years. Three more to go.
He tried to mentor me. But he said I wasn’t listening.
“In here, you forget about outside. You can’t help anyone. Taking care of here takes everything. And watch what you say. Everyone just wants to get out. All is on the table.”
When Tony worked, it was manic. Fast, fussy, exacting. If a pan wasn’t perfect, he’d scold you. Sometimes I’d clean something and he’d silently clean it again, then look at me sideways.
Other times, without a word, he’d come to my bunk and hand me contraband M&Ms.
“Flush the wrappers.”
All in all, I think he liked me. But in prison, you’re never sure.
Becoming Good at It
Eventually I was moved to the AM shift. I worked with Primo. That’s when it clicked.
I learned to wash, load, and run the machine. By the time I was released, I was the number-one dishwasher.
Guys used to kid me.
“DiMenna, you can always get a job when you get out.”
Such a distinction.
Actually, I was proud of it. I even got to like it. Something about the tactile there. I can’t explain it. Sometimes I think it saved me.
Washing Dishes
What is there that I like about
washing dishes,
and I do.
Is it the water flowing warm
and steady,
washing like disappearing
ink,
or chalk on an old-fashioned
blackboard,
the leftover leavings
from shiny
trays.
Or maybe just the whole
process,
from the loading of the bubbly
soap,
to the final smooth wiping
down,
the silky stainless
steel,
and the solace of tactile
things.
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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