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Cruel and Unusual
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That comment opened a rush of criticism of the California Department of Corrections. She pointed out that it was the largest organized union in the state, and alleged that it was a bureaucratic nightmare more concerned with punishment than rehabilitation. She was particularly hard on the Correctional Officers, charging that they were overpaid and under-trained, with annual salaries beginning at $40,000 and quickly increasing to $60,000.
"It's really sad," she added. "They're paid more than teachers and they get no proper training to do anything. At least in the military, the training has a purpose. These people aren't taught to do anything but punish to make us feel inferior like scum."
A pretty serious indictment, I thought. Was her true persona beginning to emerge? But then, these were the comments of one whose very existence is lived as a perpetually caged creature, subject to the rules and possible prejudices of her keepers. Would any of us feel differently?
She seemed anxious to let an outsider understand the inside situation, so she continued in an animated fashion. "When I first arrived, this facility was for long-term inmates and the treatment was humane. On weekends, married women could be with their children and family in cottages. But those days are gone, probably forever. The sad thing is that the children are the ones who suffer and they haven't done anything. They're the real victims. When they're separated from their mothers and have less and less contact, they drift away and end up being institutionalized themselves."
She looked away, pensively, then continued, "It's changed completely. Now they're in a punitive mode, and old heads like me aren't being sent here anymore. Most inmates here are short-timers you know, drug related crimes or for women who've been abused and end up killing their boyfriends or husbands.
"You should hear some of the stories. Most of these women are not criminals. They're forced into situations where they have no choice but to defend themselves and their children. They are stalked, threatened, and beaten. What's really pathetic is there are no laws to protect these women until it's too late. Either they kill or they get killed. In my mind, they shouldn't be locked up they ought to be given medals."
She stared into space, then continued. "For the most part, women are model prisoners, but we're forgotten." She looked back at me in a serious mood. "Our
warden is a good person and tries hard to do the right thing. But when she goes to Sacramento and tries to get things done, she hits a brick wall."
"What do you mean?"
"All of the attention is given to men's facilities. They have all these issues to do with gang problems, race and drugs things that don't even exist here. They think our issues are trivial. Get this we can't wear makeup or paint our nails. Seems ridiculous, doesn't it? But when she brings up a small issue like this, they laugh in her face. See what we're up against?"
Now she was wound up and more demonstrative, so I decided to ask more personal questions ones we had not discussed before not in letters or in telephone conversations.
"Are you a religious person?" I asked.
She hesitated momentarily, smiled, then answered. "There are a lot of born again Christians in here and I suspect they're trying to affect their chances of parole. But I'm not one of them. I do believe Jesus was a remarkable man, fully human, who loved everyone but he would probably have been assassinated in today's society like Martin Luther King." She hesitated a moment, then continued. "And another thing I don't buy the traditional concept of a God that watches over us. One that rewards and punishes us."
"You don't believe in a personal God?" I asked.
"Not really," she said smiling. "If I did, I'd be pretty upset with him for keeping me locked up all this time."
She seemed to enjoy the banter, so I pressed on with to other personal matters.
"What about your family?" I asked.
With no hesitation, she answered matter-of-factly. "They visit when they can, but they've been divorced for years, so they don't come together. If they did, they would be at each other's throat," she said with a grin.
I asked if she had been raised in California.
"Yes, in LA middle-class family. My dad was an insurance agent with State Farm. I had a sister seven years older than me, but she died young of an overdose. She had been married a short time and had a son."
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