Prison Camp: Work
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Excerpts From My Prison Journal
I’m continuing to publish excerpts from the journal I kept during my time in federal prison camp. These entries were written in real time, without the benefit of emotional distance. Today’s excerpt is about prison work assignments, something every inmate quickly learns is central to camp life.
Work
Prison camps are working camps. Everyone is assigned a job. There are no great options: orderly, maintenance, the kitchen, landscaping, the commissary, or 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 has its downsides: walking the dog at five in the morning and again just before Count at 10:00 PM, and doing it in any weather.
There’s only one slot for education, and it’s like teaching high school in a second language—maybe a third.
I chose the kitchen. Or sort of chose it. At orientation the Camp Counselor said they were short kitchen workers. Already intimidated by the Chief of Discipline and hoping to make a favorable first impression, I volunteered.
Myself, Dr. Death—a GP in for prescription violations—and Harry the alchie, a roofer with bad teeth, were the new guys. There were three jobs open: two table washers (the preferred ones) and one dishwasher.
The CO of the kitchen, a black former Marine—a no-nonsense guy but somehow reassuring—said we should decide among ourselves. Dr. Death said he had a bad back, and Harry said he had seniority. So I was the dishwasher.
On my first day, Tony, a former Spanish drug dealer, was the other dishwasher and broke me in. It was the PM crew, all Spanish guys. Only Tony spoke English.
One of the Spanish guys came over, smiling at Tony. Then Tony asked me what they should call me.
“Gringo,” I said.
Apparently it was the right answer. The Spanish guy laughed and pumped my fist.
Tony washed and I put away. It was intimidating. Everything was rinsed first and then fed into a machine that occupied the entire wall—stainless steel, always steaming and loud. I was afraid of it.
Putting things away had its own issues. Stacks of shelves—trays, pots, pans, utensils, and other things—took a while to figure out. I was forever dropping things, slamming into others (it was a tight working area), everyone moving at once, jockeying for lanes, pressured to get done. It was exhausting.
Tony was a complicated guy. Friendly, helpful, and threatening all at the same time.
He told me he had started as a dishwasher from Puerto Rico, then became a landscaper, and finally a drug dealer. The money was too good.
When he was arrested, he told me 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, with three more to go.
He tried to mentor me. But I wasn’t listening, he said.
“In here, you forget about outside. You can’t help anyone. Taking care of here takes everything. And watch what you say here. Everyone just wants to get out. Everything’s on the table.”
When he worked, he had a manic style and pace. He was fussy too. If a pan wasn’t perfect, he would scold you for putting it away.
Once in a while I’d clean a pan and he would clean it again. But he wouldn’t say anything. Just look at you, crooked.
Often, without saying anything, he would come to my bunk and hand me M&Ms, which were contraband.
“Make sure you flush the wrappers.”
All in all, I think he liked me. But you’re never sure in prison.
Eventually I was moved to the AM shift, where I worked with Primo and finally figured it out. I learned to do the washing, the loading, and even operating 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 now when you’re out.”
Such a distinction.
Actually, I was proud of it. I even got to like it. Something about the tactile work there. I can’t explain it.
Sometimes I think it saved me.
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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